#yesterday i was so tired i could barely move today i walked like six miles

[bluecatwriter]

BLUE SKY!!!!!! I MISSED YOU!!!!!!!!

[rohad93]

Moonlit Masquerade: White & Red pt 2 (Final)

Ghouls and Gowns.

It was probably the nicest formal dress shop in all The Boiling Isles, and Amity had always imagined getting her wedding dress from this shop since she was a child, since before she had even met Luz. It was well known for it’s one of a kind garments, but they booked appointments for fittings out months in advance, sometimes even a year. Getting in with less than six months' notice was an impossible task, so maybe Amity had flexed her status and reputation a little to get such a short notice reservation, she wasn’t going to tell anyone about it, especially Luz.

Willow, Emira, and Viney were waiting outside the shop when they arrived.

“Hey, Mittens!” Her sister grinned at her as they approached. “Eda, Ms. Noceda.” she nodded, smiling at the older two women.

"Hello, girls." Camila smiled at them.

"Thanks for coming." Amity smiled at the three.

“As if I’d let you do this without me.” Emira smiles at her.

"Of course!" Willow smiled.

"Wouldn't miss it," Viney agreed with a grin, crossing her arms.

"Well, we gonna do this or what?" Eda asked.

"Yeah, let's go." Amity nodded, rolling her eyes at the older, wild witch as they went into the shop.

The room was large and spacious with a few white couches arranged into a semi-circle around a raised platform with a half-circle of full-length mirrors and row upon row of dresses in every size, style, and color one could imagine.

"Ahh, Miss. Blight, you're right on time.” The well-dressed clerk with long, straight black hair clapped her hands together and smiled at them. “Feel free to walk around and pick out anything you’d like and try on, and don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” she nodded as they split up and wandered through the aisles.

“Any preferences Amity?” Willow asked, her voice carried over the racks.

“Not really… I kind of just hope I’ll know it when I see it I suppose...”

“I don’t even remember what I was wearing when I got married…” Eda’s voice calls from somewhere behind her.

“You were married?!” The younger witches shout and Eda’s chuckle comes from somewhere in the store.

“Just for twelve hours, give or take. Sometimes you have to go that extra mile for the scam.”

Amity rolled her eyes and shook her head at the woman Luz had chosen as a second mother and would be her second mother-in-law.

“Well, why don’t we pick out some options for you to try on?” Her sister’s voice sounds from somewhere off to her left among the clothes.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” Amity called as she wandered up and down the aisles, it’s a little overwhelming, honestly.

This is, so far, the only thing she and Luz hadn’t decided on together. They’d picked a date, a place, a time, and already sent out invitations to everyone that really mattered to them as well as arranged for the food and cake at the after-party. It was all fairly simple as far as weddings went, neither had any interest in a big, extravagant event.

She felt a twinge in her chest. It had been well over two months and she still hadn’t heard from her father. She did her best to shove down the hurt feelings, she knew it was a high possibility that he might not come, but she had really hoped he would. She shook her head, she was shopping for her wedding dress, now was not the time to be sad, she should be happy, and she was, but there was still a twinge of sadness beneath, thinking that both her parents had all but abandoned her. She shook herself off and focused on the task at hand.

She picked a few dresses off the racks that she rather liked and met them back in front of the changing room and piled their suggestions into Amity’s arms. Her knees strained under the weight of the material, but she managed to get them back inside the dressing room. The first dress in the pile was a short, white, sheath dress, Amity wasn’t sure how she felt about it as she looked at herself in the mirror, but since it was on she may as well see what the others thought.

“I can’t believe it’s just two months away.” Willow clapped her hands together.

“Seems like just yesterday Luz was denying she even had a crush on Amity and having a conniption in the living room.” Eda chuckled wistfully. “Now they’re getting hitched.”

“When are you going to propose?” Emira huffed, crossing her arms and glancing sideways at her girlfriend who blinked owlishly at her.

“Uh....” Viney is saved by Amity coming out of the dressing room and quickly garnering all of Emira’s, and everyone else’s attention.

“What do you all think?” Amity asked, stepping out.

“It’s cute, but I don't think that’s really what you’re going for for your wedding.” Emira cocked her head.

“It’s pretty,” Willow agreed. “Maybe a little on the short side, you are pretty tall.” Willow smiled.

“Yeah, I don’t love how short it is…,” she mumbled, smoothing her hands over the stiff material.

“Luz might…,” Viney chuckled, and Amity pinked.

“Well, the color is fairly traditional…,” Camila threw in her own two cents, and can immediately tell by the confused faces the witches make that a white wedding dress isn’t something they do.

“Is white an important color in human weddings?” Willow looks at her curiously.

“Important? No, but in the human world many cultures have brides wear white, though it’s more of an old tradition, it was a way to signify their virginity.” The assembled witches are looking at her strangely.

“Why?” Viney’s face is scrunched up in confusion at such a strange and frankly, embarrassing concept.

Camila pauses a second, trying to figure out how to explain old cultural traditions to people who have very different traditions and values of their own.

“In most cultures, you aren’t meant to have sex before marriage and the white dress was a way of telling your future husband you hadn’t,” is the simplest way she can think to explain it.

“So white’s out then,” Emira grins wickedly, looking at Amity, who shoots her a withering look, if there is one thing she doesn’t want to talk about in front of her future mother-in-law, it’s having sex with her daughter.

“Definitely out,” Eda chimes in, looking tired at the very thought and Amity slaps a hand to her face.

“It’s really just worn more for the sake of tradition now, you should pick whatever color you like, Cariño.” Camila frowns, she also does not want to talk about this. She’ll always think of Luz as her baby and she does not want to talk about her in any kind of passionate embrace with the young woman in front of her, or anyone really.

“Moving on,” Amity snaps when her sister starts to open her mouth again, a grin on her face. Emira pouts as Amity disappears back into the changing room and sets aside all the white dresses that have been hung up. She’s not going to have this conversation again.

They go through a few more but Amity just can’t see herself getting married in them. She looks through them before deciding to try the last of her own picks but quickly spots a problem.

“Willow, can you come help me?” she calls and within a few seconds, Willow was popping her head in the dressing room.

“Whatcha need?”

A few minutes after Willow disappears into the dressing room she comes back out, smiling giddily before Amity comes out behind her, and Emira gasps, as Eda lets out a low whistle.

"Oh, wow." Viney blinks and Camila can't help but think how incredibly lucky her daughter is.

It's long, stretching down to just above her ankles and in that dark shade of magenta Amity is known for, all save the sleeves and shoulders that stretched from the back of her hands up to the sides of her neck in black lace, strewn with floral patterns. She catches sight of herself in the mirror and can’t help but smile to herself. She likes the way it feels and looks on her skin.

“What do you think?” Amity turns to look at them, doing a little spin, making the skirt flutter.

“Oh, I love it! The lacing in the back is cute too!” Emira gushes, looking at the dark lace that intricately zigzags across the small of her back, cinching it closed.

"It's beautiful." Willow clapped her hands and Viney nodded in agreement.

"You look wonderful, Cariño.”

“Yeah, the kid might just die when she sees you…,” Eda chuckled approvingly.

“But, do you like it?” Viney asks and Amity smiles brightly to herself as she looks in the mirror and everyone can see it in the reflection. It's obvious to all of them that Amity loves the dress if that smile on her lips is anything to go by.

“Yeah, I love this one.” she nods, trying not to let the stinging of her eyes turn to tears.

“Sounds like we got a winner to me.” Eda clapped her hands and stood from the couch.

“Yes, this is the one.” she smiled and turned to face them and the front of the shop. “I think…” There's a flash of white out of the corner of her eye and her head whips up and standing outside the glass are five figures in familiar off white cloaks and gray masks, gloved hands raised. She barely has enough time to whip up a hand, spell circle blazing to life and then there's a loud blast and the front windows explode in a shower of shattered glass and flames

Magic flies through the air into the street and people start screaming.

~ ~

Luz hummed to herself, quickly filling orders and trading them for snails while Calliban laid around her neck dozing, his flickering tail tickling her ear. Mochuelo had grown bored of the market and returned to his staff, holstered safely across her back.

The buzzing is still a quiet constant, but she manages to drown it out, for the most part, keeping herself busy, hocking potions to every passerby with an enthusiasm that would make a car salesman green with envy.

It was busier earlier but the market has thinned some now and Luz is leaning on her stand, chin in one hand and scratching Calliban's head with the other as he growled contentedly. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, picking up an elixir and rolling the round bottle around in her palm, trying to still her anxious energy. The market is quiet today until it isn’t.

It was faint at first, a dull, distant noise. She didn't notice till a sudden stampede of people were running past her stand screaming and shouting that a group of loyalists were attacking the garment district of the market. Luz froze and the potion held in her hand fell from her limp grip, shattering as it hit the ground at her feet. Her whole body starts to seize up as cold dread spreads through her.

The constant, nagging anxiousness that had been whispering at the back of her mind all day comes roaring to the forefront, unable to be ignored and Luz is flooded with panic, all she could think of was the last time she had stood in this market during a similar situation; panic and bedlam erupting around her.

Suddenly she’s there again.

The market is in flames and people are screaming as they run past her, smashing into her shoulders and stampeding all over each other in their panic, trying to escape imminent death in the approaching legion of white-cloaked loyalists that are systematically making their way through the district, killing anyone who does not kneel or run.

There are at least a hundred of them marching down the main aisle of the market, tearing the stands apart and burning them down as they execute anyone who tries to stop them. They aren’t looking for anything or even stealing, they’re just destroying.

There are too many people for her to fire off any spells and more importantly, somewhere beyond the line of approaching loyalists, was Amity, she’d been meeting a contact, alone, and is now behind the enemy line, and panic wells up in her, threatening to overflow. She takes off running and jumps on her staff, flying overhead, dodging and spinning through the sky as the air fills with shots of fire and loud crackling bolts of lightning that make her hair stand on end as they strike to close for comfort through the air near her head. She manages to get past the advancing force and behind them are stragglers, still destroying the market and blasting holes in the permanent buildings and another emotion rises up to join her panic. That’s one thing about the war that Luz had never expected to bring out in her: hot, indignant, frothing rage.

Belos would rather destroy the Isles than lose his Iron grip on them, and now that they had pushed his forces back to the chest, he was doing just that. How many innocent witches, adults, and children had she seen slaughtered without a second thought by those wearing the off-white cloaks and gray masks? Too many to ever forget or to forgive, but right now, she can’t stop the bedlam going on below, to try would be suicide by herself, and it kills her inside to do nothing, but the best she can hope for is to find Amity and get out of here to muster their forces waiting to the south where they had been preparing to storm the castle for the last two weeks.

She has to find her, quickly, they were less conspicuous apart so Luz had walked around the market while Amity went to meet their contact from the castle near the entrance to the night market, now as she flew over the market, eyes desperately moving over all the people running panicked through the market, flames, and smoke obscuring her sight, she wished she had insisted that she stay with her.

Her teeth grit together as her eyes flicker from one gruesome section of the market to the next. Bodies are lying in the streets like bits of discarded trash and the stands and tents are burning like dry kindling, their crackling and popping fires fueled by spiteful magic, accompanied by a chorus of screams that thumps in her ears, a high pitched concerto in this death song. It’s not the first time she’s heard it, and it probably won’t be the last. Her eyes water from the smoke as she flies over the market, searching.

“Where are you, where are you, where are you!?” Is her one screaming thought as her heart pounds in her chest.

Suddenly, near the entrance to the night market, her eyes fall on a shakingly standing figure with bright, dual-colored hair but all Luz can see is the bright crimson staining her white cloak as a squadron of loyalists closes in on her.

She doesn’t feel her mouth open or even recognizes the screaming voice that rips out of her own throat.

“Amity!”

Luz jerks suddenly, the buzzing has turned to loud static crackling across her body, shooting in electric bursts that make her twitch with pain as tense numbness that only makes her feel more panicked spreads through her body with cold dread. She can’t even feel Calliban rubbing himself against her neck, trying to quell the sudden panic he can feel radiating off her like the heat from the flames in her memories, feels the ghost of on her skin. Her heart is hammering in her ears and she grabs her staff off her back and jumps over the counter and is flying in the direction of the dress shop she knows Amity was going to. She has to see her, has to see with her own two eyes, know that’s she’s okay, has to, has to!

~ ~ ~

Amity scowled to herself as she ducked behind the overturned couch, spinning a circle and jumping up, flinging a wind spell that sent the group of loyalists stumbling backward as the gale-force winds pushed them back out toward the street, Viney, and Emira following up with a blast of fire, while vines have burst out of the ground to create a wall between them and their attackers.

“Loyalists!” Eda spat.

“What are they doing here?” Willow frowns, throwing out another vine at an approaching loyalist, flinging them across the room like a sack of meat, before they hit the wall with a bang and fall to the floor, unmoving.

“They want me if I had to guess,” Amity grits out between her teeth.

There are only six in the shop and three already lay motionless on the floor. When Belos had finally laid dead, those who had supported him scattered to the winds, the majority of people just gave up and moved on, accepting the new order, but some splinter groups remained loyal to the tyrant emperor, even in death.

Amity jumped up, sending an abomination leaping through the air to pounce on one, crushing him beneath its weight. His comrade being crushed to death distracts the fifth long enough for Eda to send a bolt of lightning flying straight into their chest with her staff.

“Still got it!” Eda grinned as the loyalist's body lay smoking on the ground. Camila gave her a look. “What?”

The shop quieted and slowly they moved out from behind Willow's barrier to inspect the damage.

Amity frowned, looking around, frantically, the rest of the girls are looking for anymore, it seems they got them all. They cautiously move around the shop, careful of the broken glass, furniture, and turned over wracks of formal wear that lay singed or in ashes on the floor, checking to make sure the loyalists laying on the floor are really dead or unconscious. Movement out of the corner of her eye makes Eda turn to look.

“On your six!” Eda shouts from the other side of the shop and they turn to find a last masked loyalist, as he jumped out from behind a display on the sidewalk outside the doors, dark red spell circle already completed and about to fire a spell right at Amity when a scream makes them and the loyalist turn to look, and suddenly Luz flies into sight and is still airborne when she rips her staff out from under her and whips it back, still flying through the air and swinging with all her might. A sickening crunch fills the air as her staff crashes into them and the loyalists’ mask goes flying, clattering to the ground with a splatter of blood as they’re flung back from the vicious blow and hit the ground in an unmoving heap. Luz stumbles as she hits the ground but stays standing, panting heavily, staff clutched tightly in her white-knuckled grip, and face pulled back in a manic snarl.

The women are frozen as they look at Luz

Camila’s mouth hangs open in horror, as it had been nearly since the attack had started, but especially now, as she looks at her baby, panting and standing hunched over the fallen attacker, trembling, and looking crazed.

Emira actually comes out of it first and is quickly shoving Amity into the dressing room, out of her fiancée's sight.

“Wha- Em! What are you doing!?” She shouts at her as she pushes her behind the door.

“She can’t see you in that before the wedding!” Emira reminds as she locks the door behind them.

“Is that really important right now?!” Amity yells at her sister.

“Change quickly!” Emira helps her quickly start unlacing the back.

“Kid, what are you doing here?” Eda calls as she quickly walks up to Luz and the second she turns to look at her, she knows Luz is only barely there. Her pupils are blown wide and she’s looking around frantically and not seeing her fiancée, which only makes the panic in her eyes double. Eda clenches her jaw, hissing expletives under her breath; she’s having an episode.

“Where’s Amity?!” Even if everyone hadn’t immediately seen the crazed look on her face, they hear the panic and alarm in her voice the second she speaks, as does Amity in the dressing room, and after how Luz had been this morning she knows exactly what is happening outside the dressing room.

“Hurry!” Amity barks at her sister who unlaces her as fast as her fingers can manage, swearing under her breath at the complicated backing.

“Stupid fucking lace!” Emira spits.

“Calm down, she’s fine, Luz, we promise,” Viney tries, scooting closer, slowly, she too knows what is happening and Luz is liable to bolt for the changing room, and while she doesn’t care one way or the other if Luz sees Amity in her dress, they don’t need her ripping the door off the hinges to a half-dressed or undressed Amity.

“No, No! I have to see her now, I have to!” She’s shaking her head and her eyes are starting to glaze over, body quaking with visible tremors.

“Luz, relax, Amity is fine, she’s just changing.” Willow holds up her hands as she carefully approaches her friend who is clearly having a panic attack. They all had seen it happen before, just after the war, just once, but it was enough to always remember, and Willow had her own specters from the war, after all. They all did and knew what behavior to look for, and right now, Luz was a glowing beacon of distress.

Wide, brown eyes whip to the changing room, and predictably, she bolts forward, so do Viney and Willow, grabbing her in their tight grips

Luz growls, immediately trying to break free, kicking and screaming and it’s all Willow and Viney can do to keep her still as her staff clatters to the floor as she pushes at their hands.

“Let go!” she snarls, she’s past hearing anything they say until she sees Amity with her own eyes, heart pounding in her ears. Nothing else will ease the hands of panic wrapped chokingly around her throat and dipping into her chest to squeeze her heart, threatening to pop it.

“Mija, it’s okay…!” Camila starts but Eda puts a hand on her shoulder and gives her a look she can’t really describe.

“She can’t hear you, she’s having an… episode,” Eda says quietly and Camila blinks.

“Episode?” Camila asks, eyes back on Luz, she holds her hands over her mouth as Luz thrashes wildly in Willow and Viney’s grasp. Eda scowls to herself, watching Luz panic in her friend’s grip, writhing and screaming. She’s seen Luz have episodes before, exactly twice since the war had ended, they had been hard to watch, but even by those standards, this one is bad. She’d already been feeling off this morning, but the attack from one of the remaining loyalist splinter groups had triggered an epic meltdown in the human.

Eda quietly explains this quickly to Camila who comes to a startling realization, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.

“She has PTSD…,” Camila chokes, chest aching as her baby is still screaming and fighting against her closest friends who can barely contain her, they fear using magic to hold her will only make her thrash and fight harder, maybe hurt herself.

“Luz, please, it’s okay!” Willow clutches her friend tightly, she hurts for her, and Viney grimaces, arms looped through Luz’s while Willow clings to her waist as she bucks and strains against them.

“ARGHHH!” Luz threw her head back and the loud, high-pitched, wailing sound that rips out of her throat has no words, but the agony it carries is visceral and they can all feel it echo in the core of their beings. Inside the dressing room, Emira feels a cold chill go up her spine at the sound. Luz is howling as though someone has died and Amity is nearly in tears.

Finally, she turns and bursts out of the dressing room, Emira yelling back at her.

“Amity, your shirt!” she yells.

She ignores her and dashes around the corner, barefoot, and only half-dressed in her pants and bra. She was dressed enough, she couldn’t stand listening to Luz’s anguished wails that cut deep into her heart another second.

“Luz, it’s okay!” she hurried forward and the second Luz’s eyes land on her the fight drains out of her like rushing water. Viney and Willow step back as she launched herself at Amity, who grunts as her fiancée grabs her in a bone-crushing embrace. She can feel her whole body shaking

“You’re okay, you’re okay…,” Luz chokes on her gurgled words before she finally burst into tears, burying her face in Amity’s neck, wailing, her nails are digging painfully into the skin of Amity’s back but she barely notices it as she runs her fingers through Luz’s hair as her knees buckle and she carefully lowers Luz and herself both to the floor, mindful of the glass still scattered across the floor.

“I’m okay,” she whispers back softly, squeezing back. “It’s okay, love, everything is alright," she coos softly into her ear.

Emira comes out of the dressing room with the dress carefully folded and in its box and glanced worriedly at them as she walks past to the counter, the others join her, leaving the couple alone on the floor, trying hard to ignore the sounds of Luz’s muffled sobbing or Amity’s mumbled words of comfort.

“We’ll take this,” she tells the still cowering clerk behind the counter.

“You fought off the loyalists, just take it,” the witch insists, shoving it back to them.

"Amity won't want us to do that…," Willow says quietly, frowning.

"She won't complain this time," Eda decides for them, taking the box off the counter and walking out the door. "Come on, let's give the kids a few minutes."

They follow Eda out, Camila does so reluctantly, glancing over her shoulder at her daughter, curled up tightly in Amity’s arms on the floor.

“Everything is alright,” Amity mumbles, burying her face in her weeping lover’s hair, tears dripping down her own cheeks. “It's okay, Luz.” she shoves as much conviction into these words as possible, willing Luz to believe them.

It takes a good half hour before Luz can stop crying and squeezing Amity tightly against her. The panic that had choked her and clouded her mind has ebbed away, receding to the same quiet buzzing it had been before. She can feel Calliban still wrapped around her neck, his warm scaly body scrapes her neck as he moves, trying to comfort her.

She sniffles and takes a shaky breath.

“Mierda… I’m sorry,” she finally manages to say. “… people were running and screaming through the market and I...I...”

“Shhh, don’t be sorry,” Amity says, cutting her off gently as she cards her fingers through her hair, gently scratching her scalp. “I know, I understand,” she feels Luz go limp against her before she pulled back to look at her and Amity reached up to wipe away the remains of any tears still sliding down Luz's flushed cheeks. “Are you okay enough to go home?” she asks and Luz lets out a shaky breath but nods.

“Yeah” she nodded.

“Good, I still need to finish getting dressed…” Amity tells her and Luz blinks, finally really looking at Amity and noticing her less than fully dressed state.

“¡Ay Dios mio! Lo siento mucho, Amor.” Luz grimaced, pulling her cloak off her shoulders with still shaky hands and draped it over Amity, who smiled softly at her.

"It's alright, Luz," she assured her as they stood and Amity disappeared back into the dressing room for a few minutes before coming back out fully dressed and Luz's cloak in hand.

She laid it back across her shoulders before meeting the others, still standing outside the shop.

"Hey, Kid. You okay?" Eda asked once they appeared.

"I'll be okay…just… sorry…" she gives a tired shrug. Now that the panicked energy has left her she's exhausted.

