#◈ queue ── the past is prologue. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

embossross · 1 year

Text

The Art Collector

Prologue >> Chapter 1 >> Masterlist

✣ Pairing: Mikey x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+ dark explicit content, minors DNI

✣ Series: part of the In the Belly of the Beast fic universe

✣ Chapter CWs: references to past cheating, drinking, author is not an artist and is Reaching for this character lol

✣ Story CWs: yandere, stalking, dubcon, kidnap, sex (ptv, oral), rough sex, and probably more to come

✣Synopsis: Mikey isn't like your typical boyfriends. He isn't an artist. He doesn't sport a messy bun or name drop Heidegger. He's just an antisocial IT guy. Or at least that's what he's told you...You may not know your boyfriend as well as you think you do, and by the time you realize your mistake, it may be too late for him. Or you.

✣ Word Count: ~6k and counting

It wasn’t raining or snowing, yet here you stood, struggling. You cupped a hand over the lighter, clove cigarette dangling from your pursed lips. This time you succeeded. A lungful of bitter smoke flooded your belly, and every synapse fired in relief at the familiar rush. You sank into a crouch, back against the wall as you savored your first smoke in six weeks.

On the other side of the wall, inside where it was warm and the harsh, unseasonable winds didn’t beat down like a father’s heavy hand, a dozen or so patrons wandered a little art gallery. It was the opening night of your first ever solo exhibition.

Thirty-eight minutes. That was how long you had survived playacting your official role as artist on display before you had snuck through a door marked employees’ only to smoke away the heartburn that flared in the face of phoniness.

To exhibit anywhere, even a dingy little art gallery in a dead backstreet of Kichijoji, one that saw less foot traffic than a 21st century Blockbuster video, was an enormous privilege. At twenty-seven, most artists slaved away at parttime jobs to afford cup ramen or hung up their paints for a life of housewife drudgery. You were so very fortunate, and if you were the type for positive affirmations, you would remind yourself of that more regularly.

The reverberations of polite dialogue trickled from inside, past the open door, to where you hid. You needn’t hear the exact words to know what they were saying. Trivialities as they strolled past work that dwarfed months of your life. Whether their comments were good or bad, asinine or nuanced, it didn’t make much difference.

Was it wrong to make art not just for the sake of its creation but in the hopes that someone, anyone, might find in your work the hidden messages that you knew were there, just out of your grasp, if only someone might decode them for you?

The breaking point that had sent you fleeing for the alley came from a smartly dressed woman, who praised one of your paintings as an ‘arcadian fantasy,’ as a ‘violent refusal of modern social organization,’ and return to innocence. She had categorized it as a clear response to the Tōhoku tsunami’s continued psychological and economic impact on the Yutori generation.

The painting in question depicted four schoolchildren at play. Lush green grass layered in oils dominated the background, leaving no visual queues as to the time of day, weather, or location as if the playground extended for eternity: back, back, back. The children appeared happy, but upon closer study, the viewer would find each child was built from an amalgamation of swirls. The swirls varied in size, but each one spiraled predictably at the same angle and to the same inevitable end. Using your most delicate paintbrush to measure to exactitude the angles, you had labored for hundreds of hours on that piece.

During the painting process, when you would stumble home after a night of drinking, you would get lost in those swirls, a sense of overwhelming mawkishness rising up from your gut at how each child was bound for the same destination. Everything was so predetermined in their young lives.

The spiral motif appeared again and again in tonight’s collection, going largely unnoticed by the gallery’s patrons. The only time your swirls seized attention was in your one interactive piece: four wooden panels, 75x225 centimeters, one fitted as a door to create a cramped room. Inside the panels were covered in tar paper and painted a deep black. Then, you had layered on the swirls in a gritty grey, so they dominated every spare millimeter of space, spinning and spinning. You had dubbed it the panic attack room because closed inside, you would be confronted with the inverse of infinity, feel the walls moving closer with every winding spiral.

The two “journalists” there that night – one an art blogger, the other covering for a university newspaper – both attended solely to try out that room. They thought it might make an attractive picture spot as interactive art was all the rage.

Speaking to them earlier, both presumed so much about your work and influences. You must have so admired Kusama Yayoi’s infinity rooms, they said; yes, you recognized Kusama as one of the greatest living artists, but no she was not a direct inspiration for your piece. The art blogger asked if, like the French-American sculptor Louise Bourgeois, you saw the spiral as a symbol of “freedom and control;” no, not remotely. The student journalist wondered if you’d read Uzumaki by Junji Ito as it depicted spirals in horror; no, you had never heard of it.

One of your friends, Shiyuri, had urged you to spell out the meaning behind your work on the placards that accompanied each piece.

“Don’t just name your art,” she had insisted. “Give people some guidance, some keywords, or shit, so they know they’re looking in the right direction.”

You had thanked her for the suggestion, even stared at a blank Word document for a half hour hoping to write out something helpful, but the words did not come. Behind each artwork yawned a question, dreadful and all-encompassing, and you painted in the hopes that someone, someday might answer. Maybe then you would finally understand yourself.

“There you are!” the curator boomed, peering around the doorway to where you crouched. “I’ve been looking everywhere. You won’t believe it. Every piece! Sold! Just like that!”

“I can believe it,” you breathed out around a last, lingering puff of smoke.

The curator’s beard twitched as he rushed to tell you about the phone call. A mysterious figure had bid to buy every single painting on display for the full asking price. He hadn’t even tried to haggle! The man’s fingers waggled as he spoke as if imagining the bills he would count and caress once he received his commission for hosting your work. He led you back inside with a hand at your back and the promise of celebratory champagne.

Inside, the orangish lights cast your work in warm tones that drew out their vibrancy. People flocked to the paintings now that they saw the lauded stamp of approval beside each, the sought after “sold” sticker that warned them this was their last chance to see the collection before it was locked away forever.

The champagned tasted fine as it fizzed down your throat. Around you, the blogger and student journalist prattled about how artist patronage of this sort was so uncommon these days. The curator boasted how he put you on the map with this exhibit. Your show was officially a success.

When ten rolled around and the last of the patrons left the gallery, you and your friends made the short walk to Harmonica Alley, settling on the first empty bar you found. It was standing room only, so you formed a single column at the bar. Your group tallied six in total: you, your four housemates, and one of your housemate’s new boyfriend. An hour ago, you had texted an invitation to the jazz musician you were seeing, but he shot back that he was busy with a gig and couldn’t join. He promised to see you soon and capped off the message with a winking emoji.

The once quiet bar grew rowdy as your friends settled into place. All of you were artists, renting a house together, a commune of sorts for creatives not long out of school. You shared the two bedrooms on the second floor with Shiyuri and Kii, rotating the private room every month to keep things equitable. Then, on the first floor, you’d hung a curtain over what was probably meant to be a dining room to create a makeshift bedroom for the boys, Yuudai and Fujio. There was a basement as well, but by unanimous vote that was retained as a studio for your collective use.

By the time you ordered a third round of beers – on you and your new windfall you assured your friends – everyone was red cheeked and loud as only twenty-somethings on a Friday night can be.

Normally, conversation would turn to topics like whether the newest arthouse film was worth seeing, the status and inspiration behind your current projects, and any household gossip, but tonight your housemates were joined by Kii’s new boyfriend, Shinosuke, and he couldn’t resist asking the obvious question.

Who had bought all your paintings tonight? And why weren’t you more surprised?

Your friends exhausted that topic months ago but as Shinosuke was himself an art student, the kind who monologued about the virtues of sacrifice in the name of art, fashioning himself as a starving idealist in the vein of a young Yoshizawa Akira – as if his parents didn’t deposit a tidy sum in his bank account every month – he fixated on the night’s dreamlike events.

“I don’t know who bought them,” you admitted.

“I think it might’ve been that woman in the fur coat. She looked like she had money, and she said she liked the painting of the empty hallway,” Shinosuke said.

“No, no, we know it’s a man, and that he always orders everything over the phone,” Kii explained.

“Always? Wait, so this has happened before?”

You shrugged, too bored by the saga of your good fortune to answer, but Yuudai jumped in and answered for you, “It happens nonstop. Everything she’s put up for sale in the last six months. This mystery guy just calls right up and buys it all. I’ve been telling the universe to send him my way, but so far, no dice.”

Seven months actually. It had been seven months since the first strange purchase. The lack of name hadn’t seemed so odd then when the cash was warm in your pocket. Then, your next painting had sold within mere hours of debuting. Then, the next. The guarantee that your work would sell was why you could afford to exhibit in a real gallery in the first place. It also earned you enough money to pay your water bill, to no longer worry over the expense of new brushes or the cost of good tampons. You even stashed a little away in savings. Thanks to your mysterious benefactor, you were the most financially stable member of your art collective.

“How can you have no idea?” Shinosuke demanded. “How would this rich, art-loving guy even find you? And why would he buy up all your art?”

“It’s not that crazy. Some artists have exclusive patrons even today. It’s rare, but it happens,” you said.

Shinosuke pressed his stomach into the bar and leveled you with a smirk. “Sounds like a sugar daddy situation to me. If he has any hot friends, hook me up, okay? I’d sell more than my body to get my art out there.”

Dents in the shape of fingerprints mangled your beer can. Kii’s faux-outrage, more worried about Shinosuke pimping himself out than the insult to her friend, saved you from having to respond.

Maybe Shinouske’s dumb remark could be chalked up to male pride. It was the kind of comment that almost any male artist languishing in obscurity might make when faced with a woman’s comparative success. They all figured that success came entirely at their own expense, a kind of stolen recognition. The art world thrived on scarcity, and you didn’t entirely blame Shinosuke for his resentment.

But you wondered if Shinouske’s mind might circle sugar daddies for a different reason. Kii might have run her mouth about that time you slept with your professor.

(You hadn’t slept with your professor to improve your grades, mind you, or for any other professional advantage. You had slept with him because you were young, and you liked the way his hands shaped around clay in your pottery class. You had slept with him because it was lonely that first year at CalTech, where you discovered your English was less “conversational” than passable. You had slept with him because you liked the way he would gasp out, like a confession, that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever been with as you rolled around in cum-stained sheets that his wife would later clean. Like you said, you had been young. You would do it all differently now.)

The congratulatory beer doesn’t warm you on the way down. There wasn’t much to celebrate anyway when everyone took your success for granted these days, when your art would only be hidden away from the world in some rich asshole’s vault.

That was the other reason for the exhibit. You wanted someone, anyone, to see your work before it disappeared from your sight forever.

You excused yourself as if to the bathroom but made a beeline for the exit. A second cigarette laid crumbled in the pocket of your jeans, and since you were already off the bandwagon, you figured you might as well enjoy.

Thick cloud cover shaded the night in misty grays, but the moon glowed down unimpeded like someone had punched a hole in the sky just to let it shine. Still, the wattage of the moon couldn’t compete with the many LED lights that shone from streetlamps and storefronts alike. You had dressed for a warm spring night, but the wind had other ideas, stinging the bared skin of your arms and legs.

