#you have to do ketamine every week to reach that point but like

[nandeitai]

using my annual six month tumblr reappearance to wish a happy No But Seriously Imagine It day to all who celebrate. i’m clocked the fuck in on phan twitter for the first time in probably 8 years because this joke is genuinely unironically healing my inner child, most specifically my 15 year old self who had to deal with the worst month of my entire teenage years, october 2015. i vividly remember like three full days of that month in excruciating detail and then it’s completely blank until at least february 2016, but in the midst of all the haze i have always remembered “no but seriously imagine it” gracing my dash for the first time like a flickering lantern in an abandoned old tunnel

[cookinguptales]

That last post I just reblogged was fascinating to me because it was obviously a joke but it actually lined up so well with a common PMDD symptom of mine that I was writing about it in the tags. Then I kind of thought about it again and realized OP doesn’t deserve all that in the tags of their joke post so like. I guess I’ll put those thoughts here instead.

(under a cut, cw: frank discussion of mental illness)

Like I’ll warn here that I’m about to talk about mental illness in some pretty explicit terms. I have Premenstrual Dysphoria Disorder (in addition to Major Depressive Disorder) and for the most part I have a pretty good handle on it. My depression is treatment resistant, but I did some hormonal treatments for years to help with that, my endometriosis, and my menstruation-induced EDS complications.

(Have you ever had menstrual cramps so bad that it dislocated your hips and ribs? I have! Every goddamn month lmao.)

About a year and a half ago, I had to stop taking the hormones because they were honestly making certain things worse, so I had to kind of just. Figure out other ways to deal with it. Working with a doctor, a regimen of cannabis tea and ketamine has helped a lot with the physical symptoms, and has helped some with the emotional symptoms. It’s still not perfect (still get bad days sometimes) but my suicidality is way better than it was.

(People with PMDD are apparently estimated to attempt suicide seven times more than the general AFAB population so like. I guess that’s something to keep in mind.)

That said, my ketamine regimen was fucked up recently because of some issues at the doctor’s office and uh. Well, I’m still kind of building the levels back up. The past few periods have been very rough for me. Mostly physically, but I’ve had some emotional issues, too.

This month, my PMDD has been… I guess not as severe as it was in the past, but boy is it lingering. I’ve been very jittery, very anxious, prone to bad mental loops, etc. It’s been about a week at this point, which is on the long side, but you just gotta tough it out, right?

(Don’t worry, guys, I do know when to reach out for help when symptoms get bad, and have done it before in the past.)

Anyway… one of my least favorite symptoms has come out to play and I’m Dealing with it but I hate itttt. It’s the one that the post reminded me of! And that’s the one where you feel guilty for wanting people to love you.

I think… when you’re dealing with something difficult alone, it’s very normal to fantasize about someone helping you through it. Telling you you’re not a bad person, that they love you, hugging you, etc. Normal stuff like that. I think people sometimes use fictional characters, sometimes real people who love them (like family/friends), sometimes people they make up in their head, etc. I think fantasizing about comfort is fairly normal.

But when you’re in the trenches, your mind is like No It Is Not Normal It Is Bad. I have to remind myself that like… in some ways, it’s kind of like an abusive relationship. During bad PMDD spells, my mind wants to hurt me, it wants to kill me, and it wants to separate me from my support systems. Your brain tells you that burdening others with your feelings is Bad and you are Bad for doing it.

This makes it hard to reach out for help when you need it (again, I do know how to do that, I am safe, I know that I have people who would come to my house right now if I needed them to — and failing that, I do know how emergency mental health intake works, too) but also like… it often gets to the point where you feel like a terrible person for even wanting to be loved.

Like — this is hard to explain, so here’s a sample spiral.

(cw: mental illness, suicide mention. I’m going to try and be as realistic as possible here and that might be troubling for some readers.)

I am feeling bad. I am sad and anxious and scared and feel like I am worthless. I want someone to hold me and tell me they love me. I imagine a person I like doing this. I then think — no, you are a bad person. They would not want to do this. You are putting the burden of your feelings on some unsuspecting person again. It is unfair to use a real person as a mental support. You are forcing them into a situation they did not consent to, and you are using them as a crutch. You are a bad, selfish person and they would hate you if they knew you were doing this. You are asking for too much from the people around you; how dare you ask for love and support? You are worthless and no one will love you and imagining them loving you is unfair to them and frankly very invasive. You are being parasitical right now. Stop imagining people doing things they’d never want to do, you’re such a bad person. Don’t you care about their boundaries? Of course you don’t, you always hurt people because you’re selfish and bad and no one will ever like you. So stop imagining them liking you! Just kill yourself and get it over with, etc. You are a bad thing and bad things should go away and you should stop existing. Stop writing RPF about the people you like, that’s even worse than the crime of just being you. Just kill yourself.

And honestly, this will probably go on for a couple hours and there will probably be a lot of crying. >.> It’s good to keep electrolyte solution around because dehydration just makes it worse.

I’ve dealt with MDD for almost my entire life, but PMDD is… different. There’s a sort of exhausted doneness with MDD, like you don’t want to kill yourself, necessarily, you just want to stop existing. PMDD is different. There’s a very loud, very manic aggression to it. Your brain is very actively trying to kill you. I don’t know how else to put it. It’s like being in a crowd of people all screaming at you at once until you cry, and then screaming at you for crying. There is a mob in your head and it hates you.

It is… very, very loud and very difficult to drown out. I can usually catch the warning signs and head things off before I get into a spiral. Going for a walk is good. Helps break the cycle. Creating is good, too. Makes me feel productive and useful to others, which is a whole other can of worms, but it is effective. And if all else fails, I usually weaponize my hyperfixations lmao. Start up an old video game that I know will take all my focus, or start a new tv show that I know I’ll get fannish about, whatever.

This month has been hard because, frankly, it took me by surprise. It’s a little earlier than it should be and I haven’t had to deal with it as much in the past six months, so I guess I got out of the habit. I didn’t notice that I was starting to get kind of stressed and anxious over small stuff and was beating myself up for feeling normal human emotions. This is usually the big warning sign to me. I will latch onto a negative feeling I’m having and feel very guilty about it. I scratch at it like a healing scab. Then the spirals starts. So I have to keep a watch out for that.

But… like I said, I do tend to withdraw and feel guilty about talking about these things. I feel guilty for wanting to depend on others because I feel like that’s asking too much, a miserable person like me demanding attention from people who are too good for me. And once I start withdrawing into myself and not talking to those around me, things get worse.

Like I said!!! Your brain is abusive and it wants to separate you from your support system — so it makes you feel like a bad person for even wanting a support system.

(I find that it helps, actually, to frame it like that. I can tell that my thoughts are starting to get irrational and it’s like “oh, THIS asshole is back to say mean things to me again.”)

So… idk, I’m trying to talk about it. I figure that I tagged this post appropriately and put multiple warnings on it, so anyone who is reading this wants to be here. Maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of support, maybe because they deal with these things, too. idk.

I’m basically telling my mean brain that fuck you, it’s good to talk about my feelings and no one hates me for it.

Because… this is the big thing… I was thinking about that one Tumblr post… the one that was like “the me in your head is nice to you, right?”

I want the me in your head to be so nice to you. I want the me in your head to hold you and tell you you’re a good person and that I love you. Even if I don’t know you. I want the me in your head to be so damn comforting.

I love the idea of being a comfort to people. That’s… why I write so much of why I write, I think. There’s nothing that chokes me up like finding out I’ve managed to comfort someone that I don’t even know. Is there anything more beautiful than comforting and supporting others in this bitch of a world?

NO we gotta be kind.

So… if I want the me in your head to be so, so kind, why do I feel so guilty for wanting the you in my head to be nice to me, too? Why do I feel like I am so innately unlovable that even fantasizing about someone loving me could stain them somehow? Like I will stain their clothes with my own awfulness.

I DON’T. I don’t feel that way. I have been doing so much better lately. I have been reaching out to people and doing fun things and spending time with people and thinking about loving people and them loving me back. I’ve thought about people loving me!!! And I’ve started to have the creeping hope that it could happen! That I am worthy of love.

Guys, I’ve been better. I know that all sounds like not much, but it’s been so easy for me to convince myself that no one will ever love me because I’m sick, I’m disabled, I’m unattractive, I’m unkind, I’m cringe, I’m annoying, I’m selfish, etc. It’s been so easy for me to find a million excuses for why I, out of all the people on this earth, will never be loved.

So… feeling hope that that’s not true is actually a very big thing for me, and something that I’ve been delighting in recently.

All the things in my head are fake and mean and… you know, hormones. That’s all.

Idk, this was meant to be a discussion of one small part of PMDD but I guess it ended up being a ramble about a lot of things. I’ll admit that it’s much more difficult for me to be focused and eloquent when I’m dealing with these symptoms. I had a moment where I wanted to apologize to anyone still reading this, but — instead I’ll thank you for spending your time with my words. For whatever reason you decided to do it, for whatever reason you’re still here, I appreciate that you did it.

I want the version of you in my head to be nice. And I want to thank you for being nice. And I want to be nice to you, too.

In conclusion

Now I’m gonna go take my medication and be quiet for a while.

[whispsofkindness]

One of my good friends who is a nurse in my hometown sent me this message and man, is it a must read… (photo clearly not of her for anonymity).

“Man… I’ve had so many rough OD/drug related cases at work lately and telling people who don’t understand it from either an addict’s standpoint or the healthcare standpoint isn’t really as impactful. So here I am oversharing with you.

I walked into work on a weekday morning fairly recently to an intubated patient who was tied down, sedated, hooked up to every device in the ER, and 4 different types of IV sedatives because we could not keep them under (tolerance) and they kept trying to yank out the multiple important tubes that been placed into their body, from the IVs, to the Foley catheter in the bladder, to ET tube in the throat, the OG tube in the stomach, to the tube in the rectum, pulling on any of them was gonna be a bad time for everyone involved. I was unable to reach any family members on the phone. I delivered them to the ICU and told the tale that was told to me about their arrival in the ER, doing fentanyl until the verge of OD, narcaned themselves, then did enough meth to go into psychosis, at which point they showed up in the ER, where we were unable to subdue them with the traditional means, B52 shots and two Ketamine injections, so, they got tied down and sedated ALL THE WAY (to the point of needing mechanical ventilation) to keep them from hurting themselves or us. Keeping a person in active addiction sedated (without tanking their blood pressure and killing them) is a minute to minute job.

I take care of homeless folks everyday, most with mental health and addiction issues. Most of the time, all I can offer is a turkey sandwich and some fresh “Rehab Reeboks”, as one of my fave ER docs calls non-skid hospital/psych ward socks😂

We have a great peer counselor from Pathways, but it never feels like enough. And if they aren’t on a 72 hour hold, it’s impossible to get them to stay long enough to get any real help.

I recently took care of someone who had been drinking so hard for so long they were probably going to die without a liver transplant that they would never give them due to the drinking, the DTs were so bad I had to lead them back to their room 15 times in a 4 hour period, and then they crashed fast and we intubated in the ER, they were bleeding internally. They were a year younger than me… When I called report to ICU the accepting nurse told me they had recently lost a 29 year old alcoholic in basically the same shape.

Then there are the folks who got off the drugs years ago, only to develop life threatening complications like spinal abscesses directly related to past IV drug use. It’s always so hard to tell them that even though they are doing great at sobriety, we have to ship them out to a hospital with a neurosurgeon available because they might need spinal surgery because they have a life threatening condition. And probably end up giving them narcotic pain meds, because it’s excruciatingly painful wherever it’s located on the spine.

One week I narcaned 2 babies on two different nights. There is nothing as scary as the slow motion cry of a baby who got into papaw’s fentanyl…

I always tell people that I don’t care what they did (drug wise) or what crimes they may have committed or be wanted for, because I’m not calling the cops unless they try to hurt me or someone else in the ER. I just need to know so I can try to keep them alive, and I mean it. I mean, I’m occasionally impressed by the crazy tenacity of some drug use episodes (see the sedated patient I first mentioned), sometimes I have to tell somebody just to share the sadness, like when we lose one, and they’re still wearing a bracelet that says “we do recover” and I go lose my shit in the break room, because that place is always empty, but mostly, I just think about their families, their parents and grandparents, their children, their grandchildren. And how awful it might be to get that call that I occasionally have to make, telling them to get to the hospital as soon as possible, and they might still be too late.”

Source: Bradshaw

[kimburgess-ruzek]

You Have No Idea.

chapter one.

summary: Something Kim does changes her future in Intelligence forever. In ways no one can imagine. But when she is caught on the wrong side of crime, will her previous reputation and relationship with the police help her? Or are her actions so damaging that nothing or no one can save her?

t/w: mentions of sexual assault

read on ao3.

one.

*months before the prologue.*

“What do we got?”

Adam lifted the yellow tape to allow Voight to the scene. It was super early. 5:29 am. And the constant flashing lights and sirens made Adam too tired to joke around. He had to get up early to meet Rojas on the scene and take statements. He was wearing sunglasses and his hair wasn’t even done.

“Group of witnesses claim to have seen a woman kidnapped. They were outside of the bar and saw the woman and a man arguing in the alley, they thought it was nothing since it just verbal. Then a van drives by and the man pulls the girl inside and they take off.” Adam caught Voight up while they walked to where the rest of the team was.

“Did they catch a look at the plate?” Voight asked.

“No. The car was unmarked.” Kevin answered.

“The group wasn’t able to identify much of either the woman or the man. It was too dark. But they did say they were dressed for the club. The woman had on a dress. So my guess is camera footage of the club might have their faces. Jay is securing security footage from both inside and outside.” Rojas explained.

“Okay. Get back to the district and watch every second of the footage. I want to see if they were inside that club and if we can get facial rec.”

“We’re taking this Sarge? The witnesses were drunk themselves. They might not be credible. How do you know we’re just wasting time?” Hailey asked. There didn’t seem to be anything worth dragging Intelligence into. They probably could’ve handed this off to some other unit.

“We’re taking this case because I said so. This club has been on the radar for PD a while now. So go watch that footage. While you’re at it, grab the manager. Maybe he has some talking to do.”

“Copy, Sarge.” Adam walked back to his truck and sat inside there, trying to keep his eyes open. They had nonstop cases, and he hadn’t gotten much sleep in the last few weeks. The whole team hasn’t. With one member down, they had to do overtime most nights in order to be one step ahead of the bad guys.

Before he could drive off the scene, his passenger side door opened and Kevin sat down and buckled himself in without permission.

“Hey man, mind giving me a ride to the office? I rode with Jay and he’s still getting footage.”

“Nah, you got it.” Adam took off, heading back to the district. He didn’t talk much on the ride there. He just focused on not letting his eyelids close.

Kevin tried to ease the silence, “So, have you heard from her?”

Adam sighed and rubbed his forehead. “No, I haven’t. I’ve called her everyday. I’ve even dropped by her place a couple of times. She doesn’t want to be heard. Or seen.”

Kevin looked at Adam with sympathy. “Give it time. She took it hard.”

Adam answered as they pulled up to the parking lot.

“Yeah, I just don’t feel okay with it. Something doesn’t seem right.”

...

buzz, buzz. buzz, buzz.

It took everything in Kim to open her eyes. She rarely gets any sleep anymore; she is either pulling all-nighters or she is waking up sporadically at odd hours of the night. Her new lifestyle, as she would call it, isn’t the most healthy. She doesn’t have a sleep schedule, doesn’t have anything but beer in her fridge, and always wakes up hungover. But she doesn’t really care. She’ll do anything to keep going through life at this point. She takes every opportunity to rest her eyes, and she waits until the last seconds to rise out of her slumber. The light was already shining through her half closed curtains, and it took a few seconds for eyes to adjust. She yawned and stretched her arms before reaching for phone, reading the new message that she just got. However, before she could read it, she had a missed call notification. Kim sighed, she could probably guess who it was from. Nevertheless, she opened her phone and played the missed message.

*one voicemail from Adam Ruzek*

“Hey Kim. Just checking up on you. I haven’t heard from you in a while and I know you’re probably upset over everything that happened. I know I am. I miss being able to see my friend everyday at the office. Um, anyways, I just want to make sure you’re doing well. The whole team wants to make sure. Kevin won’t stop bothering me about making sure you’re doing good. I’ve tried visiting, but you must not have been home. Maybe we can meet for coffee or something. I have to go, but please. Just call me. Reach out. And know that I’m already here for you.”

Adam has called Kim everyday for two months now, ever since Kim left intelligence. And everyday, Kim would either sleep through it or she would ignore it. And everyday, Adam would leave a voicemail. Sometimes short, sometimes long. Always asking if she is okay and if she can call him back. Kim couldn’t help but laugh at how persistent Adam is. He will probably never stop calling he’s so stubborn. He’s probably just doing it out of spite now. Part of Kim wanted to pick up the phone one day and tell him to leave her alone and stop calling. To forget about her because she is not coming back. Part of her wanted to answer the call and just tell him the truth. But she knew that she couldn’t do either, because it would distract her from her new life.

...

Kim remembered the day like it was yesterday. The day that changed her life forever.

Two months ago.

The bastards that raped her sister, Nicole, were fully released. Kim dreaded that day, because she knew that she had to inform Nicole of the news. Nicole was healing to the best of her abilities. She felt okay living on her own, but every once in a while she would call Kim, scared and crying. When she heard of the news, Nicole was shocked and felt uneasy. She said that she felt unsafe and asked if Kim could stay the night with her. Kim obviously said yes, but she feared that Nicole would start to retreat to her previous ways.

Within a week of the release of the two men, two women were found in the basement of the train station with obvious signs of rape and signs of drugs in their system similar to what Nicole experienced. After hearing the news of the two women, Kim’s fear turned out to be a reality. Nicole would not leave her house, and she begged Kim to stay at her apartment during the night. Kim often times had to stay late to work on the case, so she would leave Nicole on speaker phone, being there for support and calming her down when her anxiety picked up.

A week later, two more women were found in the train station. It was enough for Intelligence to be looped in. All of the women were drugged with ketamine and raped. They couldn’t remember anything, other than they were invited to an after party after being out at bars.

Kim immediately saw similarities in this case with Nicole’s. She wanted to go a storm the two men’s apartment, but the team shot her down.

“We have no other leads,” Jay tried to reason. “There’s no evidence that it’s the two men, and there’s not enough probably cause for a warrant.”

“Are you kidding me? Of course there’s enough evidence. This is the same exact scenario we saw four years ago. The exact same. You can’t tell me this isn’t enough probably cause.” Kim replied.