"Mija, why didn't you tell me you had PTSD?" Camila asks her, and Luz blinks.

"Oh… I never thought about it, yeah… I guess I do…" Luz frowned.

"What's PTSD?" Emira blinks.

Camila spends the next hour explaining to the witches what PTSD is and by the time the day is done, several of them leave knowing a little more about themselves now than they did before.

Emira and Viney leave on Puddles and Willow makes her own goodbyes as well, before leaving for home.

Eda takes Camila and the dress back to the house with promises to start on dinner.

Amity goes with Luz to pack up her stall in the market. She can tell that Luz is drained but she's also avoiding Amity's gaze, which makes her frown. She reached over and rubbed her arm.

"I know this is a stupid question, but are you okay?" she asks.

"Yeah… I just feel like I ruined your dress thing." Luz frowned and Amity's eyes widened.

"No, Luz, those loyalists did that, you didn't ruin anything." Amity takes hold of both her arms and forces her to face her.

"I don't think my showing up and acting like a lunatic helped things,” Luz grunted, eyes trained on the ground. That wouldn’t do. Amity reached up and gently took hold of her chin. Luz didn’t resist as she lifted her head to lock eyes with her.

“Hey, I understand, you know I do. That… panic just takes hold of you and it’s all you can do to hold yourself together, I get it. I feel that way some days too. When sounds are too loud and lights are too bright, it feels like you can’t breathe…,” she lets go of her chin to gently cup one of Luz’s warm cheeks. “I know, just like I know when I’m having those days you're there for me, and I'll be there for you. Today was hard, and some days will be, but it’s okay, we’ll get through them, together.” she smiled and Luz sighed heavily through her nose as she reached up to press her hand over hers and turned her head to press a kiss to Amity’s palm.

“Together,” Luz agreed.

They make quick work of closing up her stand and head home on Amity’s staff. Luz lays her head tiredly on Amity’s shoulder the whole way, arms wrapped around her waist, drawing comfort from the warm body pressed to hers.

They have dinner with her moms and Lilith, King doing a lot to lighten the mood when he climbs on the table and tries to steal food from Eda’s plate, triggering a massive food fight before Amity takes Camila back through the portal, while Luz sits tiredly on the couch.

“You doing okay, Kid?” Eda plops down next to her and Luz sighs.

“I guess, just tired, and I feel like I made a fool of myself in front of everyone today,” she grumbled.

“Ah, don’t worry about that, everyone understands, especially after Cam explained the whole PTSD thing, honestly, I think most people that fought in the war got a little of it, I know sometimes Lily is kind of tense...er than usual anyway. You and Amity, you did a lot of fighting, saw a lot of tough stuff. I’d be more concerned if you two weren’t affected. I mean, you two were the ones that killed Belos too.”

Luz flinched at that, eyes squeezing shut

“I don’t want to talk about that today.” Luz turned her head away and Eda frowned but nodded to herself.

“Sure, Kid.”

“Also, since when did Mami become ‘Cam’?” Luz turned back to face her, brow cocked and Eda grinned.

“We've been talking.” she shrugged. Luz wasn’t sure she liked the way Eda was grinning about that. She was ecstatic they were getting along, but maybe better than she had anticipated.

“About what?”

“All kinds of stuff, mostly you, but lots of stuff, see?” she pointed to the family photo wall and for the first time, Luz noticed some new additions and groaned when her eyes fell on a slew of her baby photos that had definitely not been there before.

“She’s been coming to have tea time with me and Lily, we trade photos.” Eda grinned.

“Of course she has,” luz groaned and Eda cackled. “I’m gonna go lay down,” Luz mumbled, hauling herself to her feet. “Night.” she waved as she climbed the stairs.

“Night, Kid.”

It’s all luz can do to kick off her shoes and lay her staff and pouches on the desk before flopping back into bed with a sigh, eyes closed.

She’s not sure how long she lays there but after a while, she hears the bedroom door open and closes softly, followed by light, quiet steps she’d recognize anywhere. She listens to Amity move about their bedroom quietly for a few minutes before the bed dips and she slots herself against Luz’s side, arm draped over her waist and head on her shoulder.

“Are you awake?” is the quiet question and Luz hums affirmatively.

“Just trying to relax…,” she mumbled with a sigh.

“Maybe I can help…” is the quiet, lilted reply and Luz can’t help but laugh, eyes opening as she turned on her side to face Amity, brown meeting gold.

“Tempting, but I don’t have it in me tonight.” she grinned and Amity grins back at her and shrugs.

“Thought I’d offer.”

Luz chuckled and pulled her closer, foreheads touching.

“This is fine,” she murmurs, eyes closing again. Amity hums against her and they lay there quietly for a while. The buzzing has finally quieted, leaving her in wonderful, blissful silence, muscles finally full relaxing.

Till a quiet tapping makes her eyes pop open to stare into Amity’s, gold eyes silently telling her that she hears it too.

Luz props herself up on one arm and looks around their room, the tapping starts again and she catches a tiny shadow outside the window through the stained glass.

She growls, eyes narrowing but then Amity raises a finger and casts a spell circle, the window swings open, and sitting on the windowsill is a snake.

A dark purple and black cobra with gold eyes and Amity sat up immediately.

“A snake?” Luz blinks as it slithers into the room, a rolled-up piece of parchment held in its curled tail.

“It’s Thrasus... my dad’s palisman…,” Amity mumbled, reaching down to let the cobra slither up her arm, it looked at her expectantly and she ran a finger over his smooth, scaled head before taking the paper held in his tail.

“What’s it say?” Luz leaned in over her shoulder to see the paper.

Amity bit her lip, eyes scanning the paper quickly as her eyes glazed over.

“He’s coming…,” she mumbled after a moment. “He’s coming to the wedding.” she smiled to herself and Luz squeezed her shoulders.

“That’s great, mi amor!” Luz grinned.

“Yeah…,” Amity mumbled, still smiling to herself.

“...We should sit him next to mom..” Luz laughed after a moment and Amity snorted, turning to smack her with the paper.

“Titan, no!” she laughed.

[hispeculiartreasure]

All We’ve Got is Time - Chapter Four | B.B.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

AU: If They’d Survived/Post-War/Window Washer!Bucky Barnes

Rating: Teen

Word count: 3,371

Chapter 4/24

Warnings: Very brief, yet strong language

AN: Let me just say that I am profoundly grateful for the love this series is getting! I am enjoying your comments and theories and am so flattered by your praise. I didn’t get a chance to respond to every comment like I usually do - my car accident took care of that. I’ve had a hard time focusing and coping after that traumatic day so I hope everything in this chapter is in order. Love you all so dearly. Come scream at me when you’re done. 💖

Chapter Three

‘All We’ve Got is Time’ Masterlist

Exiting the elevator the next morning you fumble through your handbag, trying to find the lipstick you didn’t have time to put on before you left.

Of all mornings for the subway to not be working it had to be today. I’m so late, I’m gonna have to bust my tail before Anderson notices.

“Good morning, Mrs. Flannery,” you say absentmindedly as you approach her desk.

“You’re late. I have-”

“I know, it’s been a hell of a-- excuse me, it’s been a heck of a morning,” you interrupt, head still down, lipstick nowhere to be found.

“Miss-”

“It won’t happen again, I promise.” You rush past her as your mental to-do list only grows longer.

“Ahem.”

There was no denying that was aimed toward you. You come to a halt, slowly turning back to the daunting woman. Peering over her glasses, one hand perched on her hip while the other was stretched out to you, grasping a piece of paper.

“This was left for you yesterday afternoon after you had completed your shift.” You timidly reach for the slip, when Flannery pulls it back at the last moment. “I feel the need to remind you that this is a place of business. Not romance, not courtship, not frivolity. I meant what I said on your first day - beaus are not allowed in this office. This is the only time I will extend grace. Understood?”

Mystified you take the paper, nodding your understanding.

What the hell is she talking about?

Suzy sidles beside you on the walk to your desk before she whisper-shouts, “The note was for her!”

Immediately, six other women leap from their desks and huddle around you talking a mile a minute.

“We were here when he dropped it off!”

“He was so cute!”

“Why do I feel like I’ve seen him in the movies?”

“Maybe he’s a war-hero?”

“He looked familiar,” Connie muses.  

“Who cares! What does it say?” Suzy urges as she pokes your arm.

The huddle falls silent as you open the neatly folded note.

The gaggle of girls around you squeal for a moment before Flannery’s harsh shhhh quiets everyone to whispers.

“How sweet.”

“He’s one of the window washers?!”

“Wait, we have window washers here?”

“I still feel like I know him from somewhere else. . .”

“Well, how do you feel?” Suzy draws the focus back to you.

You bite your lip. “Umm. . . it makes me feel. . . pretty great.”

“Jeeze, for you that may as well be equal to jumping up and down!” One nudges you gently with her elbow. “What are you gonna do?”

“Do? I- I’m not going to do anything. I got a nice note and I appreciate it,” you state, hoping it would bring an end to all the attention surrounding you. It didn’t.

“Oh come on!”

“Have you been flirting? You need to be more tantalizing!”

“You have to find him right now!”

“Show us your moves, we can help!”

Waving your arms for quiet you declare, “I’m already late and if I don’t get to work, I’ll be canned before I get the chance to see him again. Is that what you want?”

Everyone begrudgingly trudges across the office while Suzy lags behind. With a knowing grin she says, “Lemme know if you wanna talk about it. It’s nice to see you smile like that.”

As she leaves you plop down into your desk chair, rereading the note. It’s then that you realize just how much you’ve been smiling the last few minutes and just how fast your heart was beating.

Yeah, I could tell you enjoyed the new look. Why am I blushing all over again?

He came up here to try to talk to me. To actually see me. In person. He faced the wrath of Flannery to get up here and leave this.

He can’t wait to see me? Does he look forward to seeing me as much as I look forward to seeing him? Of course he couldn’t be bothered to sign his actual name. What a tease.

It takes a shout from Anderson’s office to bring you back to reality. Propping the note against your typewriter you read it one more time before grabbing your pencil and notepad.

For the rest of the day you anxiously check the window every few minutes, waiting for the author of your note. Every moment you feel self-conscious, not sure what you should do when he stops on your floor. Is he expecting more to come from this? Do you need to be a little more flirtatious, like some of the girls had mentioned? Should you be making more of an effort? Is that something you even wanted?

But then you see him and the uncertainty fades away. The work day is almost over before he descends to the sixth floor. You make eye contact, check your watch, and tap its face twice. You’re late.

He nods while wiping his brow. His head lolls to the side, eyes closed, tongue sticking out in a comical manner. Slept in.

Shaking your head and tutting softly, you raise an eyebrow.

Both his hands shoot up in a I know, I know. Won’t happen again.

With a short nod, you go back to filing and leave Window Washer to his work.

By the time you turn around, you expect him to be gone. To your pleasant surprise, he seems to be waiting for you. He beckons you to the window. When you get close enough, you notice something written in the suds at the very bottom of the pane. The word doesn’t make sense to you, so you scrunch your eyebrows at him.

He taps himself on the chest several times and mouths “my name”. You look again and it finally clicks. B-U-C-K-Y. You nod your understanding and smile. It isn’t until he points at you that you realize he’s waiting for your name. You press your finger to the glass, waiting for him to mirror your touch. You trace your name on your side, allowing him to spell it on his side. He reads it and grins wide. Nice to meet ya, he mouths.

“Mary! Get in here, take notes.” You turn from the voice, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

Hooking a thumb toward your boss’ office, you sigh deeply. Gotta go.

Bucky held two fingers to his brow and gave you a half-hearted salute. Good luck in there.

------

You are dutifully typing a letter when a pair of shiny Oxford heels appear in your peripheral vision next to your desk.  “You need to go ask that boy on a date.”

Heaving a sigh, you keep your eyes on the task in front of you. “Didn’t we have this discussion yesterday, Suze?”

“Yeah, and you still haven’t wised-up.” Papers rustle on your desk as Suzy props a hip against it.

“On the contrary, I think I’m exercising a lot of wisdom.”

She scoffs, finally drawing your attention away from your paperwork.

“Someone’s a scaredy cat.”

“Suzy.” You fix her with a pointed look.

Pretending to have a sudden interest in her cuticles she mutters, “It’s the only possible explanation.”

“How do we know that note was an invitation? What if he was just saying hi? What if he-”

“Mhmm. Those are the thoughts of someone who is unafraid.”

“How do we even know if he’d want to go on a date with me?” You lean back in your chair, tired of this conversation.

The redhead’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “I’m sorry - ‘You looked beautiful’? ‘Can’t wait to see you’? Sorry, doll, but people don’t say that to just anyone. I adore you, but I can definitely wait to see you if it means coming in to work.” She dodges the playful kick you aim in her direction. “All I’m saying is that you weren’t here when he left that note - I was. He was all kinds of antsy and blushing.”

“He works outside, maybe he had a sunburn,” you deadpan.

“You were just talking about how you barely know anyone in the city and you need to meet new people. He’s new people!”

“But I don’t even know if I want a romantic relationship right now.” “Then you’ll tell him that after your first date if you still feel that way. But why shut it down now when it doesn’t even exist yet? Maybe he’s lonely too-” Suzy’s eyes dart behind you and her posture changes. She leans in toward you, feigning interest in the letter you’d abandoned. “Oh yes, those are the addresses I was looking for. Don’t know how they got on your desk. And you needed something from me right?”

You sit stunned by this sudden change of behavior until you see Flannery approaching your desk.

“Uhh-yes. I was wondering what the protocol would be for when. . .” you both watch as the office manager floats into the filing room and shuts the door behind her. You and Suzy relax back into your previous positions. “I never said lonely,” you point out, shoving your defensive instincts down.

Suzy rolls her eyes and with a wave of her manicured hand says “Fine, fine, you’re being adventurous. Does that make you feel better?”

“No.”

“Answer me one last question, Newbie, and I’ll leave you alone.” Raising a brow, you wait for the question. “What’ve you got to lose?”

You weren’t able to answer then, and you still don’t have an answer now.

Under Suzy’s watchful eye, the second your watch reads 12 o’clock you leave your desk and hustle down the stairs, hoping the physical activity would work out some of the anxiety in your chest. It doesn’t.

Turning the corner toward the service entrance you see the window washers gathered outside in a loose group, taking their lunch break. Your heart begins to beat faster when you imagine actually holding a conversation with Bucky. What in the world were you going to say to him?

I really should’ve thought this through a little more.

But then your feet were taking you toward the group and it was too late to turn back now. The clicking of your shoes on pavement draws the attention of each man whose heads simultaneously swing to watch you. You stop a few feet away from them, losing your words.

“Can we help you, miss?” The apparent leader of the window washing crew steps forward. He’s much younger than Bucky, scrawny and tan. He’d be lucky to be 18.

“Um. . .” you scan the faces, not finding the one you’re looking for. “Is Bucky around?”

The leader’s eyes narrow, giving you a too-thorough once-over. “Whaddya want with him? If it has to do with windows, I’m in charge here. Name’s Harrison. Maybe I can help you out.”

You control the urge to fidget under his scrutiny, steeling yourself to squarely match his gaze. “No, there’s something else I need to discuss with him.”

“He had to skip out early today. Something about a family emergency.”

“Oh. I see.” You think for a moment, not enjoying the pack of men watching you like vultures. “Would you let him know I stopped by?” You turn on your heel when Harrison speaks again.

“What’s your name, baby-doll?”

Shutting your eyes you remind yourself to watch your temper. Thinking better of giving your name, you spare a glance over your shoulder. Coldly you reply, “Tell him ‘Sixth Floor’. He’ll know.”

More questions are shouted at you but you keep walking, very familiar with the rakish tone in which they were spoken. You didn’t have time for drooling boys. For a moment you worry that Bucky is cut from the same cloth as them. But something deep in you urges that he’s different.

Unbeknownst to you, when Bucky arrives at work the next day Harrison actually does mention your visit.

“Barnes, some broad came lookin’ for ya at lunchtime yesterday.”

Bucky doesn’t spare a look from his kit he was preparing for the day. “Yeah? What for?”

“She wouldn’t tell us. Seemed kinda stuck-up and snooty. Like she was better than us or something.”

Hitching his kit over his shoulder to head to the roof, Bucky smooths back a stray strand of hair. “I hate to break it to ya, but if she was acting like that I’m sure you deserved it.” As the kid who was technically his supervisor opens his mouth to protest Bucky interjects, “Did she say anything else?”

Unamused, Harrison practically pouts. “She just said ‘sixth floor’ and said you’d get it. Then she left.”

Bucky stills immediately at the mention of you. “Really? She said that?”

“Yup. Was a bombshell too, real date-bait if you catch my drift.”

Eyes closing, Bucky imagines strangling the teenager in front of him rather than actually carrying out the action. “Shut your trap.”

“Wish she’d stop by again, wouldn’t mind an evening of necking with her.” He conspiratorially winks, mistakenly thinking he would go along with the sentiment.

Squaring up with Harrison, Bucky leans in dangerously close and says lowly, “You’d better watch that mouth, kid.”

“What’s the big deal? She’s not your girl or anything is she?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky insists, eyes practically boring through the terrified kid in front of him. “She’s not yours, so don’t be a creep. Girls don’t like creeps, if you haven’t caught onto that yet. And I don’t either.” He leans back, smirking with satisfaction at the deer-in-the-headlights look he was getting. Resting his brush on his shoulder Bucky turns to begin his day.

“Keep your paws off me, Barnes!” Harrison shouts to Bucky’s back.

“I didn’t touch you, Harrison. Maybe you would’ve noticed if you weren’t always on skirt patrol,” Bucky tosses over his shoulder as he begins to climb the fire escape.

As Bucky climbs higher his thoughts turn to you. You’d been looking for him. You’d obviously shut down Harrison and the rest of the boys. Anyone that sassed that kid was a hero in his book.

Maybe his note hadn’t been a total disaster after all. Once he’d gotten into bed that night, he fretted over that dumb piece of paper for hours. He thought of a million things he could’ve said besides the three hastily scribbled lines. A million kinder, wittier, more fitting words for you. You’d been nice enough the next day, playful even. And he’d finally gotten your name - a sweet, suitable name that rolled around in his head for hours. But he couldn’t help feeling like he needed to do more.

He found himself even more excited to get to the sixth floor today, to see you, to have a little hope, to share in a smile. Though that’s not exactly what happens.

------

“Get in here, NOW!”

Anderson’s tone instantly drowns your insides with dread.

You rush to his door, quietly opening it. Anderson’s heels are crossed, kicked up to rest on the edge of his desk. His eyes bore into you, disdain obvious.

“Sir?” you make out much smoother than you feel.

“Do you know what this is?” he flicks a letter across his desk toward you. Quietly picking it up, you silently read its contents.

“The steel mill is turning down our partnership offer? Because they never received paperwork? Sir, I definitely-”

“Read the letterhead,” he bites out. “And then read what you sent out. What do you notice, Doris?” Another letter is flicked in your direction. You bite back a retort about your name.

Holding the letters side-by-side, a pit drops in your stomach. “I copied the address incorrectly.”

Anderson gives you a tight nod, jaw clenched. The room is claustrophobic in silence.

“Sir, I-”

“You cost us thousands of dollars with this idiotic move, because you didn’t proofread your work enough? Because you can’t copy a damn number over?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know how I missed-”

“You missed it because you were careless!” Anderson bangs a fist to his desk, causing you to jump a fraction. He stands up abruptly, stalking over to you. “This job isn’t a fucking joke. You were given a chance because you kicked up a fuss about being let go when our boys came back from war. You want this job? Act like it!” With every word Anderson steps in your direction causing you to match with a step backward. You are in his office’s threshold when he leans in and whispers menacingly, “If you can’t get a damn letter right then you shouldn’t even be here in the first place, Marge. Make sure it doesn’t happen again or you’re gone. Now get out of my office and fix your screw-up!” The door slams in your face.

Hands shaking, you make your way to your desk. Willing the tears not to fall you take a few deep breaths. Elbows rest on the surface, head in your hands, focusing on not falling apart in the middle of the busy office.

You’re tougher than this. A man raising his voice at you is nothing new. You are fine, you made a mistake. Don’t you dare lose your composure, it’ll only make you seem weak.

A tapping on the window directly next to your desk startles you. Bucky is there, looking more concerned than ever. He tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed together. What’s wrong?

The tears spill out at the kindness reflected in his own. You search desperately for a handkerchief before turning back to the window. Dabbing at your wet cheeks furiously, you gesture to Anderson’s office. You blink against the hankie, hoping to catch the makeup before it runs down your entire face. Pointing to yourself you mouth “my fault”. The tears don’t stop for several minutes, but everytime you look up Bucky is sitting at the window, watching you sorrowfully.

Eventually you dry up, puffy eyes meeting Bucky’s. “I’m fine,” you whisper, dropping your gaze to the handkerchief in your lap that you’ve been twisting into knots.

More tapping draws your attention back to Bucky, who promptly flips off Anderson’s closed door. You manage to stutter a laugh out in between your sniffles, feeling a little lighter already.

With an admonishing shake of your head that you don’t mean, you return his smile. Thanks.

You could be imagining it, but Bucky seems hesitant to move on to the next floor. Giving him what you hope is a reassuring thumbs-up you mouth, “I’m okay.”

Looking thoroughly unconvinced he watches you for a few seconds before nodding slowly. He drops out of your sight, though you still stare out the window where he had been.

------------------

One day passes where you don’t see Bucky at all.

Two days pass. No Bucky.

Three days pass. Zero handsome window washers.

When the end of your day comes and it hits you that he hasn’t made his usual stop you try to ignore the disappointment that prickles your heart.

It takes a while before it dawns on you that since you had started your job Bucky had washed every single window on this side of the building. Which meant he would move onto another side or possibly an entirely different building.

On your walk into work Friday morning, you notice that the window washing crew’s tools are absent from the sidewalk. An unfamiliar emotion has you biting your lip as you approach your desk.