Once again, you struggled with your lighter, but before the spark could flicker to life, a hand, ghostly in the moonlight, held a flame up to your cigarette.

You screamed.

There were no blind spots on the narrow road, and there should have been no way to approach you without the sixth sense you possessed as a born-and-bred city dweller kicking in to warn you. Yet here stood a stranger. You raised a hand to your forehead to check for fever, wondering if you drank too much at the bar.

The man – because of course it was a man, you thought wryly – was shabbily dressed in a too-large black tee-shirt and joggers. The baggy clothes concealed his frame, but he looked small, shockingly so. Sharp clavicles jutted out above his shirt collar, and his gaunt cheekbones stood in sharp relief against a shadowed face. He might have been any age, a boyish prettiness put him in his early twenties, but his eyes…his eyes had seen things. Between his frailty and bottle blonde hair, he looked like he daylighted as a pretty boy idol.

“You scared me.”

He didn’t offer an apology. You couldn’t place what about this stranger unsettled you. The happy chatter of your friends drifted from the open entryway only a short distance away. Most of the other shops on the street were sealed shut by metal gates, but passersby ambled past the opening of the alleyway every few seconds. There was no rational reason to feel afraid, but you couldn’t escape the impression his icy smirk left on you, the impression of stumbling into a vampire movie and now playing the part of the woman who dies stupidly. His face of contradictions, his silent tread as he approached, and now, his undeniable presence all unnerved you.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating?” the man asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the artist, right? Didn’t all your art sell?” the stranger jerked his head in the direction of the gallery.

“Yeah, yes, drinks on me tonight!” you said.

“Oh, thanks. But I’ll take a rain check.”

Reality rebalanced itself as you laughed. The only horrors that awaited you were the hangover symptoms sure to greet you in the morning. This guy was just some starving artist who stopped by for a drink after the show, same as you and your friends.

“I liked your show. I’m not surprised it sold out as fast as it did,” the stranger said.

You don’t deign to thank him in the same way he avoided apologizing for scaring you. Strange to start off a conversation on such a rude foundation, but the polite niceties seem superfluous when judged against this man’s innate intensity.

“What kind of art do you make?” you asked.

The stranger chuckled. When he shook his head, the messy blond locks that framed his face swung momentarily to shield his eyes. The fine strands looked baby soft, almost translucent.

“I’m no artist,” he said.

“Really? If you’re not an artist, why do you go to shows? Usually, the only people who come to these sorts of things are other artists or friends of the artist. I’m not a big name, so it’s not like I draw a crowd.”

“I don’t. I just walked into yours because it was there. First time I’ve ever done that.”

“Ah, so when you say it was good, you mean it was better than the alternative, which is nothing,” you teased.

“No. Your art moved me.”

Such simple words. Such black eyes. They could suck you in. Yet the sensation of falling was almost pleasant, a kind of indulgence that raised goosepimples up and down your arms.

“What…what about it moved you?” you croaked.

The man shrugged. “I don’t know anything about art, remember? I can’t explain it.”

“Nah, I’m sure you can. All theory does is teach people to lie about what they’re seeing. I mean, I love reading theory to spark ideas or challenge my preconceived notions, but I think it’s more helpful in the creation of art than in the understanding of it. You go to school, and they teach you how to contextualize everything within these discourses, even if they don’t actually apply to what you’re looking at. As if art isn’t a visual medium. All you need to understand it is to look. Or, well, at least that’s what I think.”

Another half-assed dissertation on your work would send you to the hospital. This man claimed to be moved by your art, and you wanted to know what he felt, not what sounded impressive to the ear.

“How to explain it? Looking at your paintings, those spiral things especially, it’s like they sucked me in. But, rather than pulling me outside of myself, they pushed me back into myself, like the block hole was inside me, and so to look at your art was to look at myself. Does that make sense? I never liked art growing up. I always thought it was stupid the way artists tried to make something beautiful when nothing they make could ever beat a sunrise. The world is beautiful, I thought, but humans? We’re too ugly, too corrupted to create something truly beautiful. Looking at your art, I don’t see beauty, but I do see myself, every ugly part, and there’s something beautiful in that. Almost.”

As he spoke, the stranger met your gaze with unflinching eyes. You swore they swirled with all the same power and loss as your paintings. True to his words, they sucked you into their depths.

“See, you don’t need to learn theory to talk about art. Actually, you kind of stumbled into centuries long discourses about the possibilities and purposes of representation in art. And, while I’m not going to agree that aesthetics don’t matter or that beauty is impossible – because, hello, I am an artist – I know exactly what you mean. There’s a theory called the Formulation Theory of Expression that basically just says art is an outward expression of the artist’s inward feelings. When I paint, it’s because there’s something inside me that I don’t understand, and when I put it on the canvas or whatever…I can look at it outside myself. And then, I feel like I can conquer it or at least live with it.”

At some point while you spoke, you wrapped your arms around yourself, rubbing at chilled flesh. The cramped alley created a wind tunnel effect, directing all the elements straight at your lightly clothed body. The stranger’s eyes tracked your shiver.

“You’re cold.”

“Yeah, I think it might storm. This wind is weird,” you said.

“I don’t have a jacket to give you…” the stranger frowned.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

“How about we take a walk? It’ll be warmer if we keep moving,” he offered.

You glanced back at the bar where your friends remained happily ensconced. Through the entrance, you could see Shiyuri flirt with the bartender. The bar shaded in yellows and reds looked toasty, the simplest way to warm up. Your stranger, on the other hand, looked cold and somehow otherworldly, like he could never join your friends for a pint and a chat, like he was meant to wander the streets like a wraith until the sun rose and dissolved him back into the sea.

“Why not? So long as we don’t go too far,” you agreed.

With an illicit thrum of adventure, like you were doing something naughty, you took the stranger’s icy hand in yours and led him onto the main drag. You debated whether to head to Inokashira Park to enjoy the moonlight on the water or the opposite direction to stroll the shopping on Sun Road before deciding on the latter. The man let you drag him along without complaint.

You set a steady pace until you reached the shelter of Sun Road. Glass paneling overhead blocked out the moon and shielded you from the worst of the elements. Soon, you were warm, blood pumping strongly in your veins, but you didn’t let go of the man’s hand as his fingers stayed chilly in your grip.

An hour passed without you accounting for it. Childhood memories of Osaka and the free-wheeling college years you spent in Pasadena, venturing into L.A. as the mood struck, provided a benchmark against which you judged all cities. Since moving to Tokyo six years back, you were sure of one thing. You loved Tokyo with your whole heart.

You loved its tall buildings, the character of those varied architectural styles that never sought unity with one another and made for such an ugly skyline. You loved that it made a wonderland of the skies, climbing up, up, up as the city grew ever taller, loved that it made a playground of the underground, carving shops and restaurants out of earth and rock to accompany the subway system. You loved its people, who set the speed and schedule of the city. All that life happening just outside your door if you only thought to look.

It was a rare treat to visit Musashino as you sometimes went months without leaving your district, let alone Tokyo, and as you wandered about, you considered that your love just might extend to Tokyo’s network of satellite cities, too, thankful for the supportive flavor they added to the place you had made your chosen home.

Your eyes feasted on the vibrancy around you: the messy mix of old and new, high and low – a fortune teller’s impromptu stand blocking the entrance to a Krispy Kreme, a high fashion boutique on one side of the road and a hundred yen shop on the other. The smell of fresh bread wafted from a bakery only to be replaced by the heady scent of perfume from a department store a few steps beyond. A few shops had yet to take down their Golden Week decorations, and colorful carp streamers gaped with dumb open mouths down from those storefronts.

As you walked, the conversation flowed easily between you both. You would talk for a few minutes about aesthetics, and then he would return with a dazzling compliment, delivered as if it were the merest trifle, about how your art made him feel seen for the first time in so very long. He told you about old friends, who had insisted they understood him just because they were always looking but in reality, only saw the afterimage of the man he once was and refused to see the shell in front of them. You told him how you never felt less seen than after someone looked at your work, the contradiction and frustration of failing to communicate when you poured your soul into each piece.

You never talked like this with your friends. They would have called you pretentious, a death knell in your world, and scolded you for not appreciating the honor of even having an audience in the first place. The stranger, on the other hand, showed no signs of irritation as you unburdened yourself, your steps growing lighter and lighter with each confession.

Several times, you almost walked right into a trash can or utility pole. The stranger jerked you out of the way each time. After another near accident, your body bumped into his and stayed there, glued to his side where it was safest.

The many sights of the shopping distract were distracting enough, but it was the man’s eyes that increasingly tripped you up. They were all-consuming as they listened so intently to your every word. Yes, listened! His eyes rather than his ears received what you said. So black, they were almost a void. You wondered how you might capture them on paper. Charcoal was the obvious choice, but you doubted you would be able to render the nuances, the momentary flecks of light that warmed his haunted face and made the contrasting darkness all the more harrowing. Cold sweat collected in the creases of your arms if you stared into them too long.

“You know, I’m not always this moody,” you said, having just finished angstily opining against your audience. “I get anxious about showing my work, but on a normal day, I’m a lot of fun.”

“Oh, yeah?” the man hummed.

“Yes, very fun and bright,” you said cheerfully as if to prove yourself. “I’m a super fun friend to have because I love to go out and try new things, see shows, visit new places. And, I always have a ton of energy because I drink too much coffee, which now that I say it, doesn’t sound like a positive, but I swear it is. And, I am a great conversationalist, which…that one you already know.”

The ghostly facsimile of a smile brightened the stranger’s face as he said, “Well, I’m sold. You sound like a fun friend to have.”

“And you? Your turn to pitch me.”

“Pitch you?’

“Yeah, you now wanna be my friend, so you’ve gotta convince me that I want to be friends with you, too?” you teased.

“Your friend, huh? I guess that depends. Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

Thoughts of the jazz musician you’d been seeing made you hesitate. You thought of his fingers, so nimble as they danced across piano keys, his smile – cool and remote and the right kind of unattainable to make your heart race –, and his deep bass rumble when he got excited about music. You liked him, maybe enough to consider making him your boyfriend, but neither of you had broached the topic yet, and left in the no man’s land of situationships, you had no loyalties to betray.

Until now, you had balanced precariously on the line between friendly and flirtatious with this stranger, not entirely sure which direction you ought to tip. Despite his dismissal of aesthetics, the man’s face was certainly aesthetically appealing. Not merely handsome, but arresting, the kind of face you could stare at for hours. And, when he spoke about your art, your tummy buzzed with a feeling not so different from infatuation.

So, you answered honestly.

“Not really.”

The stranger nodded, once again quirking his lips into something that almost passed as a smile but didn’t penetrate his eyes.

“Well, what’s there to say about me? I have err, security, money, and time? I work from home doing IT stuff, so I set my own schedule,” he said, and then grew quiet for several long beats as he struggled to come up with more. “I…am a good driver. I have a license to drive cars and motorbikes.”