“Kim, I get it, okay. I do. But we have no dna evidence, nothing useful from the women. A judge won’t sign off on a warrant. And who’s to say these aren’t just other men?” Hailey jumped in. Even though she wasn’t there when the first case went down, Hailey had heard about it when she arrived. She heard Kim’s concern about the release of the two men about a year ago. She felt for Kim, she really did; but she also understood Jay and knew it wouldn’t be enough for a warrant.

Kim let out a sigh, shaking her head. She was about to respond when Adam jumped in, trying to diffuse the situation.

“Let’s just try to find some evidence. Let’s pull pod footage and see who dropped off those two women.”

It was obvious Kim herself wasn’t handling the news well, either, and the team could tell. She couldn’t shake the feeling of Nicole missing. She couldn’t shake the image of Nicole helpless on a bench at the station. So helpless, no one even looking her way. And she can’t can’t shake the fact that Nicole was doing so good, actually taking a step forward before those two bastards were released. Now, all Kim could do was watch Nicole retreat to her previous ways. She tried being there for Nicole, but Nicole was shutting her out again.

If Kim couldn’t be there for Nicole physically, she was going to do everything in her power to make Nicole feel safe again. She was the first one at work and the last to leave. She just threw herself on the case, which meant getting little sleep or lunch breaks. Even without knowing for sure it was the same two men, Kim had a gut feeling that it was, and it made her sick to her stomach that they got off so easily. Kim asked to run point on the field, but because this case was so close to her, Voight said no without hesitation.

“Kim, I get it. You’re close to this. But I can’t have you going off the books like you did last time.”

“Sarge, please. I won’t. I—“ Kim tried but was shot down by Voight again, this time more assertive.

“No. I’ve made my decision. No further questions. Kim you will run the calls in the office and you are not to go on the field. Got it? Cause if not you can just go home.” Voight stared down Kim. He wanted to make a point to not only her but also the whole team that he is in charge.

The bullpen was silent, and there was so much tension in the room no one dared to even breathe. Kim could feel all eyes on her, waiting for her to make a move.

“Yes sir,” was all Kim could get out before clearing her throat and shifting her eyes to her desk, almost in embarrassment. Adam swallowed hard, he felt so bad for Kim.

“Good. So what do we got?” Voight slid his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders, getting back to business.

“We tried searching for pod footage of the train station, but couldn’t find anyone dropping the women off. Instead, we pulled video footage from the club.” Rojas began typing in her computer while the other gathered around her. Kim still sat at her desk. She felt like she couldn’t move. She was still stunned at what Voight did. And right in front of everyone too. Adam went to see the footage but kept a close eye on Kim.

“Here, you see the two victims, getting into a car. But you only see a portion of the faces of the two men.” Kevin explained.

“So not enough for facial rec.” Jay stated.

“No, but if you pause the video right here.” Kevin stopped the clip and zoomed in on one of the men’s arm, “You can see a scar on the shoulder. I ran all credit card transactions and the same two men that got Kim’s sister were there that night.”

“How does the scar link the same two men to both crimes?” Hailey asked out loud.

“Kim stabbed one of the guys in the shoulder as self defense.” Adam answered quickly, being sure not to share too much information in case Kim was sensitive to it. Everyone looked to Kim, seeing if she had a reaction. She instead was still staring at her desk. Jay began to put the pieces together.

“Do you think that’s enough probable evidence?”

“It can be.” Voight answered, starting to walk away from the desk. “Hailey, Jay, get together a paper lineup. Go see if the women can point out the suspects. Good job Rojas and Atwater. Write up a warrant for the judge.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Got it.”

Everyone stirred to action. Hailey printed out a sheet of random men, with the two suspects on there to see if the women can identify them. Jay put on his jacket and they headed downstairs to the hospital. The sudden noise and movement stirred Kim from her thoughts. She quietly rose from her desk and went to the locker room to splash water in her face. To her dismay, Adam saw Kim her up and he followed her. He wanted to make sure she was okay.

“Hey, Kim. You doing alright? Voight went down on you pretty hard.” Adam followed her into the locker room and closed the door, for privacy. She was drying off her face with a towel, and she turned to walk back out, not meeting his gaze.

“I’m good, Adam. I just want to catch these bastards.” Kim tried to move past him but he stepped in front of her, not letting her out the door.

“No, really. How are you doing? With everything?”

Kim sighed. She didn’t want to express what she was truly feeling, and she especially didn’t want to in front of Adam. Even though they had been through a lot together, this felt different. This not only affected her, but it also affected her sister and her niece. Her family. However, she knew that he wasn’t going to let her leave without doing so, so she opened up a little.

“I feel like I’m helpless. I can’t do anything up here sitting at a desk, that won’t help Nicole. That won’t help those two women. God, I just need to be out there. I need to close this case.” Kim ran her hands through her hair and then put her head in her hands, almost in self defeat.

adam places his hands on her arms, rubbing them up and down to try to sooth her. He gently consoled her, “Hey. Hey. It’s okay. You are helping by being up here. A lot. You have to be strong. For Nicole. And when we get these perps, when we do, you’ll be able to tell her you helped put those men away. We will get these perps. I will make sure of it. For you. I’m always here for you, Kim.”

Kim calmed down a little. She started to give in to her tiredness and fell into a hug when her mind ran back to the case, and she remembered that she had work to do.

“Yeah, thanks.” She pulled away and slid past him to head back to her desk to bury herself with paperwork.

Unfortunately, the two women weren’t able to identify the two men. They were too drugged to remember much of anything. However, the judge did sign off on a house warrant, saying there’s enough probably cause without the women identifying the suspects. The suspects being the same two men that assaulted Nicole and attempted rape on Kim and Erin. This information made Kim sick to her stomach. She knew that they should have been charged with more and sentenced to more time behind bars. Her gut feeling was proving to be true. She knew it had to be the guys. Fortunately, because of this, and with the previous evidence, Intelligence didn’t have to do any undercover operation. Kim was at least pleased with this, because she certainly couldn’t have gone under again, and she didn’t want anyone else going through what she and Erin did years past.

“We’re fifteen minutes out.”

“Copy. No one moves in until I say.”

“Copy that, Sarge.”

It was just past 11:00 pm, so the team was going to the nightclub that their phone pinged to about 15 minutes ago.

“Just rolled in. Both of their cars are here.”

“Twelve minutes out.”

Suddenly, a notification popped up on Kim’s computer screen. This changed everything. Kim clenched a fist, tensing up at the thought of the two men taking advantage of another pair of women. In the very same room that they tried to take advantage of her. In the very same room where Nicole was raped. She made a split second decision, and before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed her jacket and her car keys. She headed for the back exit in order to avoid running past Trudy.

She didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t know what she was going to do. She just knew that she had to see this case through.

...

Kim sighed. Adam. Never fails. She rubbed her eyes to try to get herself to forget about him, and she looked at her other missed massages.

*one text message from Ryan*

Babe. The cave. One hour. And don’t forget the beer.

Kim quickly look at the time.

11:43 am. Shit.

She only had twenty minutes until she would be late. And she could never be too late. Not with Ryan. She sprang out of bed and ran to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

[normalg-irl]

When People Ask Me What I’m Doing After Graduation This Is What I’ll Say | May 3, 2019

So, I don’t have a job lined up for after graduation. I’m also not volunteering with the JVC or Americorps like some of my friends who enjoy helping people. I don’t have an internship, and I’m not traveling anywhere. I actually have no idea what I want to do? Like as a career, but also … in life? So I’ve decided to construct an honest answer to provide to anyone who asks me what I’m doing after graduation. If you, too, do not have a “plan” for post-grad, you are welcome to join me in the glorious city of Hartford, Connecticut, where these 5 post-grad steps will be carried out.

Step 1: Watch Game of Thrones.

Never having seen Game of Thrones makes me feel almost as shitty as never having seen any of the Harry Potter movies (never mind never having read the books). This is the first time I’m admitting that. I usually just play along like,

“I would be in Gryffindor, no doubt. My favorite spell is Leviosa. JK Rowling is honestly a legend.”

I’m embarrassed to confess how uncultured I am. But, with GoT, it’s way too complicated. You can’t just skim the surface like,

“Winter is coming. Jon Snow is my favorite character. Yeah, I’m not bothered by the incest either.”

I’m going to take the first three weeks immediately after graduation to binge GoT and get caught up to speed for the sake of the culture. And also for my own mental health because I’ve been feeling excluded and anxious every time Khaleesi is brought up around me. She sounds like a legend, almost more so than JK Rowling.

Step 2: Exercise lightly.

After the three weeks of binging Game of Thrones I’ll probably try and get my body looking right. No one tells you that going to Punta Cana for spring break turns you into a drinking-machine-party-fiend. The all-inclusive trip destroys all tendencies of eating vegetables and run-walking on the treadmill. For the latter portion of senior year all I’ve known, and all I’ve wanted to know, are Miami Vices (pina coladas and strawberry daiquiris mixed for the ignorant lames), permanent sunburns and foggy conversations with the same people over and over again.

So, with that, health and fitness has plummeted drastically on the list of priorities. Before entering the “real world” I’ll need to burn off all the fried chicken I swallowed whole while floating around in the Punta Cana resort pool. Step 2 is necessary in order to bury that part of the identity and embrace a classier manifestation of self.

Step 3: My high school friends and I become so bored that we go get frozen yogurt and have a really awkward encounter with someone random from our past.

Step 3 can be weaseled in at any point in the post-grad plan. Preferably I will complete step 3 multiple times, almost on a weekly basis. I envision a lot of days playing out like this:

11:00AM: Wake up.

11:04AM: Enter an “Instagram k hole�� (This is a term I just learned. It’s when you get so deep into Instagram it feels kind of like you did too much Ketamine, and you’re seriously f*cked up).

12:10PM: Mom is getting home, so I quickly stage a job application workshop in the kitchen.

12:30PM: Mom really wants me to try harder at applying for jobs, I tell her I will.

12:45PM - 4:20PM: *Insert step 1 or step 2 here, depending on what level you’ve reached of the plan.* So this block of time can be filled with either culture binging, or getting the body right.

4:20PM: By this time culture = binged, or body = right. Both great outcomes. Send a text in the group chat, everyone’s down to hang, obv. No one has a job.

7:30PM: Not sure how those three hours were spent. Potentially was sucked into another k hole, but this time mind was completely erased.

8:25PM: Group unites at the friend’s house who has the most chill parents.

8:30PM - 9:50PM: Vaping, light gossip, and brief but intense Instagram k holes are accompanied by a random TV show playing in the background like Catfish or anything on TLC.

10:00PM: One friend suggests getting frozen yogurt. It’s the best idea she’s had in years.

10:15PM: Arrive at Sweet Frog dizzy off the vape. The smell inside is extremely nauseating. Someone might pass out in Sweet Frog.

10:16PM: Everyone fills up their cups with a mixture of flavors. One friend just gets a ton of those little balls with juice inside of them. She’s a psychopath.

10:19PM: I enter a frozen yogurt k hole. Halfway through the fro-yo I realize I do not like fro-yo. But then all of a sudden my cup is empty.

10:23PM: The awkward encounter the entire group has been anticipating finally happens. The middle school basketball coach enters Sweet Frog with his new girlfriend. He has no idea how old we are. He can’t even make a guess. He is intoxicated in Sweet Frog. He kisses us on the cheeks. His girlfriend is really pretty.

10:41PM: I leave Sweet Frog feeling awkward and sick. But it was something I had to do. And it’s something you have to do. It’s only right.

Step 4:  Shock my parents’ friends when I say, “I have no idea what I want to do” in the Big Y parking lot.

After the Sweet Frog interactions, awkward encounters will be nothing but a thang. I expect them to spice up the depressing post-grad days, and will probably become a favored activity.

So when my Mom asks me to go to Big Y to get a watermelon (she likes to give me random tasks), I’ll be kind of excited to go.

When I see Mrs. Miller in the parking lot, I won’t pretend not to see her. She asks me what I’m up to, what my “plan” is, and when I tell her about binging GoT and going to Sweet Frog and working out every few days, her face grows concerned and I am hoping she talks about my excellent plan with the other moms. I just want to be talked about, honestly.

I help Mrs. Miller put her groceries in her minivan so she thinks I’m still a good person even if I have no ambition.

“Good luck, sweetie.”

She nods empathetically from her minivan window as I stand alone in my pajamas in the Big Y parking lot carrying a watermelon.

Step 5: Read a life-changing book at the town pool.

I haven’t read a book in years. Reflecting on my life, I may never have actually finished a full novel. What if I’m in a job interview and the interviewer asks me what my favorite book is? I need to have something truthful and profound to say. The Fault in Our Stars isn’t going to cut it. I could maybe swing saying that the Game of Thrones series is my favorite, because I’m pretty sure they were books before a TV show? But that feels like it’d be super transparent at this point.

I can’t go into an intellectual discussion with some alternative, experimental book all confident like, “Have you read The Girl with the Chastity Belt’s Lullaby? It’s my favorite.”

No, you need something absolutely classic like To Kill a Mockingbird or Don Quixote or Fifty Shades of Grey. I’ll probably pick up War and Peace and call it a day. Been meaning to read that one. And then off to the pool I go.

I see myself spending a super relaxing time by the pool with my book. There are no annoying kids splashing around the day I decide to go and conquer my book. It’ll be closed off for academics on their sabbaticals just like me who want to peacefully read and feed their brains.

As I flip around War and Peace, I see a ton of pages, and a ton of words I don’t know. I suck at reading. I don’t know how to read. I can read the words, but the whole time my mind is thinking about potential boyfriends and potential parties and potential conversations. All which might never happen.

War and Peace spirals me into an anxiety k hole, which I think is actually just an anxiety attack, and I storm out of the pool without even buying french fries from the snack bar.

That’s as far as I’m going to make it into step 5.  

And there we have it my friends. Graduating without a job isn’t that scary if you embrace my perfect five-step post-graduation plan. Because, believe me, once you do it all - once you’ve watched eight seasons of Game of Thrones, hit Sweet Frog a couple hundred times, toned a few muscles, run into lots of moms, and “read” War and Peace … you will be ready to hightail it back to NYC - and maybe even land a job.

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

Published by The Rival at Fordham University on May 3, 2019

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound 4 - 1

Honor Bound 4 - 1 (On the Run) @badthingshappenbingo​​

Requested by anon.

Let me know if you want on or off the taglist!

~

This is a series. We resume from where Honor Bound 3 ended here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, and Honor Bound 3. 

AO3

Cw: dissoci@tion, briefest mention of possible suicidal ideations, blood, ketamine mention, thoughts of death, narcotics mention, past noncon mention

~

Isaac felt like he might keel over and die right in the middle of the road. His hands were tightened into fists on the wheel as he drove slowly into Crayton, just one car on his tail this time. He glanced at it in the rearview every few seconds. His throat worked around a nervous swallow as he returned his eyes to the road.

Vera sat rigid beside him. Isaac didn’t think she’d taken a breath in at least thirty seconds. Every now and then she glanced back at Tori. Tori sat slumped against the door of the car, eyes blank and unfocused, staring out into the dark. It was almost midnight. All of them had barely slept since yesterday.

They’d all caught snatches of sleep every now and then, nodding off onto the shoulders of the people next to them, jerking awake moments later with a jolt of terror. We still aren’t safe yet. We still have to get to Gray.

Ellis sat next to Tori. One hand sat gently on Tori’s hand on the seat, and the other reached back towards Finn. Finn clutched at Ellis with one hand and with the other touched Sam. On their hair, on their back, on their leg. Constantly moving. Constantly desperate to help. Constantly able to do nothing.

Isaac was almost grateful he couldn’t see Sam in the dark. He knew exactly what they would look like; they hadn’t changed in the entire drive north, starting yesterday afternoon, stretching through the night, through the entire next day, and now halfway through this night. Everyone had driven except Sam and Tori. Everyone was barely able to stay conscious. Isaac wished he could sleep and never wake up.

Even though he couldn’t see Sam, he could hear them. Hear their whimpers, their ragged breaths, their cries every time he drove over a bump. He knew the seat must be soaked in their sweat and stained with blood. Finn had stopped the bleeding in Sam’s arm at Lucy and Topher’s house, and it hadn’t started bleeding again. Their whip marks, on the other hand, had broken open and bled into the fabric of the seat as they writhed against the pain in their arm. The pain had started just a few minutes after they left the house.

“Ketamine doesn’t last very long,” Finn had offered as an explanation. As if that was all Isaac needed. As if could rest easy in that knowledge, with Sam nearly delirious with pain, the pills Finn was feeding them seeming to do almost nothing. “They’d be screaming if they didn’t have them,” Finn said. “Believe me, they’re helping.” Isaac’s chest ached with every little sound Sam made. His hands tightened further on the steering wheel.

He started slightly as Vera brushed the back of his hand with her fingers. “We’ll be okay,” she murmured. “We’ll get through. No matter what, we’ll get through.”

Isaac swallowed hard. “What if they—”

“They won’t.” Vera’s mouth hardened into a line.

“But what—”

“If they do…” Vera drew in a deep breath and pushed it out slowly. “…we’ll handle it. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

If we have to shoot our way out of this, we’ll start a war with the north. We’ll never be safe, north or south. We’ll always have to run. We’ll always be days or moments away from being killed. How will I keep my family safe, then? How will I protect them all when the entire world wants us tortured or dead? Isaac’s eyes filled with tears. How many times will I have to try to die for them before I actually keep them safe from something?

He already knew the answer. As many as it takes.

Vera pushed his shoulder and he started again. He shot a glance at her. Her skin was almost black in the darkness, but he could see her eyes burning into him in the light coming from the headlights. “Stop it,” she said gently. “I can see you’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Isaac said, and consciously relaxed his hands. “I’m… um…” He shrugged. “…worried.”

Vera kept looking at him even after he looked back at the road. “Okay,” she said softly. She turned back to face the front. “Okay.”

By now, they’d passed most of the houses and were entering Crayton proper. The streets were wider, albeit still torn up, haphazardly paved. Done with the best the town could do. The gatekeepers of the north, defending all the people beyond it from the meager attempts the syndicates waged to tear them apart. No one cared about the north.

They would, if they knew where we were.

Isaac pulled into the square and slowed the car to a stop. He carefully opened his door, his hands raised. A floodlight attached to the car following them blazed on and blinded Isaac. He blinked and turned his head away from the light.

He couldn’t see past the light, but he could hear two car doors slamming, and the sound of footsteps slowly approaching. His hands shook. He tried to hold them steady. He heard a short intake of breath as two figures stepped into the floodlight.

“Are… are you… Isaac Moore?”

Isaac bit his lip. Oh, god. Please let that not be a bad thing. “Y-yeah,” he rasped.

“And you… did you really…?”