I guess that’s that. We kept missing each other and time just. . .ran out. It’s not a big deal. . . If it’s not a big deal then why am I so sad?

Turning your gaze to the window immediately to your left, you notice a piece of paper in the middle of the pane. You stare for a moment, fairly certain that it hadn’t been there when you left work last night. With a purposeful step you go to the window, a sneaking suspicion in the back of your mind. You find a note written in a familiar hand taped to the outside of the window, the writing facing you so you could read it clear as day.

Chapter Five

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[noccalula-writes]

I wrote a long-ass essay about the entire experience with my father, as it was happening, because that’s how I cope with shit. 

CW: parental death, discussions of abuse, medical situations, dying. 

(7/4/2019)

It’s Thursday. The hospice nurses don’t think he’ll die tonight and I don’t either, but his breathing pattern is beginning to change. The rattling of the gathering fluids at the back of his mouth. The way he sleeps with his mouth hanging fully open, a much further drop than the way he’d nod off in his chair or on the couch, open enough to drool and snore but not the near-scream affectation of his jaw hanging loosely that I’ve been seeing since we arrived here yesterday by ambulance.

His jaundice is returning, albeit more subtly than it was before. Sometimes he sleeps deep. Sometimes his eyebrows move, knitting and raising and fluctuating like he’s in the middle of a very important conversation with someone who just isn’t getting the message. For some reason, I keep thinking he’s talking to his own father. I hope he is. I hope it’s a good conversation.

But his breathing becomes erratic and the emaciated curve of his chest starts to heave a little or goes too still for too long and then rises harshly, and I hold my own breath while I wait to see if his is coming back.

I want to be here when he dies. I will be here when he dies.

***

I had booked a flight on Sunday for 7:45 pm. I made it out the other side of the TSA checkpoint when I got the text that American Airlines had canceled my flight.

I called and explained the direness of the situation, and the best they could offer was 7am the next morning.

Monday morning, I flew into Charlotte NC with a 36 minute layover, just enough to let me pee and refill my water bottle and make it to the gate with less than an hour’s wait til boarding.

No sooner had I sat down than American Airlines sent out yet another text. “Your flight has been cancelled.” I was five and a half hours away from Jacksonville as a straight shot. The next flight they could put me on was at 2:45 that afternoon. The nurses had been encouraging me to come down due to my father’s rapid deterioration – I spent the entire transit up until that point only mildly afraid that he would die before I would arrive.

There in North Carolina? I was terrified.

I called, talked to yet another sympathetic courtesy clerk who could do nothing for me, talked to a far less courteous clerk at the actual airport desk, tried to see if they could just get me a rental car instead. I could either sit for a six hour layover or I could get a car and make it to Jax half an hour before my flight would leave.

Nothing.

I did not have the money to fly here – a dear friend bought my ticket – and I do not have the money to fly back. I’ll work that out after. I definitely did not have the money for my own rental car.

Finally, I went back to the courtesy desk, cried to the older gentleman behind the computer, and how quickly his face changed when I said my father was dying told me he too knew what it meant to need to get home now, now, now.

He handed me a comp ticket for a 1:11 flight that no one else had even brought up with me and told me I had to run if I was going to make it across the airport in time to board.

***

Yesterday morning, he had the last period of real lucidity, unreplicated since we arrived and began comfort-care treatment.

His main doctor came into the ICU and explained to both him and me, freshly awakened by the sound of her pulling his curtain, father and daughter both bleary-eyed but alert and trying to look focused at the importance of the situation.

“There is really nothing else we can do,” she offered with empathy, looking more at me than at him. I don’t blame her for that. It must be harder to look him in the eyes and tell him he’s at the end of the road. We both nod grimly and I ask him, just to be sure, if he understands what she’s saying.

The day before, he slept through my consultations with his kidney doctor and his oncologist and through the group meeting (myself, both half sisters, their mother) with palliative care specialists but naturally was awake when hospice came. The word ‘hospice’ knocked the breath out of him, his left hand searching feebly along the side of his hospital bed, trying to hold on to the edge like he was cresting a daunting roller coaster.

I was crouching to his right, trying to stay eye-level instead of looming over him. I think he reached for my hand. Maybe I reached first. All I know is I took his hand and he squeezed mine.

He asked for a day to consider it, and when that patch of lucidity was gone in twenty minutes, so was his consideration.

That next morning, however, with his lovely doctor standing over us both while I rested my arm and chin on the bedrail beside him, like were co-conspirators instead of a distant father and daughter with a contentious relationship whose power dynamic was about to shift considerably, there was no question of the conversation we were having.

“Do you understand why we need to do this?” I asked him after explaining that we were out of other options. My Great Aunt Jane couldn’t handle home care, even with me present, and he would never get a moment’s peace with her hovering and micromanaging. The hospital was at the end of their ability to care for him, and any measures taken to sustain his life were only delaying the inevitable.

I don’t know if he fully understood that last part, but he nodded, looking away.

I waited for a moment, summoning my courage.

“You understand this is metastatic cancer, right?”

Another nod.

Another moment of gathering courage.

“Your oncologist told me you’ve known about this since last year…” I was cautious, careful not to make him feel judged though I knew it might be a moot point, “Do you remember that?”

He paused, taking assessment, his eyes moving slowly across the ceiling as he pulled through his own memory to find the answer.

“No,” he said slowly, “I don’t… but I must have known.”

***

I arrived on Monday afternoon, my cousin bringing me straight from the airport to the hospital.

I slept on the small sofa in his hospital room both Monday and Tuesday nights. I only left for an hour on Tuesday to meet a close friend at a restaurant right on the other side of the business park from the hospital, a quick catch up to eat and get some take out for Tara.

When I start to worry that I’m doing this because I need to feel like The Goodest Daughter, like I’ve somehow exceeded everyone else’s efforts by miles, I remind myself that I’m still putting chapstick on him, rubbing lotion onto his feet, helping the nurses turn and hold him to change his diaper, enduring the vilest of shit (that systems-are-shutting-down feces is no joke), making sure his dentures are clean and his goatee is free of food despite the fact that he’s called me Tara more than once.

***

My father and I have barely spoken in the last several years.

Nobody seems to suspect that.

***

I’ve been trying to journal but it’s difficult to keep up with considering how tired I am – writing by hand is still a beautiful pastime but I’m at the point where my memory goes so quickly that if I’m not in front of a keyboard, I lose whatever nice prose I thought I had going.

I know from a self-care perspective that I should probably leave a little more often. Go for a walk around the property at a more leisurely pace than my panic-stricken power walk – big body, short little legs, shitty shoes means my legs have been killing me since the day I had to hoof it across the Charlotte airport all the way until I got back from my quick Target trip today, four days later. But I can’t.

The idea of him being alone and afraid makes me feel sick.

But he’s calm now. He’s been calm since we arrived at hospice yesterday afternoon, after I rode in the ambulance beside him that took us from his 8th-floor ICU suite to the Hadlow hospice center on Sunbeam Road, a road only slightly off the path that I rode with my father so many times. We’ve definitely driven down it before together, though, and I can’t stop thinking about time, about how eight years ago today he put “happy 4th, love ya” on my facebook wall and within three years of that we were so strained we barely spoke, existed somewhere not quite yet arriving at estrangement but somewhere further away from familiarity.

***

I’m working very hard to not let that anger I carried for him all the way up until the phone call came on Saturday that he was dying get transmuted into guilt. Of course, it’s happened to some degree, that much I couldn’t fight off – but I’m trying to remember that this anger isn’t the dysfunction of a spoiled kid who couldn’t quit butting heads with her father, but someone who tried very hard to build a relationship that never took, who eventually decided to take her hand off the burner because eventually she stopped accepting pain as a trade-in for affection.

One of the things that has emerged the clearest to me during this transition between ICU to hospice, between periodic lucidity and near constant sleep, is how different a relationship to him Tara has had than Alina or I had. Alina has always carried the bitterness of feeling unfavored atop the conflict that close proximity built between them – she spent the first 7 years of her life with him constantly, traded off every other week after that. She’s angry at him for things that he did or said, for how he chose to shape her life from that vantage point. I spent two months of every summer with him and every Christmas and birthday as they fall during the same winter break from school. I was a part-time visitor in the life he had with both of them; I came and lived in his life, on his terms.

Her anger comes from a sense of entitlement. Mine comes from an ever-present ache of abandonment. Alina has always resented him for what he did when he was there; I resented him for not being there to begin with. I ached for a relationship with my father. I called him sporadically – far apart enough that it wouldn’t cramp his distant style, but close enough that we could maintain a steady narrative of what my life was like (always mine, almost never his – my father was as cagey and distant with me as I often was with other people). The rivers of bad blood between his longtime girlfriend and all 3 of his daughters made matters worse; she was the sort of woman who never made it past high-school level social skills and let pain and depression turn her cruel and callous, and once their relationship was over my father very openly blamed her for the strain between him and his daughters.

I once countered to him that he had made the decision to not step in and stop her. To me, it was more his fault than hers. She was awful but he was complacent with it.

Never being able to consolidate world views in general atop my feelings of having been abandoned to my grief after my mother’s death in a house that felt more like a prison (I once left a cup of water unemptied in the sink and came home to find he had dumped it all over my bed – another time, I arrived home to find my dresser from Alabama pluming up smoke from the burn pile in the back yard without so much as a word to me, because he said he saw spiders in it) made it incredibly difficult to stitch the distance between us closed. I started leaving at 5am to go to my boyfriend’s house before school and have breakfast with his family (or, more often, sneak in and either go back to sleep or have sex). I begged to move out, to leave and go stay at my great aunt’s house instead, and he resisted me only until his girlfriend needed my bedroom for her kids when they visited. Then, I was allowed to leave.

He kept all of my social security survivor’s checks. I only saw the very last one. I worked at McDonald’s to pay for my own gas (I inherited my mother’s car, a 1990 Cutlass Cierra, when she died) and insurance, and I bought my own food as well so his girlfriend didn’t get upset when I ate at the house.

He judged my mother mightily for her mistakes and while my sexuality didn’t seem to hang him up too much – he nearly choked on chicken when I told him I had been dating a girl, but he recovered quickly with a shrug and a “well… shit happens” – and my defensiveness of her put us at odds with each other again. I tried to call and set up dinner dates or ask him to come see whatever new apartment my girlfriend and I were living in. He visited one once and then never again. I brought over a pizza to hang out with him one night and within thirty minutes, Cynthia called me to tell me that one of our cats had died. Spending time together got harder to arrange, and the more he seemed indifferent to how hard I was trying to forge a relationship, the more I resented him for it.

My calls went unanswered. Seeing him required going out of my way, every time. He rarely met me halfway, almost never if it required real effort on his part.

By the time Cyn and I moved to Pensacola, we had been living less than 10 minutes away from one another and had seen each other less than 5 times in a year.

By the time we moved to Columbus, Ohio, I didn’t even tell him we were going. It didn’t seem to matter.

***

The jaundice and edema have returned by Friday morning. His breathing is becoming more and more erratic. Morphine and Ativan are coming in through a subcutaneous port because he no longer wakes up to swallow.

I have to fight the urge to try to wake him, make him take a sip of water for his parched tongue. His mouth stays wide open all of the time now. I gently rub chapstick over his lips a few times a day so they don’t crack, but the corners of his mouth are bruising from the constant tension.

I am letting him die. We are letting him die. It feels like a failure somehow, even though I know I would absolutely encourage literally anyone else to do exactly what I am doing now in exactly this situation.

***

When I was 12 years old, I played my first live show.

My father brought me onstage at the bar where he played lead guitar in the house band, a vast waste of his natural talent, and had me sing Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” while he accompanied me. We drilled it night after night in his studio apartment during the summer that he split from Alina and Tara’s mother. We worked on Tom Petty’s “Breakdown” but there was something to “Time After Time” that we both really loved – I had only recently gotten very good with pitch control and my young voice was still high and soft, able to curl over the notes gently. Now I sing with the base of my chest and what I suspect are several vocal nodes, my voice getting weak quickly but frankly it suits my style.

I was shaking, I remember very clearly wanting to throw up, but my father beamed at me from his post on the barstool beside me and started to play.

Years later, my Italian macho-typical misogynist of a father would come to the local women’s center where I worked as a victim advocate for a sexual assault response team and play in our courtyard during our survivor event in April. He played an Ani DiFranco song and I sang.

***

Time is a swallowed bomb, waiting. You pay for the whole seat but you only use the edge.  

***

On Friday night, they’re saying less than 24 hours. His breathing has changed again, growing labored and strange.

I almost have a panic attack when I have to go to the funeral home to sign papers for a cremation and fill out what of his death certificate I can remember.

Tara is staying beside him. Alina joined us for a while today, all three of us sitting and holding his hands, petting his leg while we listened to his favorite Splendor album and sang “Yeah, Whatever” to him. Hospice brought his lunch; he doesn’t eat or take water anymore. We stole his cookie and split it and talked to him about how good it was, teasing the way he always teased us. We reminisced, talked about the past and our mistakes. We all cried. We all laughed. It was as good a moment as we’d had together in a long, long time.

He didn’t wake up, but we were holding his hands. We were keeping him safe.

***

I sing to him when we’re alone – his favorite Bonnie Raitt songs. Time After Time, of course. When I try singing Warren Zevon’s “Keep Me In Your Heart For A While,” I only make it to the second stanza before I can’t go on.

“When you get up in the morning and you see that crazy sun, keep me in your heart for a while; there’s a train leaving nightly called When All Is Said And Done, keep me in your heart for a while.”

I asked him for guitar lessons once. He tried to teach me a G chord, told me to keep it simple.

“With your voice, you won’t need to learn much,” he said, and I was so overjoyed for the compliment that I’ve never forgotten it.

***

My dear friend Diana comes in to see him, despite having only known him through me.

He would hate this, I think, but I need her to be there, if only for a few minutes.

We met at the abortion clinic we both worked at; she became my boss within two months of my starting and we’ve been close ever since. When she goes to leave, she addresses my father, coming to put her hand gently on his.

“Mister Vance, if I don’t see you again, safe travels.”

I don’t know where he’s going. If there is somewhere, though, it’s going to have so much music. He’s going to be playing his heart out, saying everything his pride never let him say with notes and bars.  

Once, back in college, he called me and said nothing, setting the phone beside him on the couch while he absolutely nailed the Eruption solo from Van Halen’s cover of “Girl You Really Got Me Now.”

I have never thought of him as a good father. I have always thought of him as an incredible musician.

***

Back on Sunday, when I knew I would be flying out due to the severity of the situation, I told the nurse to tell Dad I was coming.

I didn’t think he was lucid enough to understand much of anything anyone said, but I missed a call from the hospital by margins of seconds. In an absolute tizzy over what might have been on the other end, I called back.

My father answered, his voice barely a hoarse whisper, his focus obscured by so much morphine.

“Dad? Is that you?”

“Bre?”

“Dad?”

“Bre?”

“Yeah, Dad, it’s Bre.”

His voice broke. “Oh, my baby girl.”

I felt my heart fall out of my ribs and drop down the staircase I fell down the year before and cracked my tailbone, shattered a tooth. I sat down on the stairs. I had been so worried he wouldn’t want to see me, that I’d get there and the ice coating would crawl back over our relationship and I’d have rushed down for little more than maybe a chance to say hello.

“Are you really coming?” he asked, over and over, like a child afraid of the answer being ‘no.’

***

On Saturday, he’s gasping for breath like a fish on a deck. It’s terrifying for me and Tara, who sit on either side of him wide-eyed and panic stricken, waiting for the higher dose of morphine to kick in. It’s violent to watch, but thankfully it starts to subside by that night.

The fear dissipates from the room, but we don’t forget the experience.

***

I show the night nurse pictures of my father with his long dark hair, his brown-tan skin, his brilliant green eyes. I show her pictures of him just two short years ago, round-faced and charming in his straw fedora as he played his guitar, blissfully unaware of all the shitty connotations of fedoras nowadays. She marvels at how handsome he is, how happy he looks holding a guitar. I tell her he’s a really good carpenter but he’s a much better musician, raised by a father who was notoriously talented as well. My father lit up onstage, not as towering as a front man but as the ever-present lead guitarist, just quirky and fun enough to draw your eye from the main microphone but practical, decades of practice and honed skill turning him into the kind of perfectionist he resented in his father.

The lead singer of the last band he played for comes to see him for the third time since Monday. He’s the kind of man who has a natural charm about him, a comfort with being the center of attention that most of us can’t cultivate. He’s sincere in his grief about my father, but he’s also the kind of person who acts as though it’s never dawned on him that not everything he does will come with applause. He performs a very dramatic one man show of his grief when it’s just him and my sister; when I’m here he holds court with his memories and talks about throwing back whiskey with my father at the bar they played at.

“He always said the doctor said it was okay!”

I fight back irritation when I respond, “The doctor absolutely did not say it was okay, he had liver damage.” It’s not this man’s fault my father took big gambles with his health and his addictions. It’s not his fault that my father has always loved a good time. It’s certainly not his fault my father lied about his condition to most people to avoid having to talk about it.

He makes open-ended statements designed to make us ask him questions about himself. Neither one of us do. This seems to bother him. It occurs to me that after a lifetime of being handsome and musically inclined, he might just be expressing himself the only way he knows how – from a vantage point where the world ends at the end of his nose.

Later, when his wife comes, it’s a complete 180. She is calm and warm and immediate, built small and slight like my mother, and between that and her unabashed Mom vibes I’m instantly glad that this virtual stranger is in the room. We watch my father struggle to breathe and she puts her hand on my back, one hand on mine on his, and for a second I shut my eyes and let myself cry – not the way I want to cry, I haven’t found the softest spot to rip that one open from yet, but quietly. If I keep my eyes closed, it feels like my mother is beside me. I can’t think of a not-weird way to tell her I’m grateful for that, so I don’t.

***

Tara and I hold vigil all day on Sunday. His lungs are full of fluid and his face is going grey. His breaths are gentle and small but he sounds like a coffee maker, an observation I make after waking from a catnap in the bay window.

It’s just the three of us and a Law & Order SVU marathon. Dad’s come to like police procedurals in his old age.

We put up a statement on Facebook asking people to send their well wishes via text and phone calls, that we are running out of road and we’d like to focus mostly on spending the last hours or days with him. Alina doesn’t show. She’s been present but sporadically, unable to bear the full weight of the reality of the situation perhaps or too distracted by her own personal demons. I wonder, of the three of us, which daughter will be the one living with the most regret. It’s probably between me and Alina.

When Tara finally goes home for the evening, the nurse comes back to check on him again. Between his blood pressure and his gentle, rattling breaths, he could easily go tonight or go into the morning.

I text my cousin and refer to my father as Captain Refuses-To-Die. She laughs. I feel guilty. She points out that no one would be laughing more than my father. I feel better.

On this, likely the last night we’ll ever have together, I read to him from the book I’ve brought from home (Dessa Wander’s My Own Devices, nonfiction essays that are beautiful and poignant), put Chicago PD on mute and play him Jeff Buckley. I read aloud from the chapter in which Dessa filmed the music video for “Sound The Bells”, and the ending lines crush me all over again: “Some places you need to go, even a chestful of air is too much cargo. Some places you can only go empty.”

I tell him, for the hundredth time, that it’s okay to go if he needs to. His blood pressure is lower and the rattling breaths are a sign we’re growing closer, but he’s still warm to the touch all over. If he’s mottling, we can’t see it. There’s gray in his face again but he reacts to the oral swab of moisturizer to keep his mouth from drying out by furrowing his brows, almost turning away but not quite. The nurses aren’t sure what to make of it. One of these literal angels asks me if I’ve tried telling him it’s okay to go – I tell her that might be what’s holding him up, because now that it was someone else’s idea, he’s just not going to do it.

I hear him in my ear sometimes. Quit rushin’ me. I’ll go when I want and not a moment sooner. Sit down.

We listen to three different versions of Buckley’s Hallelujah – instrumental while I read to him, live, and studio. We move on to the rest of the Grace album.

I’m afraid to go to the bathroom or take a shower when it’s just me and him, so convinced he’ll wait until the second the door clicks shut and then take his opportunity to slip away unnoticed, robbing me of the moment where I get to hold his hand and put some symmetry to our relationship. After all, he was there when I came into the world, purple and defiantly refusing to breathe until suddenly I sucked in air and began to scream. He saw me come in; I vow to at least be here when he goes out. I want to hold his hand the whole time, but if in all his wittiness he decides to kick while I’m half-sleeping on the World’s Okayest Cot, just being in the room will have to be enough.

***

When Alina arrived at my great aunt’s and found him on the floor, slumped against his bed bleeding and unable to get up, he told her he had become addicted to oxycodone since nothing else was helping for the pain. He told her he was done, that he was tired of being sick and tired of fighting.

Despite this, he’s still hanging on. I don’t think he wants to go. He’s only 61 years old. It seems far away to me now the way my mother’s 39 years seemed when I was 16, but now I am 32 and 39 gets more horrible and tragic every day. My father was the life of the party between his sense of humor and relentless flirting and I can only assume that on some base level, he’s not ready for the party to stop yet.

His fingers stopped searching for the fret board days ago. His eyes don’t move behind the lids anymore, and the shadows and bruises around them are coming in fierce. The Haldol is doing nothing to stop the secretions and he’s still in full brew mode, death rattle on all day long. It’s terrifying at first but after a while it’s just a rumble, just a purr. There are moments when Tara and I are perched in our respective chairs on either side of him, eyes turned to the TV or our phones, and this is… ‘fine’ isn’t really the word, but mundane. Just a thing we’re all doing. Boring, even. And then I glance at the bed and see my emaciated, sunken-faced father gurgling through yet another breath and it takes my own away how very not okay it all is.

He’d hate this, is the only thing I can keep thinking. He would hate all of this.

***

There’s a train leaving nightly called ‘When All Is Said and Done.’

Keep me in your heart for a while.

I love him with every ounce of my being. I’m so angry for all the time we missed. I’m so sad that he didn’t let me love him more.