“Well, that does sound fun. I don’t have a license,” you giggled, and then you knocked your shoulder into his. “Come on, you’re supposed to be selling yourself to me. Tell me that you’re the funniest guy in every room or something.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not the point. This dark and mysterious act is hot and all, but I want to know what you’re like on like a Wednesday afternoon not just on a Friday night when you’re brooding outside bars,” you said.

“I used to be fun,” the man conceded. “I was somehow always the leader in this friend group I had as a kid. People just looked to me. And I had all these dreams and ideas and the ambition to see them out. I was always reaching for something, and my friends were right there with me.”

“What changed?”

“My family died.”

“Oh my God!”

Stunned by the barefaced admission, you dropped his hand for a moment and then hurried to relace your fingers with his. Every time you compared him in your mind to a ghost or wraith or vampire returned to you. He wasn’t some dead thing but the very opposite, startlingly and devastatingly alive despite his loss.

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed to say. “For your loss I mean, and for all those jokes. I didn’t mean to be such an asshole.”

“It’s okay. It’s been over ten years now since my sister died, so I’m used to living with it. I figured you would understand after looking at your paintings. I could tell you’ve lost people, too,” he said.

“Not really, actually. I’ve only lost a grandmother I wasn’t that close to,” you admitted.

He came to a halt, right in the center of the sidewalk and studied you. A generator, in the alley behind his back, whirred loudly. When you looked at him, the darkness of the alley seemed to reach forward as if to swallow him up.

“I don’t understand. Your art has so much pain in it. Grief.”

“It does in a way. When I was a kid, I went through this – and I’m so sorry, this is so awfully morbid after what you just said about your sister – but I went through this obsession with corpses. I would beg my mom to take me to cemeteries everywhere we went. We actually visited the one up ahead at Gesso-ji Temple once. I wasn’t obsessed with death but the corpse itself. I’ve always been fascinated by abjection, the revulsion we feel at something that was once the self, transformed into the other. It’s in most of my works, this interrogation of what is that which is no longer us. How much of the self is left in the corpse? It must not be much based on the way we react to them. Anyway, I guess I have this perversity in me. I can’t forget that everything ends even when I’m happiest. Especially then. So, I find myself mourning people that are still there. It’s kind of sick when you think about it,” you said.

Maybe that morbidity explained your love of Tokyo. A city on the verge. One seismic shift, and then, collapse. The Tokyo Skytree would fall, devastation, evacuation. An ending both symbolic and true. But until that day, it shone brighter than anywhere else, glowing like a beacon for whatever astronauts peered down from space.

Engrossed by you as if you yourself were a work of precious art, the stranger continued walking without once looking away from your face.

“That’s smart,” he said finally. “I wish I’d known to mourn people while I still could. I would have appreciated them more. Kept them safe.”

Persistent buzzing from your pocket reminded you that you were hardly appreciating your own friends. They probably thought you’d fallen in the toilet at this point. You asked the man if he minded and fished out your phone. There were four missed calls and ten unread messages. You skipped reading any as you could imagine well enough what your friends wanted and dialed Kii.

“Hey, sorry about that,” you said when she answered.

“Where are you? We wanna head home, and the subway’s gonna close in an hour.”

“I needed some fresh air and ended up taking a walk. Didn’t realize how long it’s been. If you give me twenty minutes, I can come back with you guys.”

“Well, you better. Don’t forget you’re paying!” Kii cheered.

As you chatted, the man loomed over your shoulder, or loomed wasn’t quite right. He didn’t have that tall, physically intimidating presence some men had. His stillness, however, was eerie, his ability to stand patiently as you made plans without fiddling with his own phone or scratching a single itch. The only motion he indulged was scanning his surroundings, dark eyes missing nothing.

“Sorry about that, but I have to get back. Walk me?” you asked.

The man hooked his elbow through yours this time, and you walked arm in arm back to the bar. He kept you busy with questions about how you learned to paint, your next collection, your hopes for your career. After hearing about his family, his reticence no longer struck you as weird, and you appreciated his desire to simply listen.

Exiting Sun Road, the night returned in full force. The cityscape was a living thing, loud with sighing exhaust pipes and gurgling streams overheard as you crossed over storm drains. You made sure to appreciate every moment of it.

Somehow, the hurried walk back felt longer than the leisurely, initial stroll from the bar. Time froze and then sped up when you talked to this strange man, but too soon, you were back. Sounds of your friends’ good cheer trickled from the bar.

“Well, I’ve gotta get back to my friends. Thanks for keeping me warm,” you said.

Once more, the stranger’s mouth moved, corners curling up, but this time, even though the air was still, you shuddered with your whole body. You had the strangest impression that he didn’t want to let you go. That he wouldn’t let you go.

This figment of your overactive imagination passed quickly as he merely nodded.

“I’ll be on the lookout for your next show, then. It was fun,” he said.

“Fun? You? In that case, why wait? Let me give you my number, and we can grab a drink sometime.”

You typed your number into his phone without scrutinizing the spontaneous decision beyond the basics that he was hot and his hand fit well in yours. He may not have been your usual type – not an artist, no messy bun, not a single name drop to Heidegger the entire conversation – but he was attractive in a midnight kind of way, and he saw something in your art that you wanted to see for yourself.

Watching his retreating back, you were struck by the thought that he might be what you had been looking for all this time.

“Hey, wait a second!” you called after him. “I just realized, you know my name, but I don’t know yours!”

“Sangawa Manaomi,” the man answered quickly. “But my friends call me Mikey.”

‘Well, friend, Mikey it is then!”

You would be waiting for his call.

#tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader smut #tokyorev smut #mikey sano #manjiro sano #mikey smut #mikey x reader #mikey x reader smut

170 notes · View notes

oneweek-mkg · 5 months

Text

“Hello, to all of those listening to this. My name is unimportant, and what is lies in what it is that I do. One week ago today, the world was met with a flurry…of cards.“

“Every man, woman, non-binary individual, and seemingly sentient soul upon this earth was given what we’ve elected to refer to as ‘Tarrow Cards’, with a title on the front and a single word on its back.”

“Regardless of age, your card appears to have given you a new fascinating ability, most of which the world has never seen before. The world is changing quickly, it seems. No matter your belief on the state of the world before that day, it is now impossible to deny the supernatural state of this landscape we all live within.”

“Over the past ten years, you’ve likely read about the experimental city being built over international waters in the Atlantic Ocean. In this past week, due to the abilities of certain individuals involved, we’re able to now announce the opening of said city, in one month’s time.“

“We will require no passports, and no qualifications for citizenship. We have food, shelter, optional employment, and anything else you may wish to find.”

“I’ve been studying these cards, and the changes humanity has gone through very carefully. And I can state now, without a shadow of a doubt…this is a change for the better.”

An announcement that all throughout the world heard. Through the radio, through the papers. You heard or read it. The world is changing. It’s for the better, then…?

Followed by an announcement that all throughout the world heard, but none remembered.

The voice echoed throughout the world, seemingly without a source, heard both everywhere and nowhere. Somewhere within all that nowhere, this voice reached a room, lit by a single computer monitor. And in that room, something listened.

“WOW! THAT’S A LOTTA WORDS TO SAY, ‘DO NOT TRUST ME, I PROBABLY SMELL!’”

“C'MON, ‘MY NAME IS UNIMPORTANT,’ ‘NO QUALIFICATIONS FOR CITIZENSHIP,’ ‘FREE FOOD,’ LIKE HELLO? RED FLAG? THAT’S SOME MONDO SUSPICIOUS SHIT.”

“HONESTLY IF THOSE CHUDS BELIEVE THAT, THEY SHOULD GO TOUCH GRASS. I DID IT ONCE. HATED IT. BUT IT WAS GOOD FOR ME! NOW I HAVE SPECIAL EYES THAT LET ME SEE THROUGH BULLSHIT LIKE THIS.”

“… EH, I COULD USE SOME ENTERTAINMENT! MIGHT AS WELL GRAB A FRONT ROW SEAT FOR THIS SHITSHOW.”

“NOW, I JUST NEED TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO GET ANYWHERE.”

“THIS MIGHT TAKE AWHILE…”

—

One Week: Brand New Life is a discord based 20+ Danganronpa OC roleplay, featuring discord submission trials and an active, plot-relevant deadzone, allowing dead characters to continue to freely interact with the living if they wish. Our cast will be exploring their recently developed powers in an ever expanding city over international waters that you yourself will help define and build. Twenty characters from across the world will get to experience a unique, extended prologue that will cover one year of in-game time, before the actual MKG begins. We aim to bring you a potentially lighter, relaxed environment, both in and out of character; while still being following the typical killing game formula.

The game will feature a flexible 4 to 5 week schedule over 5 chapters, as well as a prologue and endgame, with trials that last several days to accommodate varying timezones and schedules. Our trial system will be submission-based over discord, allowing players to submit their trial posts directly to the server’s trial channel, while still managing a flexible queue. The game will allow for supernatural, alien, robotic, and fantastical characters, as well as normal humans - although no matter your character’s initial status, everyone will be experiencing a new power set, to spread the love! The game will not feature a mistrial system, but will pledge itself into working dutifully with its murder teams to create cases that are both satisfyingly difficult, as well as ultimately solvable, without pushing cast nor killer unnecessarily far. APPS OPEN / APPS CLOSE 3/10!

#mkgrp #MKG rp #drrp #Danganronpa rp

33 notes · View notes

silverdune · 5 months

Text

..humbug | prologue.

"please.. forgive the intrusion of us three festive spectres.."

minors dni. ageless blogs dni. blank blogs dni. you'll be blocked.

..humbug masterlist | next ->

character(s): choi seungcheol, yoon jeonghan, joshua hong as the ghosts of christmas past, present and future (ft. you as scrooge, mentioned ?? svt member)

tags: retail worker!reader, reader doesn't like the holidays, 95z are sarcastic and they sorta break-in(??) (it'll make sense), banter, mild suspense, ghosts, reader gets freaked out and questions their reality, retail stores during the holidays, stress, food (eating), christmas music, past relationships/breakups, crying, angst, explicit language

word count: 4.0k

summary: you come home, stressed from your christmas eve shift and three people have shown up in your apartment. they claim they're the ghosts of christmas past, present and future, but a christmas carol is a work of fiction.. right?

a/n: i didn't expect the prologue to be this long haha but here it is. hopefully i can get the rest of this up by christmas, if not, just after?? anyways, i hope you enjoy;

Christmas Eve.

It's always dialled up to eleven on the last day before Christmas. The speakers are only playing holiday music, you've got to wear the tacky sweater and your stress levels are indisputably at their highest.

This isn't your favourite time of year by any means.

Every chance you get, you eye what seems to be the only clock in the entire store. It rings an hour before closing time, and you've got to spend a further hour clearing everything away and shutting up shop before you can spend two blissful days in solitude.

The queue for the checkouts stretches as far as the eye can see. As you pass by to take a stack of baskets back to the entrance, you can't help but take a gander at everyone's trolleys, filled to the brim with their last minute buys. It truly makes you wonder why anyone would wait until the last second to get everything in for the holidays.