“Please,” he breathed. He motioned to the car with his head. “Please. We’ve got… we’ve got a few who are hurt. We just escaped from C-Colleen Stormbeck, and… please. We need to find Gray Uriah. They’re our family and we just need to… just need to find them.”

“Who else is with you?” the other voice asked nervously.

“My family,” Isaac said weakly, turning and gesturing to the car. The others were all slowly climbing out. All but Gavin.

Gavin’s not with us. Have to sell that. Have to make them believe it, too. He couldn’t let them know that Gavin crouched on the floor in the back seat, huddled under a blanket, probably praying just as hard as Isaac was that they wouldn’t search the car too closely.

Tori hobbled away from the car and Vera rushed to her side. Ellis got out of the car and immediately went to help Finn pull Sam out. Sam’s head lolled on their neck, sweat shining on their skin. Isaac’s stomach dropped. We need to get them help. More blood, maybe. And rest.

Isaac let his hands fall to his sides, slowly, slowly. One figure appeared in the beam of the floodlight, a gun held tight in his hands but low to the ground. Peering at the family. Nervous, but not suspicious.

Not yet.

Not helpful.

The other stepped into the light and stopped by Isaac’s side. “Did you really kill Colleen Stormbeck?” she murmured.

“Yes,” Isaac said weakly. “But we have to get to Gray Uriah… please… please…”

Isaac turned and the man was peering through the windows of their car, shining a flashlight in each one and moving on. He opened the trunk and nodded when he saw the meager supply of food the family had left over from their twenty-hour sprint to the north. He finally turned and went back to his partner’s side. They both holstered their guns.

“You were here before,” the man said. “A few weeks ago. You were going to go…”

“And we killed her,” Isaac said, desperation growing. Sam stumbled and fell against Finn’s side. They cried out weakly and staggered, nearly falling to their knees.

Isaac’s hands curled into fists. Tears threatened in his eyes. “Please,” he whispered.

The silhouettes of the man and woman looked at each other, then looked back at Isaac. The woman spoke. “…and what happened to Gavin Stormbeck?”

Isaac wet his lips and shivered in the cool night. “He’s, um, dead.”

The woman sucked in a breath through her lips. “Him, too? The entire Stormbeck family is dead?”

“He didn’t die a Stormbeck,” Isaac whimpered. “He died one of us.”

“He was never one of you,” the man snapped. “They don’t change.”

“He did,” Isaac said, a little firmer. Arguing with them is pointless. He isn’t dead. But Sam is hurt. Sam is bleeding. He shook his head. “Please,” he begged again. “Please. Gray Uriah. We just want to find them so we can recoup. Please.”

The two looked at each other again and held each other’s gaze for a long moment. The woman nodded. The man looked to Isaac and gestured with his hand to the car. “Go,” he said softly. “I know your names. I’ll get you checked in with the city hall.”

Isaac’s breath rushed out of him. “Thank you.”

The man shrugged. “If you killed Colleen Stormbeck…” He spread his hands. “…it’s the least we can do.”

Isaac wet his lips. “And… and Gray Uriah?”

The man gestured past the car, pointing north. “Keep going. They moved to a farmhouse with the young one… what was her name?”

“Edrissa Clarke,” Isaac and Vera said at the same time.

“Right,” the woman murmured. “Head north out of Crayton. They’re a few hours out still. This road will take you to Burmingham, take a right on first street there and follow that out for about twelve miles. There will be a fork. Take the right one. On the left will be a lake, and the farmhouse is just past the lake on the left.”

Isaac squeezed his eyes shut, visualizing the directions. “Take this out of Crayton, go to Burmingham, right on first, twelve miles, fork, right, pass the lake, farmhouse on the left.”

“Right.” The woman shrugged awkwardly. “So… I guess…”

Isaac was already turning to go. “Thank you,” he said in a rush. He went immediately to Sam’s side and half-carried them to the back seat. They flinched and wailed pitifully as his arm pressed against the whip marks on their back. “I’m sorry,” Isaac murmured as his eyes filled with tears.

“I-Isaac,” they whimpered. Their left hand closed on his shirt. “Isaac, it… it hurts…”

Isaac looked desperately at Finn as he helped Sam into the car. “Finn…?”

Finn shuddered and shook their head. “Can’t give more Vicodin. It has Tylenol in it, Isaac. If I overdose them, I fuck their liver. Tylenol overdoses are very hard to manage, even in the hospital. I c-can’t… help them…” Finn dissolved into a sob.

Isaac grabbed Finn and dragged them into a crushing hug. “Not your fault,” he whispered. “Not your fault. Let’s just get them to Gray. We’ll see if Gray can get them something else. Do you think they’ll need more blood?”

Finn ran a hand through their hair. “Fluids, at least,” they said, biting their lip. “Maybe blood. I don’t know. I haven’t checked a pressure in a while.”

“Let me know,” Isaac said as he stepped away. He rushed to the driver’s seat and jumped when he saw Vera already sitting there.

“I’ll drive,” she said as she stuck her thumb at the passenger seat. “It’s only a few more hours. I’ll drive.”

“Are you sure?” Isaac said weakly, already moving.

“Sure,” Vera said as Isaac appeared on the other side of the car. “No problem. Let’s just go.”

Isaac nodded slowly and pulled the door closed. Vera glanced in the rearview to make sure everyone was in, and slowly got the car rolling. Isaac thought he could see Vera’s jaw clench and he was sure she was looking at Tori.

He reached out and squeezed Vera’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “We’ll get her back.”

Vera sniffed. A tear rolled down her cheek. Then another. Finally, she said, “You don’t know that. She’s never been gone this long before. She’s never…” Vera swallowed hard, and Isaac could hear the sob she was fighting down. “She’s… god, Isaac, look at her. She’s…”

“She’s not broken,” he said gently. “Not completely. You found your way back from this. You found a way.”

Vera cast a glance back at Tori, then back to the road. “We’re all broken,” she said bitterly.

Isaac opened his mouth to protest. He closed it slowly.

She’s right, Isaac thought heavily. We are all broken. Tori’s hurt beyond repair, Ellis nearly lost their mind, Finn is eaten alive with guilt, Vera’s voice was taken away again, Gavin thinks he deserves to die for hurting us when he’s the only one who could have gotten us out, and Sam…

Isaac’s mind cried out when he thought of Sam. Over and over, unbidden, images flashed across his mind of Sam’s bruises, the lines on their back left from the whip, the marks around their neck from where they’d been dragged and pinned and strangled with the collar. Their whimpering sobs cut through him like a knife. I told Sam I hate them. I let them hurt Sam. I begged them to hurt them. They’re broken, shattered beyond repair, and it’s because of me. Scalding rage moved through his chest. This is all because of me.

He couldn’t think at all about the ways he’d been broken. He couldn’t think of his own scars, his own wounds, his own pain. He pushed it down. It was irrelevant. Unimportant. His pain meant nothing, because he was supposed to suffer for his family. That’s what he was for.

No. He pulled himself back from the edge of that cliff. I hated myself before I ever loved them. His pain meant something, because what if he wasn’t meant to hurt? What if he was meant for something else, instead?

He couldn’t think of how broken he was, because he was most broken in his mind. He was so broken, he’d gotten feelings for his one-time captor. For the man who beat him, scarred him, very nearly killed him. Very nearly killed Sam. He now felt something for the man who had changed. Who had renounced his name and his birthright, who gave up on everything he’d ever known to come be a captive and an informant on his own family. Who had found a way to be good, despite everything he’d done, everything he’d been through. He felt something now for the man that sacrificed his soul to keep his family safe. He felt something for the man that had hurt him. Violated him, on his mother’s orders. He felt something for the man he’d asked to make him feel good, to make him feel like he was being made love to, instead of being chained down and raped.

I could never love Gavin Stormbeck, Isaac thought. But I could be in love with Gavin Uriah. I could be with him, if only he wanted me, too.

Isaac swallowed hard. When they finally left Crayton, Isaac turned.

“You can come out now,” he said softly. Gavin emerged slowly from behind the seat, eyes wide and terrified. They found Isaac’s and didn’t let go until Isaac turned around to face the front.

Continued here

@untilthepainstarts​​, @womping-grounds​​, @free-2bmee​​, @quirkykayleetam​​, @walkingchemicalfire​​, @inpainandsuffering​​, @redwingedwhump​​, @burtlederp​​, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog​​, @insomniacscoprio​​, @cursedscribbles​​, @whumpywhumper​​, @stxck-fxck​​, @omega-em-z-02​​, @whumps-the-word​​, @justwhumpitwhumpitgood​​, @justplainwhump​​, @moose-teeth​​, @slaintetowhump​​, @finder-of-rings​​, @inky-whump​​, @thatsthewhump​​, @orchidscript​​, @insanitywishes​​, @this-mightaswell-happen​​, @newandfiguringitout​​, @whumpkitty​​, @pretty-face-breaker​​

[friiday-thirteenth]

guys im bored hear abt how i broke my arm. TW for broken bones, dissassociation, vomiting, drugs and needles. Also this is like. Therapy. Idk.

weird thing about it was that i was feeling intense happiness, because I’d just confirmed my classes for the next year and i was jsut. Really happy.

So i did this little twirly thing??? idk. Anyway, my ankle went out under my, i put my hand back and crack.

I know there was a definite seperation between the before and after of this. Like, the adrenaline made it feel like I was aware of everything.

After I fell, and after the crack, I stood up fast. I didn’t realise my wrist was fucked until I saw it - and it wasn’t a compound fracture, the skin was still unbroken. But it looked fucking nasty. It was supposed to be held straight, but the wrist was shifted.... up. And it was floppy, but I could control it if I wanted to be in immense amounts of pain.

I started walking over to my P.E. teacher. I said his name once, really loudly - and then he didn’t hear me, so I kept walking. I was cradling my wrist against my body at this point, and I just needed to move. It helped distract from my pain at that point.

When I reached him and he saw my wrist he was like fuck. He didn’t say it, but I could see it, and he said, “ Okay, we need to get you to the sickbay and call your parents.”

Okay, this happened before that when I was walking over. One of the people who was around me had walked beside me and was asking questions, and I straight up said, “Ruby, if you don’t walk away right now, I will either scream or burst into tears and scream, please go away.” I couldn’t handle anyone being near me.

Then when we were walking off the turf (where we were doing P.E. that day, as opposed to the gym.) one of the guys saw my arm and was like holy shit and I’m 99% sure I just looked at him with a really worried look. My face was going white I’m pretty sure, which is weird because I’m naturally flushed quite a lot of the time.

We had to walk up stairs. That fucking sucked. The pain was fine whenever it wasn’t jolting me, and we were walking fast, so you can imagine how I was trying to be very careful.

I’m 99% sure I was terrified that I was going to tip over again, and that would’ve hurt. I was just focusing on staying on my feet.

We got to the office/sickbay and they sat me down. I made myself get my retainer out of my mouth because it was.... foreign. I was going to - I’d say have a panic attack, but I’m not sure that’s the correct name for it - do something bad if I kept it in, because there was something already wrong with me and I just couldn’t handle it.

Also I asked if I could swear. Like, “Um, would it be okay if I, uh, swore?” and the person in there with me looked at me like wtf child and said i could.

Later, one of the teachers who’d walked by told me that they had no idea I had that filthy a mouth on me. Swearing helped a lot.

They made me put my wrist in this makeshift sling thing, which made me want to fucking cry. They sent someone to get my bag, and I told them to leave as soon as they’d gotten it, because I couldn’t handle any of my peers seeing my like that. probably because I felt extremely vulnerable.

I never swore at anyone. I can remember not wanting to, because I didn’t feel that they deserved it? Like, I didn’t want to take my pain out on them. Very strange.

They didn’t give me any panadol or nuramol or nurofen (pretty sure that isn’t how you spell it but eh). I can remember that, because they said that it might react badly to whatever drugs they gave me in the hospital.

When my mum got there, we went over to the car and I put my seatbelt on myself bc im independant like that, before I rolled my head back and scream-said to my mother to hurry up please I feel like I’m dying. Because she was talking to my teacher.

At that point I was being a melodramatic shit, because my pain level I think? was a four, unless I moved my arm, then it jolted into a six.

Anyway. I sung/murmured hamilton songs really fast as we drove the like, five minutes to the hospital because that helped distract me from the pain.

When we got to the hospital and the emergency room, we ended up waiting like 20 minutes which were all hell. My dad came at one point and I told mum he needed to leave because I couldn’t handle having him there. Not for any bad reasons, just that I fucking hated dealing with people and if I had to deal with him I’d cry.

I didn’t cry at any point during this, which was weird. I didn’t like that.

Someone gave me two panadol or something, which didn’t help in the least. They got mum to fill out an acc form - I can remember her asking me things. The pain was bad, like a constant throbbing that was there. I’m pretty sure I started not being there at some point during the time I was waiting. It was easier than dealing with it all, because there were people staring at me and my arm and I wanted to scream at them because none of them were as bad as me and why the fuck are you staring at me.

Anyway. When the nurse came - she was really nice - she got me into a room and to sit on a bed, and then we waited for what was maybe half an hour? There was an old guy dying or nearly dying in the room beside mine and I felt like.... weird because of it. It didn’t feel right, that he was dying.

When they got me a doctor - after me scaring the shit out of a nurse who I thought was a doctor  (i still cringe at the memory) - he ws really nice. He was wearing a haiwaiian shirt and was supposed to be going home, and I was quite lucky that they’d caught him as he was leaving.

They got me on some nitrous oxide to calm me down, or to take the pain away.

Now here’s where thigns get a little less linear, I think.

I can’t remember when they put the I.V. in, whether it was before or after the x-ray. The x-ray was hell, because they made me put my munted arm flat on the cold surface of whatever the fuck they were using for the xray. I had dropped the nitrous oxide tube thingy out of my mouth at that point.

The nitrous oxide was nice. It made me feel tired, and when the dude stuck the needle in my arm and then put the I.V. in, I didn’t care about it. I hadn’t been worried before, perse, just uncomfortable because of the whole broken wrist dealie.

Anyway. X-rays. They said I’d broken the tip off my radius. Then the I.V. Then they got an anathesiologist to come in and explain what was going to happen to me.

This whole time they’d explain exactly what they were going to do, because I asked. A lot. I needed to know what was happening so that then I would know what was going on and that was jus tme reiterating what I’d just said ahaha

Anyway. He explained the options, and in the end they decided to give me ketamine.

For those who don’t know, ketamine is a horse tranquilizer. Its also fucking nasty, coming back up from it.

Mum signed a waiver stating that the hospital wasn’t responsible if I died or something.

This was because, as they explained, ketamine shuts off a part of the brain. If too much of it is used, then you die because it shuts off your breathing, your heart, etc. They had shit that would stop that, if anything bad happened. They put electrodes on me at one point. At least, I think that’s what they were called.

They also might’ve upped the dosage, because what could’ve happened was that they fucked up setting my arm the first time, and they had to cut it out and redo it. If they’d redone it, I’d’ve had to go into theatre.

The whole time this was happening I was terrified I was going to out myself to my mum. I have an odd track record of saying weird shit randomly while I’m in pain.

Ketamine also takes you into a dreamland, which is why drug addicts can get addicted. You basically lucid dream, but way more intensely than normal, if you’ve ever ahd a lucid dream. Or it can take you into an absolutely hellish nightmare scape, if you aren’t thinking good things when you go under.

I had neither. I didn’t even know I’d gone under. What happpened was that they put the ketamine in the I.V., and a minute late I was out.

It felt like blinking. When I opened my eyes, it was like in movies where they blink and its a new scene each time.

Blink. They were moving me to the x-ray. My head ached. My eyes wouldn’t focus. Someone was talking about their car.

Blink. They were moving my arm.

Blink. They were moving me back to the room I’d been in.

Every time I moved my head, it just. It was on another side. I couldn’t focus my eyes for three quarters of an hour. I felt tired, and sleepy, and like shit.

Thye got me to sit up at one point. I nearly vomited. They gave me a pill. It was chalky and the taste was nasty.

When they got me to move from the bed to a chair, I vomited.

I hadn’t eaten for longer than six hours, at that point. It was bile coming up. It burnt my throat. I couldn’t stop.

When I forced myself to breathe again and stop vomiting, they gave me water and left me for a minute. They had people they needed to get in the room, I think, so I was trying to move. They got me into a chair in a bit that was in between the x-ray room and where I’d been. Mum talked with someone else who was there with her daughter.

The cast was big and white, because of the type of break. It was heavy and they put me in a sling when I left. I was able to walk straight. They’d been concerned I wouldn’t be. I’m pretty sure I thanked everyone who’d helped, if I saw them.

Mum took me to get subway. Then we went home.

My sibling had broken their arm around about a year and two weeks before I’d broken mine. Their’s had been the two bones in their lower arm. They’d had to go into theatre for it and have trauma around it. My parents won’t get them to go to therapy and they won’t go willingly

When I got home, they had a panic attack or some shit and started screaming at me when I was short at them. Fuck them for that.

I went into a room and started messaging my friends. i videocalled them and showed them my arm. i was acting all stupid and weird about it by being really silly and stuff. I didn’t feel like any of it was happening, even though I knew it was. At some point I found out I had the electrode thingies still on me. I pulled them off.

People were so concerned about me, it was weird. I ended up responding to them individually as opposed to not. Someone thought that it was a joke and that everyone was lying about it. I gave them a play-by-play and they believed it then.

Even weeks after it happened, it still felt vaguely not real. The first time I cried about it was seven days after, when I tried and failed to make homemade macaroni and cheese.

I learnt that the chunk of bone beside the wrist - the one down at the top of the ulna - had completely seperated from the rest of the bone.

All the wrist bones and muscles had pulled back, which was my wrist had been so weird.

Everyone who helped me was really nice. I’m glad that they were nice, because I got told later about doctors who were bitches and were in the emergency department. Also got told that ketamine was really fucking weird for them to be giving me.

I got prescribed Tramadol. Mum and dad wouldn’t let me take any of it. my sibling had been prescribed it when they’d broken their arm. they’d taken it. Apparently tramadol can put you in a depressive state.

i don’t know what would’ve happened to me if I’d taken it at that point. even before the arm my head was in a bad place. I’m better now though.

I pushed through the pain on panadol.

I broke my arm on a friday. saturday, sunday, I spent at home. Monday I went to school. Felt like passing out at some point.

Yeah, that’s basically what happened when I broke my arm

[spikeymarshmallows]

Kliego, “Come on, sweetheart. We can’t stay here any longer.”

Thank you for the prompt, anon!

Sorry it took me a while to post this. I wanted to post the “main fic”, as it were before I did. [read this on ao3 if that is your preferred medium!]