***

It’s Thursday, again. The last few days have been a blur so emotionally exhausting I haven’t had the presence of mind to put pen to paper in any capacity.

When he’ll die is anyone’s guess. For a while yesterday his breathing changed so drastically, came in short little hiccups, that the PRN was sure he was breathing his last. Then, like nothing had ever transpired, he was back to the soft, shallow breaths of before, the rattling having disappeared within a day of its arrival. He started having spells yesterday where he exhales so hard that it engages his vocal cords, making a groan or soft moan like a zombie in a horror film; this terrified the shit out of Tara and me so badly that we grabbed the nurse. His eyes tried to open. It was incredibly upsetting.

The nurse explained that these were reflexive, the deep sighs were him fighting his own heart’s slowing down on some basal level. He’s been unconscious for an entire week now – the eyes opening are a reflex, not intentional and not a sign of any sort of awareness behind the lids.

When they opened after he was cleaned, they had rolled all the way up into his head, leaving nothing but a sliver of white, making me feel sick to my stomach. I knew dying wasn’t elegant and beautiful the way the movies would have you believe, but this is taking so very, very long and it’s so very, very awful.

It’s been a week without water now, so at some point something will have to give.

Tara has spent every day right next to me, sometimes holding his other hand, sometimes napping in the armchair while I nap on my cot. It’s often the two of us in comfortable silence for long stretches or cracking jokes over whatever is on tv. We share his trays when they come in – sometimes the worker slips us a second tray specifically for Tara – or she runs to grab lunch. We tried going out together a few times but no results; he would be exactly as we left him upon our return. Whatever he’s holding on for, he’s holding on with both hands.

I watch his pulse pound in the veins in his neck. I can see his heartbeat through the emaciation of his ribs. I wish to god this was a Death With Dignity state. I wish to god the end would just come gently for him already, and then I feel like a monster for wishing that. How do you want someone you love to die? How do you want them to stay and suffer? Damned if I do, fucked if I don’t.

I play him Joe Bonamassa, more Jeff Buckley, Bonnie Raitt, Bon Iver, Eva Cassidy, Warren Zevon. I sing every song he ever asked me to sing for him, even the ones he chastised me for singing too loudly for him to hear the radio. I hum when I can’t muster the energy to sing, which is increasingly often at this point.

I’m a ghost wandering the hospice halls. The staff greets me by first name and I know most of theirs now – Lisa, who is a literal angel, sent in a dining room cart loaded with sandwiches and chips when a big storm hit yesterday, thinking Tara and I wouldn’t likely go out to get dinner. Gloria dutifully checks on me and my dad and Tara. Jasmine, Victoria, Tinkey, Dolores, the cleaning lady named Cynthia (my wife’s name) is a particular comfort, going out of her way to talk to me every time she comes in to sweep.

The guilt is palpable. I miss my wife and my dog and my apartment; sleeping on this cot has triggered my already flared vestibular disorder and I am so dizzy I worry I’ll fall over at least once a day. I eat what I can when I can but my diet is garbage. I often forget to eat. I’m making it a point to drink as much water as I physically can without getting sick as it helps my headaches.

But I haven’t cried in what feels like days. I can’t anymore. I talk about the increasingly mottling on his fingers, his toes, his ears like it’s a matter-of-fact conversation about the weather. The sound of his sighs and groans still make my heart catch in my throat every time but I’m going numb to the rest. We’re just kind of trapped here in limbo between being able to care for him, which we no longer can, and being able to mourn him and grieve, which we cannot yet do. It feels like torture. I mentally calculate out how much therapy I’m going to need to get out the other side of this. I watch more cop procedurals than I’ve watched in years and hate every last one of them unless Olivia Benson is in them (except Criminal Minds, which I have a complicated relationship with but Tara and I both share a deep abiding love of Spencer Reid, so.)

I want to go home. I feel like dog shit for wanting to go home. I can’t leave him. Not like this. I don’t know how to ask for help but I feel like I’m drowning.

***

The only slices of time where I feel like I can breathe is when Tara and I run to Target for no good reason or when I’m in the shower late in the evening. At first I was too afraid to so much as use the bathroom, scared he would slip off the second I left the room in one final act of independence to prove once and for all that he didn’t need anybody else’s input or help.

Dad’s hospice room has a huge walk-in shower built to accommodate a sitting toilet for those who are still resisting the sponge bath with all their might. Dad was unable to walk for the three days he was in the ICU, much less now, so I drag the entire rig of pvc and toilet seat out into the bathroom proper and enjoy a shower with enough space to comfortably fit three people. In my apartment back home, we haven’t had a functional shower in months; the whole set up fell out of the wall, leaving us only with our very deep and very beautiful porcelain tub. It’s hard to complain about such a tub but the reality is that cup baths get tiring very quickly when you’re disabled and getting into and out of that gorgeous porcelain tank is real work.

This shower comes equipped with safety rails, which at the ripe old age of 32 send my chronically ill self into pure joy. I find reasons to stay in the shower longer than I normally would, water conscious as I try to be. My legs haven’t been so shaven so frequently since I was a teenager. I don’t always have the energy to slip off and stand in hot water for twenty minutes at a time but when I do I try to take advantage; we don’t know when he’s going to decide he’s had enough and I’ll be quickly packing our things into all these Zaxby’s carryout bags I keep hoarding.

***

At some point, this has begun to feel deliberate. Am I locked in one final battle of wills with my father? Is he testing my mettle – and Tara’s, for that matter – to make sure we’ve got the stones to follow up on our promises?

My father made a lot of promises he didn’t honor. Whether they haunted him or if he just forgot is anybody’s guess.

***

I’m on the lanai near my father’s room when I noticed a few people going in and out of the room. I tell my aunt Sharon, “If he slipped off while I was outside on the phone, I swear to god.” He hasn’t, but we’re close; they’ve repositioned him to try to help things move along. The doctor tells me the mottling has moved quickly up his legs and that we’re looking at hours now, maybe even sooner.

His eyes are partially open again. I grimace and close them gently. I remember my mothers’ open eyes, dead for hours when I found her, and it’s something that sixteen years of road between that moment and now have never been able to rub free from my memory. I wonder what about this will haunt me in specificity – the whole experience, sure, but the little things. If I’ll smell someone wearing his nurse practitioner’s perfume and it’ll send me straight into fight or flight. If I’ll be so consumed by my grief that I can’t eat but the second I can I find I can never eat trail mix again. If something will slip just under the edge of my self awareness and then one day I’ll be crying in the aisle at Kroger for no reason.

Bronze nail polish, unexpected splashes of Daffodil yellow, and “Girl You Really Got Me Now” stop me in my tracks in regards to my mother, but she was part of my life every single day. This man laying in this hospital bed is undoubtedly someone I love so much it makes my chest hurt to think of, but not much in my day to day life will change when he is gone – he wasn’t a part of it, hadn’t been for years.

A storm is rolling in. I call my sister.

***

He dies at 10:40 on July 11th.

Tara is asleep on the cot on one side of him, I’m sitting in the armchair on the other, listening to him breathe and texting my wife. Chicago PD is on because of course it is. I get a strange prickle of discomfort and pause, realizing that I no longer hear the heaving of his breath.

At that exact moment, my sister wakes for no reason and goes into the bathroom, passing me as I quickly come around the bed to look at my father’s face in the blue tv light, his eyes slit just barely open. His chest unmoving. The thrum of his heartbeat, so visible for so many days, stilled. I pressed two fingers to his neck, fought the urge to recoil, and pressed the call button to the nurse’s station.

We get an hour and a half with him before the funeral home arrives at nearly 1 am. With my mother, my shock and fear kept me from being able to go anywhere near her body after I dropped her when I tried to turn her over. My criminology studies made me slightly more comfortable around the dead but that quick recoil didn’t leave me and before long I was doubly nursing a burgeoning drinking problem and a crippling fear of death. I’ve done the reading. I’ve pushed myself past my comfort zone. When my beloved dogs died in 2015 and 2017, I spent time with them before burying them myself in the backyard of my aunt’s home.

When the doctor backs out of the door gracefully, quietly, I press my ear to my father’s chest and hear nothing. I put my arm over both of his. I let myself sob into his still, unmoving shoulder and I remember for a moment how he held me in my bedroom at his house the day I moved in, when my mother’s death was suddenly too real to stand under the weight off. How he let me lean fully into him and slid down to the floor with me, let me sob until I was too sore to keep crying, how for that one blessed moment he was the father I needed at exactly the moment I needed him. 

They come to take him. The funeral home worker watches me with a soft expression as I dip down one last time and tell him, “On to the next adventure. Thank you for everything. I love you, Dad. Goodbye.”

***

I love you, Dad.

Goodbye.

***

I think I’m going to feel better but really, I’m just tired. Bone-deep tired. A tired I can’t put a name to. I want to go home and be held by my wife more than I want anything in the world. I spend the day with my sisters, alternating between being mostly-okay and having my breath snatched from me by how not-okay I am. Alina submits herself back to rehab to return on Monday. We make plans to go through his things, together, in September, when I’ve returned for a wedding. It feels okay-ish, and then it feels less okay, and then it’s so awful I can’t wrap my head around it.

And it will continue to be awful. I know that. But it will gradually become less awful, the edges rubbing down until it doesn’t cut me every time I brush against it. It will always be awful. But it will turn into a shape of awful that I can breathe around.

I take stock of what I’ve got left in my hands now that my watch has ended. I went from “my father is not in my life” to “my father is dying and I am caring for him in his final days after a lifetime of his antiseptic behavior to my attempts at building emotional bridges with him” to “my father is dead” in the space of about 13 days. There was no time. It all happened too fast.

On my last day in Florida, I drag both of my exhausted sisters to the beach. Alina sleeps on a towel. Tara and I wade out into the ocean, and I let the salt water of my sweat and my tears remind me how we all came from the sea, how we all return to the earth, and how one day this planet will keep spinning without me, regardless of whether I’ve left a list of things undone or not.

I don’t scream. I don’t cry. I just float for a while. 

[chicgeekgirl89]

Arachnophobia: Chapter 1

A/N: I wrote for not-my-fandom again. I think I’m like...in now. Whoops. Sonny whump inside! 

“Shit!” Sonny said in surprise and then, “Fuck!” as his second boot landed deeply in the mud beside his first. Within seconds he was up to his knees. “What the—“

There was a crunch behind him and he threw out a hand in warning, craning his neck around as far as he could since his legs refused to do anything except sink. “Wait! Hold up! Don’t come down here!”

Clay’s face appeared first, weapon drawn, his eyes narrow with concern. It took him a second to realize what he was seeing but when he did his face split into a wide grin. “Don’t you say a word,” Sonny warned as he tried to wade back toward him to no avail. He nearly face planted and it took every bit of core strength he had to keep himself upright. “God damn it!”

“You a little stuck there buddy?” Clay said.

“Will you quit smirking and get me out of here?”

There was more rustling and Jason and the rest of the team appeared through the trees. “Careful boys!” Clay said. “We’ve got a situation here.”

“Sonny, we can’t take you anywhere,” Ray said with a laugh.

“I am not the only one who didn’t know there was a mud hole through these trees!” Sonny said. He was nearly up to his hips at this point. “I just happened to be the only one brave enough to go first. So you’re welcome that you’re not all down in this mess with me.”

“You know people pay a lot of money for stuff like this,” Jason said.

“Yeah it naturally exfoliates your skin,” Trent said.

When they all looked at him he shrugged. “What? I listen to the women in my life.”

“You mean your mother?” Brock said with a snicker.

“Would you all shut the fuck up and get me out of here!” Sonny snarled as he sank another inch.

“All right, all right.” Jason took a few steps closer and then braced himself, reaching for Sonny’s arm. “One, two, three!”

In the end it took all of them hauling his sorry ass up the slope to free him from his muddy prison. “I fucking hate the rainforest,” Sonny gasped when he was finally lying on solid ground again.

They’d been in Brazil for a week hunting down someone on Mandy’s wanted list. It was the rainy season, hell it was probably always the rainy season, and they’d spent a good deal of their time hiking up and down the rainforest. It was a recon only mission and it had all gone exactly according to plan, meaning mood on the way out was fairly high, even if they did have to walk practically half the country to reach the exfil site. Apparently setting a chopper down in the rainforest was kind of a big no no.

“Yeah well it obviously hates you right back buddy,” Jason said, slapping his shoulder. “Up and at ‘em boys. We’ve got another six miles to cover today.”

Six miles in his sodden, muddy gear. Perfect. Sonny tried to wipe some of it off but the stuff clung to him like glue. “Of all the damn places in the world, we’ve got to end up traipsing through the jungle,” he grumbled as they walked.

“If we were in the desert you’d be complaining about the sand,” Clay said.

“You know for a guy who knew what he was signing up for when he joined the team you seem awfully surprised that it’s not always a vacation,” Ray told him.

“I’m just saying would it be so bad to have a mission that took us somewhere that the nature didn’t want to kill us faster than the baddies?” Sonny asked.

“And where exactly would that be?” Trent replied. “I don’t think they authorize too many covert ops in the Bahamas.”

“I said somewhere the nature wouldn’t kill us,” Sonny shot back. “They have sharks in the Bahamas. Do you know how many--”

“All right, enough,” Jason said. “The next time they authorize a mission to Boise you can head it up. Until then, quit whining and walk faster. Emma’s got some kind of recital thing coming up and if I miss it I’m going to have to add another award to my Worst Father of the Year collection.”

By the time dusk arrived they were more than ready to set up camp. Everyone was tired and just wanted to get some sleep before their final hike out in the morning.

Sonny collapsed onto a fallen tree and began unlacing his boots. “Oh Sonny no!” Trent groaned and everyone else joined in the protest.

“Hey! I’ve got mud squashing between my toes. I ain’t walking out of here tomorrow with half the rainforest in my boots!” he said.

“Well at least sit downwind,” Ray told him as they began breaking into their MRE’s.

Sonny glared at him and went back to trying to remove some of the mud and debris from his gear. It was pointless, but if he kept his boots off all night at least they’d be a little drier in the morning.

“I’ll take first watch,” Brock offered.

Sonny knew he was as eager to get home as Jason. The length of their mission and hike through the jungle with who-knew-what kind of animals hanging around meant the furriest member of their team had stayed home. Brock was missing him something fierce, even if he’d never admit it, and Sonny was too. There was something comforting about having the dog’s presence with them. Without him it felt like somebody was missing from the team.

“You took first watch last night,” Jason said. “Clay’ll do it tonight.”

“Fine with me,” Clay said, shoveling in another bite of his dinner as if it was Texas BBQ rather than flavorless cardboard.

“No falling asleep on the job there kid,” Sonny said. “If you let a jaguar eat me I’ll kill you.”

“It would take one bite of you and spit it right back out,” Brock said.

“Hey, out of this group I am obviously a jaguar’s first choice. It ain’t going for Clay’s skinny ass. That’s not going to get him very far.”

“I don’t know I think Jason looks like a pretty juicy jaguar steak,” Ray said with a grin.

“Nah, he’s way too tough,” Trent said.

“You all keep this up and I’ll feed you to a jaguar,” Jason chastened them, leaning back against a tree and closing his eyes.

One by one Sonny listened to his brothers fall asleep. After so many years together it was easy to know who had nodded off. Trent snored like a lumberjack. Jason breathed like Darth Vader. Ray tossed and turned. Brock, who was typically a pretty quiet guy, muttered things. And Clay, always Mr. Go, go, go, got so still they sometimes wondered if he was breathing.

Sonny settled against his pack, staring up at the canopy above. His skin itched and his shoulders were stiff from carrying their gear. But honestly, for all his complaints, he wouldn’t trade this for anything. Traveling the world with his brothers and blowing shit up along the way was the stuff eight-year-old Sonny had only dreamed of.

“Kinda pretty isn’t it?” Clay asked.

“If ya like trees,” Sonny said.

“Keep an eye out for snakes,” Brock said, his hat pulled down low over his face. “Drop down from the trees and wrap you up before you even know what happened.”

Sonny stared at him. Brock was a pretty serious guy, which meant you never knew when he was pulling a fast one. “Now why’d you have to go and put that thought in my head? How am I supposed to sleep knowing that there’s tree snakes up there waiting to dive bomb me?”

“With your eyes closed,” Trent said. “Shut up.”

Despite Sonny’s worries he must have drifted off at some point because the next thing he knew Ray was shaking his shoulder. “Come on. Time to move.”          

Sunlight had barely started filtering through the canopy. The others were already up gathering their gear. “What’d you guys have breakfast without me?”

“Tried to wake you three times,” Clay said. “Thought about just leaving you here to live with the monkeys but Ray said it was too much paperwork.”

“Ha ha.” Sonny stretched, his shoulders and neck popping after a long night of sleeping on the ground. “You’d better watch out young Jedi or I might just let a croc get you on our way out of here.”

“Sonny!” Jason said. “Let’s go!”

Sonny shoved his left foot into his stiff, dirty boot and pulled the laces tight. His right foot went in next and almost immediately he felt a sharp pain in his ankle. “Ow! What the—ow!!” Something stabbed him a second time and he quickly withdrew his foot.

He turned the boot over and banged it on the ground. A spider the size of his hand skittered out and slipped away through the undergrowth. “What the hell is wrong with this place?” Sonny asked as he jammed his foot back inside. The others had already started making tracks.

“Sonny let’s go man,” Clay said, disappearing through the trees.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. Just had a spider the size of Mount Everest in my boot but sure, leave me behind. It’s fine.”

He caught up easily even with stabbing pain in his ankle. Damn thing probably jabbed him with its giant pincers or legs or antennae or whatever the hell spiders had.

“Don’t you even start with me Jason Hayes,” Ray was saying from the front of the pack. “You know you’re the worst golfer on this team.”

“You’re not particularly good yourself there Ray,” Sonny said. He shivered as goose bumps ran up and down his spine. “If I recall, last time we went out you ended up owing some pretty big dollars to the course for that golf cart you put a dent in.”

“That was Clay’s fault and you know it,” Ray said.

“I was just testing to see if your SEAL focus could stay intact even on the green,” Clay said with a cocky grin.

“Yeah how was your focus in the sand trap? Did you feel right at home there?” Jason asked.

“Just like being back in country,” Clay said.

Sonny laughed with the rest of them and then paused to adjust his boot again. Now there was a burning sensation spreading down his foot into his toes. What in the hell?

He limped a few more steps and stumbled. Clay caught his shoulder. “Careful there buddy. Don’t need a repeat of yesterday.”

Sweat dripped down his neck. He pulled at his collar. Even in the early hours of the morning the jungle was like being inside a wet paper bag.

“So what’s Emma doing at this recital?” Trent asked.

“Some song. I don’t know. Something by Lady Gaga maybe? Isn’t that who the kids are into?” Jason said.

“I say we get Sonny dressed up in that meat suit and then see how Cerb likes it,” Clay teased.

Sonny’s throat seemed strangely tight. He blinked, tried to clear the sweat out of his eyes as pain shot up his whole leg. He reached out a hand to steady himself against a tree and then found himself sinking down onto a stump.

“What are you doing?” Clay asked.

“I gotta take my boot off,” he said, trembling fingers reaching for his laces. It felt like someone was stabbing him repeatedly and he needed to fix it NOW.

“Sonny what’s up?” Ray said.

“I can’t,” he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, “I can’t get it off!”

“Well then just leave it and come on!” Ray said.

Sonny shook his head, his breath coming out in short gasps. Clay rolled his eyes. “All right Cinderella.” He knelt and grabbed hold of the boot. Sonny had to grip the stump he was sitting on and bite his tongue to keep from yelling as the pain reached a new level of excruciating.

“What the hell?” Clay asked when it didn’t budge.

“Come on Clay, Jay’s not gonna wait for us,” Ray said.

“It won’t come off,” he said in confusion.

“What?”

“Guys,” Sonny took a breath and gritted his teeth. He’d tolerated a lot of pain in his life, he’d been blown to hell, shot, stabbed, but nothing compared to this. “I need you to get it off. Now.”

“Okay, all right, relax,” Ray said calmly. “Jay!”

The rest of the team stopped and turned around. Jason spread his hands. “What the hell are you three doing?”

“I can’t get his boot off,” Clay said.

Jason stared at him. “His boot? Why are you taking his boot off?” he looked at Sonny. “Why are you taking your boot off?”

“Jason, I swear to you, there is a god damn red hot poker in there and I need it off now,” Sonny said. He felt something akin to panic rising in him as the pain continued to increase. It was making his chest tight, his breath wheezing in and out like he’d run a marathon.

“Well just pull it off!” Jason said.

“I think his foot is swollen or something,” Clay said. “It won’t come off.”

“We could cut it,” Ray suggested.

“We still have two hours to hike. What’s he going to walk out of here with one boot on?” Jason asked.

“Sonny can you put weight on it?” Trent asked. “Whatever’s going on we can’t fix it until we get out of here anyway.”

His hands were shaking and he felt dizzy. “I can try.”

Clay and Trent helped him up and the instant he put weight on it he let out a howl and went to his knees.

“All right, all right sit down,” Trent said, pushing him back onto the stump. He looked up at Jason. “I think it’s gotta come off.”

Jason nodded grudgingly. The small part of Sonny that wasn’t in excruciating pain felt guilty for holding everybody up but he was in true agony and didn’t think he could move even if he tried.

Brock handed Trent his knife and the medic carefully began to slit the laces. Every movement caused a flare of pain. “Oh my god Trent,” Sonny said. “Just rip the damn thing off if you have to!”

Trent didn’t even spare him a glance, just kept working steadily away until he was finally able to ease the ruined shoe off.

Sonny thought he would feel instant relief but as Trent peeled his sock back alarm slammed through him. His entire foot was red and swollen with two distinct sets of puncture marks along his ankle. “What the fuck is that?” he asked in a shaky voice.

“Looks like a bite,” Trent said turning his ankle back and forth. “When did this happen?”

“I uh, maybe it was the spider that was inside my boot this morning?” Sonny said. His heart was starting to flutter uncomfortably inside his chest.