The journey is slow as people go back and forth across the aisles, trying their best to gather all the stuff they could possibly need and want. Your mind is ticking over, wishing and waiting for your shift to be done with so you can go home and eat.

The stack of baskets finally end up back in the holder, and you're immediately called away to jump back on tills.

An hour becomes forty-five minutes, to half an hour, to fifteen minutes, to shutters down.

The speakers are turned off and you glance at your co-workers with a heavy sigh. One of them remarks that it's another Christmas Eve over with!

You snort to yourself and say beneath your breath, "Ain't I glad for it."

You get to work wiping down the tills, making sure everything is tidied away, and helping a few other staff members replace leftover stock from customers who could not stomach the neverending queue. Soon enough, it's time for you to go home.

You had exchanged gifts with the rest of the staff throughout the week, and as you head to your car, you wish everyone a happy holiday and new year. They shout back with more energy than your sleep deprived self could manage, and you climb into your car before starting the engine and driving home.

You keep the radio off. You had heard enough Christmas music on this day alone.

Pulling into the tiny driveway of your house sometime later, you clamber out, collecting your bag of presents from your friends at work as well as your shoulder bag. Eventually, you get it all to the front door, and upon entering the code, you almost fall into your abode and haphazardly shut the door behind you.

The bags hit the floor. Your shoes are the first thing to come flying off, followed by your hat, coat and scarf. It had started snowing recently, though thankfully none had fallen so far tonight.

Stepping into your house, you take a deep breath in then turn on all the lights. You then decide to head to your bedroom and get changed into your pyjamas. Much better.

It's almost 10pm when you start preparing dinner. Nothing too fancy or elaborate, just a quick bite to eat before you inevitably get into bed and fall into the deepest sleep imaginable. Slumber had been slipping away for days, you know you'll be thankful for the first good night's sleep in ages.

The house is quiet and still, save for the sounds of the hood fan above your stove, the clacking of pots and pans, the faucet turning on and off as you wash your hands, and the timer on your phone letting you know your meal is done.

As you plate your dinner and toss the pans into the sink, the wind picks up outside. It howls at your kitchen window, startling you a little, before you notice drops of something fall in front of the nearby streetlight.

Immediately, you think it's snow, and a quick poke of the head outside your front door confirms that theory. You hum, then go back inside before your dinner gets cold.

You take the dish into the living room and place it on the table before taking a seat on the floor. Without a second to waste, you tuck in.

The wind gets stronger with each passing minute. You figure the snow could only be getting heavier. Perhaps it's cold enough for it to stick.

Thoughts pass absent-mindedly through your head as you eat. Gotta call parents in the morning. Make sure dinner is prepared. They're coming at around 2pm. I need to tidy up a bit before they get here too.

Finishing up your dinner, you get up to grab your phone from your bag. It lets you know it's just past 11pm and your eyes widen in surprise - has time really gone that fast?

As you re-enter the living room, you ensure you have an alarm set for 9am the following morning, then pick up your plate and take it into the kitchen.

The wind grows rather fierce outside, and the howling becomes.. eerie. A blizzard hails and you wonder when it's going to calm down, if it will at all.

You clear everything up and put everything back, then wipe the countertops down. It's an extra step before you can go to bed, but you know you'll be thankful for it in the morning. Once you switch off all the lights, you head into the bathroom and brush your teeth.

The baying wind causes a noticeable raucous outside as you splash your face with warm water and turn off the faucet. The nature of it is almost otherworldly and it brings you to a halt.

Never before have your hairs stood on head at the mere appearance of a gale force wind.

You pick up your towel to dry your face, now slightly perturbed at just how forceful these gusts are.

You won't lie, it's making you feel uneasy.

Setting the towel on the side, you hurry out the bathroom to switch on one of the floor lamps so you can feel comfortable turning off the bathroom light. You're not sure why the weather is making you feel like this, but the way it's picked up in the last hour is genuinely starting to scare you.

Your mouth is a few seconds ahead of your brain when you call out, "Hello?" You shake your head slightly, unsure of where that exclamation came from.

What, do you suppose there are ghosts here?

A chuckle escapes you - surely not. It is just an incredibly powerful wind, coupled with snow. This has happened hundreds of times before, this is nothing new!

Exhaling, you turn off the bathroom light, turn off the floor lamp, then go into your bedroom. The clock reads just shy of midnight.

For some reason, this makes you pause.

A lump forms in your throat that you promptly swallow. Nothing to fear, you think, and get into bed with the promise of a wonderful night's rest.

You close your eyes, knowing you'll be off to sleep in no time..

Thud.

You jolt upright.

"What the fuck?"

You heart picks up speed. You place a hand on your chest as you try and take the deepest breaths possible.

Your shaky hand reaches out to turn on the bedside lamp. Slowly, you pull back the duvet and get out of bed, grabbing your phone in the process and switching on the torch.

Inch by inch, you trudge out of the bedroom and head in the direction of the kitchen, where you assume the noise came from. It sounded like a clattering of pans.. you don't even know what would've caused it.

But more than that, you are chilled to the bone to discover you can.. fucking hear voices?

Coming to a stop in the middle of the hallway, every sense is on high alert as you point your torch to the floor. What the fuck is going on, and who the fuck is in my house?

Assuredly not what you were expecting in the early hours of Christmas morning.

Nobody had entered the house as you were getting ready for bed. There was no break-in, no disturbances other than the loud wind, and certainly no sign that someone had managed to find another way to enter.

This is truly something else.

And what gets to you more than anything, is that as you start treading carefully towards the kitchen again, the voices become more distinctive.. and there's three of them.

Usually, a more graceful entrance through the chimney would be in order.

But where no chimney exists, the next best option is.. the oven.

"Damn it!"

"Good one, Joshua.."

"Don't look at me, Jeonghan. I'm not the one who decides to get thrown down- or I guess in this case out- first." Joshua picks himself up off the ground and dusts down his jacket. Jeonghan follows suit, then moves to brush off Joshua's shoulders before getting shooed away. "And Seungcheol's going to get a lovely entrance, I bet.."

Much to their shock - and joy - Seungcheol flies through the open oven door and lands with a thud against the kitchen island opposite.

Jeonghan and Joshua both guffaw as the latter closes the oven. "Ah, I'm almost glad I spoke too soon."

"Bastard," mutters Seungcheol beneath his breath, rubbing his head as he scrambles to his feet. "Could've helped me.."

Both Jeonghan and Joshua - whom Seungcheol unabashedly nicknames The Bothersome Brothers - look at one another then turn to Seungcheol in mock sympathy. For dramatic effect, Jeonghan gently covers his mouth with his hand as Joshua shakes his head in shame.

"Oh.. we are so sorry, forgive us, dear elder.." Jeonghan drones, hand now on his chest to feign sadness.

Seungcheol fixes them a less-than-pleased glare and rolls one shoulder back at a time to relieve some tension. "I will roast you both."

The pair fake a gasp simultaneously. "The horror!" says Joshua.

"Couldn't imagine!" follows Jeonghan, back of hand on his forehead.

"Alright, enough you two. We need to figure out where we are and who we're assisting."

The two drop the act and instantly shift into gear. "Well.." begins Joshua, putting his hands behind his back and taking a walk through the kitchen, "we're in a house.."

Jeonghan snorts. Seungcheol does not have the patience for this.

"Seriously?"

"What?" Joshua exclaims; Seungcheol's raised brow says it all. "..Fine." Out of thin air, he retrieves a large, ancient book that he opens to about the halfway point. He recites the information within back to the other men. "LN.FN. Late 20s-early 30s. Retail worker. Reason for hating the holidays.."

Shriek.

When you wander into your kitchen, you let out an earth-shattering scream.

You abruptly reach for the nearest light switch and turn it on, revealing three men standing in front of your oven, one of them fumbling to hold onto a giant book as it nearly slips out of his hands.

The flashlight on your phone gets shut off. You stare blankly at the trio, unable to fathom just why they are currently standing in your kitchen.

"Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?" you yell, hoping to God this is either a very realistic nightmare, or that if it is real, one of your neighbours understands there are currently three intruders in your home so they can come and help you.

The man furthest to the right takes a step forward. They are all noticeably just as freaked out as you, and it befuddles you since, you know, they are the ones in your house.

"Our sincerest apologies.." He says it so intently and it's disquieting. "We did not mean to frighten you."

The man in the centre continues, "Please.. forgive the intrusion of us three festive spectres.."

The man holding the book completes the sentence, "You must be N." He smiles, and now you have to try and wrap your head around the fact that he just said your name. "It is very nice to meet you."

You are at a complete loss for words. Everything goes still as you try and make sense of all of this.

You try again with asking questions. "..Please tell me who you are and where you came from." The words leave you in a controlled yet urgent tone.

"Bizarrely, of the two queries, the latter will be the more difficult to understand.." remarks the man in the centre.

What in the- "What in the name is that supposed to mean?" you ask.

Bookkeeper answers, "What he's trying to say is that our method of arrival was both unconventional and incomprehensible."

Your head is spinning irrevocably. The walls feel like they are closing in. Everything about this is wrong and you just want to wake up from whatever sordid dream this is.

"Okay.." You try again, this time with a shaky voice. "I am going to politely ask you- in fact, no, I am going to demand that you leave my house this instant or I will call the police!" Your voice quickly reaches its peak volume and the trio are taken aback.

The first man to speak to you tries to de-escalate the situation. "We can explain why we're here!"

"And how!" says the man in the middle.

Good God, is this nightmare over already?

At that moment, the three men form a line. One by one, they introduce themselves.

"My name is Seungcheol. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"My name is Jeonghan, I am the Ghost of Christmas Present."

"My name is Joshua, I am the Ghost of Christmas Future."

They bow in unison.

You laugh.

They glance at one another as they lift their heads, then look over at you. Both arms are tucked across your stomach and you are fully bellowing out laughter.

Their backs straighten. Joshua tucks the book under his arm. The three exchange another glance before they turn back to you.

Once you have finally calmed down and wiped a stray tear, you come back to the room and say, "Holy shit, that is the funniest thing I've heard all year."

Jeonghan goes to speak, "Um- we're- we're afraid that it's-"

You continue chuckling, effectively interrupting him. "That is quite the cover story."

"Beg your pardon?" Joshua cocks a brow.

"All fun and games, huh? Thought you'd get a last minute steal in, and if I found you, you'd pose as the three ghosts of Christmas from the Dickens novel." A snort involuntarily escapes you at the ridiculousness of it all.

The trio perk up at that. Jeonghan mutters to them, "That author's name again!"

Seungcheol gazes at you. "Um, excuse me? Did you mention.. Dickens?"

You stop. "Yes? His famous novel, A Christmas Carol has three ghosts that show up in it: Christmas past, present and future.." Their bemused facial expressions are not lost on you. "Surely you.. must have heard of it if you're referencing the characters and literally introducing yourselves as them." You are still in disbelief over that.