Prompt post here. [*screams at how the formatting on this KEEPS FUCKING UP*]

Reality wasn't quite… real. Or was it? He didn't know. He felt like he was a few inches to the left of his body, in it, but not quite in it at the same time.

He didn't know how much of that was grief, and how much of that was the ketamine.

He slumped to the floor and lay there for a moment. It might have been longer, but who was to say?

Eventually, he managed to push himself up, surprising himself when he even got to his feet. Being upright lasted approximately three seconds before he stumbled, knocking a multitude of objects off the bookshelf that his hand shot out to brace himself with. He vaguely recognised that his knees would be sore when he could next feel things, but for now, the sensation was dulled.

Good.

That was the point.

He crawled up onto his bed, head spinning wildly. He ceiling above him looked circular. He giggled and tried to breathe through his nose to stave off the light-headedness.

It worked as long as he kept his eyes closed.

He was vaguely aware of his father coming in, but he didn't know how much time had passed. When his father scolded him, the words came through fuzzy, and delayed, and Klaus couldn't quite make sense of them. He nearly vomited when he was dragged out of bed, and he stumbled into things as he was pulled through the halls.

There was something about proper motivation to make his powers work now. Klaus knew it should infuriate him, but he mostly felt numb.

At least the mausoleum was cold against his feverish skin.

*

He wasn't sure how long he was in the crypt. Time had always been a bit of an abstract concept to Klaus, and this was no exception. He just knew it was dark when he'd been thrown in, and it was dark when he was pulled out.

Oh, and he was so very, very in the depths of withdrawal.

When it became apparent he couldn't stand, Father disappeared, and Klaus didn't even have it in him to plead not to leave him there.

The next time Father reappeared, it was with Luther. Klaus was almost as tall as Luther, but Luther had his oh-so-special powers. Luther scooped him up, weirdly gentle with him in a way he'd never been before.

There was jostling, and too much movement, but he was eventually settled down on his bed. After their father stormed out, Luther brushed the matted hair off Klaus' forehead. He grabbed a blanket from the end of the bed and tucked it over Klaus.

In the darkness, Klaus could kind of make out a look that was eerily like concern. Klaus didn't know what to do with that, so he didn't acknowledge it.

"Take care," Luther said softly, glancing back towards the open door. "I've already lost one brother this week. I don't want to lose another." He nodded sharply to himself and then scurried from the room, as if showing any hint of kindness would be an excuse for punishment.

Actually, knowing their father, that was exactly what would happen.

*

Klaus couldn't sleep. He was so fucking nauseated but he couldn't get out of bed. Every time he tried to move, the world tilted.

He heard the door to his bedroom open and the next thing he registered was Diego kneeling beside his bed. His face was close to Klaus', but he had trouble making it out in the darkness.

"Jesus, Klaus," Diego whispered.

Klaus tried to say something, but his voice came out a rasp.

"Come on, sweetheart," Diego said gruffly, hand a vice grip around Klaus' upper arm as he helped Klaus to sit up, "we can't stay here any longer."

"Where are we going?" Klaus asked, torn between finding the touch agonising and comforting. He shuddered and slumped down to the floor.

"Doesn't matter. Just. Not here. We're not staying here."

Klaus whimpered and nodded. His head felt like it was going to explode, weird pressure pushing from the inside out.

He wobbled again and groped around for something to be sick in. Diego must have been able to read his mind because the next second, there was a wastepaper basket in front of him while he emptied the contents of his insides into it. He was dehydrated and hadn't eaten in… Well, he didn't know how long. It was agonising to vomit up nothing but bile; maybe that was just the withdrawal.

Diego was stroking the back of his head and neck, hand blistering hot.

"I…" Diego stood. He disappeared but Klaus wasn't quite sure whether it was only for a moment or a lifetime. When he returned, he knelt in front of Klaus. Klaus blinked up at him, moaning when the world tilted.

He felt Diego's hands on his, wrapping around them and holding them around a cool mug. Diego let go of one hand but it shot back over Klaus' when it became apparent he couldn't really hold it. He helped Klaus take little sips of water, just a few mouthfuls before he set it down again. Klaus couldn't really make out Diego's face in the darkness, but he felt Diego's hands brush the hair off his forehead. Klaus lay his head back against the edge of the bed.

"Just stay there…" Diego told him, as if Klaus was in any position to move right now. Diego was moving around the room quickly so Klaus had to shut his eyes against the nausea that accompanied following him. He was suddenly so very, very cold, and began to shiver, even though he was sweating like a sinner in church.

There was faint clattering as Diego grabbed things and Klaus belatedly realised Diego was packing a bag on the bed above him.

"What… are you doing?" Klaus asked blinking slowly up at him.

"Packing," Diego said shortly.

"Oh. Where are we going?"

"We're getting out of here."

"Oh. Okay then." Klaus closed his eyes and rested his head back on the bed again. Diego knelt beside him again and helped him take a few more sips of water. Klaus drank it gratefully. He wanted more but figured that Diego didn't want him to vomit it back up.

"Just. Just stay here, okay?"

"Oh, I was planning on running a marathon, but now that you've told me that," Klaus said as drily as he could.

"Glad to hear you're feeling better," Diego said and even though Klaus couldn't see it, he knew Diego was rolling his eyes.

He disappeared from Klaus' room, but Klaus couldn't hear him. Of all of them, Diego was best at moving silently. Klaus, when he could be bothered, was a close second.

He found enough strength to lift the water to his mouth again, and was glad it didn't revisit him.

Diego returned at some point. He hoisted Klaus onto his feet. Klaus lurched and made to be sick into the bin again. He vomited up the water he'd managed, and shuddered again.

"Sorry," Diego said softly. "Do you… Do you think you can walk?"

"I dunno," Klaus said wetly. "Can't we… do it another night? Dad's still gonna be a prick in the morning."

"Can't wait until morning."

"Why not?"

"Because I stole a couple'a grand from Dad's office, plus some shit to pawn, and a few of his credit cards."

"Well, Diego, I'm impressed," Klaus managed.

"Didn't realise you'd be quite in this state when you returned though."

"Rookie error, Number Two."

Klaus pushed himself up with both hands on the bed to balance him. He stood on both feet, swayed, and leant into Diego. Diego wrapped an arm around his waist to help steady him.

"Just… Try not to be sick, and keep quiet, okay?" Diego said. Klaus nodded. Diego shifted abruptly, which almost set Klaus off again, but he realised he was just shouldering the bag on Klaus' bed. Klaus realised he had one of his own already. He would have felt guilty were he not feeling like death warmed up. Well, warmed up was a strong word for it given he felt like his veins were filled with chips of ice.

Diego navigated them through the hallways. They had to stop and let Klaus breathe a few times, let him stave off the nausea. Klaus braced himself against the walls, clutched the bannister down the stairs like a lifeline.

By some miracle they didn't encounter anyone on the way out. It made sense; Diego was planning this, and it was 3am. Diego wouldn't have tried to sneak them out if there was considerable risk of them getting caught.

The outside world was cool, but almost warm against Klaus' icy skin. Diego kept them walking until he managed to hail a cab. Klaus tucked his face into Diego's neck in the back of the cab, letting his eyes close. His head was throbbing, and he couldn't stop shivering. Diego kept stroking his hair, and if Klaus didn't know any better, he'd say Diego pressed a few kisses to his forehead and the top of his head.

Diego let him sit outside in the gutter when they reached a shitty motel somewhere far away. Klaus vaguely recognised it, but he put his head between his knees to keep the flickering neon lights from tormenting his exploding head.

And then there were steady hands peeling his damp clothes from his body. There was a shower. Diego helped him sit under the blistering water, and when he no longer felt like he'd slipped through a frozen lake, he was brought to a musty old bed and tucked under blankets.

"There's water here, and a bin here if you need it," Diego said, brushing Klaus' wet hair off his face. Klaus could scarcely keep his eyes open. He nodded.

"I'm going out for a bit, but I'll be back soon."

Klaus had a thousand questions, but he was too tired to ask them. Instead, he nodded again, felt warm fingers on his forehead again, and then heard the quiet sound of a door shutting.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he could see Ben, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed.

Klaus squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging and even though it made him sick, even though he fought it, he convulsed with a sob. He curled around a thin pillow, and buried his head in it.

And he didn't cry.

[neonsentient]

Haikyuu! Rise Above

A ragtag group of students from a school for troubled teenagers forms an unconventional co-ed volleyball team in hopes of proving to themselves that they're more than what people make them to be. With the help of a few loopholes in the rulebook, they'll have the chance to win the gold for what might possibly be the last time in their lives.

Think of it as a spin-off, the Karasuno's first years are now second years, but I will focus on this paticular team.

Warnings: Mentions of drug abuse, underage drinking, self harm, eating disorders, depression, suicide, racial and homophobic slurs. Not all at the same time though.  

Chapter 1: Promising Young People

Amara leaned closer to the toilet as she gagged, throwing up her measly breakfast of tea and apple slices, the only things she could stomach that morning. In an unusual lucky strike, the bathroom she was currently in puking her guts out was empty.  It probably had something to do with the fact that she decided to arrive at the school building an hour earlier, otherwise she would’ve had an audience.

She rose from the floor, wobbling like a newborn fawn, and went to check herself in the bathroom mirror. Her russet skin had an unhealthy pallor to it, her waist-length crow black braids were loose and poorly made and the bags under her eyes could’ve been easily mistaken for bruises. That morning she didn’t even bother to look for her makeup bag in her suitcase.

“First impressions matter, you know?” Her parents would’ve told her. “It’s not every day you get to make them.”

“But I already made mine.” Amara thought bitterly.

She splashed cold water on her face and rinsed her mouth as best as she could.  Now she was regretting not bringing at least some concealer or even chapstick.

“As if that were to make things any better.” A voice hissed from the back of her head. “As if that would…..”

Amara shook her head, bringing herself back as she checked her wrist watch. She was supposed to meet her guide at the entrance. In a normal scenario, she would’ve already known by now where everything in the school was, her classes, the gym, the best spots for a smoke break……

But despite being her second year of high school, it was her first year at Ōkamiyama Alternative Academy. In fact, since most of her education consisted of homeschooling, it was her first time back at school since she was in elementary, period. And unlike many other students who had arrived at least a week earlier, Amara’s messy flight schedule made her arrive only a day before the school started.

One look at the main building and it was clear that the school had a thing for a certain color scheme, or lack thereof, rather, since Amara noticed that all the buildings were either black, white or gray. That and the uniforms, a dreadful combination of a prison concrete gray blazer and pants or skirt with a white shirt and black tie. Luckily, the school didn’t seem to be too strict on the dress code, since she saw several students with all sorts of accessories, shoes and even altered pieces of the uniform.

She decided to play it safe by wearing it plain with a pair of rather sad looking black loafers that had seen better days - an emergency purchase at Target after her suede Jimmy Choo boots fell victim to an unexpected downpour-, and a gray Casio. It's not like she was expecting the sailor tops and blue skirts she saw on TV, but the overall look did leave Amara incredibly disappointed.  

Her guide was a girl called Emine Narisawa, also a second year and in the same class as her. Other than that she didn’t knew anything else. It was still a bit early, so she sat at a bench near the entrance, and to no surprise, it didn’t took long for the stares and whispers to start.

“That’s her, right?”

“Oh, so it was for real?”

“Is it just me, or did she looked taller on TV?

Amara’s vision turned blurry, her eyes curdling with tears. She quickly dug into her bag, pulled out her IPod nano (one of the few devices that the school allowed) and headphones and pressed shuffle, not even paying attention to the song that was playing as she took several deep breaths.

She tried her best to distract herself with anything, yet not even a second later, Amara felt a light tapping on her shoulder. She jolted on her seat, took off her headphones and turned to face the person behind her.

“Ups! Sorry!” A cheery voice apologized. “You’re Amara Murakami, right?

The girl was tall, not as much as Amara, but still taller than the average second year girl, and model-thin, with long hair the dark red of rose petals tied in a high ponytail. A ridiculously big, silvery gray bow sat atop her head. Amara immediately noticed her uniform, or “uniform”; the blazer had been turned into a button vest, the gray skirt was embezzled with black and white rhinestones and she sported a pair of white Adidas sneakers. Amara had bought the same ones just two months ago. A thin, white gold anklet with pea-sized bubblegum-pink sapphires was clasped at her slim ankle.

“My name’s Emine Narisawa, but everyone calls me Emi! Wow, you’re taller than I imagined.” The girl chirped. Her voice had a slight hoarse edge to it, which combined with her super girly perfume, an overly sweet combination of flowers and strawberry, made Amara suspect that she was a smoker and that she probably had a cigarette before the tour. “Welcome to The Den!”

Amara could only raise her eyebrows.

“Get it? Cuss we’re wolves!” The girl pointed at the welcoming banner hanging in the entrance, where a menacing looking gray wolf was painted.

“Right.” Amara nodded, not knowing what else to say. "Umm, thanks?"

The redhead caught her hand in an overly enthusiastic handshake. She had a pretty face, although her cheeks looked a tad bit gaunt, and she wore silver eyeshadow with glitter all over her face and hair. Her tanned skin, a shade lighter than Amara’s, was completely covered with freckles, and her lips were painted a shimmering soft pink.

“Wow, your eyes look super cool!” She said, inspecting Amara’s face. “You’re from America, right? Is one of your parents Japanese?”

“So she hasn’t heard of me.” Amara thought with relief. She then noticed that Emine was waiting for an answer.

“Y-yeah I’m from Massachusetts.” She answered. “Umm, my dad’s Japanese and m-my mom’s Nipmuc.”

The redhead cocked her head in confusion.

“Native American.” Amara explained.

Emine’s licorice black eyes lit up.  

“Cool! So you guys are the ones that make, like, dreamcatchers and stuff?” She asked. There wasn’t a single hint of malice in her voice, just genuine curiosity, but still, it made Amara feel annoyed.  

“Ummm…”

“My Nine was from Turkey,” Emine said. “And they have these Nazar amulets to ward off the evil eye or something. Is it the same thing?”

“I don’t…”

“Anyways, you’ll love it here. It never gets boring!” Emine explained as she leaned uncomfortably close, linking her arm with Amara’s. “Follow me, I’ll take you to our classroom.”

The girls made their way inside the building and all the way through Emine "discreetly" pointed out rooms and people, giving Amara a crash course on the school, the students and teachers.

By the time they reached their classroom, Amara had learned that the captain of the baseball team had just began dating the president of the Student Council, crop tops were back in style, the back of the football field was the best place to smoke and that the guys from the Shōgi club sold the best ketamine during midterms.

"Don't they do drug tests all the time?" Amara asked. She herself had an appointment in the nurse’s office later that night for one.

Emine nodded.

"Yup, but it's a six panel."

It was Amara's turn to be confused once again. She had drug tests done before but she only...provided the sample, she never bothered to ask about the details.

"Weed, coke, speed, benzos, angel dust and opiates. All the mainstream stuff," Emine explained. "Ketamine doesn't show."

“Oh.” Amara said. “I thought there weren’t a lot of drug users in Japan.”

“Oh there are,” Emine said, occasionally waving to the people in the hallway. “And here are some of the ones that got caught.”  

“Good to know?”

Amara thought that drugs were a rare commodity in Japan, but then she remembered where she was….

“So…” The redhead began, pulling Amara out of her thoughts. “How are you liking the dorms so far?”

“They’re cool.” Amara replied in a monotone voice. “My roommate hasn’t showed up yet, though.”

“Oh yeah, I heard she’s busy with some family stuff.” Emine pointed out.

“So you know her?” Amara inquired. “What’s she like? I mean, personality wise.”

Emine scrunched up her face, trying to find the right words.

“Well, she’s a bit of a…..

“Bitch!” A voice yelled from the other side of the hallway.

A girl walked towards them with a rhythmic and intense stride that made Amara think she was going to do a handspring or cartwheel at any second. She was gorgeous, what people would call a “Bombshell”, with sun tanned skin as if she had spent an entire summer at the beach, and a long mane of sandy blonde waves styled in the same way as Emine; a high ponytail with a bow on top, though hers was black. Her dark teal eyes had a gleam that Amara could only describe as “keen”.

The girl faced directly at the redhead with a quasi indignant look. Amara noticed that her look was very similar to Emine's; the embezzled skirt and altered blazer, shimmery eyeshadow and glitter sprinkled all over her face and hair.

"I can take a couple missed calls but ignoring me the whole summer was just mean!" She said, giving the redhead an angry look.

Emine looked saddened.

"I'm sor…..”

Before the redhead could finish the blonde interrupted her with a big hug.

"I've been worried sick! Even a "Don't text me" would've been enough!" She cried, clinging to Emine's neck. "Never do that again, got it?"

Emine's expression eased as she returned the hug.

"Never again."

If there was something worse than being a third wheel Amara sure was being just that at the moment.

The girls broke their hug and a pair of teal eyes immediately fell on Amara. They weren't menacing, just, observing her. The blonde was significantly shorter than Amara and Emine, but her presence felt more….. imposing. Even with the uniform, Amara could see the outline of muscle on her legs and arms.

"Oh!" Emine exclaimed, as if she had just remembered that Amara was there, and gestured towards the blonde. "Amara, this is Erika Sawai, captain of the cheer squad.

“Now it makes sense,” Amara connected the dots as she looked at both Emine and the blonde. The perky attitude, the lithe build, and even the bows. “They’re cheerleaders.”

“And Erika, this is….."

"Amara Murakami," Erika said, capturing Amara's hand in a firm handshake. "Rumour mill went that you were gonna end up here. But for future reference, I wouldn't trust anything they say around here. It tends to be a little….unreliable."

"Umm, sure" Amara said. She wasn't sure how to react to that. "I-I'll keep that in mind."

“My, my,” Erika leaned a bit closer. Amara caught the scent of the blonde's peach blossom perfume.  “What pretty eyes you have.”

“Uh, thanks.” Amara muttered.

"Oh, I know!" Emine perked up with an “Eureka!” type of expression. “Since I can’t join you guys for lunch why don’t you go with Amara to the cafeteria, Erika?”

Amara felt incredibly awkward. Day one and she was already being ditched by the one person that was supposed to be with her.

“Sure.” Erika shrugged, a smirk appearing on her face. “I love fresh meat.”

Amara gulped. Why did spending a couple hours with a cheerleader, a really pretty one to boot, made her more nervous than stepping into a court filled with professional players?

Then the bell pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Come on, Amara!” Urged Emine. The redhead turned quickly and gave Erika one last hug before entering the classroom. “And see you later Erika!”

Erika waved them goodbye before making her way to her classroom.