“A spider? How big? What did it look like?”

Even in the worst agony of his life Sonny spared a half second to glower at him. “Like a fucking big spider Trent.”

Trent rolled his eyes and continued his inspection. “Looks like an allergic reaction. Not much I can do. Long as it doesn’t spread you should be fine.” Privately he was a little worried about how quickly Sonny’s foot had blown up, but with no good medical help for several miles the only thing to do was keep on. He smeared antibiotic cream over the punctures and made Sonny take a couple Benadryl then nodded to Jason. “We’re good to go.”

Jason and Clay hauled Sonny to his feet. “Oh god,” he croaked as his vision blurred. His stomach turned and he swallowed hard, trying not to vomit.

“Tough it out Sonny, come on,” Jason demanded as they began to walk. He sounded harsh but Sonny knew him well enough to pick up on the subtle note of concern. If Jason was worried he must be in deep shit.

The next hour was the most miserable experience in Sonny’s recent memory. His foot burned like it was on fire. Sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes, and breathing seemed almost impossible. His stomach churned in his belly and was accompanied by stabbing pains there as well.  His heart was beating so loudly he could feel it in every part of his body. He wondered idly if the others could hear it as they dragged him along.

They made it another fifteen minutes before Sonny felt his knees give out. “Whoa!” Clay said, taking on his full weight.

“Trent,” Sonny gasped, “something ain’t right.”

“All right let’s get him down,” Jason ordered.

Clay and Brock helped lower him to the ground. Clay shoved his pack underneath as a makeshift pillow while Trent appeared directly above Sonny’s head. “What’s going on? Talk to me Sonny.”

 “I can’t uh, I can’t breathe,” Sonny said gasping for air. It felt like his heart was going to explode out of his chest if he didn’t die of asphyxiation first.

“Let’s get his gear off,” Trent ordered, his fingers already stripping off anything he could reach. Clay helped and in short order they had him stripped to his undershirt and pants.

“TOC this is Bravo One we have a situation here,” Jason said into his radio.

 “I—“ Sonny tried to speak but his stomach cramped violently and everything that he’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours came right back up.

“Whoa! Get him on his side!” Trent yelled.

Sonny choked and retched until there was nothing left and then the guys rolled him unceremoniously onto his back. Trent reached for his wrist and began taking his pulse with one hand while he shoved a syringe at Brock with the other. “Open this,” he ordered.

Sonny’s head was swimming and he was having a hard time following what was happening. “Trent—“ he rasped.

“I’m right here Sonny. You’re going to be fine.” But Trent’s face said he was worried. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

 “’m dizzy,” Sonny said, closing his eyes as Brock returned the needle. “And my chest is—“

His whole body seized.

[bubblegumochi]

Faded

credits to @yourbiaslikesitrough​

pairing: Jungkook | Reader genre: Much angst, slight fluff, one shot warning: None :) words: 2.1k

“You’ve got a lil’ bit of cream there. No… There! Here, let me get that for you.” Jungkook leaned forward, gesturing at the corners of your mouth. Your face morphing into a shy grin as you watched him drag his thumb across your lips, before he brought his finger back to his mouth and licked the cream off of it. He’s always been such a big flirt, throwing you that enticing grin every time he teases you.

“Yah, stop that.” You giggled, punching him lightly on the shoulder as laughter filled the quiet cafe. It was your favourite place to go to most of the days, it was the only bit of time the two of you were able to share with each other after long hours of work. Jungkook might have been busy preparing for the upcoming tour, but he’d never fail to make time for you. He would never have the heart to leave you alone even for a day. The constant ringing of your phone signalling a new text from him would always put a wide smile on your face.

Sucking on his fingers, Jungkook closed his eyes as he hummed in satisfaction at the sweetness of the cream. “Yummy. Still my favourite ever.” He commented, before bringing the last bite of the cake to your mouth. “You can have the last bit.”

“Sweet.” You grinned, quickly pulling Jungkook’s hand towards yourself as you took the bite, almost as if you were afraid he would steal it from you. “I know.” He beamed.

“I meant the cake.” You joked, only to burst out in laughter as Jungkook’s grin quickly turned into a pout.

-

It has been six years, and you’d never thought a place that you loved so much could feel so foreign, but you knew it couldn’t be helped. You felt alienated as you sat amongst the couples that had settled down at the tables next to yours, your fingers playing with the edge of your sleeves as you silently watched.

It just felt so empty.

It wasn’t any different when you returned to the house you and Jungkook had gotten after a year of dating. The house was empty, just like it had been for the past few months. Dust blanketing the long forgotten piano that laid uselessly at the corner of the room, the house had never felt so quiet.

There you were, sitting at the table alone, staring at the piece of roughly decorated dessert, it’s cream just drooping off it’s soggy cake layers for as long as it has been sitting outside. You began questioning your own decisions, contemplating on the reasons to why you wasted your time stepping out of the house to get a cake for someone you knew who won’t be coming home any time soon, as much as you wanted him to.

Ever since a new tour season had begun, Jungkook barely had the time to go out with you, much less being able to reply your messages even if he wanted to. You’d always be waiting for the notifications at night, checking your phone every five minutes only to be greeted with nothing but an old picture of the two of you.

There wasn’t much reason, at least none that you could think of, to why you still kept that picture all these while. You might’ve scrolled through your photo library multiple times that week, trying so desperately to rid of something you’ve cherished so long. But for what reasons? You knew, that even with all these empty rooms, forgotten messages and missed calls, you loved him anyways. You couldn’t possibly just throw all these feelings aside. At least, not any time soon.

Not wanting to ruin your already-gone appetite, you picked up the piece of pathetic-looking cake, walking sluggishly into the kitchen before tossing the cake into the bin. “It didn’t cost much anyways…” You muttered, before yawning loudly.

It was only about nine at night, but you found yourself crawling back into bed, after an extremely  long non-productive day — as usual. “What a fun day, can’t wait till tomorrow… Everyday’s a new day, am I right?” You scoffed at yourself, sinking into bed before pulling the blanket over yourself.

Letting out a muffled grunt of frustration, you closed your eyes before allowing the incessant ticking of the wall clock to lull you to sleep.

-

“Kookie! Sleep next to me, please?” Tugging at the sleeves of the brown-haired boy, you tried your best to pull him down next to you.

“Yah, you’re going to ruin my shirt! Stop pull— Ah fine fine! Stop pulling it, I’ll sleep next to you alright?” Jungkook struggled to pull his sleeves out of your hands, only to give up before you could rip a hole in his precious white shirt. “Move in, you can’t expect me to sleep on the edge…” He waved his hand at you, gesturing for you to shift yourself.

You couldn’t help but grin at Jungkook as he shuffled closer to the bed, his features only visible under the dimly lit table lamp by the bed. Refusing to move even an inch, you spread yourself out, covering almost every corner of the small bed, before glancing up at him and smiled at him teasingly.

“Oh come on, Y/N. And you call me the mean one…” He’s voice faltering as he let out a loud yawn. It was obvious that he was exhausted, his tired figure slumping over the bed, almost as if he could just fall on you anytime. You couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty at the sight of his exhaustion. Pulling yourself up from bed, you patted the empty space next to you. “Here, Kookie.”

It didn’t take long before you heard his breath even out, his eyelashes fluttering every so often and his plumped lips slightly parted. He was breathtaking, even as he slept. His slightly tanned skin glowing under such a dark room and his lips just so inviting. Afraid to wake him up, you lowered yourself slowly, placing your forehead against the back of his neck as you snuggled next to him, only to hear him whisper your name.

“S-Sorry… Did I wake you?” You leaned towards him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

“It’s alright.” He muttered, suddenly flipping himself around so that he’d be facing you. Your faces so close you could smell his minty breath, his nose just rubbing yours slightly and his eyes staring straight into yours.

You felt your face burn up as his hands crept up your back and to your neck, pulling your face even closer to his. It was only then when you felt your lips connect with his. It felt soft, and warm. He allowed you to settle in before running his fingers through your hair, leaning in further and pushing himself onto you. Tugging at the back of his shirt, you felt his tongue slip passed the seam of your mouth playfully. Parting your lips for him, you allowed him to indulge himself with the taste of sweetness in your mouth.

The kiss lasted long enough, before he pulled himself away from you. “I haven’t had the chance for that today, and I definitely ain’t going to end the day without one.”  Letting out a soft giggle, you cupped his face with your relatively small hands, dragging your thumb over the scar of his cheek.

“What would I do without you, Jeon Jungkook.”

“I’d never leave you, I promise.”

-

It felt almost as if it’s been days after you threw away that pathetic piece of cake, but that had just been yesterday. Pulling the blanket up to your nose, you took a deep breathe and sighed, only to realise that it was still perfumed with that fresh minty-smell of his. It would have been a terrible lie, if you told yourself you didn’t miss him.

“Honestly, why must all these shitty things happen to me…” You found yourself muttering, staring blankly at the white ceiling. Letting out a quick, frustrated grunt, you kicked away your blanket, shivering a little as the cold air brushed against your warm skin. Not wanting to bore yourself with more self-pity, you pushed yourself off the bed reluctantly.

Back at the dining table, you couldn’t help but stare blankly at the empty table, hugging your knees tightly against your chest. You couldn’t stop thinking about him, but for some reason, you felt selfish. You felt selfish for being so needy, for wanting him beside you, to stay here forever even when you know he didn’t have much of a choice for being away.

You wouldn’t have realised how used you have gotten to the silence in this house, until your phone started ringing.

There it was, his bright toothy smile reflected off the scratched surface of your phone, which was buzzing incessantly across the table. It was as if he could somehow sense your discomfort from thousands of miles away; it was these small sensibilities that made you love him all the more.

This was all you had wished for, a simple call from him.  

But for some reason, you just couldn’t bring yourself to pick up the vibrating phone. Somehow you knew if you did, you would regret every single decision you have made so far. Chewing the insides of your cheek anxiously, you finally reached over and pressed the answer button on the screen.

“H-Hello? (Y/N)?” His voice echoing through the device, just as soft as you remember it to be. You began tearing up even before you managed to say anything, his voice stirring nostalgic feelings that you thought you’ve thrown away. Afraid that he would hear you crying, you held a hand over your mouth, muffling the insistent sobs.

“(Y/N) ah… I’m sorry it’s been so long since I called… Tour’s been really busy and my schedules packed from day to night, I barely have time to sleep at night… I really couldn’t call you even if I wanted to… I’m really sorry (Y/N)… I… I just wanted to call to tell you that I love you and I miss you.”

It was obvious he was crying from the other side, the pauses in his sentence and his voice trembling as he tried to call your name was enough to tell you how much he missed you. There was no way he didn’t, and he must’ve been hurting just as much as you have.

“Jungkook ah… just… stop.” Your voice soft, and barely audible. A mixture of guilt and regret now twisting in your stomach as you tried to form the word in your mouth. You couldn’t bare to say it, you were afraid of how much you could hurt him. It’s been six damn years since the two of you settled in together, six long years of adventure that would never have happened without the two of you. But you couldn’t do it anymore.

You hated yourself for being selfish, for being so incredibly needy. But as much as you loved the boy a thousand miles away, you couldn’t hold him back anymore.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve someone like you. I love you so much, so so much. But I can’t hold you back anymore… I’m sorry Kookie. I’ve been acting selfish and so god damn needy and I can’t do this to you anymore.” As those words fell from your mouth, tears were now streaming down your face, your voice quivering uncontrollably as you broke down.

“What are you s-saying, Y/N. Please, whatever it is, let’s talk it out?” You could hear his voice trembling, his anxiety travelling across the phone. It fucking hurts.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry… But I gotta go…”

And it was just silence, absolutely nothing on both ends.

“Y/N please! Don’t go! I love y—” You cut him off right there, your heart breaking into a thousand pieces and it hurts so damn much. You held the phone in your hand, and you stared. Your mind completely blank and you just stared.

There was no turning back now, no matter how much you regret your decision. It was for the best, at least that’s what you thought… Everything was just slipping through your fingers, fading away and there was nothing you could do to stop it. You could feel yourself falling apart, the only anchor in your life now gone because of your own selfishness. Everything in the room now purposeless, it was just black and white, all around you.

But deep down, you knew how you truly felt about him.

I love you, Jeon Jungkook.

[strainingfororiginality]

7.1 - Choices

I'm fired up and tired of the way that things have been, oh ooh

The way that things have been, oh ooh

Second thing

Second, don't you tell me what you think that I can be

I'm the one at the sail, I'm the master of my sea, oh ooh

The master of my sea, oh ooh

I was broken from a young age

Taking my soul into the masses

Write down my poems for the few

That looked at me took to me, shook to me, feeling me

Singing from heart ache from the pain

She had no idea where they were, but they walked quickly and with determination down the cobblestone streets of Rome. EL lead the way and she could feel the electricity of the anticipation humming through the air as she walked through the cold, damp night as Thomas trailed closely behind her.

There was something particularly special about this moment and she felt that same strange feeling again. The feeling that she felt in her dream the moment before she turned and faced her sister, The Corruptor, for the first time. It was time … and it was vibrating all around her, sending the hairs on her arms straight up. Something substantial was about to occur.

EL stopped at the corner, pointing down a conspicuously dark alley. They’d left the comforts of the more touristy parts of the city well over a mile ago, and he weaved them through a rather seedy looking residential area and now he pointed down into the darkness.

"There. Do you see it?" EL chimed.

Even with Quintus’ ridiculously dark glasses on, she could indeed see. There was a metal door and a man sitting on a stool in front of it. A big man. Scratch that. A HUGE man. This man easily had at least six inches on Fet. Jesus … Christ.

To say he was "muscular" wasn’t doing his physique justice and he bared them for all to see with a skin tight black wife beater. His skin was a reddish color, seeming as though he’d gotten a bit too much sun, but she knew that was likely not the case. The reddish tint was his natural color. He was bald, but his face was covered in thick black facial hair. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, just like her.

Interesting.

"Half-breed Ifrit." EL explained. “Yeah, he’s big … but it’s so very rarely about size. Trust me, he’s no match for you. And he’s not what I’m talking about … do you see it?”

"See what?" She asked and Thomas peered around her, looking down the alleyway to spy whatever she could have been talking about.

"The glyph. It’s the password. Open your mind, little Dawn. Use the Eyes of God." EL touched the very side of her temple as his finger sparked with red and she saw the door behind the man illuminate with celestial symbols. A single row of them, vertical along the metal. Enochian.

"Holy shit."

"Fucking Order of Argaman. Sneaky little shits." EL laughed. “They’re everywhere these days. Breeding like little fucking bunnies.”

"Here? Why so close to Quintus?" She asked. “Did he know about them?”

"Exactly. Exactly. It’s not coincidence that the most powerful Marid Djinn lives mere miles from him. They’ve been keeping an eye on him since he was born."

"But why?" She countered.

"Fear? Caution? Envy?" EL shrugged, waving off her question. “Who the fuck cares? I guess we can ask Abyad if you’re really curious.”

Fair enough.

She turned back, nodding to Thomas, who held the briefcase full of money and that precious celestial book in his grip, and he nodded back as he tugged his suit straight down, removing wrinkles from it before checking the tightness of his tie as he asked. "Is this the place?"

"Should we really have brought the Lumen?" She asked EL again. She’d pushed for them to leave it at the condo and he’d refused. “It’s risk--”

"I don’t want it out of our sight and … Abyad isn’t going to take the offer seriously unless he knows we have it." EL could see the worry breaking through her spotted face and he smirked with a playful wink. “No one’s gonna be able to take it from you. You have no idea what you are capable of now.”

"Ok." She took a deep and long breath, pulling the hood as far forward as it would go and began to take a step from the sidewalk to approach the massive bouncer. “Let’s do this then.”

"Aurora … Wait." EL stepped in front of her and she looked up into his rainbow eyes with growing confusion. “It’s not too late to turn back.”

"What?" She asked with wide and lovely eyes. “Turn back? Why would I--”

"This is the moment when you can chose to go back to how it was before. If you step through that door … If things go sideways." There was bitter hesitation in his words and he pushed himself to continue as his lips curled up into a sneer. “It’s not too late.”

"Not too late for what?"

"To turn back." EL was genuine in this offer and she could feel the apprehension in his mind as he asked her to turn back. “… you can find happiness somewhere else.”

"After all of this? You think I should just … give up now?"

"It's not giving up." He shook his head. “It’s healing. Letting memories of those lost fade.”

"And you?" She asked simply. “Have you healed … after losing her? Has her memory faded?” She knew it hadn’t, because she saw how crisp and clear and bitter his vision of Lilith had been.

"That’s not the same." He snapped. “She was--”

"Yes. It’s exactly the same." She snapped back as she tried to walk around him.

"Aurora … " He grabbed her arm firmly. “Diana.”

"Don’t call me that. That’s not my name anymore." She spat, trying to pull her arm from him but he ignored her protests. “Yesterday is dead. She’s dead.”

"We can walk away from this. Forget this. Forget him. Live your life. Move on. We can be free--"

"You don’t understand …" She pulled her arm from his grip and his brows furrowed in disappointment. “The choice was already made … long before today.”

As she stepped around him, she took several steps before he spoke again.

"And if you are wrong …"

Stopping in her stride, she didn’t turn back to him as she answered. "Wrong about what?"

"What if he’s moved on. What if … he doesn’t want to come back?" EL asked. “What if he’s found peace? What if he’s found happiness?”

Dawn closed her eyes tightly as she tried to push that doubt away and crossed the street to the manned door without a further word to him on the subject, but Quintus’ voice rattled through her mind. That most painful and agonizing sentence that so often plagued her confidence.

"I have loved one and only one in all of my life, and I plan to ONLY love her … I go there with her on my mind and in my heart, always. She awaits me in eternity. It would be … unfair to you for me to pretend otherwise."

Clenching her jaw, she fought back the tears that were already welling in her eyes and her heart hurt as his voice, that night when he had fully rejected her lips, rattled in her mind.

Could she turn back now? Was EL right? Could she choose to walk away?  From Quinuts?  From whatever path Lilith had set her on even before she was born?

No. Because it was Lilith who was right. The choice was already made. She made it in that cabin … She chose him and he had chosen her.

     Derede.

          Surrender.

Oh, she doesn't know much

But she knows this

Life's too short not to take risks

Oh, she steals herself and she goes for luck

He looked her up and down carefully as he picked at his teeth with his unnatural tongue. She was tiny, packing two miniature uzis that he was certain she couldn’t handle. He could see the outline of the extra ammo in her pockets and the unmenacing short blade strapped to her back. Seeing her approach, he might have exercised caution because of the armoury, but he could hear the nervous beating of her heart and he smiled.

Next, he eyed the gentleman directly behind her. Obviously, this was the man in charge and his cool, collected, and calm demeanour showed that. He was dressed professionally in a gray suit and wasn’t packing anything but a fancy briefcase.

"Got a problem?" The curvy woman asked him menacingly as he stared down upon her incredibly short stature.

"I think you’re lost, little thing." He chuckled. “This ain’t the place for your kind.”

"We would like entry into your establishment." The older man from behind her spoke with a thick german accent and for the first time, he got a whiff of something inhuman from his breath.

Hmmmm. Unbound Stryx Scum.

"We don’t allow your kind here." He huffed at them, flicking his jaw back towards the road to urge them to get lost.

"My kind?" The strigoi took offense, bringing his hand up and touching his chest.

"No." He looked down at the woman, smirking as he spoke. “Hers. We don’t cater to humans here.”

"Who says I’m human?" She queried curiously cocking her hooded head to the right. “Besides, I’m only half ... just like you ... am I right?”

"Yer a bit tiny for a half-breed, firecracker." He pulled his sunglasses down, exposing his red irises to her fully, he slid off his stool to eye her more closely, taking a deep breath of her scent in. “Password then?”

She looked at the door, up and down before she smiled, reading it clearly. "Tainted Boomerang."

He hadn’t changed it in a few hours and he reached back, tapping the metal until the words shifted again at his will and she grinned wider.

"Essential Screwdriver."

Hmmmm. She didn’t look like a Djinn. She was so small. He tapped it again and the words shifted while her smile never faded and she stared at him, without even moving her face to read the door.

"Old Torpedo."

He tapped again as something worried him about this woman, but the man, clearly in charge, spoke up from behind her. "Is this really necessary? We do not have all night."

"Fine." He placed himself back onto the stool. “But the weapons stay here.”

"My … weapons?" She paused as she reached back for the sword handle defensively.

He shook his head. "You can keep your tiny little pigsticker. I ain’t worried about that. But the guns. They stay or so do both of you."

As she hesitated, she looked off to the corner, as if she was listening for something and the man spoke again. "Fraulein, do not worry. I am sure we can have them back when we exit?" The last part was a question directed to the bouncer and he nodded.

"Fine." She sneered, reluctantly pulling the guns from their holsters.

She was actually expecting a dark and dirty nightclub, but what she was met with was something far more elegant and bright. White and silver … everywhere.

"Well …" EL quipped, walking in front of her with a spin as they entered a massive hall. “He is Abyad, The White, after all.”

There was a bar, there were tables, there was music. A singer. A piano. A grand staircase. It was a nightclub, for all intents and purposes, but it was bright. The walls were clean and white. The tables and chairs all shiny silver. The people within it, however, were just as grungy as she would have expected, but they were far from human.

As they made their way to the bar, Dawn pulled out the stool and hoisted herself up to it, cursing her short stature as her legs dangled aimlessly from the height of it. Thomas opted to stand, leaning over the counter before jerking his arm back suddenly as she heard a sizzle and smelled his burnt flesh.

"Scheisse!" He rubbed his palm and eyed the counter suspiciously and the flecks of silver along its shiny marble surface.

"Haha! Fuckin’ Silver. It’s everywhere." EL explained with amusement at Thomas’ shock. “Abyad has a thing for it. He can derive power from it. Every Djinn King has a metal they can pull from, but it’s also their weakness. Dad was never without a sense of humor, you know.”