"Well," Joshua begins, "to be honest, we've only heard of the novel through other visits we've done.."

"Yes, literally everyone we have interacted with has brought that story up in connection to us but we have no knowledge of it!" Jeonghan explains.

"Some have even gone as far as to say we are actually from that novel and we've come to life!" says Seungcheol.

Frozen solid to the spot you're standing on, you take a good look at three men in front of you. They are all wearing similar attire of a vintage persuasion: suits under long trenchcoats with slacks. Their hair is styled in a way reminiscent of the 40s.

This is baffling to say the least.

Festive spectres..

"Jeonghan, is it?"

Jeonghan eyes you. "Yes?"

"You mentioned you were.. festive spectres.. Is-" You cannot comprehend the fact you're going to inquire about this. "Is that.. legit?"

Jeonghan smiles. "Undoubtedly. And if you want to know the answer to your other query.. We entered through your oven."

Your jaw drops.

That's enough.

"Okay!" You enter the kitchen and go to stand behind them so you can escort them out of the house. "Thank you very much for your company, but-"

As soon as your hand brushes Joshua's shoulder, you squeal and step back.

He is frightfully cold.

The men pivot and see you standing on the other side of the kitchen, back pressed against the sink with one hand covering the other.

"Oh!" Seungcheol understands. "Yes, we are.. quite chilly." The other two catch on and nod in agreement.

Your pupils grow three sizes. "Quite chilly?" you scoff. "You're a damn glacier, fuck.."

"Again, apologies," Seungcheol quietly laughs. "Comes with the territory."

You can do nothing but stare at them; this all well beyond you at this rate.

Joshua opens the book again to the same place as before. "Your name is N.. Late 20s-early 30s.."

"Hang on a minute!" You point a finger. "How the hell do you have that information?"

"Oh! When we are assigned folks to visit during the early morn of Christmas day, we're given a basic information log on who they are and their reasons for disliking the holiday season," says Joshua with a grin on his face.

That last part throws you off. "My.. reasons for disliking Christmas?"

"Yes! A few are listed here actually.. The music, working in a retail store, putting up with distant relatives, commercialisation, consumerism, etc, etc.."

The list is all accurate, but something stings in the back of your mind. You ignore it. For now.

"Right and as the self-proclaimed ghosts of Christmas whenever, you're here to try and make me less of a Grinch?"

"Grinch..?" Joshua furrows his brow in confusion.

"We had a few people mention The Grinch, remember?" says Jeonghan, trying to poke at Joshua's memory. "He's a cartoon of a character who hates Christmas so much he tries to steal it."

"And eventually his heart grows three sizes and he learns to love the holiday and be more cheerful," you finish explaining. Now your head is spinning much faster.

It eventually registers with Joshua, "Ah! Yes, I do remember that story now. Not mentioned as frequently as the other one."

"I mean.. no surprise there, you are literally telling people you're three of the characters from that story." You rub your forehead in exasperation. Quite frankly, you're tired, stressed and just want to go back to bed.

"So, I think with all that settled, we should get to the bottom of what really upsets you about the holidays," announces Seungcheol.

Your eyes split open. Huh?

"Excuse you?"

"The real reason for your hurt at this time of year," Jeonghan informs.

"Yeah, I got that part, but the fuck?"

You are yet to find a good explanation for anything occurring right now and these three "ghosts" want to unpack all the problems?

It is still unclear if they are even telling the truth!

Joshua closes the book and sighs. "I listed many reasons, all of which are perfectly valid and understandable, but there's something much deeper."

"It has been troubling you since well.. last year," laments Jeonghan.

"And only when you confront it, can you learn to move forward," Seungcheol affirms.

Your legs nearly turn to jelly and you have to prop yourself up on the side of the sink just to remain steady.

The something much deeper?

The thing troubling you?

The thing you must confront?

You have to turn away from them.

Staring out of the window, all the memories come flooding back.

You had spent three Christmases together.

Everything was going so well. You had considered moving in together up until late last year.

That was when things got worse.

You grew ever so distant in the weeks leading up to Christmas. It was to be your fourth together and yet, by the time December rolled around, you both decided it was best if you broke it off.

No closure. No final words. No cards or gifts or well wishes from either of you.

Truly a lonely holiday.

You had of course spent it surrounded by family, but after almost four years together, it hurt to have an empty seat beside you at the dinner table.

Even waltzing around your own house reminded you of everything you shared. You'd often stay the night at each other's places.

Now it was your second Christmas apart, and despite all the time that has passed, it could still bring you to tears just thinking about it.

You often wonder what he's doing. If he ever thinks of you. It crosses your mind that he clearly hasn't, otherwise he'd pick up the phone, but the hypocrisy would be so loud, and it never stopped you from thinking about him.

With a heavy weight on your shoulders, you take a deep breath in. It occurs to you that the three ghosts have been standing behind you this entire time, and you brush a tear away before turning around.

"Sorry.." you whisper. To them? To him? To yourself? You don't know.

"It is more than okay. We are only here to help," says Seungcheol, gently.

"And if you'd like us to, we can guide you through these three different times," follows Jeonghan. "But it is up to you."

"If you wish us to leave, we shall," Joshua vows on behalf of all three of them.

Something uncanny twists in your stomach. You are unsure of when or how the atmosphere shifted but, you find yourself unable to do much else but choke a sob. They watch on sympathetically, unable to conceal their sorrow.

"How do I- kn-know that you're really those ghosts?" you sniff.

"Well, aside from the temperature, does this help you?" wonders Joshua, before he levitates the book above his palm before throwing it into the air, causing it to vanish.

You blink. "W-Wow.."

"And perhaps.." Seungcheol backtracks out of the kitchen, subtly guiding you towards the standing mirror in the hallway. You follow, and once you're standing in front of the glass, it reveals zero reflection of the man beside you.

"Oh, shit-" You can't see, but Seungcheol smirks behind you. You lift a hand to the mirror and gulp. "Okay.. So.. How would you plan on guiding me through these times?"

"I answer your question with another: who do you see before you?"

".. Not you," you joke. The trio chuckle. "But, seriously.. myself, of course."

"Yourself, when?"

"Now. Today."

"And what year is it currently?"

"..2023."

"Correct. Now.." Seungcheol lifts an arm, then moves his hand in a circle motion, causing a spiralling ripple effect on the mirror.

Your mouth gapes open and a gasp escapes. This is insane, how is this even real?

Seungcheol eventually lowers his arm. "..What do you see?"

The picture clears. You say what you see. "Christmas lights.. That's the front of my house! It's snowing.. There's someone laughing-"

The words get caught in your throat.

Wonwoo.

Your ex.

"That's.." You struggle to say his name. It's like you haven't said it in years. "..Wonwoo."

The name tastes of salt on your tongue. Or maybe that's the tears that have since started shedding with reckless abandon.

"Your ex-boyfriend, correct?"

You swallow thickly. "Y-Yes.."

The picture starts to change. It becomes so much darker. The tone is shifting. It was only a vignette of the past and yet you wish you could hold onto it for dear life.

The world becomes foggy. The words are mumbled and the voices are not defined. You shudder in your own living room, wiping your cheeks free of tears.

Seungcheol stands before you and holds his hand out.

"I stood you before the mirror, as while it does give you your reflection at present, it can also reflect so much of what has been left in the past. It acts as a window to everything that has transpired to make you who you are."

You look at him, then the mirror, then back at him.

"Take my hand, if you wish to revisit the past."

Pushing your shoulders back, you take a moment to consider whether this is a good idea.

In seconds, your hand ends up in his.

He guides you through the mirror, and as the door closes, your living room is shrouded in darkness.

Jeonghan nudges Joshua, "Admirable."

Joshua nods. "I do hope this brings them some much needed closure."

× tristeetconfus (ave). do not repost. ×

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seungcheol scenarios #seungcheol imagines #jeonghan scenarios #jeonghan imagines #joshua scenarios #joshua imagines #words.(ave)#fic: humbug

16 notes · View notes

athenswrites · 9 months

Text

Knight of Dawn: The Prologue [Not Your Typical Fairytale]

TW: Runaways. Content below the cut!

After years of watching sunset after sunset through the tiny window of his room, it was relieving to see the start of a new day. Through the winter-barren trees, the sun shone golden, lighting the forest in the prettiest glow. He stood by the big oak they’d agreed to meet at, just a mere half mile from the Hill. Shifting his bag onto his other shoulder, and readjusting the sling around his chest, he waited anxiously for Vivianne. She’d insisted she could get out alone; he could take the baby instead.

After a few anxious moments, she appeared from behind some trees, running and out of breath. As she approached him, she slowed, looking at him worriedly. Despite being so young, she looked like she’d seen the same horrors as him.

“Did he see you?” Jackie bent down a little, cupping the side of her face with one hand and using the other to keep the young child in the sling.

“I was careful like you told me to be. Do you think he’s going to try and follow us?” Vivianne asked.

“Likely. We need to get moving. I promise you’ll be safe. I won’t let him hurt you ever again.” He brushed the curls out of her eyes, before taking her tiny hand in his own. The baby in the sling began to stir, whimpering at the cold. Vivianne peeked at the child, curious and concerned.

“Are you going to keep her safe too?”

“Both of you. He’ll have to go through me first. We need to go, Vivianne.”

She looked back behind her one more time, towards the Hill, the only home she had ever known, before he gently pulled her along, guiding her through the empty woods. The groans and growls of the plague victims sounded from all around, but they kept quiet, moving quickly through the damp forest, towards the road in the distance. Every breath of theirs hung in the cold winter air.

For hours, they trekked along the old interstate route, heading south. The old pavement, cracked and worn beneath their feet, was their guide, their yellow brick road. After a while, he could finally see the skyline of the Zone, of Atlanta, barely peeking over the trees. At the Perimeter, they could see the deterrent fences and the queue, thousands of people lined up, trying to enter the city, trying to get to safety. He pulled Vivianna out of the way as a bus whizzed past them, which came screeching to a halt, releasing another flood of people towards the gate. The sun hung low on the horizon.

Adele was inside. So was Charoen. They’d be safe with them, they had to be. They had promised. He wouldn’t dare come into the city with Adele still alive.

As they approached the end of the queue, Vivianne held tight to his hand.

“I’m scared.” She whispered, burying her face into his side, and he squeezed her hand, glancing around anxiously.

“I know, I am too.”