Their first classes; English, Math, Japanese literature and Science seeped through Amara’s brain like water on a strainer. Luckily none of her teachers made her introduce herself to the class so far.

But on the other hand, she couldn’t help but notice the “subtle” whispers and looks from her classmates.

A few minutes after the bell rang they found Erika already outside. Emine apologized to Amara, promising to be back as soon as lunch was over and making quick plans with Erika to catch up later in the day before she made her way into an unknown destination. Amara was tempted to ask, but at the same time she told herself that she knew better than prying on someone else’s business.

She exited the classroom and was immediately greeted by Erika’s sly smile.

“Long time no see, Sugar.”

Amara gave her a tight smile as they walked towards their destination.

_________________________________________________________________________

The principal was a firm believer that a healthy diet was key to a healthy mind, therefore, the school’s vending machines only offered water, organic soy milk, sugar-free drinks, fruit and protein bars.

There were two cafeterias, but Amara was told upon arrival that she only had access to one of them. There, most of the menu items were either boiled, steamed or baked and it also had an all-you-can-eat salad bar and a drink station where one could get teas, coffees, smoothies or juices. Amara thought it was a sharp, yet nice, contrast with her old elementary school’s cafeteria choices of cardboardy pizza, dry meatloaf and congealed mac 'n' cheese.  

Amara silently wondered what was the deal with the other cafeteria as she took a spoonful of miso soup.

“Liking the food so far?” Erika asked, placing her tray opposite to Amara's. She had a bowl brimming with a colorful salad of greens, pecans, apples and fennels, a plate of spiced tofu and two cups; one filled with a pale orange drink and the other with a beige colored liquid. She handed the beige one to Amara. " Here, try this."

She had told Erika that her stomach was feeling a little odd (yet not the reason as to why), so Amara trusted that anything she had given her wouldn't kill her on the spot. She took a sip and despite the unappetizing color the flavour was delicious; sweet, creamy yet not too heavy, and with the aftertaste of almonds. It felt nice on her tender stomach.

"Wow," Amara said, pleasantly surprised. "What's this?"

Erika winked and smiled. For a second, it reminded Amaran of someone else's smile.

"My Mama calls it the Jitter Killer." She explained, her voice emitting a hint of nostalgia. "She's been making them for me ever since I started competing. But once I got here I had to start making them myself."

"It's really good!" Amara complimented, taking another sip. She then thanked her, wholeheartedly. Gestures like those literally made her day a thousand times less shitty.

"Any time, Sugarcube." She chuckled, and then leaned towards her with a curious expression. "But do tell. How is a first day of school more intimidating than stepping into a court filled with three meter sized Amazonians?"

Amara lowered her face and blushed. She only told her that she wasn’t feeling good, she never told her the reason.

"Is it really that obvious?"

"You look exactly how I did on the day of my first competition." Erika recalled. "I believe I was around six?"

"What?" Amara said. "Do cheerleaders really start that young?"

"Yup." Erika nodded. "Especially in the States. They love their cheers there, let me tell ya."

"You're from there too?"

"Mama's from Texas" The blonde said. "So it’s always been half and half until now. We still go for the holidays though, they’re much more fun there."

"Sounds cool. I'm from Massachusetts, and I've only been in Japan like twice….until now."

The atmosphere suddenly became grim, and Amara felt her breath hitch. Erika's hand reached for hers.

"Hey." Emiki said, her voice serious. "I know you probably heard this enough but...I'm really sorry for your loss."

Amara's eyes began to curdle with tears.

"You're actually one of the only ones to tell me that."

Then she broke into sobs.

"S-sorry." Amara tried to apologize. Last night she had cried herself to sleep in her dorm, clutching a pair of worn out volleyball shoes, not even bothering to unpack, she just wasn’t in the mood for anything but crying. And there she thought that she had cried everything last night…...

Erika bolted from her seat and to her side, placing her hands on Amara's shoulder in a comforting manner.

"Oh, Honey Bee." She said. "Don't you dare apologize for your feelings ever again. You better promise me that"

Amara sniffed and nodded.

"You wanna talk about it?" Erika asked, the way a mother would when trying to comfort her child.

"I….

"There you are!" A voice interrupted. "We've been looking for you everywhere, morra!"  

Amara and Erika both turned and looked. There were three girls, each one different from the other. They were around the same height but that was where the similarities ended. One had brown skin, long glossy black hair in a single thick braid tied with a gray bow and umber brown eyes traced with glittery makeup. A gold stud glinted in her nose. The other had bronze skin, waist-length chocolate colored hair with a gray bow atop and eyes like two yellow tourmalines. On her face was a red lipped, wicked dimpled smile, like a kid who’d just finished pulling up a prank. The third one was a bit meek looking, with rosy white skin, a cloud of short strawberry blonde hair with a white bow on top and soft green eyes. She fidgeted with her hands and seemed ready to throw up at any second. Amara immediately felt a bout of compassion towards her.

“It’s lunch time, where else would I be?” Erika asked with a confused expression.

“Good point.” The brown haired girl said. She took a sip from the giant coffee cup in her hand. “Can we join you?”

Erika gestured at the empty seats.

The black haired girl looked at Amara up and down, from her messy braids and puffy red eyes to the plain black loafers.

“First time here?” She asked her as she sat.

Amara nodded and noticed their outfits; skirts embroidered with flowers and crystals, Miu Miu sneakers and Birkin bags. How she wished she had her new Air Jordans with her….

“Aww! I remember my first day as if it was yesterday.” The brown haired girl sighed.

The black haired girl furrowed her brow.

“Didn’t you threw up from withdrawal?”

“It was from a hangover, not withdrawal! They’re like two different things!” The brown haired girl corrected, indignant.

Erika cleared her throat, making the three girls turn their heads at her.

“Amara, these are my friends and members of the cheer squad.” Erika explained.

She pointed at the black haired girl.

“This is Kumari Hanan, our best flyer.”

Kumari gave Amara a small nod.

“This is Ximena Otakara, our dance expert and choreographer.”

“And future celebrity, don’t forget that.” The brown haired girl added with a wink.

Erika rolled her eyes and then pointed at the strawberry blonde girl.

“And this is our newest addition to the team, Kara Tamada”

Kara gave Amara a timid smile and wave.  

“Kumari is a third year like me, Ximena’s a second year like you, and Kara is a freshman.” Erika explained and then gestured at Amara. “Girls, this is Amara Murakami, please don’t torture her.”  

“A la madre! ” Ximena looked at her, surprised. “Wicked eyes, girl!”

Amara lowered her gaze and mumbled an empty thanks. If there was something she was used to at that point in her life, was of people making comments about her eyes.

"Sectoral heterochromia." Were the doctor's oficial words.

"Stained glass eyes." Her friends often called them.

"Woodland eyes." Her grandfather had called them. "Brown for the soil, black for the stone and green for the life."

"You carry your land within your eyes, Amara." He told her once. "You will never be lost."

“If only that were true.” Amara couldn’t help but think.

But then she saw Ximena’s eyes squinting in concentration.

“No mames, I’ve seen you before!” She said, proud of her discovery. “You’re that volleyball chick!”

“Holy shit, you’re right.” Kumari joined.

Amara’s stomach plummeted and her face paled, which Erika noticed.

“Damn it you two, what did I just say!?” The blonde scolded. Her tone was the same one Amara’s mom used when reprimanding her. “Hope you’re in the mood for running suicides today!”

"What? Why?" Ximena and Kumari cried.

"That's okay, Erika." Amara reassured her. "It's not like it's a secret, anyway."

“See? We have the Ok.” Ximena said, earning a murderous gaze from Erika.

Then an awkward silence filled the table.

“So…” Kumari began, taking a sip of her purple smoothie. “You’re joining the volleyball team?”

In Ōkamiyama, all students were required to join a school club or association, and from looking at the list that came with the welcoming pamflet, there seemed to be quite a lot, from embroidery and cooking to horse riding and rock climbing. There were even some odd ones like “The Cheese Connoisseurs Association” and “Apocalypse Survival Prepping Club”. And there were also the typical sports clubs like baseball, basketball, football* and of course, volleyball.

She didn’t wanted to give up volleyball, but the wound was still so fresh it still bled…...

“I-I don’t know.” She mumbled. “I’m still not sure. I have a week, don’t I?

“Yeah, of course.” Erika reassured her. “And if you need more time, you can ask the therapist for an extension.”

Amara had completely forgot about the therapist.

In a normal school, a counselor was usually available for students if they wished so, but here it was mandatory to have individual one hour weekly therapy sessions,and once she joined a club, group therapy would also become obligatory. Amara’s first session was scheduled for Sunday.

“Yeah, don't sweat it!” Ximena said.

“Isn't Emi also joining the volleyball team?” Kumari inquired.

Amara raised an eyebrow.

“I thought she was a cheerleader.” She asked, looking at Erika.

“Emphasis on was.” Ximena sighed.

“And not just that, she was...is...the best tumbler in the prefecture.” Kara explained in a soft voice.

“Really?” Amara asked, she knew from somewhere that tumbler meant acrobat, basically a gymnast with a mini skirt instead of a leotard. “Then why did she quit?”

Ximena, Kumari and Erika looked at each other.

“She didn’t told you?” Kumari asked.

“Tell me what?” Amara looked at Erika for guidance.

“Okay that’s enough.” The blonde’s face had a not so subtle hint of worry. “That’s not for us to talk about, I’m sure that in time Emi will tell you all about it.”

Amara certainly felt a bit pained for being left out, but it was someone whom she literally just met, so she concluded that she had no right to be upset either.  

Kara must’ve sensed the tense atmosphere and quickly asked some questions about the cheer squad. There were many terms that Amara did not understood, but she soon became fascinated. The cheerleaders at the games Amara played in danced around and cheered (duh!) but the way Erika and the others talked about the work plan for their squad it was clear that they did more than that.

“Hey, why don’t you join the squad?” Erika suggested.

“We do need more tumblers.” Kumari pointed out.

“Yeah.” Ximena agreed. “How are your back handsprings?”

“Ummm...nonexistent?”  Amara admitted, although the idea did sound nice. “I do have a mean cartwheel, though.”

The girls chuckled.

“Okay, maybe we can help you find another club if volleyball and cheerleading won’t do it for ya.” Erika smiled and stood, walking towards a notice board and taking a poster version of the clubs and associations list.

“Let’s see then.”

They tried to summarize each club as best as they could, counting the pros and cons and telling her about the people in them.

“What’s the Wolf Kingdom Club?” Amara asked, slightly amused by the odd names.

Everyone grunted, which Amara took as a bad sign.

“That’s the historical reenactment club.” Erika said. “They do everything medieval, and I mean everything.”

“Except dying from the plague.” Kumari muttered.

“So that’s a no?” Amara inquired.

“Depends.” Ximena said. “Do you like dancing with seven layers of clothing on and churning your own butter?”

“Pass.” Amara said.  

And so they spent the rest of the lunch break going over the list in hopes of finding something for Amara, but nothing seemed to catch her attention. Kara spoke on occasions whenever she felt in danger of being forgotten.

By the time the bell rung, they’ve managed to narrow it down to the basketball team and the basket weaving club. She had the height and the jump for the first one and the skills for the last one.

“If you change your mind, you should go with Emi to the tryouts after school.” Erika reminded her as they walked towards Amara’s classroom.

She nodded weakly, lost in thought.

Erika sighed and tapped her shoulder, making their eyes meet.

“Look, I don’t know a lot about volleyball, but I do know that it shares something in common with cheerleading.”

Amara arched an eyebrow. Then, Erika grabbed her hands, the blonde's lightly tanned skin clashing with Amara's russet complexion. Their eyes met, and Erika’s had one of the most serious expressions Amara had ever seen.

“Jumps are the most thrilling part, as well as the hardest.” She said. “When we jump, we don’t take steps back, not even to gain momentum. It’s always forwards, full force.”

Amara had so many questions about those words, yet she didn’t ask. Was it fear or confusion that stopped her? She didn’t knew. But for a moment she was sure the girl was saying that there was only one way to go.

Forward.

[newhologram]

New’s Ketamine Diary

5.13.2020 Infusion #1 K Debut

The doctor started with some trigger point injections in my neck. I’m not usually bothered much by needles but lately I’ve been getting poked a lot and my cervical spine has been horrible all week so I didn’t want anyone touching it. 🤕I was sweating while they used an ultrasound on my neck for accuracy. Even though doc gave me something to help me relax, I whined high-pitched the entire time. The nurse said, “Sorry, honey” and the doctor said, “There, almost done. You should be very proud, you’re doing very well.” Got it over with very quickly while the nurse cold-sprayed the hell out of each injection site. This is a consideration I haven’t seen from most other doctors: someone already in pain doesn’t need to be tortured more. Be efficient and make it more comfortable.

Time for the infusion. They said about 40 minutes with a 30 minute cool-down. I was set up in a small room with a comfy reclining armchair, an iPad with lots of relaxing music/soundscapes, and a pretty color-changing lamp on the desk. The nurses also gave me a blanket and sleep-mask. On the wall were two medical posters (spine and hand) and draped over the window was a painting of a view through an open window to a soft and sunny beach. They hooked me up and told me they would be checking in on me. Before he left, the doctor put his hands in prayer and said, “Have a nice trip!” I could tell he was smiling under his protective mask.

I put on some spacey trance music and waited. After a little while I felt relaxed and pleasantly tingly in my legs. A bit after that I had that slight double-vision you get after surgery. The first time a nurse checked on me, it took effort to talk. I was floaty and peaceful and it felt like soft waves of clouds were rolling up and down my nervous system. 

I don’t know how accurate my sense of time is for today but I think after about 20 minutes I started “tripping”. At one point the doorbell was the most amazing sound. The color-changing lamp was great to look at, but it wasn’t just pretty. Each color presented itself to me as an individual and distinct entity with its own personality and I was delighted every time I met a new color. It was like a new conversation every color and I said “thank you” every time. The soft pink was named Radha. 🌸 About 30 minutes in, I escaped this particular human identity. It wasn’t that I “forgot” who I was. It was more that I “remembered” who I am. I felt so distinctly me, not me the person, but me the conscious awareness in this timeline focused into the nervous system of this human. And when I remembered my body, it was like rediscovering an advanced technology. I moved my arm so easily and thought, “Wow, a real human robot. This is the original technology.” Remembering my body made me remember this human identity I’ve been enrolled in for the past 30 years. It was like reading the character bios in the manual of a newly opened video game. Reading about this person was like meeting someone new. I was fascinated by the idea of Ashley and Maxwell and couldn’t believe they were real physical beings and that I get to play the role of their mother. I tried to text with friends to keep them updated, which resulted in uncontrollable snort-laughing that I’m sure the nurses enjoyed hearing. 😂 But the strangest thing was that I would hear myself laughing for a good 5 seconds before I realized it was coming from my body and I was like ???????? and somehow the idea of this involuntary noise coming out of me made it funnier. 

Eventually my timer went off and a nurse came in to turn off the pump and start the cooldown. I had no idea and thought I’d triggered the alarm by trying to touch the colorful lamp. I told the nurse sheepishly, “I just wanted to touch it.” 

As I came down, I digested the experience and stretched a lot in the chair. When I was finally ready to go, the nurse took out the IV and the doctor came to talk to me about the experience. We talked about differentiating the kinds of pain I have and what I was feeling. Pretty much the only pain I have right now is the radiating soreness in my neck/shoulder/arms that comes after those gnarly trigger point injections, which is expected. Maybe a teeny bit of nerve pain for that same reason. I don’t feel my usual all-over fibro pain or my intense shocking/burning/torture spine/neck/face/head pains that make me the most miserable. I don’t feel overwhelming fatigue. I feel relaxed and could definitely sleep but I also feel a very clear clean energy. My vision was sharper after the infusion as well. I’m even able to squat down and reach something or walk up the stairs without my legs trembling under me. I was standing up and bouncing while talking to the doctor.

He asked if it was scary and it wasn’t at all, it was very peaceful and enjoyable. He said, “You’ve made me so happy today that I am ‘tripping’ with you!” and gave me a social distance fist bump. I think maybe because I’ve been meditating more seriously for 6 years now and have experience with “out of body” sensations from narcolepsy that the whole part about leaving my human identity behind wasn’t as surprising to me as it might be for someone who is very new to this perspective of life. Which is why this treatment is so effective for mental illness/ PTSD as well as chronic pain, it really offers a whole new perspective.  Even almost 8 hours later I feel very very peaceful.

It was a great first infusion! I hope to see even more good results the second time. Typically treatment starts out with 6 infusions over 2-3 weeks but my doctor is trying to be careful with the insurance so he’s going to try to ease into it and get me back every 2 weeks. He said to me, “You’re too young for so much illness, you’re a kid, you’re as young as my youngest. I want you to experience your youth and get out there and take over the world. I know this can make such a difference in your life.”

So, keeping my fingers crossed for more infusions soon and incredibly grateful for the chance to do this treatment that I’ve been interested in for years. I just knew it was something I had to give a shot, especially since I’d already tried everything else the medical system had to offer. So awesome. 