"Derives power?" She asked lowly, staring at Eichhorst as if she was asking the question to him and not the invisible entity off to her right.

"You’ll be able to do the same, and not just with one thing." EL smiled as his eyes trailed up the grand staircase and to the second floor. She followed his gaze. “With everything and everyone around you.”

The second floor balcony was open and several large men, easily as large as the one outside, stood around the entrance to the stairs. Important looking men shuffled about, around fancy furniture and, even with her glasses on, she could see a massive fireplace at the end of the open room.

"He’ll be the one in white." EL chuckled. “Of course.”

Her eyes moved from man to man. Two guards. Five men, mostly in suits. She couldn’t see a man in white, but she saw a man in black, with long brown hair and tattoos across his face and trimmed dark facial hair. All in all, he was awfully attractive.

"Hey. Focus." EL said with disgust.

"What’ll you have?" Her attention shifted back to the man behind the counter who approached for their drink orders and that incessant itch in the back of her mind began again. She could hear someone screaming … crying. It was the same thing that happened earlier with Eichhorst.

"Do you have B-Positive?" Thomas asked and the bartender nodded.

"You?"

Her hand trembled, coming up to her head as she tried to force the screaming woman’s voice away. "Your strongest. Whatever it is."

"Sweetheart, I don’t think you can handle our strongest. That ain’t for human consumption."

"Yeah right, buddy." EL laughed out loud. “Fucking pleb.”

She smiled slightly as EL used her favorite term, she cocked her head as her nervousness began to finally dissipate. "Did I stutter?"

"Your funeral, ma’am." The older man shrugged and walked away to retrieve their orders. As the distance between them increased, the screams faded away and her hand came down. EL leaned against the bar, staring down into her face, waiting for her to ask with a raised eyebrow. She could tell he already knew.

"What is that?" She shook her head slightly. “What’s happening to me?”

"That?" He grinned. “The Ears of God. You’re becoming, Aurora. Your divinity is charging.”

"Ears of God?" She remembered Abraham calling the scream that the Master did the Voice of God. He picked up on this thought immediately.

"Not just the Master. You remember the base. You remember what you did to all those men when you thought they killed him. THAT was The Voice of God."

"Yeah." She remembered the pain, both hers and theirs. She remembered screaming. “What is it though … the Ears? I keep hearing people … ”

"You can hear their sinful pasts. When you learn to listen more clearly, you’ll be able to make them out with absolute clarity. Right now, you’re only picking up the echos of the most sinful ones."

Dawn looked back at Eichhorst, who was already scanning the room and the balcony, the same as she had. The screams she heard from him early were much louder than the crying woman she heard from the bartender just now. The screams from the Nazi were hundreds … maybe thousands of people and she shuddered.

"Oh yes." EL smirked with pleasure as he licked his lips greedily. “Thomas is quite a bad boy. I’ve been looking forward to getting my hands on his soul for quite some time now.”

"It’s fucking annoying.  How do I turn it off?”  She scrunched her nose and EL laughed out loud.

“Turn it off?  You can’t.  It’s useful though.  You’ll learn.”

“Ok.  Eyes, Voice, Ears. What else is there?" She wondered. The voice, the ears … but the bartender was back, setting the blood down first and pushing a shot glass over to her with a liquid that looked like it was pure mercury. Perhaps liquid silver. She could smell the alcohol scent it emitted and she cringed at its intensity.

Hmmmm.

"Thank you very much." Thomas nodded, reaching into his suit pocket to retrieve his billfold. “How much is owed?”

"On the house, Herr Eichhorst." The bartender smiled and nodded up towards the balcony.

As both of their gazes shifted, the man in all black, with the tattoos on his face, tilted a glass towards Thomas and grinned with a head nod.

"How do they know you?" She asked with a concerned whisper and Thomas shook his head. “Do you know them?””

"I do not know, little one." His voice was riddled with just as much concern and the man with the tattoos walked to a guard at the top of the staircase entrance, pointing to Thomas. As the guard began to walk down the steps, Dawn took a deep breath in.

"Relax." EL assured her. “There’s no way they wouldn’t know this Nazi piece of shit. They’ve been watching the Ancients, the same as Quintus. Thomas almost helped destroy the world, right? Watch and wait.”

As the guard approached them, Dawn took the liquid and downed it in one gulp. She had expected it to burn, but it was ice cold and she could feel an immediate numbing sensation begin to tingle her entire body, starting in her throat, and emanating out to the rest of her body in waves. Finally some alcohol that fucking worked.

"Whoa." Escaped her mouth before she could stop it and EL giggled.

"Silver Fire." He named it.

"Mr. Reynolds would like a word with you, Herr Eichhorst." The guard had a posh English accent and it surprised her for the size of him. At a closer distance, it was clear he wasn’t quite as big as the man outside, more Fet’s size and his skin was actually quite pale, nearly white. It reminded her of Quintus somewhat.

"Marid half-breed. Far more dangerous than the bouncer, but … as I keep saying …" EL walked around him, looking him up and down. “Nothing for us to worry about.”

Plebs.

"Very good." Thomas said, putting down his half-drunk glass of blood and turning, still clutching the briefcase to his chest as he took a step to follow the man.

When she attempted the same, the guard turned quickly, putting a hand out to halt her. "Just him."

This immediately put Thomas on guard, as he turned back to her with a concerned and somewhat frightened face. "Absolutely not. She is my bodyguard." In all actuality, this wasn’t far from the truth at all and the look of sudden fear across his face made her realize it wasn’t that he was scared of her at all. He was scared of them.

The guard laughed a scoff at the statement as he looked back at the bone sword handle. "All the more reason she stays here then. Just you. This isn’t a request."

"Let him go. See if he can negotiate this on his own." EL sat down at the stool beside. “We’ll play it by ear.”

"Ok." She said, nodding at Thomas to comply. “But the moment he’s out of my sight, I’m coming up there.”

"Yeah. Right." The guard laughed again and she wished so much to wipe that smirk off of his goddamn face.

Yeah … Right.

"Fucking plebs." EL chimed again with growing amusement as he turned and flicked his chin towards the Nazi as he slowly and calmly climbed the stairs. “Now … use your senses. Listen.”

"How hard is it to find one man?" Abyad asked with annoyance as he stared into the massive fire. “ONE MAN?! We have kept dibs on the Ancients and their slippery little progeny for years and yet Barqan is still nowhere to be found?!”

"Sir." One of the men said as he shifted uncomfortably. “Your brother is not a man and for that matter, he is not just a Djinn. He is The Black King. He and the others vanished immediately after--”

"Nor is he Hayyoth, yet he’s still managing to evade us even now?" Abyad scoffed, turning back to the fire to add a log as his silver eyes danced in its light behind his dark glasses and he forced the fire left and right with the mere flick of his mind. “This is unacceptable. Why would he even feel the need to hide from me? What the bloody hell could he be hiding? He’s been in a bottle for ten thousand years for Christ’s sake.”

"And you’re absolutely certain he wasn’t caught in the explosion?" Raum joined the conversation and asked as he placed his hand on the handle of the scimitar sheathed on his right hip, walking back from the stairs after requesting the guard to retrieve the Nazi downstairs.

"No." Abyad said. “Barqan lives. I feel it. He’s hiding something from us, otherwise he would have come home already.”

"And us? Why don’t we go home? Why are we still here?" Raum asked. “The Prince of Snakes is gone. Dead. Finally. Why are we not free from this … task? Has there been no word from Argaman at all?”

Abyad was normally a cheerful man, but he turned with frustration across his face. "The god remains silent. Since the gates of Heaven were locked when this strigoi war began, there are eyes and ears everywhere. We will hear from him soon enough. Until then, we wait for a sign of the Nephilim Prince."

"What’s the point--" Raum started to argue but Abyad cut him off with a whimsical smile.

"You know the same as I … Until I see his god forsaken body with my own fucking eyes, the Invictus reappear at any time. He has done so before. I have no doubts he will do so again."

"Sir, no one could have survived--"

"Really? Did Ozryel not?" Abyad quipped and Raum fell silent. “Did the reports not say Ozryel was seen, breaching the clouds after the Face of God fell on that lake, soaring back into the bosom of Heaven? Is the Prince not born from Ozryel’s blood?”

"Yes." Raum nodded.

"Then we wait. Until I see his rotting, lifeless corpse. We wait. We have both witnessed that abomination pull himself out of the ashes after the most unsurvivable scenarios. My god, have you forgotten Vesuvius already?"

"No …" Raum laughed with wide eyes as he remembered it while lightning cracked outside. “No, I absolutely have not. I still don’t understand how he could have walked away from that.”

"Exactly. He is Hayyoth. They are born of richer fire than even we are. We wait … do what we have been told until we hear from the Order."

The conversation fell quiet as the men shifted, seeing that the guard had brought the Nazi to them. "Ahhhh … Herr Eichhorst. Do have a seat … please."

She stared down at the counter, tapping the newly filled shot glass, sloshing the thick, silvery liquid around within it. She wasn’t really staring at the counter though, she was focusing. She was listening.

"Raum, your hot one, is his left hand. He’s full-blooded Marid. Deadly and old. Not a king though … more like a Earl." EL explained while she listened to them exchange pleasantries.

"Forgive me …" Thomas said graciously. “But do we know each other? I am certain I would not have forgotten someone such as you.”

"Of course not." She hadn’t seen him yet, but the voice was obviously the King’s. “You would definitely remember me if we had met formally.” He was almost whimsical in how he addressed people.

Ego. He overestimated himself.

She could hear, in the delivery of his words, that he was smiling, believing he had the upper hand still. Perhaps always.

"But of course we know of you, Herr Eichhorst. The Right Hand of the Right Hand." A laugh. He was enjoying thinking he had the upper hand. “Lost your way since your Master left you here? What brings you into our humble city?”

Hubris.

"But of course it is YOU who have brought us here, your majesty." Thomas quipped back, playing up to the obvious ego cleverly. There was a palpable hesitation from The King, as Thomas addressing him as royalty showed a bit of knowledge on the strigoi’s part. No doubt the King was sizing him up right now, trying to determine how much Thomas might have learned from his Master. “You have heard of me, just as I have heard of you, Murrah al-Abyad Abu al-Harith, The White King.” She could hear Thomas bowing slightly.

"Hmmm." A hesitation. A pause. Tension. Negotiation. Push and pull. Eichhorst did what he does best and he maintained complete composure and coolness. No one moved and she nearly heard Abyad considering what to say next. Thomas was nudging his buttons gently. Clever. “Indeed. So … What brings you before me, Herr Eichhorst?”

"I seek to pay for services that I am told only you can provide." Thomas patted the briefcase.

"Services?" The White laughed heartily. “You think I’ll service you? I don’t service anyone. Let alone a lost little rat like you?”

"You will be paid, of course." Thomas said plainly. “Quite generously. We are not without our resource--”

"You think I need your money." A laugh. Hubris. Her lips curled up in aggravation and EL’s hand on her shoulder calmed her growing fire. “Look around, abomination. You have nothing I want.”

"Perhaps not then." Thomas stood, buttoning his jacket back together as he began to turn and she furrowed her golden brows, frustration mounting. “Forgive the intrusion then. Have a good day, your majesty.”

"He knows what he’s doing. He can read the room quite well." EL assured.

"How much are we talking about?" The Nazi only made it two steps before Abyad bit. “And … what service, exactly, is it that you wish from me?”

She smiled.

Hubris and greed.

"My King." Thomas turned back, returned, and sat. He brought the briefcase up to set it on something as she heard his mouth turn up into a devilish grin. “I have been told that you may be able to turn this into something more … useful for me.”

The briefcase clicked and she heard it open as the vibrations emanating from the book within flooded the entire building. Several patrons picked up on it immediately, and their gazes turned up towards the balcony. Others stood.

EL smiled as he popped off the stool and took a wide look around, clapping his hands.

"Now … We get to see if he’s willing to play ball."

“And if he doesn’t?”  She asked but EL only smiled devlishly in return.

Hesitation. Palpable silence. Seconds of nothing then …

"My book …"

[taylorowelch]

8/24 - 8/4 Mile 2461.5 - Mile 2660 - 198.5 miles

I slept until about 9, which felt heavenly. The bunkhouse was fresh with cold morning air. Jerry, the trail angel who runs Hiker Haven, drove all the hikers into town to have breakfast. We sat around a big round table at the inn and I ate a giant plate of scrambled eggs with a warm homemade biscuit. I was so content. One of Jerry’s friends, Bill, walked in as we were eating and had breakfast with us, eventually offering to let Dustin and I use his washing machine, since Jerry’s wasn’t working. The town of Skykomish is about 200 people. The high school, middle school and elementary school are all contained in one building. The girl who gave us a ride to town yesterday told us that she graduated from that high school and that there were six people in her graduating class. When we told Jerry this he said, “Oh, wow, that was a big one.” When we finished breakfast Jerry dropped Dustin and I at Bill’s. We did our laundry and made phone calls and googled things for a few hours. I sat by the Skykomish river and talked on the phone, watching the light catch on the water, watching tiny birds flit from one bank to the other. When our laundry was done, Bill drove us back to Hiker Haven where we watched movies, ate copious amounts of gas station microwaveable food and basked in our cleanliness. The next day all the hikers got ready to leave. We got to town, ate breakfast and did phone chores, scrolling and scrolling in service land. Supposedly there’s no service until Manning Park, in Canada, 188 miles away. I ordered shoes and a new tent since my zipper broke. We got a ride back to the trailhead at Stevens Pass and scrolled some more, trying to squeeze every last google out of the internet. We hiked out around 2:30, later than we had planned but it was nice to have a relaxing day. This last section of trail into Canada is tough, notoriously so. We hiked a difficult 10 miles to camp, our feet aching after the short day. We pitched our tents next to a lake, cooked dinner and went to bed. My alarm went off at 5:30 and I ignored it stubbornly. I was up by six and walking around 7:15, later than I would have liked. The day involved lots of climbing and descending, over and over again. The terrain was tough, roots and rocks nestled in ditches where water had eroded the trail into little canyons, barely wide enough to put both of my feet inside side by side. It was painstaking work. My pack heavy with five days of food didn’t help. Huckleberries grew dense along the sides of the sunken trail. When I felt discouraged or tired I stuffed my face with a handful. We took more breaks than usual, stopping for water every five-or-so miles just to take our packs off, sit down, and drink a liter of water. We ate lunch at a beautiful lake that sat low in a basin of gray boulders. The water was a stunning blue, bright and deep at the same time. After I ate a tortilla with cheese and hot sauce for lunch we plowed on, climbing and descending for twelve more miles to camp. We only hiked 21 miles but it was arduous work. We finally got to camp at 7, in a little saddle at the top of a climb. I cooked spicy pasta shells and set up my tent while they soaked in boiling water to finish cooking. I ate them gleefully and chatted with a Swiss couple camped in the same spot. The setting sun cast these beautiful rays over everything, like it had spun the light with gold and laid it out over mountains and tall spruces and firs and patches of dirt. My alarm went off at 5am. I sleepily ate my breakfast and left camp at 6:15. The morning was dangerously warm and the rest of the day followed suit. There was a lot of climbing today, steep inclines leading to breezy passes. The trail was rough, rooty and rocky and carved out of the earth like yesterday. Sweat ran down my face, dirt gathered on the insides of my elbows, stuck to the sweat on my legs. We stopped for lunch at a creek and I hid in a patch of shade. A couple hiked up to me while I was eating. “Is that real food?” a middle-aged lady asked. “If you count cheese and cheetos and taco bell hot sauce in a tortilla as real food?” I mumbled back at her through my mouth full of junk food. After lunch I washed my feet in the creek, put my pack on and hiked, climbing again, dealing with many large blowdowns. I took a break at a creek three quarters of the way up the hill. I killed flies that bit my legs. I watched an ant carry a dead fly body in a large circle, pulling it around, yanking it through tufts of grass with all its might. It had no idea where it was going. We climbed a bit more and then descended a couple of miles to camp for a 23 mile day. The backs of my knees were sore from all the climbing. I made dinner and pitched my tent. Dustin made chocolate pudding that didn’t really set but we ate it anyway and it was better than not having any pudding. I didn’t sleep very well, and I was up at 5 and walking at 6:30. The morning was warm again and I knew we were in for another hot day. I climbed up and over a pass as light slid onto the mountains. A warm breeze passed over the mountainside. I lumbered on into the morning, tired, my feet hurt, my pack straps digging into my shoulders like they do. In a couple of hours I was dripping sweat, climbing 1500 feet in the humid sun. When I got to the lunch spot, a little campsite perched almost at the peak of the climb, it was half-shaded. I was so happy. I laid on my tyvek, feeling the weight of my body released from me feet, my skin hot. I ate lunch and then dug dirt out from under my toenails. I hiked out around 2, stopping at a little stream and pouring water over my head. It was so cold. I began a long descent that left my feet angry and painful. The forest around grew huge and tall and dense, moss carpeting the entire floor, growing over rocks and downed trees. It looked like one huge blanket, like snow. It consumed everything. Giant ferns and wide green leaves grew all around. In some places leaves grew into little archways over the trail, tinting the sunlight green. I felt like I had entered another world, like I was a bug, something microscopic, crawling through some super-sized version of forests I thought I knew. At 6:45 we got to camp at the Suiattle River for another 23 mile day. It was raging and swollen and brown. The water munched down over big boulders, slapped against rocks on either bank, making it difficult to get water. I cooked dinner, burnt it, ate it anyway. I was so hungry. Today felt just as difficult as yesterday. As I washed my pot I felt the exhaustion creeping up through all of my bones and I hurried off to bed. At 5am when my alarm went off I could feel that deep tired trying to pull me back into sleep. I begrudgingly got up and moving in the warm morning. I began a monstrous climb, 4,000 some feet. The incline wasn’t terrible but my body was exhausted and painful. My feet hurt in so many different places and ways. As the day heated up I got pack rash again. The straps of my pack began to chafe my armpits. I sat down for lunch and was greeted by biting flies. I killed so many of them and they continued to appear from whatever terrible place biting flies materialize. I filtered water and kept walking, the day beginning to boil. It was so humid. Smoke hung low in the atmosphere, trapping all the heat. My hip began to hurt. I listened to music to try and power through the next few miles and started crying in the middle of the trail. A huge fly whizzed around me, hanging in front of my snotty face. I wiped the snot from my nose and then wiped my snot-covered hand on a tree. I walked and snot-rocketed and walked and snot-rocketed. Washington is hard. I forded a creek and the icy water filled my shoes, which felt great on my aching feet. I sat down on the other side of the creek and filtered water. I talked to Dustin and felt a little better. there were only three more miles to camp. A hot wind followed me the whole way. I got to camp around 6, laid out my tyvek and collapsed on it. I laid on my back feeling the pressure release from my feet. I took off my socks and scraped some of the dead skin off my feet. I filtered water and made dinner and ate snickers bars and felt the heaviness of exhaustion pooling behind my eyelids. I crawled into my tent happy that there were only ten miles left until Stehekin tomorrow. We got up at six and hiked the last ten miles to town, arriving early to the spot where the shuttle would pick us up. A girl I met my second day on trail was there. She was hiking south. It was so cool to see her, in the same way it had been cool to see Blue. A white bus pulled up to the group of hikers and a middle-aged guy wearing a ten-gallon hat and a short-sleeved button down climbed out. He stretched his legs, we got on the bus, and got out at the infamous Stehekin Bakery. I got a lemon bar, a piece of hawaiian pizza and a giant stromboli filled with ham and swiss cheese. Dustin got the same one filled with pesto, onions, mushrooms and swiss cheese. We split them and felt like we could die happy. Then we got back on the bus and got dropped off a few miles down the gravel road at the North Cascades Lodge, where there’s a campground and a store and a public shower/laundry building. I took a great shower, did my laundry, spent too much time at the post office and ate a giant burger with beer battered fries. We stayed up late talking with other hikers and then wandered back up the steep dirt road to the campsite. I awoke to a bright tent, the day becoming warm even in the constant breeze that tumbled over the little town of a Stehekin. I broke down camp and went down to the deck of the lodge. When Dustin got there some kind of debacle was going on about a bus driver not having a CDL, and no busses were running, so we walked the 1.6 miles to the bakery. We got stuck in front of the pastry case again, eyes like saucers, salivating at bacon-swiss stromboli, carrot cake muffins piled high with cream cheese frosting, chocolate zucchini cake, chai coffee cake, six different kinds of cookies, etc. I ate so much. I felt like I did in Big Bear Lake, hundreds of miles ago. I laid in the fetal position on the grass outside, again. Other hikers laughed at me, again. At least this time nobody asked to take my picture. I packed out two pieces of pizza for dinner. A bus came around 11:20 to take us to the trailhead. All of the food jostled around in my stomach. I curled up in the seat and tried to stop thinking about how sick I felt. I sat around at the trailhead for a few minutes and then decided there was no better way to cure a stomach ache than a 29 mile climb, so I started walking. A woman we met in Skykomish named Hot Thumbs has been hiking with us for a few days now. The three of us hung out at a creek and talked for a bit. I saw my first bear on the PCT today. It was a bit small. I think it was a young adult bear. I rounded a corner and it was in the trail eating berries off bushes. I startled it and it ran further down the trail. “Heeey bear,” I called, trying to make it run off the trail. It looked at me. “HEY BEAR,” I yelled. It ran off onto the hillside, ambling over bushes and taking swooping bites of berries as it passed them. It was cute. We reached our campsite around 6:30 for a 13 mile day. I ate my pizza and taught Hot Thumbs how to tie a bowline knot. The trail to the site was covered in bear scat. A ranger had warned us that this area was densely populated with bears who didn’t care about people being there and would do anything to get to their food. We hung everything we had that smelled from a tree and hoped for the best. I dreamed about bears and woke up at 6, the sleep still so close, heavy on my brain. We packed up and hiked out into the dense forest in the cold morning. After a few miles we crossed a highway that led to a trailhead parking lot and caught up with some hikers we met in town, Hats and Butter. Hot Thumbs and I walked with them into the parking lot where we were greeted with trail magic. We each had a beer and sat in the parking lot talking and procrastinating the long climb ahead of us. We let the day warm up a bit and then started the climb. It went on and on through the forest that soon opened up and had us on sandy ridge line, a row of peaks opposite us. Can something be bright dark gray? If it can, that’s what they were. Everything was so bright against the deep blue sky. Everything green was so stark against the pale pinks and browns of the rocks that lined the dusty trail. I hiked with Hats for a bit and then Butter for a while. We talked and marveled at the snow-covered mountains in the distance, the plummeting valleys below. The day was so windy, my hat blew off at one point and I had to tip toe down a steep hill of loose rock to retrieve it. I love that hat so much. After a while I crossed a tiny stream to find John, who I had hiked around for a while in the desert, sitting on the other side. It seems like every day I see someone from trail past. It’s really nice. We caught up for a bit and then I hurried off to camp. Being a Friday, all the weekenders were out and the campsites were all full of big tents and very few people taking up lots of space. All the thru hikers end up cowboy camping where they can fit, which if you think about it is a really funny scenario. Sometimes if the trail is really packed on the weekend and we can’t find a campsite, Dustin and I shake our fists and, when we’re out of earshot, yell “get off my lawn” in an old man voice. I got to camp around 7, made mashed potatoes, set up my sleeping pad on the ground and pulled my sleeping bag around me. I listened to the sound of the Methow River next to me and watched one star in the sky above become ten, twenty, thirty in a little opening in the trees. Another hiker twenty feet away began to snore loudly. I put my earplugs in and hoped no bears would bother me in the night. The first light woke me as stars began disappearing. The sky turned light blue and I ate a pop tart and drank instant coffee in my sleeping bag as everyone else in camp went about their morning chores. I started walking around 7:30. The morning was chilly again, it felt good to shift into fall, away from the heat of summer that crept in at eight in the morning and lingered all day. I stopped at a stream before a 2500 foot climb to filter water. I powered up the climb, stopping a couple of times to take in the views of giant mountains opposite me. They were all angled and brown and dark gray, snow still resting in little pockets on their faces. Once I was on the ridge, wind swept over the side of the mountain. Big white plumes of smoke from two forest fires extended from other ridges to the north and the east. I stopped to eat lunch with Dustin and Hot Thumbs at a little spring in a sunny meadow. We huddled in a patch of shade. I ate cold ramen and washed my socks in the icy water. I left a note for Hats and Butter telling them where we were camping that night. A couple of hours after lunch, Hot Thumbs and I hit trail magic: a canopy set up at Hart’s Pass campground with coolers full of fresh cut watermelon on a table. We drooled over that for a while and then kept walking, climbing and descending and climbing to camp. Nine tents were already pitched in the field, all weekenders, so we cowboy camped on a ledge above the site. The moon was bright all night. In the morning a chorus of pikas woke us to see a beautiful yellow-pink sunrise. The sun was fiery orange as it peeked above the ridge in front of us. It had gotten quite chilly at night so we got up slowly. I brewed coffee thanks to the cup and reusable filter Hats and Butter had given me. This was the best treat I’ve had in so long: to drink hot coffee in my sleeping bag on this beautiful ridge watching the sky light up the day. I felt so soothed and wonderful even though my skin was dirty and my feet were prickling from all the miles I’ve walked and I smell like an old running shoe. Dustin left camp first and Hot Thumbs and I slowly got our things together and left about a half an hour later. We climbed up and over a pass, then descended to cross Foggy Pass (it seems like all the passes in Washington are gloomy: Rainy Pass, Foggy Pass, Windy Pass, the list goes on). I filtered water from a creek, talked to a day hiking couple and their dog, and ran into hikers all day who had chosen not to go into Canada and had already been to the monument. This was weird. This is the end of the trail for so many people. As they talked to me and walked away from me I could feel their energy just colossal and booming in a way that mine couldn’t be yet. Even though I still have miles to hike after I get to the monument, it feels enormous to be able to touch one end of it tomorrow, to bring tangibility to all of these miles, to remember where I was four months ago when I touched the one at the southern terminus. All of the moments I’ve experienced between the two have already been stupendous, difficult, agonizingly beautiful, mind-numbingly fatiguing and filled with infinitely varying amounts of hope and sorrow and joy and wonder. I felt lucky that there were more ahead of me. I knew that if I had to be done today, that if I didn’t have a reason to hike more miles, to keep being on the trail, that I would be deeply sad. My immediate physical pain would be relieved if I didn’t have to continue waking up and walking so much every day, but I would spend so much less time in the sun, so many fewer moments watching the world unfurl itself before me in such a pure, silent, slow way. I would miss drinking cold mountain spring water, I would soon take for granted all the moments I spent squeezing water from one bottle to another through my filter, I would become accustomed to the luxury of turning a knob on a faucet and filling a glass of pre-treated city water. I would be forced to face the world as I’ve grown up knowing it: loud, busy, fast, demanding, stark and harsh in opposite and tragic ways from this one I’ve lived in for four months. This is what people mean when they when they say that thru hiking will break your heart and ruin your life. I have spent the last few days contemplating the progress of human kind in the context of this walk. People who walk long trails often find that it needs to become part of their life permanently. Why is this? I keep visiting this question. Weren’t the earliest humans nomadic? Is this similar to the way they lived? After walking so many miles it seems like it could be true, going where the weather is suitable, following reliable food, bearing witness to the constant pattern of nature accumulating and dying and being born again that is life. We have moved so far from this as a species that to live in this way would be defined as unsuccessful, unproductive or foolish. How could a person make a “decent living” if they spent so much time in nature? I guess that depends on how one defines living decently. Thru hiking ruins a person’s concept of leading a successful life as society defines it. It brings people back to the essence of whatever it was to be human thousands of years ago. I watched smoke plumes from a wildfire extend into a bright blue sky from behind a jagged gray ridge. This fire was caused by humans, rangers had told me a couple of days ago. The smoke was so dynamic, so many different textures, puffy and flat and dense and thin as the wind spread it across smaller peaks in the distance. Some of the smoke was bright white, other smaller plumes were an old yellow, and another was a deep gray. Hot Thumbs and I stood at the last 7000 foot peak on the PCT in Washington. This was going to be her last night on trail, her last big view. We could see the trail below us snaking down the side of the mountain. Another hiker, Chubs, pointed to some peaks in the distance and said, “That’s Canada.” We just stood there and looked. We savored that last northern Cascade peak, the wind swirling around us, our shirts flapping in the breeze. We descended to Hopkins Lake and filtered water as the sun sank behind the mountain, then hiked the last couple of miles to camp. I made pesto pasta, drank electrolyte water and ate a snickers bar. I blew up my sleeping pad on my sheet of tyvek and watched the stars come out one by one. I woke up and made coffee, the process spilling it all over my tyvek. I drank it and watched the pale sky lighten, smoke dense in the mountains north of us. We got to walking soon and descended into it. This was the first time I could really smell the smoke. In four miles I heard clapping and cheering and walked into the tiny clearing where the monument was. It was four little wooden pillars and one metal one, an American flag on one side and a Canadian flag on the other. I walked up and looked at it. “Touch it!” yelled someone behind me. My hand reached out for it and I hesitated just above one of the pillars. Here it was. One end of this thing. I put my hand gently on the pillar. I froze there for a moment, I looked at the clear-cut line of trees behind the monument, the dividing line between two nations. What a moment this was. I was still glad I wasn’t done yet, but it felt good to celebrate all the miles I had hiked anyway. I drank a beer and Dustin, Hot Thumbs and I took pictures. Then we hiked the last smoky eight miles to Manning Park, a resort where we ate giant burgers. We showered and then Dustin and I said our goodbyes to Hot Thumbs who was taking a bus to the airport to go home. Then we got our longest hitch of trail into Vancouver, about 140 miles, during which I got a smoothie and a free beer and chips and dip. We got to Vancouver at about 9pm and met up with Dustin’s friends who generously let us stay with them for a couple of nights. In a few days we’ll take a bus to Sacramento, resupply, and hike into the High Sierra from Kennedy Meadows. I can’t wait.