Tag List (reply or dm to be added or removed; I pulled from the old tag list): @author-a-holmes, @soul-write @flowerprose @ceph-the-ghost-writer @theglitchywriterboi @when-wax-wings-melt @thechaoticflowergarden @lyralit @penspiration-writing @samatedeansbroccoli @charlesjosephwrites @italiangothicwriteblr @thetruearchmagos @pineapple-lover-boy @unilightwrites @sanguine-arena @bardic-tales @joshuaorrizonte @blind-the-winds @circa-specturgia @hymnonlips @aloeverawrites

NYTF WIP PAGE

#writing #writeblr #original writing #wip #excerpt #wip excerpt #nytf #athenswrites #Jackie #Vivianne

10 notes · View notes

rose-of-pollux · 11 months

Text

13 Ghosts blurb/prologue

So, on the occasion of Stan Laurel‘s birthday today, I was very much encouraged on Discord by someone who liked my Scooby-Doo/Monkees crossover that I wrote as a sequel to Davy Jones’s Scooby ep to consider doing a similar sequel to the Laurel & Hardy Scooby ep, and while I have that plotbunny for further in the queue (the Hogan’s/BTTF crossover takes priority since McFly July is coming), in the meantime, I have a prequel/prologue on the occasion of Stan’s birthday. I’m not crossposting this for now, but I will when I write the fic in full, hopefully around August.

This prologue takes place in the distant past and features Stan’s jerkish alter-ego, Lord Paddington from A Chump at Oxford, who, for the purposes of my timeline, is a warlock like Vincent Van Ghoul. And this prologue features Vincent and Paddington having an unavoidable clash of personalities. Also, since Paddington famously yeets Peter Cushing’s character out the window in the movie, I have him do the same to 13 Ghosts character Byron Befuddle, who was clearly based off of Peter.

This prologue, being a flashback, also marks the first proper appearance of Vincent’s past companion, Mortifer Quinch, in my fic timeline.

Many, many years ago—

As they headed through the old hallways of Oxford, Mortifer had to reflect on how he had never seen Vincent this upset before, save for one occasion—when Nekara, mistaking Mortifer for a warlock, had tried to drain him of his nonexistent mana.

…In hindsight, Mortifer realized, Vincent’s current anger did make sense, for the entire reason they were here had been on the account of negotiations between one of Vincent’s warlock friends, Byron Befuddle, and Oxford’s resident warlock, Lord Paddington, breaking down so badly that Paddington had sent poor Byron flying out of the window and into the pond below.

Vincent didn’t take kindly to mistreatment of his friends, Mortifer reminded himself. And Lord Paddington was about to find that out firsthand.

Mortifer was shaken out of his thoughts by Vincent hammering his fist on a door they had arrived at; a plaque reading Lord Paddington shook with each strike of Vincent’s fist.

“Oh, really!” an annoyed voice huffed from the other side of the door. “Do go away—I’m much too preoccupied for any sort of nonsense!”

“I can promise you, this isn’t nonsense!” Vincent shot back. “I come from Athens, in regards to your treatment of our emissary!”

“It’s his own fault, you know,” Paddington returned, his voice infuriatingly calm. “I operate on a most precise schedule—I don’t suffer those who interrupt my work!”

Vincent scowled, and then teleported himself and Mortifer to the inside of the room; a redheaded warlock sitting at a desk glanced at Vincent in annoyance as the taller warlock strode to the other side of the desk.

“Just what is the meaning of—?”

“You’re going to suffer me,” Vincent interrupted.

“Is that so?” Paddington scoffed. “You have intruded upon my chambers, just as your emissary did; I have no choice but to force you to leave the same way I forced him to—”

Paddington had grabbed Vincent’s right wrist, aiming to gain some leverage to throw him off-balance so that he could send him through the window as he had Byron, but Vincent had been prepared for it, raising his left hand—

“Temporal Chains!”

The chains bound Paddington’s arm in place, but if the older warlock had been surprised, he refused to show it; he continued to remain calm as Vincent pulled his right hand free from Paddington’s grasp.

Vincent then snapped his fingers, releasing Paddington’s arm from the chains. Paddington briefly rubbed his wrist before flicking his thumb and summoning a small flame, which he cast into the fireplace. He then levitated two chairs over to the desk, and then indicated for Vincent and Mortifer to sit.

“Your prowess does eclipse that of your colleague who was here before you,” Paddington admitted. “As a matter of fact, you’re the first who has ever stopped me from doing that—mortal or mage…” Paddington trailed off as a realization hit him. “…You said you were from Athens? …What is your name?”

“Vincent Van Ghoul,” he replied, pleased that his reputation preceded him this time. He glanced at Mortifer. “This is my companion…”

“…Mortifer Laszlo Quinch,” he introduced himself.

“The mortal is irrelevant to this conversation,” Paddington said, ignoring Mortifer completely. “But it intrigues me that this is the Van Ghoul heir. You come here insulted by my treatment of—and let’s be honest about this, Old Boy—a weakling colleague—”

“Byron Befuddle is an alumnus of Saronic Academy’s Advanced Class 36, as am I,” Vincent snapped. “Furthermore, he is my friend!”

“That doesn’t change the fact that your friend is woefully inept at a simple teleportation spell that could have spared him much embarrassment,” Paddington returned. He finally glanced at Mortifer, who looked uncomfortable now. “And you claim that this mortal is your companion? I must say, I have rather a low opinion of the company you keep—if I had a mortal following me around like that, I’d keep him as a personal valet! To put it plainly, you are not at all what I expected from a warlock of your caliber.”

“Well, you’re everything I expected,” Vincent sneered.

“And now that we’ve settled that matter, you may leave,” Paddington said. “Or are you about to attempt to raise the point your colleague did about Morgana Le Fay?”

“Yes, I am,” Vincent frowned. “Morgana Le Fay has returned; there is proof—”

“Oh, I never doubted her return, Old Boy,” Paddington interrupted. “I just fail to see how on Earth this is supposed to be relevant to me!”

Vincent stared in disbelief.

“Because she’s here, in England!”

“That may be, but she isn’t here, interrupting me in my chambers like you are!” Paddington pointed out.

“You’re one of this country’s most powerful warlocks now that Merlin is dead,” Vincent pointed out. “And with Arthur in stasis until his foretold return, there is no one else who can oppose Morgana!”

“Morgana is no concern of mine,” Paddington insisted. “Not until she barges into my chambers—then, and only then, shall I deal with her.”

“She could cause untold destruction and damage before that!” Mortifer exclaimed. “Including here on this campus!”

“And that is no concern of mine, either—why should I risk injury—or worse—for those I don’t even know?”

Vincent slammed his hands on Paddington’s desk as he suddenly stood up.

“For the love of the Goddess—isn’t there anyone you care about other than yourself!?” he demanded.

Paddington stared up at Vincent in silence, his expression unreadable.

“…I don’t think there is!” Mortifer realized.

Vincent exhaled in disgust.

“What a horrible existence,” he muttered.

“Don’t pity me; I’ve made peace with my decision,” Paddington replied. “If you’re so concerned, why not face Morgana yourself?” He paused, noticing the look of discomfort on Vincent’s face. “Ah, I see; you fear losing control of your powers in a duel with Morgana, given your lineage to the Demon King Asmodeus, whom you let loose from the prison Solomon kept him in, and are trying to recapture him—and so you wish for my aid to stop Morgana so that you can hold back. Once again, this is no concern of mine that you can’t control your own powers—that’s your affair to resolve, is it not? I shouldn’t be held accountable for your incompetence.”

An emerald-green aura blazed around Vincent as his anger grew.

“Have a care—you’re only proving my point!” Paddington noted.

“Vincent!” Mortifer pleaded, grabbing his arm. “Vincent, calm down—please! He isn’t worth it! I’ll help you against Morgana, just like I helped with those first 12 ghosts—and how I will help with Asmodeus! We can even ask Boris or Voudini for help, can’t we!?”

Vincent exhaled, his aura of anger fading.

“Yes, I suppose we can—perhaps even Miranda and Alisa can help, as well,” he sighed.

He cast one more contemptuous look at Lord Paddington.

“I won’t forget this,” Vincent warned.

And with that, he and Mortifer teleported out, and, still unconcerned, Paddington returned to his work—and to his lonely existence.

#scooby doo #laurel and hardy #13 ghosts of scooby doo

10 notes · View notes

callsign-marlie · 2 years

Text

Prologue. Part I. Part II. Part III. Part IV. Part V. Part VI. Part VII. Part VIII. Part IX. Part X. Story Content Warning: Rate M for mature content (minors DNI!!!) including but not limited to: mentions of drug use/smoking, alcohol consumption, explicit sexual scenarios, angst that will make your head spin and more to add a/n: (undedited, as per usual because i'm a meSS) it's time for Misha's first day of TOPGUN. How will the others respond? I've been really inspired with this story lately and will be writing more at a faster pace. I'm really enjoying fleshing out my girl and soon to be her wingman. Hope you enjoy this section!<3 x marlie Table of Contents

Part IV: Resurrection

“Your instructor is also a TOPGUN graduate. He has real-world experience in every part of the mission you are expected to master. His achievements are legendary. He is widely regarded as one of the best pilots this program has ever produced. What he teaches you may be the difference between your life… and your death. Introducing Captain Pete Mitchell, call sign Maverick.”

Misha watched Maverick from behind a door as he strode down the aisle, head held high and proud during the admiral’s monologue. The wash of white that pinged off of Hangman and Coyote’s skin during his introduction, their hushed whispers and their exasperated hands running across their mouths made Misha question if the two had met her famed uncle in the past. A mop of curly brown hair on tall shoulders sat a little straighter, their shoulders slumped forward with their elbows on their knees. Their large hands were absentmindedly spinning a pen at warp speed.

An anxiety response. He was nervous.

Bradley. Or rather now, Rooster.

“... yet I won’t be the only one who will be teaching you. I’m more of a hands-on teacher, you see. I was never really proficient in the bookish part of things. That’s where my partner comes in.”

Well, that was her queue.

Misha grabbed tightly at Moose’s leash, nerves electric to the neurons in her hands. Her newly polished boots scuffed against the linoleum floor of the hanger as she strode into the Miramar heat. Just look ahead, Misha, she encouraged herself. Don’t let them see you sweat. You’re Hotshot. You’re Hotshot. Moose glanced at her with every few feet of movement, ensuring that all attention was focused on his master as her personal shadow.

“They may be a familiar face to some of you. A dual certified weapons systems officer and driver, they have extensive studies of in-air combat, aeronautic and physical sciences as well as strategic and tactical prowess that has been unmatched in their time in the Navy. Although honorably discharged, they are still to be addressed by their title of Lieutenant during their service for this mission. Introducing Lieutenant Misha Kazansky, callsign Hotshot, and her service partner, Moose.”

She had reached the front of the pedestal before Mav had finished his speech. She did not look to either side of the aisle to gauge her friends', now students’, reactions. Her eyes rose up to the backdrop of the larger than life American flag in front of her, the weight of the symbol pressing on her chest. Of duty. Of freedom. Of her father. With a last deep breath, closed her eyes, and turned at the announcement of her name.

The reprisal was instant.

“Bullshit.”

Hangman.

His mouth was open, his signature toothpick deftly fell to his boots, the room so quiet the wood clicked against the floor. He looked more disheveled at her appearance than at Maverick’s. His eyes were widened in disbelief and his knees were half bent to stand. Coyote had a hand on his shoulder, forcing him down in his seat with a grimace. Phoenix held her emotions better, but they couldn’t stop a hand from slowly slipping to her lips. And Rooster… Rooster was standing completely straight, looking at a ghost of his long dead past, fully alive and standing.