[aveaugvstus]

❛ You made a mistake. Everybody makes them. Even me. I’ve made many. It’s only fair that you made one. ❜

it’s strange how the passage of time warps and bends around the shape of the people in your life, the silhouettes they carve from the liminal space of your soul — it’s like that thing about stars and how when you’re looking up at the night sky, you’re actually looking at stars that could be already be dead a hundred years ago, their fading requiem only just now reaching earth’s stratosphere, a thousand light years away. 

this is what it feels like to see vladimir standing in the door frame of his childhood bedroom looking like the ghost of fuck-ups past.  (  he has no lock now, which is mildly insulting and excruciatingly patronising; he’s an addict, not bloody suicidal, but to his family the distinction might as well be non-existent.  )  he looks different, and also like nothing has changed at all in a way that august can’t quite pinpoint. it’s as if he’s lost his ability to translate him; the myriad tiny, insignificant nuances and habits he used to obsessively decrypt with his very own rosetta stone, a whole stele for the vladimir yamatov script, forgotten like a dead language. or maybe he no longer cares to. he doesn’t know if that should make him feel nostalgic, or furious, or bittersweet. feeling particularly strongly about anything these days is a herculean task in and of itself. which, he supposes, was the original sin that instigated everything to begin with.

he thinks he can remember asking vladimir to come home.

he thinks he can almost remember begging, knees in the dirt and gravel scraping his flesh raw, over voicemail like a needy fling who had accidentally gone and done the thing you and every other idiot knows you’re not supposed to do, and fallen. 

he thinks he might have begged for absolution. 

but that could have also been the sixth line of blow cut with ketamine and procaine and only god and the devil knows what else  (  he’d been desperate, it was three a.m. in camden  )  and he’s composed text messages nay, goddamn fucking letters, ad nauseam, ad infinitum, like he’s on the receiving end of some dear john bullshit, and he’s never been sure which of them actually made it to the send button. he’s smashed, or lost, or misplaced, half a dozen phones, for all the futile effort to replace them. collateral damage in the dawning realisation that vladimir wasn’t replying because he was mercilessly leaving him on read, but because he wasn’t receiving them at all, and judging by his infrequent instagram updates, was doing absolutely fine / fuck him, happy / having the time of his fucking life on his primitive anti-tech detox.

for a moment, he entertains the fleeting, whimsical distraction that this could be yet another delusion. after all, he’s conjured vladimir enough times that this wouldn’t be unusual.  (  why, sometimes i’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.  )  he has imagined vladimir heartsick, wretchedly beside himself with guilt. he has painted him alabastrine, cold and immovable, patron saint raphael of the lost and the meek indifferent to august’s self-inflicted torment. he has envisioned him lit with madness, seized in catastrophic rage, gripping him by the jaw and rattling his bones till he might see reason. there were other imaginings, too, steeped in the unspeakable, tauntings of an uninhibited mind free to conceptualise the reality of its most ludicrous desire. in the worst dream, the most terrible, most fantastical one, vladimir comes home because of him. for him. it plays out like the final scene of a cult romantic comedy, or the odyssey, maybe, much-enduring odysseus returning home to penelope at last. two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk, their hands meeting as light spills in a flood, the sky pouring out the sun. and he would take his other-soul’s face in his hands and kiss him and say the words this lifetime’s vladimir would never say.

there is, of course, a singular difference in this one. this vladimir. the vladimir he filled his dreams with never looked at him like this. with this curious amalgamation of horror and — most tellingly so; am i not what you expected, vladimir? how did you imagine you would find me? beatific? flourishing? — disgust. 

august knows what he looks like. five shades too pale and ashen, like the vivacity has been drained right out of him. a layer of grease shines in his hair, the fade he alway maintains with meticulous care and precision grown out into his natural, unruly curls. he’s not quite skeletal, his frame was always too lean and muscular for that, but he seems perilously thin for his height. it shows in his face, he knows even though he’s been avoiding mirrors and isn’t allowed one anyway, because a) addicts use those to cut their coke, and b) suicidal ones might be inclined to break them, he knows because of the way his mum looks at him when she comes into his room to bring him his meals three times a day like a convict. it hurts him a little, more than the physical pain of looking at vladimir, of hearing his voice, that he sees him like this. he had not been informed in advance that vladimir would come calling. if he had, he would’ve — he doesn’t know what he would’ve done  (  attempted an escape, maybe; broken his twelve-day sobriety, maybe  )  but he might’ve. cleaned up a little. tried to look less like a shell of himself. augustus has always been vain, has always been a gilded, preening thing who took great pride in being pretty and well-loved for it. it pains him. not to be even that anymore. he is rusted. tarnished.

if he had known, maybe he would have told vladimir not to come. 

now that he is here, he is split in two, cleaved in half by the urge to tell him to go and the more pressing compulsion to make him stay to never go never leave again never go anywhere that is out of his sight out of his life out of him. 

his ambivalence makes him poor company and a poorer conversationalist. not that this is entirely his fault — what are they supposed to do? chat about the weather and trade perfunctory banter just to fill the air? he’d rather do a line right here in front of vladimir. 

your hair is longer, august had said. the only thing other than what are you doing here, which had come out of his mouth, part-shock and part-petulance, when his mother had opened the door and presented vladimir like some screwed-up surprise gift for reaching a whopping week and a half of not being a fucking disappointment to everyone around him. so, now he can disappoint the person that matters most fundamentally, tortuously, to him in the world, too. how delightful.

vladimir’s hair being longer is the only thing he can think to say that doesn’t make him want to give in to the pulverising sensation in his head, in his bones, in his chest, screaming for a deus ex machina reprieve. if this is what they have come to — the two of them, who had spent their entire lives talking about nothing and everything till they could anticipate exactly what the other’s response would be — augustus is glad he didn’t come home sooner. he looks handsome, which feels like another slight against august’s pride. rugged and sun-soaked like a male model cum travel influencer, but one that actually does something meaningful with his life. time, and sunlight, and the kind of hard labour that builds muscle definition and character, has certainly been kinder to him than it has been to august. he doesn’t say you look good because that would sound like he has any remotely positive feelings towards this interaction, and, indeed, the cause of vladimir’s looking like a golden, newly-anointed demi-god. it seems they have traded places. or maybe vladimir is exactly who he was always supposed to be. and august is, too.

august supposes it’s the silence, and the reality that vladimir cannot abide it either, that prompts him to say what he does.

what happened?

he doesn’t say anything for a long moment, he drifts in the absence of an answer because he is allowed to, because he is technically, partially an invalid now, and people who are sick are allowed to be not altogether there. 

(  sick. malaised. he likes this word for it. he likes that there is a scientific explanation for what he is. a brain disease. a diagnosable mental illness. see, vladimir, he almost wants to say, a little deranged part of him finally gleeful at not having a pedestal to stand on anymore, you aren’t special. i’m fucked up now, too.  )

well, vladimir. it’s a very long story that i don’t care to repeat as i’ve recounted the tales to you so many times through missives you were never inclined to respond to. there was angel, and bennie, there was emmy, and good old molly. ah, and charlie, my favourite of the lot. ours was a whirldwind love affair. but it turns out i loved him more than he loved me. seems like i have a nasty little habit of doing that. it’s one i haven’t learned to kick yet.

god — august...

it’s the look of wrenching disgust, again. the thing that twists and snakes across vladimir’s face and awakes something snarling and animal shackled to august’s throat, something that slams into him chest-first and doesn’t stop until it’s gone right through him, left him raw, all bloodied edge and teeth.

what happened? what happened? what’s the point of asking now when it’s all been said and done. how long am i supposed to carry this black mark? until everyone around me deigns to let me bury it? i’m not a fucking child.

it’s not an explanation, which is what vladimir is after. he would know, however, if he had bothered to answer august any of those times. he would know, he would have known, if he hadn’t left august in their bed that morning at the warwickshire summer palace and run from everything they’d ever touched. they’d had the world world in their hands in that bed, in that room, in that place of stolen summer outside of time, outside of life itself. they could have had — everything. everything august had to give. and he gave it, and vladimir looked him in the eye and decided it was not for him.

you made a mistake. everybody makes them. even me. i’ve made many. it’s only fair that you made one.

he feels each word grate right through him, each syllable catching on his skin like little knives, the thin strand keeping him tethered to the present grinding down into dust and bone. he doesn’t blame vladimir for what happened to him. he blames him for leaving. but it’s a mistake that vladimir won’t — can’t acknowledge because to do that, he would have to admit to the thing he doesn’t want to say, or can’t say, and august can’t make him say it. that’s what made him do it, the first night at that grimy, filthy club in the berlin underground. that’s what made him want to trade his soul for just a night of rapture so euphoric he wouldn’t have to remember how fucking miserable it was to be unloved by the one person you thought you were meant for. but then, it’s never just one night is it? it couldn’t have been. you don’t get over something like that with one goddamn night.

(  if august were honest, and his heart not surrendered, he would say it was this, too: that vladimir could walk away from them, has always been able to walk away, and think nothing of it. him. that vladimir had found purpose and higher meaning in something other than themselves and the stupid, foolish, boyish dreams they used to talk about like they might someday happen. that august had disappointed him somehow by, what, not being enough? not living up to the unearned greatness that vladimir saw in him and was supposedly the only person in the world who could? that vladimir would forge a path for himself in life that diverged from august and not feel his soul rending itself in half to be half a world away from him, and survive it. — it was enough to ruin him then, it still ruins him now.  )

“if you’ve come all this way just to lecture to me, you can sod the fuck off back to phuket or hanoi or fucking antarctica if that’s what you want. maybe there’s some disease-riddled penguins out there that you can save to sate your saviour complex. saint francis of assisi. a non-shitty mother teresa. malala.”

he’s exhausted before the first word leaves his mouth, strung out just with the effort of starting, but he can’t stop them now any more than he can stop the hunger and thirst clawing at his head howling for a drop of blood, a pound of flesh, any part of him that it can cannibalise in retribution for starving. it’s easier to be cruel than to be wounded, better to be the conqueror than the fallen — but right now it just feels like he is going through his twelfth or two hundredth day of withdrawal and the boy he loves has come back but not the way august wanted and not the way he wants to be wanted. it hurts just to look at him, it hurts to have him looking back. every part of his body aches with dependence, codependence. they’re the definition of it. see what happens to me when you are not in my life?

alexander lay on hephaestion’s bed for three days. but you are not him. you are just a spoiled, arrogant, silver-spooned nothing who will never amount to greatness, glory, or anything at all. it is no wonder he would not have you.

his rage breaks, like sea foam crashing against cliffs; it rends and shatters down the fault line mapped throughout his body, the one that winds from his throat to his sternum, down to his thighs and feet, and aches forever mostly at his heel. helpless to the unbidden trembling of his hands as he curls them around the sheets of his bed, unmoored. he looks small and disarmed, more lost than he’s ever been with vladimir by his side. it doesn’t mean the same thing anymore, does it? not if he cannot make vladimir stay. whatever they had between them — is it damaged, now. they could rebuild it, but the foundations would still bear the memory of where the cracks lie. he would still remember this look on vladimir’s face.

he has looked at him a thousand times, and there has always been an echo reverberating between them. the wavelength of an elegy he knows the words to like they are writ upon heartbeat, upon headstone. there have been other faces, but vladimir’s eyes have always been the same. fathomless as distant stars in an entire universe light years away and yet close enough to touch if he dared to. if it is fate, or circumstance, or a reiteration of the immortality that stands between them and their freedom, then he already knows how this ends. vladimir knows it, too. it doesn’t make him want it any less. it doesn’t make him suffer for it any less. this ache he has spent an eternity chasing after, this feeling of being so incandescently alive that even death cannot keep them apart, this is what vladimir ran from. augustus cannot blame him. if he was not the one who always outlived him, he’d do the same.

“is this why you came back? because you think you can save me, too?”

[geralehane]

lilies are red

It’s a horror/thriller love story. I’m not taking anything seriously lately. Enjoy. 

(tw: sexual abuse mention; child abuse mention. serial killer/vampire) patreon

***

M meets her by chance.

Pure luck, more like it. She’s fortunate enough to be where she is, on the rooftop of an old building near the docks, and the wind is blowing just right for her to catch the most deliciously intriguing mix of scents. The first note she picks up on, among the usual rotten fish and days-old urine aromas, is nervous, almost-giddy excitement. Almost like that of a child who’s told they’re nearing Disneyland and Mickey’s here to personally escort them to the castle.

The second note is death, and that’s what makes her lips curl in a smile both curious and confused. It’s a strong scent, too. Almost enough to overpower the glee filling her nostrils. Almost, but not quite. It doesn’t take her too long to figure out what the source is.

Last time she smelled so much death was when she worked in Maryland prison and dealt with death row inmates. Not because they were on a death row, but because they were on a death row, having enough blood on their hands to deserve the capital punishment. Even then, there were dozens of people giving off the smell. Right now, she sensed only one.

And they were happy. This, she has to see.

The dash to the other side of the roof takes a second. Something about running at full speed has always been exhilarating to M. The feeling increases tenfold when it’s done with a purpose of hunting a prey. And when it’s not a mere prey but another predator…

She considers jumping to the ground, but figures it would be too loud. Balconies it is. Her feet don’t make a sound as she quickly and stealthily climbs down to finally take a peak at a potential toy.

They are in the basement – because of course. A bit of a disappointment, really, but what they lack in imagination they more than make up with enthusiasm. It doesn’t require any effort on her part to break the rusty lock and chain of the long unused door. Must be another entrance from inside, she thinks absentmindedly as she slowly cracks it open and slithers inside.

The door groans at being suddenly and rudely awakened, and M curses inwardly as she flashes to the dark corner of the room, her speed making her nothing more than a blur to a human eye. For a short, naïve second she hopes her target hasn’t heard it, but she already knows she’s wrong.

It’s a young woman standing over the shivering, whimpering naked figure tied to a table. She’s silent as she snaps their head up and stares at the door M came through, her green eyes serious and sharp.

And it’s right there and then that M realizes she’s gone.

***

It’s months before she approaches her. Months full of obsessive, meticulous observation. She’s so busy studying and stalking that she often foregoes the hunt, settling for blood stocked in her fridge. Occasionally, she does snack on late passersby, but even then her mind is distracted.

All she can think about is Her. M does her best to not find out Her name. Strangely – if anything can even be considered strange when it’s about a vampire stalking a serial killer – strangely she wants to hear it from Her. For now, she’s content with calling Her just that.

She’s a vigilante – that’s the first thing M finds out about her. It has nothing to do with her morals – that’s the second thing she discovers. She settles for scum of the earth because no one will question their disappearance. Once they are found, no one will be fazed by the gruesome nature of their deaths. Most of the time, their gangs will find their corpses, and the police won’t ever know about their passing. It’s usually men, white, tall, dark-haired. M figures She has a type.  

She makes an exception for child rapists. Then, it doesn’t matter if they are a well-respected member of the society by day. Doesn’t matter if their death will shock the community, doesn’t matter that the police will more than likely be involved. Doesn’t matter what they look like. She’s particularly gleeful when she executes those. M wonders if it’s a personal thing.

And if she didn’t know she was in trouble, the white-hot rage blinding her whenever she thinks of that would be a glaring sign.

She smells of death, and sometimes, she smells of pain, when she looks at the photo of the woman M guesses to be long dead. M wonders if She killed her. The sour notes of remorse wafting off Her in waves tell her as much. From that alone she guesses the woman was important. The woman was held dear. The woman had the love M’s surprised She’s capable of.

Then why, she inevitably thinks, did you kill her?

She wonders if that has something to do with child abusers. She wonders a lot these days.

Until one day, she can’t wonder anymore. She has to know. She has to know Her and she has to have Her know her back.

It’s a special kind of a tainted love that burns and destroys, and she craves that.

***

She wants to make a great first impression. So, naturally, she prepares a gift for Her. Fitting, she thinks as she glances at the calendar and laughs at the date she sees.

M doesn’t have to look far to find the right candidate. If she cared about the humankind, she’d find it sad. He’s a devoted father and husband, and he had a total of five girls locked in his basement, one after another, over the past two years. His wife supplied three of them. And M might be an honest to God monster, but she doesn’t want to think what could’ve happened to their daughter had she not found them before she’s reached the ripe age of ten.

She curiously finds it incredibly difficult to abstain from ripping their throats out herself.

Leaving clues for Her to pick up on isn’t difficult at all. For some reason, she doesn’t want to go the easier route of compulsion. This is much more interesting and that much more exhilarating. Besides, watching Her piece everything together is both adorable and impressive.

It’s only a matter of very little time before She gets to the hunt. It’s more or a trap, really – She breaks into their house to prepare it for their arrival. She picks their bedroom – somehow, M knew she would, and she can’t stifle an amused giggle when She soundlessly opens the door, only to drop Her instruments as she stops in her tracks, mouth slightly hanging open in disbelief.

M pointedly clears her throat and laughs again, louder, when She flinches and tenses up. Their eyes finally meet, and M has to clear her throat again, this time for a whole different reason. “You like?” She asks, her melodic voice a surreal sound in the dead silence of the room, save for heavy breathing of two drugged people.

She doesn’t answer for several seconds as she quickly takes everything in. When She does speak, her voice is raspier than usual, tinted with tension. M shifts from one foot to another, trying to suppress the hot flash of need surging through her body. “I don’t do gifts.”

M has to laugh at that. She’s aware that She’s carefully watching her while her head is thrown back and laughter is spilling out in loud waves. At one point, she’s almost certain She’s about to lunge for her throat, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, she speaks again.

“What do you want?”

M shrugs. “I thought that was kind of obvious.” When She doesn’t budge, only raising her brow higher, she sighs. “I’m a fan of your work. Remember that night – the basement by the docks?”

Green eyes narrow and then widen with realization. “So there was someone there.”

“You looked very cute running around and trying to find me,” M giggles as she cocks her head to the right, staring at Her with unabashed, curious hunger. She still smells delicious, even though there’s a lot of tension and worry. Yet, She’s not panicking. She’s not afraid, either, and M loves that.

“But I didn’t,” She says slowly. “I didn’t find you. Which is impossible. You couldn’t have hidden somewhere because there was nowhere to hide. How did you do that?”

“You’re asking great questions, but there are too many of them,” M comments lightly. “Every relationship should have a healthy dose of mystery, you know.” She glances at the prey that begins to stir as they slowly come to it. She follows her gaze, jaw clenching when she sees that, too. “Have fun,” M murmurs, and She looks at her again, a crease of her brow deepening. Good. She wants Her to see this. “See you soon, love.”

She wishes she could have taken a picture of Her bewildered expression when she jumps out the window in a flash. That’s a memory she’ll cherish forever.

***

For the next several weeks, she keeps showering Her with presents, and She unsuccessfully tries to hunt her down. M finds it endearing. One night, acting completely on instinct, she leaves a note behind after her usual breaking and entering routine. When she comes back the next night, She’s nowhere to be found, and her note is neatly placed on the bed.

‘You’re pretty when you sleep. M’

Right under it, there’s Her handwriting:

‘You’re creepy, but I like your style.’

She yawns when she easily sidesteps Her attempt at ambushing her from behind. When She jumps to her feet again and rushes at her head on, M grasp her wrist and twists, raising her brow as she eyes the syringe in Her hand. “You saw me run at the speed that cannot possibly be human, and you thought: ‘hey! nothing a little ketamine can’t fix’?” She asks sardonically as she pushes Her away, causing Her to fall on Her back.

She grins, and M hates how disarming that grin is. “I had to try to make sure I wasn’t going insane.”

M gives her a pointed look. “Going insane? Darling, your hobby is killing people. You might be of sound mind, but you’re not exactly normal, either.”

“Look who’s talking.” She’s still smirking, and She hasn’t made any moves to get up yet. On the contrary, she leans back, propping herself up on her elbows as she studies M with curiosity. “Since it doesn’t seem like you’re going to kill me any time soon, can I ask you a couple of questions?”

M shrugs. “Depends on the questions.”

“You said it yourself. I ask great questions.”

“You’re also annoyingly full of yourself,” she notes, but it’s more amused than irritated, and She picks up on that.

“First one is fairly simple. Who are you?”

“A vampire.” M chuckles when Her brows fly up.