[fortey]

The King of the Wasps

There are some days in the heart of summer that seem to almost stop, stuck like a tire in mud, stalled out and sweltering while the world ceases its spinning, and everything just is.  The sun beats down and everything is still and quiet except for the insects in their frenzy to live their short lives. Even the shade is oppressive, and the breeze doesn’t dare to blow.

On a day like this, you could find the love of your life as you share a glance.  On a day like this you could walk a hundred miles and just lose yourself in your own thoughts.  On a day like this you could die screaming and not a soul will hear it.

Billy Baumgartner is a man who’s going places. True, he’s only seventeen, but he has plans.  Big plans. Plans you don’t even know, man.  Billy is saving up his money from his job stocking shelves at the Kroger.  He’s already got over one thousand dollars. And this time next summer, he’s going to be in Los Angeles.  Screw this town.  Screw this town and everyone in it with their boring lives that go nowhere and do nothing. How can 6,000 people agree to get together and just rot in place for the rest of their lives?  

Billy Baumgartneris not going to rot here with everyone else.  Once he’s done school, he’ll hit the west coast and start his band.  Everyone agrees he’s the best guitar player in town, and probably as good as anyone you hear on the radio.  It’s true, he’s been playing since he was six years old.  He could drop a riff right now and you’d swear Hendrix had just entered the room.  Billy Baumgartner is that good.  

For too long nothing has gone on in this town. A Wal Mart opening three towns over a decade ago was the biggest thing that happened here in Billy’s entire life. Yesterday, the front page of the local paper had a story about the library changing its hours, so it closed at six instead of seven. This town has been on life support since the first house was built.

It’s not that Billy hates this place and everyone in it, he just doesn’t get it.  Why is everyone just settling?  Maybe 100 years ago this made sense, but good God, doesn’t everyone have cable TV and the internet?  Can’t they see the world they’re missing?  It just doesn’t make sense.

Billy Baumgartner has argued with his parents about leaving about a million times.  They don’t understand why he’d want to leave.  It’s quiet and safe here.  It’s a great place to raise a family.  He has a job, and he has friends.  LA is big and dangerous and expensive.  What could possibly happen in LA that’s worth leaving.  Billy just shakes his head.  What couldn’t happen in LA?

Billy Baumgartner wipes the sweat from his brow. It’s got to be at least 110 degrees out here today.  Because he’s been saving so much money, Billy never bothered getting a car like his friends. The Kroger is literally a 20-minute walk from his house.  Why not get the exercise?  Better to be in good shape when he gets to LA anyway.  Lots of ladies to impress. Lots of beaches to hit. Lots of photoshoots to do.

The field past Welch street is like an outdoor sauna.  The tall grass and weeds are just standing still, crunching in Billy’s wake as he passes, swatting gnats and mosquitos and black flies away from his face.  He should have invested in some bug repellant.

Welch field is one of those spots the world forgot about. It's just empty land. Who owns it? The government? The bank? No one really knows. Overgrown for acres. That grass that scratches and cuts your bare legs if you brush against it the wrong way. The skeletal frames of rickety, gnarled old crab apple trees all abuzz with hungry insects eating the mealy fruit.

The sound of a lone cicada is all that dares break the silence here.  Not for the first time, Billy finds himself stopping to look around.  The world feels so damn big sometimes.  This vastness that just needs to be explored.  Why does everyone want to sit still all the time?

On a cloudless day the sky is a blank slate. But some days, when the clouds are just right, you get that depth and the sky looks so big. The world looks so goddamn big, it practically begs you to spread your wings and experience it. Why can't Billy Baumgartner be a part of that?

The cicada’s trilling dies off.  Silence rolls in like the tide. That crushing sense of nothing that has been the bane of Billy's existence for years. Across the field, the old Marsh barn catches his eye.  The rickety, faded red structure has been here much longer than Billy has. As far as he knows, the Marsh family have been gone for at least 20 years.  It’s just no one bothered to use the land for anything.  As a kid, he used to play in the old barn, until his parents found out and had a fit.  It’s dangerous, you know.  What if the roof caved in?  What if he got trapped and no one knew where he was?  What if what if what if.  

Billy Baumgartner thinks “screw it” and changes direction, heading through weeds that haven't seen a human in years.  The cans at work will survive without him for a half hour.  If he has to be stuck here on a day like today, may as well have some fun. The world is built on the promise of adventures. He needs this. A nostalgic trip to something almost dreamlike. Something from a time when he still felt hopeful and alive.

Thick grasses grip at his bare legs as he trudges across the uneven field.  That rough, sandpapery feel scraps against his shins and he curses to himself. Still, better than having all of this mowed under and turned into more housing for boring, do-nothing people to fester in.  In a weird way, this field of nothing was the most alive thing in town.

A tangle of roots snare his foot and Billy stumbles.  He swears out loud as his hands hit dry, rough earth and some flesh scrapes off. As he tries to regain his footing, a sudden pain under his palm causes him to pull away sharply.  The sting is like a tiny stab of fire, digging into his nerves.  He cradles his hand instinctively and lurches backwards as a wasp twists in a frenzy before righting itself and turning a circle on the ground.  

“Goddamn it,” Billy mutters, looking at the insect. It paces, facing him a moment, before testing out its wings, seemingly as annoyed with Billy as he is with it. The insect flies off, no worse for the wear after its run in with Billy Baumgartner.  As for Billy, he checks the fiery sting on his palm.  It throbs, and is already turning red.  He doesn’t think he’s allergic, but he also can barely remember the last time he was stung by a wasp. When was it? Doesn't matter.

Billy gets to his feet, dusts himself off.  He heads out again after a quick look around to make sure no one else saw his misfortune.  Just the grass and the bugs, and the barn.  No harm, no foul.

The old Marsh barn looks like it was made from driftwood that someone sent adrift about four or five times.  Planks aren’t flush, the little paint remaining is flaking, and the roof sags at the far end.  Inside, the support beams look like they’re made of solidified dust, and the loft has caved in.  There are small relics of a bygone era; a rake with no handle, some rusted chains, an old barrel, trash from years of kids making it their clubhouse, but not much else.  Billy and his friends used to hang out here and play, read comic books and eat candy. It seemed fun at the time.

In the corner is a flaccid and filthy mattress and some dusty bottles, the remnants of a party spot from some teens, or maybe a drifter who set up shop for a time. The heat in the barn is no different than the heat outside the barn.  The only difference is the air seems more stagnant.  The smell is like a guinea pig cage in need of cleaning. Dust and rotten hay, the smell of old earth and a hint of mold. It is the smell of a yesterday no one can remember anymore. A storybook kingdom that has lost its magic.

Billy Baumgartner enters with confidence. There are piles of refuse in the corners here and there.  On the far side, below the sagging roof, is an old tarp.  His face lights up when he sees it.  He and the guys had found a rundown old motorcycle in the field and brought it back here with plan to fix it up.  None of them had the first clue how to fix it, and it was missing any number of parts, but when you’re 10 you think anything is possible. They’d hidden it under the tarp.  There was no way it was still here.

Striding over o the mildew-encrusted and rotting tarp, another wasp makes a beeline for Billy’s face.  He feels the hard, little body hit like a pea shot from a straw, and latch onto his cheek. He swats it away, more panicked than he’d like to admit, and curses again.  In the dimness of the barn he can’t see where it went or where it came from.

The throb in his hand keeps him rooted in the moment. The last time he was stung by a wasp was when he was a boy. He had gone into the old shed at the back of their yard and seen what looked like a ball of paper stuck to the corner of the ceiling. A single wasp paced back and forth around a hole near the base of it and, being a stupid kid, he did what stupid kids do. He took a stick and broke it open.

There must have been a thousand wasps in that nest. They rushed I a swarm, furious at little Billy Baumgartner for destroying their home, for declaring war o the hive. The stings were like fire on his arms, his face, his neck. He ran screaming and they gave chase. How could he have forgotten that?

A quick circle on his heels in the barn, looking for his winged attacked, and Billy Baumgartner sees nothing.  The pain in his hand has lessened, but there’s a definite lump there now.  Last thing he needs is one of those on his face, people will think he has crazy acne.

Another wasp buzzes past his ear and Billy flinches, ducking dramatically.  He moves forward quickly, wary now, and grabs the tarp.  The old material feels crusty in his hand, flakes of ancient blue plastic come away in his grip.  He yanks quickly.  For the briefest of moments, he is unsure of how to react.  

The barn erupts. The buzzing is a chorus, a symphony of angry activity.  A thousand wasps, a thousand thousand, burst from the darkness beyond the tarp.  Billy screams and recoils.  The handleless rake catches his heel and he falls back.  The insects swarm and Billy tries to cover his face crawling backwards in a panic.  And as he tries to protect himself, as the swarm of insects detect their target and dive to attack, Billy Baumgartner sees it.  

In the center of the storm, writhing with the bodies of countless wasps, a massive thing. Black, hollow eyes regard Billy Baumgartner, wasps crawling in and out of the papery coating.  A slit below, lips made of mud-brown parchment, slowly expands, widens.  A mouth. It returns Billy’s scream and the wasps pour outward.  The sound, a buzzing, hollow roar of rage.

Billy Baumgartner screams as he has never screamed before.  As each wasp deposits its venom into his exposed flesh, a pinpoint of fire burns inside of him.  And it happens over and over, under the unflinching, hollow gaze of the hive king.

Paper flesh rustles.  The vague shape of a man pulls away from the wall of the barn. Flaky remnants like phyllo dough cling to the wood.  The wasps still pour from its face, even as Billy Baumgartner’s vain attempts to beat away the assault grow weaker. His screams are muffled by writhing little bodies as they fill his mouth, stinging his gums, his lips, his tongue.  In moments, he can no longer even hold his arms up to protect himself. He lays on the floor, his body seizing as his eyes roll back in his head, the toxin overloading his system, the pain engulfing him. His flesh swells and bloats, angry and red.

Billy Baumgartner does not even register the presence of the hive.  He does not see as it lowers itself to a crawl, straddling his body.  He does not feel the paper of its dry, dead lips on his own.  Does not feel the army of wasps as they crawl down his throat.  He senses nothing as they begin their work, mixing saliva and wood fibers, covering his body, entombing him and the hive man together. There is no life left in Billy Baumgartner as he joins the hive.

[ecotone99]

[MS] Chipped

By: Lindsay C. Hans

Edited by Shane Harris

Skating across the sky, you fly over a vast empty marshland that spreads far beyond the distant horizon. The endless miles of damp earth are decorated with rich green reeds standing watch over the mirroring pools below. A lone dirt road that seems to lack a beginning winds its way through the marsh, for nothing that appears vast and empty, ever truly is.

Following the road to where it ends among the marsh you eventually find yourself at a farm that’s the only plot of dry land in sight, claiming the unnamed road as the only way in or out. Not that the road does anyone living here any good, no one can recall the last time they saw the old blue truck run; it just sits stoically by the creaky farmhouse where Mirkey, Pebbles and Tipi live, along with all it’s ghosts.

Roused from sleep by a beam of sunlight that’s come to rest across his eyes Mirkey begins to mumble quietly to himself.

“They don’t, no, they never, words, words, words, no, meaningless, don’t know, don’t know, don’t, go away, you don’t know…”

Standing stiffly he Leaves his room and walks down a short hallway past two more bedroom doors, heading to the kitchen. As he passes the room next to his he can hear soft humming coming from the other side, but he doesn’t pay it much mind, he just shuffles past, mumbling,

“No, just words, don’t, no...”

Crack, crack, crack! He breaks three eggs into a seasoned pan and watches the whites begin to bubble. The smell of cooking eggs is a buttery inviting smell to most, yet Mirkey takes no pleasure in it, staring into yellow eyes as they gaze fixedly off at nothing.

Having risen with the sun as it peered its head over the horizon, Pebbles begins her day humming with a voice like amber honey, so warm that it stretches out to every corner of her room. Sitting delicately at the vanity standing watch across from her bed, she picks up the brush from it’s tarnished antique surface. Brushing out the tangles of night as she stares unblinking into her mirror, the golden sun reflecting off the phoenix locks of her wavy hair.

Brushing, staring, humming, listening. Brush, brush, brush, brush…

When Tipi woke, the stars were still winking in the shallow marsh waters, the sun barely breaking the flat, distant horizon. She silently stalks from her room, through the kitchen and outside, letting the screen door close behind her with a muffled thud. She turns her face to the sunrise, blinks, and then runs. Easing into longer strides and pumping her arms in rhythm as she increases her speed, almost gliding across the unpaved ground, faster and faster, before long she’s nothing but an unearthly blur whirring circles around the sleepy old house.

Opening the tilted cupboard with a low creak, Mirkey grabs the three plates sitting inside.

“You cannot, I worked for so, nothing, nothing, I didn’t even get into, you cannot…”

He whispers feverishly as one by one the plates are placed in front of the three empty chairs, making a soft enameled clink on the sturdy wood of the table as they settle into their usual positions. There they wait, empty and expectant with identical chips along the right side of their outer edges. Mirkey returns to the table, pan and spatula in hand and places an overcooked egg into the center of each plate. After returning the pan to the stove and heading back to the table his hand hovers over a tarnished, yet detailed and ornate, silver bell at its center.

Through the middle door down the hallway Pebble still sits at the vanity contentedly humming a slow sweeping melody, and although it brings a note of soft gentility to the room, none of it shows in her eyes as she stares fixedly into her reflection running the brush through now smooth and glossy hair. When she hears the two dulcet tones coming from the kitchen she sets down the brush, rises and exits the room without missing a single beat.

Outside the pounding tempo of Tipi’s feet matches the rhythm of her breath. Her head is clear and calm. The world is a blur. The two chimes of the bell seem to find their way to her from far in the distance while she turns a tight circle around the house. Too far out and she’d collide with the shed, too close and she hits the truck, but her path is the same. It’s always the same. She comes to a sudden stop, feet jarring to a halt right atop the spot she first faced the rising sun. A sun that now hangs a little higher in the sky, its reflection bouncing from pool to pool making her turn away from the glare.