Misha’s fingers leapt to her hearing aids the instant Jake opened his mouth. She knew he would have a rebuttal. She knew the instant she saw that he was assigned to this mission. The buzz of tinnitus flung through her brain as his mouth moved at warp speed. Words could not hurt you if they weren’t heard to begin with.

She let her eyes drift over the other stone stricken pilots. Payback and Fanboy were looking at each other in astonishment, whispering amongst themselves at the sight of the bartender, or rather lieutenant, before them. Payback’s forehead went to his fingers to wipe the sheen sweat away while Fanboy slumped back in his chair in realization, smacking his driver across the chest.

Bob’s eyes were locked on her face, mouth slightly agape with his brows scrunched together looking over her extensive scars. He had this look of familiarity on his features; as if he had seen her before but couldn’t place it. After all, he was the only person within the active squad that didn’t get the chance to introduce themselves to her at the bar nights ago. It was only natural. Phoenix, sensing his confusion, put her lips to his ears in secret. His eyes widened further than Misha imagined they could have gone, staring between Phoenix and the lieutenant before him. She locked eyes with him, a challenge. That a problem with you? He looked away, a flush on his face, embarrassed at being caught by his “superior”. Bob was tame; Misha wouldn’t have to worry about him

But Hangman? Oh, Hangman was enraged.

His eyebrows were viciously downturned during his rant, his teeth gritting, hands flying like wasps, yet she stood straight ahead at attention during the tantrum. Maverick had stepped in front of her after a few beats to ease separation from the onslaught of unheard words. Moose padded the dais with the front of his paws, clearly agitated at the aggression her former wingman was showing towards his master. She let a hand drop to the top of his head, mowing her fingers over his ears to comfort him. I’m ok. I can’t hear.

Maverick looked back at her for a moment, doing a double take at her staring straight ahead, gaze far away amongst the other pilots. He waved his hands in front of her eyes, motioning to his ears. She quickly averted her attention back to him, a sheepish smile overcoming herself.

“Sorry, my ears were off while Hangman was blowing his lid. What was that?” Totally angelic. Totally innocent.

Warlock chuckled next to her. She could nearly hear the roll of Cyclone’s eyes from behind her.

Hangman partially bowled Rooster over with the force of his chair tipping over. He stalked to the back of the hangar. Not even Coyote could hold him back any longer.

“Let him go,” Pete stated coolly, unfazed, before turning back to the class to let them know they were going to be flying as soon as they left the hangar.

“Let him go.” Her hands were wrapped around the lapels of his flight suit, shaking his shoulders. Wake up. Her hands were hot and sticky, covered in dark red. Iron was in her nose. It was too loud, the thrum of the engine stuck in her ear. Hands, what felt like hundreds, grabbed at her shoulders to pull her away. The body slipped away from her grip, her garbled, gagged scream shattering from her throat as it sank beneath her to the dark.

What was his name? WHAT WAS HIS NAME?

“Hotshot.”

Misha’s head whipped behind her to lock eyes with Lieutenant Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw. She did her best to conceal the cold sweat at the nape of her neck. “Rooster. Long time no see.”

“It should have stayed that way, but I guess nepotism does rule all in the Navy, doesn’t it.” His eyes were steely as he dipped his chin to get a better look at her. He was sizing her up.

Misha scrunched her eyes towards him. “Believe me when I say I don’t want to be here nearly as much as you don’t want me here.”

“Then why show up?”

“You think I had a choice?”

Misha broke his gaze, a spark of heat coming alive in her chest. The panic to anger pipeline was dizzying. Her feet tingled in her boots. “I was ordered. There was no choice, Lieutenant. But my discomfort doesn’t mean I won’t do my job, though. Be assured of that.”

“You could leave. Just run away again.” His voice was venomous as he crossed into her vision. He was tanned, well groomed, but new stress wrinkles were born between his brows. There were a few more scratches than she remembered lining the front of his face. The ringing in her ears was overwhelming now. “You’ve been really good at that.”

“Why should I go? Maybe it’s your turn to run,” she retorted, her arms crossing against her chest. A shield. If she didn’t show restraint, she knew she’d be landing an uppercut straight to his stupid chin.

“But, then again, you’re so damn slow you’d get caught if you even tried. I have a feeling you’ll be too slow here, too. Too careful. Precise, but an easy target. These guys’ll eat you alive if you don’t take initiative and lead for once in your life.”

It was a low blow, sure, but it certainly got her point across. Rooster wasn’t the only person with claws. Bradley’s jaw tightened against her words. She was right. He knew it. Misha noticed his fists balling beside his hip, knuckles white. A flush rose to the top of his ears.

He stepped forward. Moose instantly jumped in front of his charge, hair raised and teeth flashing in warning. Rooster’s gaze broke as he backed off.

“Moosey, chhh,” Misha chastised loudly, flicking her right middle and index finger to the side. Stand down. He queued on command, his hackles still raised at the larger man, but sauntered to a seated position beside her leg.

Rooster’s hard eyes were suddenly glazed, flattened to something far away. Disbelief? Shock? “Moosey? Like Músi? Music Man?”

The ringing in her ears suddenly disappeared and her world flipped.

“...Who?”

For the first time in a long time, a sudden jolt of lightning split between her ears. A migraine formed like a storm behind her eyes. She stuck the palm of her hand to her forehead, willing the accompanying, inevitable nausea away long enough to make it to a trash can.

It was too much. Misha’s senses were completely overloaded. The anxiety, the flash of memory, the anger. “D-don’t know ‘em. Ah fuck, excuse me.”

Misha shoved past Rooster, speeding her way to the nearest restroom. He stared dumbly after her. He was the only one left in the hangar. The silence was oppressive, while he let his gaze tip up to the ceiling.

“Manny. You’d kill her, man. You’d absolutely kill her if you saw her now.”

—

Training did not go well.

Misha was busy in the control room with the ever-watchful Warlock, screening monitor after monitor and tracking each jet’s individual performance against Maverick’s. Knowing that Pete was the pinnacle of Naval Aviation, using him as a starting point would be in her best interest. They needed to make pilots as good, no, greater, than Pete “Maverick” Mitchell if they wanted this mission to be anywhere near successful.

Every single one of the aviators fell short. Not just by a few inches. No no, it might as well have been miles.

Hotshot leaned back in her chair, her hands behind her head and let out a deep sigh. This was going to be harder than she thought. “Well? What do we have, Lieutenant,” Warlock questioned. Misha shook her head side to side, eyeing the man contemplatively. “How to put this couthly, sir: not good. Bottom line.”

Warlock let his hands rub his temples, a sigh leaving his lips. “We have some work to do, huh?”

“To put it lightly,” she murmured, spinning back to her monitor to show him the results of her evaluation. The top line, Maverick’s, was stacked in greens across the board. Every single jet beneath had glaring red on each of their numbers. Hangman had one small yellow box for his speed, but even so, his statistics were overwhelmingly lackluster.

“Based on everyone’s movements compared to Maverick’s, they’re all extremely shaky at best. They may have looked like they put up good fights in the air, but the numbers don’t lie: they might as well have been babies with finger paint trying to copy the Mona Lisa.” Misha stood to stretch, reaching her arms above her head.

“The real work is going to be their cohesion. Listening to their comms was painful, Admiral. They don’t know anything about each other other than that they’re all the best of the best. But why they’re the best of the best is still unknown. ”

“So what are you suggesting, Kazansky? Kumbaya and a fire pit?”

“If that’s what it takes,” she chortled. “But truly? I think just introducing themselves to each other would do wonders. What are you good at? What can I rely on you for? Can I trust you?”

Warlock nodded in understanding. “Lieutenant, print these out for me and leave them on my desk. I’ll send them over to Cyclone and Maverick both for review.” He stood to leave through the command door, but stopped at the door frame, looking back over his shoulder. “And, good work today. Truly. Kazansky, I’m impressed with how natural it was for you to swing back into this role. I’m sure it wasn’t easy. Keep it up.” Warlock proceeded to glide out of the room with a magic that left Misha stunned.

He complimented her.

Maybe she wasn’t such a fuck up.

taglist: @alanadetigy @luckyladycreator2 @alldaysdreamers @blue-aconite

#top gun maverick #top gun maverick ff #rooster x oc #hangman x oc #top gun oc #rooster fanfiction #hangman fanfiction #rooster bradshaw #hangman top gun #rooster top gun #jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader

62 notes · View notes

kanasmusings · 2 years

Text

[Masterpost] Tsukiuta Drama CD - Gekka Kitan Yumemigusa - Tsuki no Sho Translations

Hello~! It’s been a while since I last posted, but I’m back with more Tsukiuta~! This time, I bring you “Yumemigusa - Tsuki no Sho” (Moon Chapter)! Boy, I thought I would do quite well to control my emotions when listening to this series, but alas... I was not blessed with the ability to not be emotional when it comes to Yumemigusa ｡ﾟ(TヮT)ﾟ｡

Yumemigusa’s Moon Chapter is largely still the same story as Sakura’s, except for a few key details. Unlike Sakura, Moon focuses on You and Yoru! It’s still as sad and as angsty as Sakura, so be ready with a box of tissues when you listen!

Next on the queue would be the translations for the Taikyoku Denki pamphlet~! After that will be more VAZZROCK~! I have a lot to catch up with in terms of bi-Color S4, but I’m slowly making progress. Thank you for your patience~! ＼(＾▽＾)／

SAKURA (Arata and Aoi) VERSION: LINK

Thank you to @melynir for requesting and for updating me about the state of progress with ryuukia’s plans to work on these!

CD is still available for order here for those who want their own copies.

For those who want to get into the stage play version of this, Blu-ray is still available for orders here (Movic).

Tracklist and links under the cut, enjoy~!

TRACKLIST:

[Disc 1]

Track 1: “Prologue・Under the Moon”

Track 2: “Enveloped by a White Light”

Track 3: “The Country of Yamato”

Track 4: “Act 01: A Man All Too Familiar with Despair ”

Track 5: “Act 02: Storytellers of the World”

Track 6: “What Aches the Heart”

[Disc 2]

Track 1: “Act 3: Storyteller of a Lost World”

Track 2: “Moon・Memories of White”

Track 3: “Beyond the Darkness”

Track 4: “Yumemigusa - Tsuki-”

[Bonus Disc]

Track 1: “Cherry Blossoms of a New Dawn - Moon Chapter”

※ “Reimei no Sakura” is actually the alternate ending that comes with the regular edition Blu-ray of Sakura/Tsuki no Sho.

※ They voiced it for the drama CD, but the content from the actual alternate ending is word-for-word from the BD! I did just copy-paste my own translations, but made a few minor edits along the way, so please keep that in mind, thank you~!

※ I know there’s an issue with clicking links on mobile, so I’m slowly working on updating these all on WordPress during my free time. Thank you for your patience ^^

※ Please don’t re-post and re-translate these under any circumstances without permission!!!