“Okay,” she says, slowly. “That’s – I think we’ll deal with this one later. Did you destroy the evidence so I wouldn’t be the suspect anymore?”

“Yes.” M lazily looks at her nails. “You should really consider changing your modus operandi, by the way. It’s a little sloppy.”

“It’s not. I just lost a hair. It happens.”

“You also left a bunch of fingerprints all over the place,” M points out as she sits on the floor in front of Her, legs crossed. “I had to compel several detectives and officers so your ass wouldn’t end up in jail. Would be a shame since you have a nice one.” She grins when she smells a sudden spike of embarrassment and arousal.

“Thanks,” She utters, sounding unsure whether She should take it as a compliment. M licks her lips.

“Don’t mention it.”

“Why are you so interested in me?”

“You smell delicious.”

“So you do want to eat me.”

M’s grin grows bigger as she anticipates another wave of Her intoxicating scent. “And I wouldn’t mind if you reciprocated.” Just like she expects, her nostrils are bombarded with Her desire.

“Do you…” She trails off, chuckling, as if she finds the idea ridiculous. “Do you like me?”

“That is so very sweet,” M murmurs, stretching like a big cat while her eyes never leave Hers. “I want you, darling. I want you all to myself.”

“If you wanted to kill me, I’d be long dead, wouldn’t I be,” it’s more of a statement. And M wholeheartedly agrees with it. She nods, with a naughty smirk, and She lets out a breath, shaking her head.

“So if I wear garlic around my neck, would that help me?”

M laughs. “I think the right question is – would you want that to help you?”

She watches her, still guarded, but more relaxed than before, as M begins to slowly crawl towards her. “I don’t usually put out on the first date, you know,” She says, with a small smile.

“You also don’t do gifts, yet you enjoyed every single one of mine,” M whispers. She’s close. So close, but she can’t have Her without learning Her name first.

It’s fate, she thinks, when She speaks up. “Can I at least get your name?”

“I already gave it to you. It’s M.”

“Just M?”

“Yes. Now you.”

Green eyes sparkle. “I thought you already knew everything there was to know about me.”

“Not everything.”

She hesitates, for the longest second, before glancing down at her lips and meeting her gaze again, eyes alight with something akin to determination. “Lily.”

“Lily.” Her name rolls off M’s tongue like a drip of honey, and she inhales the air she doesn’t need as she tastes it, savoring the sweetness of it. Lily. Pure and innocent; everything She isn’t. Everything neither of them are. “Lily.” She likes it. She loves it.

Lily’s lips taste as sweet as her name does. They are warm, almost hot, and M can’t hold back a moan when an expert tongue snakes its way inside her mouth and swirls.

When they break apart, gasping for air almost doesn’t feel like pretending for the sake of it. “We,” she pants, “are going to have so much fun.”

“I’m just curious which one tries to kill the other first,” Lily murmurs, brushing her fingers through M’s blonde locks and making her giggle.

“Let’s bet.”

Lily’s eyes are wide and hungry as she watches M lick her lips. “Later,” she breathes, tugging her down. The last thing M thinks about before her mind goes blissfully blank are monsters of different kinds and their chances at finding solace in each other, and the chances of them not slaying each other first. Perhaps, even monsters deserve love, no matter how twisted it inevitably ends up being.

Perhaps – but then, Lily’s greedy hands are under her shirt and her teeth are sinking in her skin, and maybe, just maybe, they are already okay, and nothing needs to be fixed because nothing is broken anymore.

Maybe.

[mutantsrisingrpg]

Congratulations, NOEL! You’ve been accepted as DEIMOS.

Noel, when writing Derek’s skeleton I envisioned someone that was constantly stuck between being alone and reaching out those around them - and you captured that perfectly. Your Derek is someone that knows who he is and knows how to keep everyone at arms length, and yet he still needs contact with others. I was hooked on your app from the very first word and had to read it twice because I couldn’t believe what life you brought to him. I’m beyond excited to see both you and him on the dash! 

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

Out of Character Information: 

NAME/ALIAS: Noel

PRONOUNS: She/her they/them 

AGE: 24

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: CST / GMT-6 I’m usually on 2-4 times a week depending on the time of year/school/work.

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Derek Park (Deimos)

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cismale, he/him

DETAILS & ANALYSIS: 

OVERVIEW

To me, Derek is interesting because he embodies one of the most human fears: that we are somehow born irreparably, intrinsically wrong. Broken. Cursed with a peach-pit of wickedness from day one that will always steer us away from what is right and good and lovely. For Derek, he’s just unlucky enough that the combination of his home environment and specific power only seem to prove his worst fears true: that everything good he may touch will come away worse for having known him. That he is, at a most basic level, a creature of destruction.

POWERS

Derek is a man possessed by a force that knows no satiety. Fire is, in its simplest form, a thing made to consume. Forever hungry. He has to be careful, controlled, or risk being consumed along with everything else. In practice, this looks like stony silence. Covered skin, an aversion to touch. An arched eyebrow without comment, or a single dog’s-bark of laughter. No drinking, no drugs-- only cigarettes to take the edge off, a controlled burn. Sarcasm, a dark, dry wit, a small smirk and a glance away. A very, very tight circle of trust, and a body that is always on the edge of something, ready for fight or flight.

THE JOB

He slips into interrogation naturally. Regardless of whatever he might have once liked to believe about himself, he has a knack for knowing where to press to hurt people the most. To extract what he needs. He takes people apart efficiently and effectively, and at least he can take pride in that. There’s an elegance to someone doing the job they are most suited for. If he must do something so ugly, at least he does it well.

The other half of the job is prevention. The right rumors, the right image-- good PR. That’s why he wears what he does (dark, black, leather), why he started smoking (though it’s not the reason he kept at it.) He’s a silhouette in the darkness, a shadow at the back of the pack, at the edge of the club, little visible apart from the glinting eyes, the trail of smoke left in his wake. It’s taken him the better part of a decade, establishing himself as someone you’ll be lucky to never meet. Privately, he considers this his best work, all the work he kept from happening. The ghost over your shoulder, asking: are you sure you want to do that?

BIO: 

(TW drugs, violence)

Touch has always been tied to pain for Derek. The first thing he touched on this Earth he hurt, and the first thing that touched him immediately recoiled. Him, a fresh, swaddled baby, handed to his mother to be pressed, cheek to cheek— and then the shriek, so out of place in what should have been a beautiful moment, and that unmotherly, wrenching instinct to push the painful thing away. A nurse had to step in before his mother could drop him to the floor, likely saving his life in the process. It was mortifying, Derek’s father looking at his mother like he’d never seen her before, the crease on the doctor’s brow. 

And then there was the evidence, left on his mother’s face: a burn mark in the shape of a newborn’s cheek. Tiny eyelashes like red, welted spider legs. 

Derek was supposed to be the miracle baby, their first son, but there was so much undeniably wrong about him. They could overlook that first burn— a freak accident— but there was another wrongness that infiltrated everything he did, everything he was. He moved through the world oddly, more like a wizened street cat than a child, always scowling too much for his age. Always somewhere far away in his own head, unreachable. Enigmatic. Hard to love.

Apart from that first incident, his powers didn’t manifest in earnest until his teen years, but when they did there was no stopping it. Derek became all too familiar with the smell of melting plastic, burning hair, and hot metal. He grew an aversion to paper, nail polish remover, and anything that took batteries or gasoline, anything explosive. Worst, though, was how his powers affected those around him. Even a small bump of arm to side in passing was enough to leave a welt, the hiss of burning skin and singed hair becoming all too familiar. Derek learned to pull his body in like a sail. He moved around on cautious, light feet, as if everywhere his skin touched the world hurt him. He stopped sleeping, for fear of what his body would do in his dreams.

It was an impossible way to live, and of course it had to come to a head sometime. One Fall night, he woke up surrounded by blinding light, and a weird taste in his mouth. At first, he thought he was seeing an angel. It was just so bright. A few delirious moments later and he realised what was happening. What he was.

The glowing coal at the center of a house fire.

No one was physically harmed, but in every other way his family was ruined. Everything had to change. The family of a high-level mutant couldn’t move through life like normal people. Government representatives visited to lay out the ground rules of their new lives, all the restrictions they were to follow at threat of having him taken away. In the years following, Derek could never decide whether his parent’s submission to these new rules was driven by some last vestige of parental love they had for him, or over the fear of what having him sent away would do to their reputation. Not that they had much of that left, anyway. In their small community they were pariahs, the reckless family putting everyone around them at risk, harboring that boy of theirs.

At home, Derek’s powers were a confirmation of every bad thought and reservation his parents had ever had about him. He was a death-trap burden, a dangerous changeling child with unknown motivations. He switched to homeschooling, was only allowed in certain parts of the house at certain hours, and almost never went outside. Within the house itself he was surveilled, his every movement controlled and judged against the possible harm he might cause. But nothing he did could ever be enough to win their trust, their approval. It changed how he saw himself, being treated like a liability. He’d spent his life being told what he was, and now he was starting to believe them.

So he decided: if he must be a bomb always about to go off, he might as well do something with it. Might as well become the weapon everyone treated him as. Might as well make a living out of it. He was deteriorating, trapped up in his fire-proofed room, always alone. 

A cursed life was better than no life at all.

So he left home and learned to control his powers. He found people who appreciated the worst parts of himself, and paid him well for it. He discovered a talent for interrogation, intimidation, a naturally threatening smile. By his early twenties, nothing he was doing could be called legal. A few years after that, and he’d made a real name for himself as someone who would go further than the others. Dangerous enough that even his employers were afraid of him. Eventually, only the worst would hire him. Looks normal enough, but don’t believe it. He’s fucking crazy. The tougher the employer, the tougher the work, but by that point he had stopped caring. The consequences weren’t real, the threats were just words. Enemies were just people he’d have to deal with later.

Amsterdam was his breaking point. Derek had switched to freelancing for a while, broken off from all alliances after a boss tried to two-time him. He was unaffiliated, impartial, just helping bad guys hurt bad guys. Still, this was his riskiest gig. He’d never gone international before, a Level 5 mutant with fake papers on a commercial airline-- it was enough to give any number of governmental agencies reason to take him out on sight. But he was bored, numb, bored, numb. Coming up to 30 years old and sick of the Chicago scene. So he’d tried something new.

The boss there was something else, a real talker, beautiful, had gotten under his skin in a way few ever had. He should have left when the boss had asked about taking out a hit-- it had always been a sore subject for him. That’s not my job, dead people can’t talk, I’m not fucking paid enough to kill people. (There was no amount of money could be paid to kill people.) 

But the man was just so charming. Derek relaxed an inch, and they took a mile. It was just one drink. He didn’t even taste the ketamine. When he woke up, his mouth tasted like copper, and barbeque smoke. The sweet, musky smell of burning spinal fluid. Three were dead, the boss was laughing, and his return flight was in under an hour. 

When he got back, he had a missed call from Damien Matthews, with a different kind of job for him. A job with rules, structure. Protection. He’d heard about the Jems and all the noise they’d been making about Mutant Rights and he didn’t really care about that shit, but he took the job immediately. He needed the discipline, a boss, someone to reel him back in from where he’d strayed too far from his himself, almost at the cost of his humanity. The Jems saved him, and while he may be somewhat ambivalent to their cause, his loyalty to Damien is unflinching. The Jems need him, but he needs them more.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS:

LUCA MENDOZA: Luca is even more dangerous than Derek is and-- somehow-- that makes them the only person he feels completely safe around. Fact is, Luca’s position and power make them uniquely suited to shield his weakest spots, as: 1) When they’re together their power is a shared one, nullifying the risk of Derek hurting them by accident, and 2) no hitman is going to judge an interrogator for their occupation. The outcomes of their jobs may be different, but they’re two sides of the same coin. Their friendship is uncomplicated, enabling, and chaotic, but also somehow comfortable in a way Derek is unaccustomed to.

ISABEL ACOSTA: Oh, the angst. Derek never, ever thought he’d be in the position he is with Isabel, has fought that sort of connection his whole life. And if it were anyone other than Isabel, he’d be able to continue that way. Isabel is the best and the worst thing to happen to him. Look, is there anything better than two people learning to lower their boundaries and let someone in? Being so unable to stay away from the other that they can’t help but become knowable, to be seen as they are, terrible and ugly and complicated and beautiful? And then to know what it feels like to be loved not in spite of your flaws, but because of everything you’ve done to overcome them? Ohh my god.

EXTRA: 

Ideas for future plots/connections:

I’d love to plot something with a character who could have known him pre-Jems, when he was a real piece of work. 

In general, I’m really interested in how all the different powers within the groups interact with the powers of those around them! I.e., what the hell would happen if he met Dione? Would they just cancel each other out? Or be extra dangerous to each other?

For a decade and a half, he lived without really caring about the consequences, and he made lots of enemies along the way. I’d be interested to see some effects of this coming to fruition. Past alliances broken, a history of betrayal or always ending up on the wrong side of the table.

He has a lot of easily pushed buttons. This could go very poorly for the wrong person, someone stubbornly curious or just amused by the thought of getting under his skin.

Also I’m excited to see how the Isabel Situation puts a strain on his loyalty to the Jems, and his relationships within the gang.

General HC’s

He’s a vegetarian. Yes, most of the Jems find this hilarious, someone whose job is to hurt people being not wanting to eat cute little animals. In reality, it’s more an aversion to the idea of cooked meat. Particularly the smell. You can guess why.

Derek is still bad at keeping his phone on him. It’s a holdover from growing up avoiding electronics, anything that might easily explode. At this point in life he just finds it kind of irritating. He doesn’t like the idea of being easily reachable.

He’s bisexual.

He still has nightmares about burning houses, familiar faces flickering amongst the flames, frozen in silent screams. He has lived alone since he left home as a teen, and he plans to do so for the rest of his life.

I could go on and on but this is already way too long. Thank you guys for taking the time to read through this!

ANYTHING ELSE: Nope :)

[avialaeandapidae]

Got my days wrong and ended up alone in a room with my boss and the President of Ireland while I was on ketamine.

Thread by @shockproofbeats

Right, this was when I was eighteen so don't judge me too harshly. Or if you think drugs are cool and I'm a legend, fill your boots. Anyway, at the time I was working through college in Dublin with bar shifts at [redacted] music venue.

One day I get a call on my day off. Way the gig worked, you'd either get Fri or Sat off. This week it was Fri, happy days. My manager, let's call her Dympna, pipes up on the phone: "So, when you come in this evening, just a few things to remember". I'm like, hold on Dympz, I'm off this eve, jog on. She corrects me. "Remember I said you could get all of Saturday off if you just worked 2 hours tonight?".

And of course THEN, I did suddenly remember, she'd said it to me as I was leaving the building and my conscious work brain was doing somersaults to get out of the place. She could have told me I was to have my foreskin tattooed with a harpoon and I would have given her a smile, thumbs up, and a flurry of yeps to get out of the place. I was eighteen. On minimum wage, and - bear in mind this is really saying something - my absolute minimum effort. So, I'm bang to rights and I say "yeaaah, of course, sorry just got my days mixed up, I'll be there no problem" and she says, "this evening will be fine, just the head of the [redacted] and some VIPs, few hours then you can take off".

All good. Except for the one thing. At that very moment, I was in a mate's house on Dame St, relaxing with (I thought) nothing to do for the evening.

Now you have to remember that, before dabbing and fortnite, kids used "drugs" to get high and I was, occasionally, adjacent to them. I was a fairly sheltered kid before college, and didn't even drink til I was well into my late teens, never smoked even. I was very green.

So too, coincidentally, was the homebrew ketamine that said pal was making IN HIS OVEN when I arrived. My pal had gotten it in liquid form and, for some reason, it had been dyed green - he has subsequently told me he thought it was a St Patrick's Day promotion, and I've always thought it a charming entrepreneurial flourish on the part of his enterprising ketamine wholesaler. (Ketamine wholesalers are often vets, and the stuff originally for cats. People always say horse tranquiliser, either to make it sound more sordid or more badass, but ketamine is used on many animals, and vets have more use for cat tranqs than horses. Not quite as sexy is it?)

Anyway, for want of a better idea, I took him up on his offer of a line of this thick, vaguely slightly clumpy bright green powder, knowing I had nothing else to do for the evening. Felt nothing. Had a tiny further bump 10 mins later. It was at this point that my phone rang.

FLASHBACK ENDS, WE'RE BACK IN THE ROOM. So I'm definitely sweating after the call, not like instant come-up, more worried ABOUT the come-up. Never done this in my life, I've no idea how it's going to feel. But, absent any other idea, I get my stuff together and head to work.

On way to work, starts kicking in. You know when the roof of your mouth starts politely folding your brain in half, and your chest flutters like a cathedral filled with bees? I was holding it together but knew if I stopped concentrating for one second, I would become time itself.

By the time I reach work (twenty mins later) I am sweating like microwaved bread, eyes on hinges, convinced my fingernails owe me money. I have an overwelming urge to yawn, just to get the memories out WHEN in comes Dympna with the rota for the evening.

D: Thanks again, know it's short- oh, you look a bit hot and bothered, did you run here ha?"

Me: Hmnnnnnyes, I did - the dids is"

D: OK, just you tonight and the top man, he's showing the President what's going on for the next while"

[one beat]

Me: Sorr din you sez de presddyen?" D: Yes, Mary McAleese is in to see this season's programme of events.

Me: Hmmnggg

D: All you need to do is stand in the corner and offer them drinks every fifteen minutes.

Me: Ahhh yesssshnshh

D: Maybe have a wash beforehand So the gig is this: Mary McAleese (the *original* MMA) was to go round this room upstairs which had upcoming acts for the season illustrated with photographs and programme notes. The director of [redacted] would walk her around and say "fricken great, Madge innit?" or whatever.

My role is pretty weird, I have to stand in the corner and then every 15 mins, INTERRUPT this live-wire pair to offer them drinks, which protocol dictates they must refuse. I have barely processed any of this before I'm grabbing a tray and heading upstairs.

The tray, btw, contains a white wine, a red wine, a G&T, a whiskey, a rum and coke and some mineral waters. Always found that mix weird. Imagine the President of Ireland seeing the rum and coke and going "oooooh nice one, ta - now tell me about this Latvian choir again".

Right now I can hold it together when stimulated, when the adrenaline and fear is keeping me just ticking over - I'm weird but with it.

Problem is, my job is now to stand silent and motionless in a room on my own until the President of Ireland arrives. Time passes on my own. Empires crumble and glaciers dissolve, stars die and oceans melt, out on the dusty planes of mother earth, hot bursts of young love gift the miracle of life; children are born, raised, stricken infirm and die of old age.