Standing behind his empty chair Mirkey waits, still grumbling, as his sisters make their way in. Over the muttering he no longer notices he can hear his sister’s melody coming down the hall as well as the closing of the old screen door. The three sit simultaneously looking from one to the other. They raise their hands in unison and clap three times, heavy handed claps that end with a choked echo and all six hands laid palms upward on the rough table.

Giving into a forced silence as they pick up their forks to eat. Mirkey’s anguish grows inside, bubbling and writhing against the egg falling into his stomach. In Pebble’s head the music builds rapidly into crescendo, swelling with pressure, and pulsing with the blood in her veins; yet the only sounds to be heard are the familiar scrapings and chewing that are heard at mealtimes.

The marsh too is quiet, and the air seems almost uncomfortably still. The sun dazzles off the shallow waters from its seat in the heavens but there is no wind to ripple on the surface, no moving clouds to cast shadows over the reeds. Behind this calm quiet there’s a feeling hanging in the air, something stiff, somthing that was being emphatically ignored by the siblings; they merely kept eating, piece by piece.

Eggs finished, Mirkey resumes his grumbles as he collects the plates, empty save for some faint smears of yellow.

“Cannot, cannot, cannotcannotcannot, how did you, no, I, Just go, just go…”

Desperation embedding itself stronger than it had before their meal, he deposits everything into the sink.

Likewise Pebbles had once more opened her mouth to the song in her heart, adding words to the melody she’d been humming through the morning.

“Look me in the eye

you say

please don’t make me

cry today”

The words follow her out into the yard as she heads around the north side of the house.

“The pain is far

too much to bear

pleading

with a furrowed stare”

Pebbles wanders serenely towards a small shed in the back of the house. One half of the shed is a chicken coop, including a wired enclosure built into the left hand wall. Inside fluffy chickens peck away in their square, little world, small rocks and roots swallowed without a thought to what goes into their beaks.

There was nothing she needed to do there though, what she wants is in the other half of the shed. The space was already too small to set foot inside so the natural clutter of tools and spare parts cause her to fish around from outside. Balancing up on her toes she pulls out a frayed basket, a pair of grimy gardening gloves, and a dull trowel with bits of dried mud stuck in its corners. Pebbles turns and keeps heading around the back, as the shed door bounces closed behind her, an unused lock clattering against the rotting wood. She’ll spend most of her day in the garden, hacking at weeds and harvesting her pitiful crop.

Tipi emerges from the house carrying a bucket full of yesterday’s scraps and leftovers. She walks away from the tormented muttering emanating from the kitchen, following instead the warbling sounds of her sister’s song. As she comes in view of the shed the chickens began to cluck and ruffle in excitement. They all huddle in the corner closest to her, jostling each other for position as she lifts the top wiring to dump out the contents of the bucket. As she stands watching the chaotic squabbling, she feels what might almost be fleeting amusement but it fades as quickly as it came around, and after a few more moments she continues on with her chores.

The chicken’s roost is only just large enough to enter, though Tipi has to duck inside and once inside has no room to move. The air is thick with the stale smell of chicken poop and discarded feathers but she ignores this, as usual, and sets herself to collecting eggs. She moves with practiced care, the motions second nature after countless days, countless eggs. Keeping the bucket level so the eggs don’t roll around too much. She pauses as she comes across an egg still warm from roosting, holding it close to her chest as she leaves the coop. The smooth curve of the egg in her hand has a comforting simplicity that seems to have it’s own gravity, making her grip tighter and tighter with each heartbeat until CRACK! The egg shatters in her hand stopping her mid-step. Slick egg whites drip through her fingers collecting in goopy pools on the dusty ground. Among the shattered pieces of shell, peeking through what’s left of the yolk is a small, partially developed chicken fetus; she could just make out its beak. Staring down at it she feels a twinge of anger at herself for being so careless, now there would be no breakfast for her in the morning. Sick of the way it spiked her anger she tosses the dripping mass into the pen with the other chickens and watches in resentment as the chickens scramble to be the one to peck away at it, despite the pile of leftovers laying unfinished from this morning.

Back inside, all three plates, the pan, and the spatula are washed; the silverware is polished and now lying peacefully in its drawer. Mirkey looks around and makes one final inspection of the clean, but obviously tired, kitchen. Satisfied he too heads out into the yard, but instead of going around to the shed or the garden he heads straight west towards the old truck. Once the same blue as a midday sky the truck’s paint has been washed out by the unblinking sun, rust creeping outwards from it’s many seams. Mirkey always leaves the hood of the truck propped up and his tool chest nearby yet despite his attentions the truck is slowly settling into the earth, it’s drooping roof and deflated tires giving it the appearance of melting ice cream. Kneeling down he grabs a socket wrench and a flashlight before slipping an oily red rag into his back pocket and shuffling himself halfway under the truck. He clicks on the light and sets it resting next to his head then starts to loosen a bolt, all the while continuing his aimless mutters.

“No, don’t do that, stop, I said stop! You’re going to ruin it, you can’t, cannot, cannot, cannot, you need to stop, you need…need…needless prattling gets us nowhere, we need to work, work, all work, nothing, cannot, make it work…”

The day goes on and the sun’s reflection chases it across the glassy waters of the marsh. Occasionally one of the siblings glances up and seems to lose themselves for a moment, staring at the horizon, never pausing at their tasks but seeming as if they’re waiting for a reason to do just that.

Mirkey mumbles.

Pebbles sings.

Tipi’s feet beat a steady rhythm around the house.

Eventually the sun starts to fall behind the peaked roof, Mirkey has managed to make zero progress with the engine, Pebbles has harvested a basket full of carrots and potatoes from her garden and it’s finally time for the one other job Tipi has on this loathsome dirt plot. Jerking to a stop from her run she turns and heads towards the shed. Seeing her coming and remembering the bucket from earlier, the excitement of the birds grows with each step that brings her closer. This time stepping into the enclosure rather than the roost, she watches head tilted down as the chickens amble around her feet. She sinks into a crouch as the chickens peck at each other indignantly, there’s always a perfect moment when you wait long enough. As she sits there unmoving, the chickens realize no scraps are coming and gradually lose interest, that’s when she finds her opening. With movement as fast as the crack of a whip she seizes a chicken around its neck, cutting off a garbled squawk and causing the other two to dart away in panic, scrambling into the roost where they hope to find safety.

Mirkey, hearing the panicked birds, looks up to see his sister exit the enclosure with a bird in her right hand and an axe swung over her left shoulder, the setting sun gleaming off it’s steel head giving him a devilish wink. This is his cue to pack up his tools and head inside to prep for dinner. He enters the kitchen to find the carrots and potatoes washed and drying on the counter, Pebbles having left them and moved into the living room still singing to herself.

The low-slung sun peers it’s full face through the window like a nosy neighbor, it’s rays lighting up the drab greens and browns of the room. Pebbles is sitting in the far corner, a lidless box of paints perched next to her as her brush strokes glide along to the sounds of her song.

“Cutting deep

and let it flow

look at what

the colors show

picking up

the brush and hues

to paint with all

the colors of you”

Each time her song comes to an end, she picks up the refrain once more.

Outside Tipi’s axe rings out, punctuating her sister’s solemn melody as it strikes home and lodges itself in the chopping block. The chicken’s head is so light that it barely makes a noise as it lands in the dust. It rolls twice and comes to rest staring back at Tipi, the look of horror in the unblinking gaze much louder than its final protests. She pulls the axe from the block with barely a flick of her wrist and lays it on the ground next to her, she takes a seat on the block. Holding the chicken upside down by its legs, the body now inert and lifeless. she begins to methodically pull out fistfulls of feathers, every tug sending the neck wobbling and flecks of blood sprinkling the ground. She drops the feathers in a pile at her feet, their natural white transforming as they soak up the small crimson pool oozing from the head.

Sitting in his chair, and hunched over the bucket that was placed at his feet, Mirkey was peeling carrots when Tipi walks in. She lays the now headless and naked chicken onto the counter, a poor excuse for a meal. No words exchanged, barely even a look as she heads into the living room to sit and watch her sister. Mirkey continues to peel his pile of vegetables, his level of enthusiasm matching that of the dead chicken.

Schk, schk, schk.

“No, you don’t know, you pompous, entitled, no, cannot cannot, how could you, you can talk, talk all day long, you say nothing, meaningless meaningless meaningless words, cannot words, nothing words, you can’t fix it either, nothing nothing nothing…”

Beginning to prep the fowl his fingers grope around inside of the bird, fingers squelching as they entangled in the mass of stomach organs, he dislodges and drops handfuls of the slimy innards, heavy and slick as they hit the bottom of the pail. He stuffs and trusses and mumbles through it all, the kitchen growing hotter and hotter from the cast iron stove as the fire flares in its belly. Finished with preparations, Mirkey places the bird inside and closes the hot metal door without a bit of concern for the burns on his fingertips.

“You did this, nothing nothing nothing…”

Just like when Tipi entered the room, Pebbles pays Mirkey no mind as her brother crosses from the kitchen.

“Look me in

the eye

you say

please don’t

make me cry today”

Passing in front of Tipi, who’s watching her sister’s progress from her seat on the lumpy old sofa, to the old tv on the other side. Grabbing the screwdriver he’d left on top of the wood frame, he disappears behind it to tinker.

Pebbles has only brown, red, and yellow paints at her disposal; though none of them are complimentary she moves her brush across the canvas with patience and care.

“The pain is

far too much to bear

pleading with

a furrowed stare”

She dips a small sleek brush in yellow and drags it in flowing lines; switching from harsh thick strokes to light delicate sprinkles as she covers the white void in color.

“Cutting deep

and let it flow

look at what

the colors show”

Now with a chisel tipped brush she picks up a glob of the red paint and guides it down with precision in lovely, fine drips. They push their way through the yellow, mingling together and leaving a trail of orange that fill the patches of white.

“Picking up

the brush and hues

to paint with all

the colors of you”

Using a thick round brush, she stipples the last exposed pieces of canvas with brown. The three colors blend where they meet and stand vivid and bold where they are placed alone. The brush strokes are purposeful, exact, and gratuitous. The way the pigments smear together into deeper and richer tones transforms the canvas into something more. To Pebbles it’s just paint, but to Tipi the clashing colors that were laid out were warm and lively; but despite this she feels a cold detachment from her sister. Wishing hopelessly that she too could put something as beautiful into the world. In her head is an immeasurable pounding of bitter resentment that echoes off the walls of her skull. If only she was allowed to wield the beauty that Pebbles does.

In the twilight of the evening only wisps of daylight can be seen on the horizon as the sun is chased away by the twinkling darkness once more. The scent of chicken is waltzing its way around the room to the melody of Pebbles voice and the staccato of Mirkey’s tinkering, but he’s forced to stop as the scent reaches his nose, calling him back to the kitchen. Setting down his screwdriver where he’d picked it up he skulks back across the room.

“Can you not, useless piece of absolute, how is it even, wasted air…”

Pulling the chicken from the oven he places it on the table to cool as he sets three places, each with its own chipped plate. With everything set he reaches for the bell on the table and calls his sisters in with two melodious chimes. They appear together and all three move to sit, the chairs scraping on the weathered floorboards as they do. Their three claps ring out through the house, jolting the space into silence alongside the meal in front of them. The chicken is bland, dry, and charred beyond enjoyment while the vegetables are mushy and flat; still it was the only food to eat until breakfast. They eat quickly, nothing more than what fills them up though they leave very little meat on the bones. Once they finish Tipi collects plates and dumps all their scraps into the pail, leaving it under the sink for the morning. She and Pebbles head off to their rooms as Mirkey stays behind to tidy up.

“Just let me do it, you’ll ruin it, don’t, cannot cannot, stop and leave, go away, you don’t know, you keep talking you, don’t, no, cannot cannot…”

The sink groans in anguish, spitting cold water onto the dishes, rinsing away what barely holds on but leaving behind the deeper stains that demand a more fervent scrubbing. Mirkey’s rag is crusted with old bits of food and grime, the fibers worn thin from daily degradations. It works to wipe away at whatever surface it was set upon, though it always leaves greasy streaks in its wake. At the end of each evening he drapes the rag over the faucet to dry before heading back to his room, ready for the day to finally end.

The sun hasn’t quite crowned over the horizon when Tipi rises to begin her relentless run around the farmhouse. As it peeks curiously above the marsh its rays fall on Pebbles, delicately sitting down at her vanity to brush out the night’s tangles. Eventually its warmth drapes across Mirkey and rouses him from sleep. He swings his feet to the floor, mumbling, and walks down the hall past the three other bedroom doors and into the kitchen to make breakfast. While the eggs cook in their pan Mirkey starts to set the table with the four plates from the cupboard. As he lays them out in front of each chair he notices that one doesn’t have a chip but giving no reaction he turns back to the eggs.

With breakfast served the bell rings out three times to call his siblings to the table, where he waits behind his chair. Sitting as one, Mirkey, Pebbles, and Tipi clap, one, two, three times, and turn their palms up to the ceiling but there they stop. Instead of picking up their utensils to start their meal they look to the fourth chair at the table.

A cold rush of shock runs through your body as you notice your siblings are all staring at you. Your fork, heavy in hand, falls with a piercing clatter against the plate below. Startled by the noise you look down in disappointment, now you’ve chipped your brand new plate.

submitted by /u/CrashBlossom_42 [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/33IufAo

[cosmosogler]

hello. i didn’t go to bed until 12 last night. because i’m really cool.

so i got up at like 8:30 this morning and then didn’t want to do anything. i forced myself to shower around 9:30 or 10 and ate some breakfast. then i kept bumming around. at around 11:30 or 12 i decided to clean my apartment and wash my bedsheets. that went pretty well. cleaning the litter box was terrible because snoopy keeps missing the litter and then her waste gets caught in the folds of the box liner. 

phew!! i got distracted for like 4 minutes there.

i asked suzanne for a ride to the bowling alley at 5 since it is a 30 minute bike ride from my home and she said sure. then i made the rest of my tempeh tacos and then i took out the trash and stuff and went to the used bike place to get my bike looked at since it’s been handling a little weird. i walked in confidently this time and found the guy asleep on the floor in his back room. he startled awake when i knocked gently on the door. he rode my bike up and down the back road a few times and also replaced the batteries in my headlight since it sort of died. he didn’t let me buy the batteries myself. i wasn’t sure if i was supposed to tip him...? it didn’t occur to me until now that i might have been supposed to do that.

i didn’t spend long at the grocery store and i only used like half my budget money for it. when i was arranging my groceries on my bike i saw that suzanne had changed her mind about giving me a ride. it was after 4. she asked if i’d be ok with jennica taking me instead and i said sure. then i rode home and got ready for the party with like nice clothes and earrings and stuff. i know it’s just bowling but it feels nice to dress up sometimes.

then 5 rolled around and i asked jennica when she was coming to pick me up. when she didn’t respond i got suspicious and asked suzanne if she had actually asked if jennica was willing to drive me before she made the offer. she said no, that i was supposed to ask jennica for the ride myself. then she suggested i rent an uber. 

i got super mad SUPER fast. i didn’t say anything for a few minutes since it was texting. just kinda quietly let my temper run its course for a few minutes. i decided to try and figure out why i felt so angry so fast. i guess it’s because... i felt kinda betrayed? like she KNEW i couldn’t easily get there myself. and she volunteered jennica without actually letting jennica know i needed a ride. and ubers are technically an option but they feel so unsafe... and they’re really not a good business to patronize. 

and call-in taxis are just so unreliable... i would get left at my therapist’s office for hours and hours and hours back at villanova. i would get there in the middle of the day and then be left there until after dark.

that wasn’t the taxi business, it was the campus transportation, but i don’t really trust other people to drive me where i need to go or even pick me up any more haha. even at nau the taxi service was SUPER late. 

so i biked 55 blocks out to the bowling alley in my fancy skirt and dress shirt and the skirt got tangled in the back wheel before i figured out how to set it more securely in my lap. 

i had to go an extra 12 blocks because there was no stoplight so i could cross the road for 6 blocks past the alley.

i was still roasted when i got to the alley even though i was also now super hungry and very tired and sweaty. and it was a bowling alley so it’s not like they had much food i could eat. i had a piece of cheese pizza and i think it’s the worst pizza i’ve ever had.

alex’s twin ryan had made tons and tons of desserts though and i tried some of those. the cookies were super good but i stopped having an appetite extremely quickly. i knew my body was hungry but it just wasn’t gonna let me put anything else in my stomach. my mood did improve after a few cookies.

jennica apologized as soon as i got there. suzanne didn’t seem to think anything was wrong and congratulated me on all the exercise i got. i turned my attention toward getting the bathroom fixed because every single one of the toilets was clogged.

i bowled with everyone, just one game since there were 6 players and it took forever. i won. alex’s friend meredith would have won but she left. alex took over for her and she had such a lead on me that he actually did beat me with that score. i was going to beat it... then i dropped the ball on my last turn. 

like, i literally dropped the ball, my fingers slipped right out of the holes and it went straight into the gutter.

beforehand, while i was trying to rent some shoes, the lady behind the counter was very interested in telling me about how angry she is that people are really mean to “disordered kids.” ryan ended up by the counter while i was waiting to ask for shoes but didn’t want to interrupt. he said that he and alex get that a lot but i guess it’s easier now that they are very much adults. 

i felt kinda confused because i guess i just... don’t see why you would make fun of a disabled person? i mean i see people doing it all the time but it’s like, why? i said something like “i don’t understand because, like, who are you to judge someone else’s intelligence?” the lady behind the counter kept saying that it “doesn’t make them less human” but i wouldn’t even go that far. like it seems so obvious that i don’t even think about that. i guess i figure that even if something wasn’t human you don’t have an excuse to mistreat it. like a cat or something. 

like “they’re alive” is reason enough not to be an asshole. humanity is a gate check after that so the question shouldn’t even get there.

just because i don’t always understand or directly see someone else’s thought process doesn’t mean they don’t have one. sofia back at home only has a muscle/nerve disconnection thing and people treat her like she’s stupid because she talks slow and sloppy. but even then she’s just a normal kid with reduced fine motor skills. 

so... i don’t get it. it just sounds so frustrating.

and i guess i’m not a stranger to the insults either even though i ain’t got no diagnosis outside of depression and my heart defect.

anyway i stayed until about 8 and then i biked home. i almost got hit by a car that didn’t look both ways before making a left turn AGAIN. i’m glad that i didn’t hesitate when i saw them keep moving and did my best to get out of the way instead of slow down and hope they’d see me and stop. i got honked at but like... i have headlights on my bike. the light was green for me and “slow down” for them.

when i got home i hid cookies for snoopy and put some catnip on her walk-through brush. she had fun with that for a little while. when i got settled down and into my pajamas and had a snack it was like 8:40, so i checked out some youtube and checked my comics at 9 and then did some grading for 40 minutes and got about a third of the way done with the last section. it wasn’t as much as i’d wanted to get done today, but i spent so much time doing absolutely nothing that it’s probably a good thing i took a pen to the lab reports at all. also the EXTRA HOUR I SPENT ON MY BIKE. altogether i biked like six miles today.

tomorrow my goal is to get up early (since daylight savings will give me an extra hour to try to sleep) and get right to the office to start working. i guess i gotta make some pasta salad before i leave so that’ll take 20-30 minutes. i’m gonna finishing grading and do last week’s quantum assignment i think, since it’s supposed to be really short, and then try to make any headway at all on my mechanics homework until my food and energy run out. 

retaking the quantum test is gonna have to wait until after i have literally ANY time to review my quantum notes and try to remember this basic stuff that i have already known for over a year and still can’t seem to write on a paper if it has “test” written on it.

i get really frustrated with people who seem like they’re flaking on me. today was kinda my fault i guess... should have checked with jennica right away. i got confused by suzanne’s wording and the fact that it really didn’t make sense for her to volunteer someone she had not checked in with first.

makes me feel like i don’t matter. 

and like... i already feel like i don’t matter. but outside confirmation that i don’t matter to my friends makes me freak out. just like how i know i’m hella dumb but any outside confirmation just like... totally ruins my day. and sometimes my week. and sometimes it’ll seem fine at the time and then a week later it’ll ruin my day.

maybe, without these... disappointments? i can sort of convince myself that “i don’t matter” is a lie. but then when i ACTUALLY DON’T matter my “i was lying to myself, ha ha, maybe i can be confident” becomes the lie! and i hate being deceived like that. it makes me feel like all the progress i make with self esteem and stuff is just... an empty distraction. the reality is that i DON’T matter, and i just wasted all my time and energy pretending like i did, because i’m stupid and i let myself make these mistakes over and over and over and over.

like i had hope or something. but that hope is so fragile. i just want people to like me. i just want to matter to people. but it feels like i can’t. and it hurts every time because i’m stupid and i keep hoping even though it ain’t never done me any good.

something good today was that i did, in fact, bike six miles and i didn’t run out of energy. i was tired, sure, and sweaty, but i could still feel my legs just fine. it’s going uphill that always wrecks me. 

i joked yesterday that i’m so small and weak that this is the best shape i’m ever going to be in. barely able to get up the hill on the way home day after day. small. and weak. if i didn’t have a deformed heart i would have been like three or four inches taller and i got the athletic build that says i should be able to get pretty strong. but now i can’t get strong so i just look kinda lumpy.

i wasn’t able to develop the necessary muscle systems that normal little kids get when they scream and run at warp speed all day every day. and my immune system never really got off the ground. my body heals at like the slowest possible rate. that time i scratched my face like four weeks ago? it’s still healing. my pretty small gallbladder incisions from two months ago, which “shouldn’t leave scars”? still healing and even kind of still inflamed.

but hey! i biked six miles! that was ~ an hour total of sustained semi-heavy physical activity. i don’t spend a lot of time coasting. maybe i don’t have the sprint capability i need, but i seem to be building up endurance over time. i can live with that i think.

i’m nothing if not resilient.