And then Mary McAleese walks in. By now, having been alone with my thoughts for the entire Cretaceous period, I am no longer mildly weird but deeply, extravagantly deranged. As the President of Ireland walks in, with my boss's boss's boss's boss, my first impulse is to greet them like I own the place. It would be rude, surely, to not acknowledge their presence? Out of order even. Best thing to do would obviously be to say "hello guys" like it's my home and I live there, in this big white room, where I stand in the corner, alone, holding a tray of drinks, like you do, at home.

Me: hello guys HELLO GUYS

Anyway, by the divine grace of the infant Christ, they somehow do not hear me say this, and begin their itinerary round the room. I clench my entire head and focus on not shouting across the room to let them know that they should always feel at home here in this room of ours.

I become extremely aware of my hands, and how I haven't felt them in a very long time. They're detuned to static , which would be worrying even if they weren't holding a tray of drinks filled with noise and judgement. I hold no faith or creed other than "do not drop these plz".

Just when dropping everything seems to become less urgent, I realise it's time to go over and offer these motherfuckers some fucken drinks, let's get this party started wooooooo I begin walking over to them and I move so abruptly that the glasses clink and they turn to look at me.

I did this too fast.

Now I'm thinking wooooah slow down there martina hingis, so I self-correct to a much slower speed. Watching my breath, nice and casual, you got this buddy. Guys. GUYS. Now, I'm moving far too slow. I started at this speed and I'm to embarassed to change and now it's gonna take me like 5 mins to cross the room. They are watching me, frowning and sweaty, traversing the 5 foot between us like it's a wooden plank on the Crystal Maze. I'm moving so slow my legs are cramping. I think they're wondering why it's taking me so long. It's way harder than walking at normal speed. I'm shaking so the drinks are making noise again. For what feels like minutes.

Anyway, I offer them the drinks and they say no. Do this another two times - how long was this presentation anyway, is this what the President does all day? Give her a brochure and a carryout ffs - and they say no.

By the end, I've calmed down a bit in physical side (sweating, shaking) but I still feel completely batshit. At one point I clearly remember believing that my mind had escaped my body and was watching me hold the tray of drinks from the wallspace behind my head. Only out-of-body experience I've ever had.

At the very end, they do accept a drink. It was at this point she spoke to me. Just some inane pleasantries, to which I reply with some off-the-hook pablum about work and college, at which point she says;

"Oh, is that a Northern accent I detect?"

Dawgs, you know I'm down for the Nordie solidarity vibe, but this is the last thing I need right now. "Yeeerrrsh" I say, with a goalkeeper's glove in my mouth. She starts talking about her experience coming down to study here, how it can be a real scenic change, but the making of you if you keep your eyes open to new experiences.

I can tell she definitely means green ketamine. She's a lovely woman, and very open and generous with her time, giving me ample space to answer her questions which I mostly do with sheepish, one-or-two-word answers. Finally, she asks me if Dublin is everything I thought it wou-

Me: YES I LIKE IT I THINK IT'S GOOD

I'd been paying such fierce attention, I'd mis-timed my reply AND badly modulated my volume. She actually recoiled a little. I think the head of the venue actually stepped back and said "jesus!". Mary McAleese flinched for what seemed like half a second, then flashed her best your-mum's-sound-mate smile and replaced her white wine on my tray.

The boss man nodded at me, they walked out of the room and I waited a few seconds before making my way downstairs to the kitchen. So at this point I'm thinking, wellll, I'm definitely fired but this will one day make a great story on an Nazi-riddled microblogging platform.

I make my way to the staff area, wipe my sopping face and check my phone. I had only been in the room for 35 minutes. Dympna pads in all smiles, thanking me for my help at short notice. She sees that I'm a bit freaked and says, almost with a wink, "you could have told me you'd be like this, by the way" I'm thinking, of course, Dympna gets what's up, it's the service industry, people mistime their vibes, I bet this isn't the first time she's seen some-

"I had no idea you were such a huge fan of Mary McAleese"

I'm sorry what again was that did you mean The boss man had indeed related the events upstairs to Dympna, but rather than a frightened waif hepped up on cat tranqs, he'd seen a political nerd deeply, irretrievably starstruck by contact with the 8th President of the Irish Republic, Mary McAleese. Presumably a political nerd with a gland problem, and low-grade artritis in both legs, and a tendency to welcome people into their workspaces, but a political nerd all the same.

Me: Oh, yeah well, you know, it's embarassing. She's, just amazing.

And you know what, she kinda is. She was always very nice to me each of the subsequent times we met - me doling out the drinks, her asking me how Dublin was getting on, all the while the other staff eyeing me to see how I was dealing with such close contact with my hero. I'd gurn and fret, play up to it when she'd be coming in, "oh what am I like". I'd bat away suggestions I fancied her from the more ribald members of the changing room, and laugh along with the usual jibes, safe in the knowledge my nerdy affect had saved my bacon.

So take ketamine at work, it's great.

END.

[casualarsonist]

How To Write The Sequel To A Successful TV Series, by The Duffer Bros.(Creators of the fledgling success, ‘Stranger Things’, and the vastly superior ‘Stranger Things 2′)

Remember the gross old days when the plot of an eight-episode series would unfold over eight whole episodes? Remember how the characters occupied themselves during that time by doing stupid things like uncovering the mystery at the centre of the narrative, and revealing parts of themselves that enabled the viewer to connect with them? 

Well we’re the Duffer Bros. and we say FUCK THAT. Fuck that behind the local Walmart on a sweaty Tuesday afternoon. 

Pacing and audience engagement is lame and outdated, friendo, and frankly, neither me, Doug Duffer, nor my brother Nug Duffer, would wipe our asses with a script that was tightly written, thrilling, and/or consistent. So with that in mind, here are our tips for how to become big famous TV boys in 2018. 

1: When starting your story, make sure that you open with a scene depicting something seemingly integral to an interesting plot - perhaps include characters the audience doesn’t know yet and link them to a central established character. Then, when that’s done, wait at least two-thirds of the series before you even mention that thing again. Treat your script like you treat the women you date - don’t call back for five weeks, because if you do your audience won’t have time to forget that the thing you set up ever existed and stop caring about it. You don’t actually have to bring it back ever again, but if you do, devote one episode and one episode only to it - don’t let it feed back into the plot at a later time, because establishing things that then become important later on is complicated, and it only appeals to annoying people like intellectuals and pedants. Instead, take all the moments that would otherwise end up on the cutting room floor, like multiple scenes of a character arguing with his sister in a car and then screeching off down the street with heavy metal music playing, or dozens of moments in which a person wakes up with a gasp, and sprinkle them liberally all over the place. This will ensure that you keep a steady flow of tweets coming from your core audience of people with low standards and short attention spans, such as babies, the mentally inhibited, and the millions of people that spend money on the Transformers films.

2: Plot balance is important. VERY important. Which is why you want to make sure that you even out the good pacing and tight narrative of your first season by scripting a second season that has neither of these things. Generally speaking, you want to aim for MORE episodes, and LESS story. If your first series was eight episodes long, make your second series NINE episodes long. I know this might sound like you’ll be doing more work, but don’t worry, because you’re not actually going to script nine episodes worth of story. Instead, make three episodes worth of story, and fill the other six episodes with padding that doesn’t impact the central narrative. Then, put the story episodes right at the end of the season to ensure that your audience spends the entire time hanging on to the hope that the thing they’re investing their precious time in will eventually be worth the life they wasted watching it. It will also leave them in a good enough mood not to immediately cancel their Netflix subscription when you drop some kind of killer ‘to be continued…’ moment at the end, like showing that the monster of the story isn’t dead, or having a hand pop up out of a grave, or something similarly awesome and not at all shit.

3: Be unpredictable. Specifically when it comes to your characters. The worst thing in the world for a screenwriter is when the audience can predict your characters’ decisions before they make them - it takes tension away from the scene, and makes your audience feel like they can relate to the person they’re watching, which is why you need to make sure that your characters are as distant from actual human beings as possible. Have you spent an entire season ensuring that the town’s sheriff was the foundation of reason and moral responsiblity? Throw that out the window and make him have a violent, screaming argument for no real reason with a 13-year-old kid - fuck it, TWO 13-year-old kids. Have you made a concerted effort to establish the personality of the leader and ethical compass of a group of plucky young teenagers? Then force him to be aggressively mean to a girl for eight episodes just because she wants to be his friend. Hell, why not take the smartest kid on screen and make him befriend and protect a demonic creature that looks an awful lot like the one that nearly killed his friends the year before. The sky’s the limit, really, just so long as you make sure that you’re not allowing your audience to ever feel like they understand what is happening to the people they’re watching.

4: ‘Nostalgia’ is a fancy word for ‘feeling the sex feelings for a thing that happened in the before-time’, and it’s a great way to get a whole bunch of people who are terribly depressed about their adult lives to come and watch your show. But if you’re anything like us and dealing with 80s nostalgia, then that means that your target audience are Gen X, Gen Y, and Millenials, and everyone knows that they have the attention spans of a bunch of church mice on ketamine. Which is why you have to be careful that you don’t ever let them forget what year it is that your show is set in. There are a number of ways you can do this: 

- Mullets. Prominently feature a goofy mullet. If your modern-day actors won’t grow one, don’t fret, a terrible wig will do exactly the same job, and no-one will even notice. 

- Television. Feature lots of old televisions with visible resolution lines. In the olden days people didn’t have 1080p, so everyone used to watch a light-up box that only had four pixels on it. These pixels would alternate in colour, from brown, to beige, to red, to black, to brown again. They found this very amusing because their brains were roughly a third the size of a modern human’s brain, and the only other things to do of an evening were to eat frozen corn around the dinner table or with friends, or put on pants and go and watch the executions in the town square. 

- Music. It’s a scientifically established fact that music is the only good thing that the 80s produced. Therefore you must drown your show in licensed music. Start every scene with an instantly recognisable song, and end every scene with an instantly recognisable song. If you don’t have dialogue for a scene, don’t worry, because you can just mix an instantly recognisable song over the other audio - people won’t care that they can’t hear what the characters are saying, because they will be too busy recognising the song you’re playing for them and wishing they weren’t being screwed over by the economy. 

- Eggos. Put. Eggos. EVERYWHERE.

5: Lastly, the most important lesson of them all - the lesson of fear. Fear of the unknown is the greatest fear a person can feel, which is why the number one rule of scary films is that you don’t want to erode the fear factor by revealing too much of the monster and where he comes from. Which is why you should do the exact opposite and reveal NOTHING about the monster or where he comes from (apart from maybe the fact that the monster has a gender, and that gender is male). Tell the audience nothing new at all - don’t give them ANYTHING (apart from the fact that it’s a ‘he’). Don’t even show the monster that was in the previous season at all. It’s a good thing to leave the audience wondering why there are three hundred new monsters when there was only one old monster - unanswered questions like this are called ‘mystery’, and idiots people love it. And speaking of which, when you reach the last episode, tie everything up without having made any progress at all, because not knowing the point of the series you just watched is the scariest unknown of all.

See? It’s simple! Even a dingus can write and direct an unnecessary follow-up series to a successful TV show. To be honest, we didn’t even write the first one - a computer algorithm did it for us, and we just sat back smoking rolled-up strips of newspaper that we pretended were cigarettes and watched the money flow in. And after the first season became weirdly popular, we finally had the capital to buy all the licensed music we wanted, and fully realise our TRUE vision of what Stranger Things should be - the cassette tape from Guardians of the Galaxy. 

Sweet.

TO BE CONTINUED…

[fitnesshealthyoga-blog]

New Post has been published on https://fitnesshealthyoga.com/caution-urged-over-use-of-fast-acting-version-of-ketamine-for-depression/

Caution urged over use of fast-acting version of ketamine for depression

Ketamine is a darling of combat medics and clubgoers, an anesthetic that can quiet your pain without suppressing breathing and a hallucinogenic that can get you high with little risk of a fatal overdose.

For some patients, it also has dwelled in the shadows of conventional medicine as a depression treatment — prescribed by their doctors, but not approved for that purpose by the federal agency responsible for determining which treatments are “safe and effective.”

That effectively changed in March, when the Food and Drug Administration approved a ketamine cousin called esketamine, taken as a nasal spray, for patients with intractable depression. With that, the esketamine nasal spray, under the brand name Spravato, was introduced as a miracle drug — announced in press releases, celebrated on the evening news and embraced by major health care providers like the Department of Veterans Affairs.

The problem, critics say, is that the drug’s manufacturer, Janssen, provided the FDA at best modest evidence it worked and then only in limited trials. It presented no information about the safety of Spravato for long-term use beyond 60 weeks. And three patients who received the drug died by suicide during clinical trials, compared with none in the control group, raising red flags Janssen and the FDA dismissed.

The FDA, under political pressure to rapidly greenlight drugs that treat life-threatening conditions, approved it anyway. And, though Spravato’s appearance on the market was greeted with public applause, some deep misgivings were expressed at its day-long review meeting and in the agency’s own briefing materials, according to public recordings, documents and interviews with participants, KHN found.

Dr. Jess Fiedorowicz, director of the Mood Disorders Center at the University of Iowa and a member of the FDA advisory committee that reviewed the drug, described its benefit as “almost certainly exaggerated” after hearing the evidence.

Fiedorowicz said he expected at least a split decision by the committee. “And then it went strongly in favor, which surprised me,” he said in an interview.

Esketamine’s trajectory to approval shows — step by step — how drugmakers can take advantage of shortcuts in the FDA process with the agency’s blessing and maneuver through safety and efficacy reviews to bring a lucrative drug to market.

Step 1: In late 2013, Janssen got the FDA to designate esketamine a “breakthrough therapy” because it showed the potential to reverse depression rapidly — a holy grail for suicidal patients, such as those in an emergency room. That potential was based on a two-day study during which 30 patients were given esketamine intravenously.

“Breakthrough therapy” status puts drugs on a fast track to approval, with more frequent input from the FDA.

Step 2: But discussions between regulators and drug manufacturers can affect the amount and quality of evidence required by the agency. In the case of Spravato, they involved questions like, how many drugs must fail before a patient’s depression is considered intractable or “treatment-resistant”? And how many successful clinical trials are necessary for FDA approval?

Step 3: Any prior agreements can leave the FDA’s expert advisory committees hamstrung in reaching a verdict. Fiedorowicz abstained on Spravato because, though he considered Janssen’s study design flawed, the FDA had approved it.

The expert panel cleared the drug according to the evidence that the agency and Janssen had determined was sufficient. Dr. Matthew Rudorfer, an associate director at the National Institute of Mental Health, concluded that the “benefits outweighed the risks.” Explaining his “yes” vote, he said: “I think we’re all agreeing on the very important, and sometimes life-or-death, risk of inadequately treated depression that factored into my equation.”

But others who also voted “yes” were more explicit in their qualms. “I don’t think that we really understand what happens when you take this week after week for weeks and months and years,” said Steven Meisel, the system director of medication safety for Fairview Health Services based in Minneapolis.

A nasal spray offers a path to a patent

Spravato is available only under supervision at a certified facility, like a doctor’s office, where patients must be monitored for at least two hours after taking the drug to watch for side effects like dizziness, detachment from reality and increased blood pressure, as well as to reduce the risk of abuse. Patients must take it with an oral antidepressant.

Despite those requirements, Janssen, part of Johnson & Johnson, defended its new offering. “Until the recent FDA approval of Spravato, health care providers haven’t had any new medication options,” Kristina Chang, a Janssen spokeswoman, wrote in an emailed statement.

Esketamine is the first new type of drug approved to treat severe depression in about three decades.

Although ketamine has been used off-label for years to treat depression and post-traumatic stress disorder, drugmakers saw little profit in doing the studies to prove to the FDA that it worked for that purpose. But a nasal spray of esketamine, which is derived from ketamine and (in some studies) more potent, could be patented as a new drug.

Although Spravato costs more than $4,700 for the first month of treatment (not including the cost of monitoring or the oral antidepressant), insurers are more likely to reimburse for Spravato than for ketamine, since the latter is not approved for depression.

Shortly before the committee began voting, a study participant identifying herself only as “Patient 20015525” said: “I am offering real-world proof of efficacy, and that is I am both alive and here today.”

The drug did not work “for the majority of people who took it,” Meisel, the medication safety expert, said in an interview. “But for a subset of those for whom it did work, it was dramatic.”

Concerns about testing precedents

Those considerations apparently helped outweigh several scientific red flags that committee members called out at the hearing.

Although the drug had gotten breakthrough status because of its potential for results within 24 hours, the trials were not persuasive enough for the FDA to label it “rapid-acting.”

The FDA typically requires that applicants provide at least two clinical trials demonstrating the drug’s efficacy, “each convincing on its own.” Janssen provided just one successful short-term, double-blind trial of esketamine. Two other trials it ran to test efficacy fell short.

To reach the two-trial threshold, the FDA broke its precedent for psychiatric drugs and allowed the company to count a trial conducted to study a different topic: relapse and remission trends. But, by definition, every patient in the trial had already taken and seen improvement from esketamine.

What’s more, that single positive efficacy trial showed just a 4-point improvement in depression symptoms compared with the placebo treatment on a 60-point scale some clinicians use to measure depression severity. Some committee members noted the trial wasn’t really blind since participants could recognize they were getting the drug from side effects like a temporary out-of-body sensation.

Finally, the FDA lowered the bar for “treatment-resistant depression.” Initially, for inclusion, trial participants would have had to have failed two classes of oral antidepressants.

Less than two years later, the FDA loosened that definition, saying a patient needed only to have taken two different pills, no matter the class.

Forty-nine of the 227 people who participated in Janssen’s only successful efficacy trial had failed just one class of oral antidepressants. “They weeded out the true treatment-resistant patients,” said Dr. Erick Turner, a former FDA reviewer who serves on the committee but did not attend the meeting.

Six participants died during the studies, three by suicide. Janssen and the FDA dismissed the deaths as unrelated to the drug, noting the low number and lack of a pattern among hundreds of participants. They also pointed out that suicidal behavior is associated with severe depression — even though those who had suicidal ideation with some intent to act in the previous six months, or a history of suicidal behavior in the previous year, were excluded from the studies.

In a recent commentary in the American Journal of Psychiatry, Dr. Alan Schatzberg, a Stanford University researcher who has studied ketamine, suggested there might be a link due to “a protracted withdrawal reaction, as has been reported with opioids,” since ketamine appears to interact with the brain’s opioid receptors.

Kim Witczak, the committee’s consumer representative, found Janssen’s conclusion about the suicides unsatisfying. “I just feel like it was kind of a quick brush-over,” Witczak said in an interview. She voted against the drug.

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