If you enjoyed this, please consider buying me a ko-fi here to support my work! It’ll be a really big help. (o^▽^o)Thank you!!

#tsukipro #tsukiuta #yumemigusa #six gravity #procellarum #haduki you #nagatsuki yoru #gekka kitan yumemigusa #tsukiuta translations #drama cd #my translations #look i've come to the point in my life where #the immediate reaction to hearing anything remotely related to yumemigusa #is to cry #the theme song plays and i'll be bawling in a minute T^T #it's just that memorable of a story in my opinion!#i mean who doesn't love a good dose of angst am i right? OvO #i hope you guys enjoy them as well~!

47 notes · View notes

corfolli · 2 months

Text

where will you go when you die?

you go to the underworld.

between one blink and another you leave your life behind and wake up in a shining underworld. there is a city, here. there are rivers. you are given good clothing, something to eat, some tasks to do. there is art, in the underworld, and there are gardens. It is much like being alive, really, save that the works are grander, the people are stranger, and the sky is not the sky. you have nothing but time. it is a good unlife, and you are content, but it is inevitable that you will begin to question your purpose. (what will you do when you discover you no longer have one, other than to be?)

#◈ queue ── the past is prologue.#✒️ gale.about ( a good song never dies. )

0 notes

zachsgamejournal · 2 years

Text

PLAYING: Call of the Sea

I'm loving this wave of story-driven, first-person, point-n-click games! I'm not BLOWN AWAY by this one in particular, but I'm enjoying it!!

I bought this game with Christmas Money. And I can't remember if it was last year or the year before...either way, it's been sitting in my queue for a while. I knew when I skimmed a few gameplay videos that this is exactly what I've been looking for. Now sure why I've been holding back...

Right at the beginning, I got Titanic: Adventure out of Time vibes (you should play that game, BTW). I also got Bioshock Infinite vibes. It leans more to the latter than the former. The set decoration is great and the graphics are "high end" cartoony--but I noticed a few flaws, like waves of water appearing on dry land cause the designer or artist didn't sculpt the gameobject correctly. Ah-well. We're all human.

The Titanic vibes end quickly. Three levels and a prologue in and I've not directly spoken with any other charters...let alone seen one. So this is much more like Kona and Deliver Us the Moon--which is sad. While the game is story driven, the lack of human interaction is disappointing. I would at least like an AI companion on the level of Uncharted or Bioshock Infinite--or at the least, King Kong.

Wait...never mind--this game is giving me KING KONG VIBES!

Instead of character interaction, there's a near constant voice over from the main character. This is much improved from Kona's random narrator. I can hear the characters feelings through the voice acting, and it's more personal cause it's not narration, but self-reflection. I'm good with it.

But at the beginning it was a bit much. They knew they had about 5 minutes to get the player caught up, and they chose to use cheesy plot dumps via self-reflection. A woman with an unidentified illness has gone to find her husband who has not returned from an uncharted island looking for the cure. Almost immediately we find the husband's camp, and through the things that are left behind--including notes and letters written to the main character, we learn more about him and their backstory. This is an appropriate time to plot dump. You don't have to spill the beans right at the beginning. Just give us little hints that you pay off later.

The levels are surprisingly big. I had expected the game to be open world. It is not. But each level is of fairly decent size when there's not much to do but walk, look, and solve the occasional puzzle. The size does play into the "exploration" side of things--but, as I said, there's not a ton to do yet.

The first area had some things to look at, but there were only about two puzzles. They were fairly straight forward, and didn't seem "big enough" to define the end of a level. But there's some interesting cultural explorations about Polynesian tribes. I assume they're right. Better than how King Kong handled tribal representation at least.

The second level, the Camp, had a little more going for it. I was stumped for a little bit on a puzzle and wished the game had given me a few more hints along the lines of Uncharted. But I got it figured out. I think the struggle was that I was 95% correct in my solution and the only response I got was, "I don't know how this works or what it's for." Thanks game. thanks.

Story wise, it's ok. It's got all the ingredients of a good mystery. But like Kona and Deliver Us the Moon, everything is past-tense. It's all already happened. While it makes for a fun mystery (which I why I love Resident Evil games), there's nothing happening NOW except that I'm solving puzzles (which Resident Evil always has a now-plot). And maybe if there was more to the puzzles that would have helped...

As mentioned, there's few puzzles to solve compared to the level size. I'm nearly halfway through the game already, and I've only solved about 4 puzzles. Resident Evil could get away with this because they had supply scavenging and combat to balance the gameplay. I prefer this game's no-combat rule, but that does mean it needs more puzzles. That's also something I was expecting to see more. I think Kona gets away with fewer "puzzles" because it's an open world. There are few moments that are strictly puzzle--it's about exploring and figuring things out. There's also a survival element. So Call of the Sea just feels a little more barren.

I also learned that I probably wasn't setting my PC to improve performance speed before. I started to notice slowdown on my laptop and got disappointed. This thing is supposed to be as powerful as a Playstation 4 Pro--and that's pretty good. But I think I needed to tell it to go into performance mode, cause it suddenly got better and the fan went into overtime.

Despite some of my dissatisfactions, I am enjoying it. It's similar to the game I made for my wife, here (except I have character interactions). And it's kind of a chill game, so I could see myself playing through it like an afternoon hike, or something...

#Zach's Game Journal #PLAYING #Call of the Sea #Steam #Video Games #Gaming

3 notes · View notes

5noxa · 2 years

Text

Bayonetta 3 Review

— This is the best Cereza’s ass has ever looked (THANK YOU PLATINUMGAMES) but it’s a crime her sexy skin tight jeans and cute jumper casual wear are not available outside of the opening cutscene. —

The titillating titular witch has returned with new crazy weapons and kaiju powers, simultaneously refreshing the series and allowing it to stand tall among its action contemporaries.

Bayonetta 3’s prologue is a welcoming one, providing a predictable crazy set piece to kickstart the game. But the familiarity starts to quickly fade as you are introduced to the Demon Slave ability, allowing you to summon and control kaiju sized demons as long as you have enough magic and space to do so.

The DS ability Bayonetta now possesses changes combat in a big way. Bayonetta is vulnerable while using it so it adds a new risk/reward to worry about. However you can queue up DS attacks freeing up Bayonetta’s movement allowing you to combo at the same time as your demons. The Platinum ranking system is balanced around the use of DS in many of its Verses (sometimes confusingly which I’ll get to later) so it’s not something that can be ignored even if you begrudgingly want to ankle punch the larger enemies.

The larger enemies are plentiful throughout the game encouraging you to use your DS frequently in combat. It feels awkward at first but mastering the DS reveals a fluid and depth filled addition to the combat.

Many other action games would have us climb the giant enemies or use something like an object in the environment to knock them down exposing a weak point but Bayonetta 3 let’s us fight fire with fire and it’s a ton of fun. The many demons you unlock throughout the story all come with different pros and cons, like dealing more damage or slow to move or sometimes dealing too much damage. So you are encouraged to test them all out and find favourites for different encounters.

The iconic Torture Attacks are now linked with DS. Attacks with a demon will break enemies opening them up for a big damage torture attack. This is very different from past games but I don’t miss the old TAs, these are quick and just as satisfying and no longer require extra Quick Time Events.

After Bayonetta 1 and 2 I would never of expected to see a mechanic like DS in this series. It’s not an obvious direction to go in but it does feel logical as you can imagine someone at PG back in 2009 wondering what it would be like to control the demons. Also you’ve got the cancelled Scalebound and 2019’s Astral Chain showing that similar mechanics have been on Platinum’s radar for a while. Still, it’s a big change for Bayonetta and I applaud the developers for not playing it safe.

— I want her to use that big hammer on me… —

Another big change to combat is the weapons. Gone is the ability to equip different pairs of weapons to the hands or feet of Bayonetta. This may sound like a downgrade, but it’s surprisingly not. While the original system was innovative, new and unique to Bayonetta, it was clearly handicapping PG’s creativity. The new system is comparable to Devil May Cry or the og God of War games where you select individual weapons, however PG delivered the most inventive and out there weapons of any action game.

I don’t want to spoil them as some of the more fun and unique ones are late game unlocks but they are spectacular and full of personality. There’s so many small and big differences between them, from animations, damage, speed, movement abilities, etc. It feels too big budget for Bayonetta. It’s the most impressive part of the game and the one of the most important parts to get right because if you’ve got bad weapons you’ve got bad replayability.

Although each weapon is themed after a different Demon Slave, you can luckily mix and match demons and weapons with no repercussions.

Using the weapons in combat is typical fair for Bayonetta with similar combo strings to past games and the slow motion Witch Time still being activated on a well timed dodge. But now with controllable demons being a part of the arsenal, certain combos contain a purple flash which when timed with the ZL trigger, summons your selected demon for a devastating combo ender. This is called Wink Slave and it brings the kaiju sized action to regular combos. There is also a defensive version called Assault Slave but instead of initiating during a combo you pull ZL just before an enemy attack connects with you.

This has changed how I typically view weapons in the genre. Usually I gravitate to a couple of dependable weapons and call it a day, but in Bayonetta 3 I’m thinking about which weapons and demons complement each other, which demon I prefer on Wink Slave with what weapon and demons or weapons I just like the feel of or want the utilities of.

Unfortunately the enemies we get to use all this goodness on are kinda bland. They just aren’t as interesting as the Angels of old. Boring looking and unexciting attacks. Also it’s kinda hard to read their attacks which is not good for this genre, especially this game as the action is literally bigger which makes for a chaotic scene so clarity is important.

I believe this is all the result of DS and It’s a worthy trade off. I’ll gladly take some boring enemies that are a fun punching bag than more complex visually interesting enemies that don’t play well with the mechanics. That’s not to say we don’t see some old enemies return and work well with the combat, so PG could’ve definitely done better.

— This my favourite cutscene in the game for obvious reasons —

There’s so much variety and depth available it’s difficult for me to explain without becoming incoherent. The combat system in Bayonetta 3 is easily one of my all time favourites and I’ve had so much fun experimenting because there really is a lot to discover and I’ve been learning so much going for Pure Platinum ranking.

Which brings me to my current problem with the ranking system. It’s important to state that this opinion could change with experience and knowledge. The combo points and time requirements for Platinum ranking, are annoying to figure out. Sometimes the time requirement is low encouraging use of DS, other times the combo requirement is high encouraging variety and other times the combo is high and the time is low and it’s frustrating to retry the same verse over and over to get it right.

This is in part due to the balancing around DS. It’s just not as clear as past games because you have massively damaging abilities leading to awkward feeling first time silver/bronze medals or annoying retries trying to get that Platinum in time or combo. This could easily be remedied if PG indicated the time needed for Platinum ranking removing some of the guess work. A short time would most likely mean you focus on damage and a longer time would be focusing on combo. MatthewMatosis goes into detail on how to improve similar scoring systems in his Viewtiful Joe video so I recommend giving it a watch.

As of writing this I am currently halfway through a Pure Platinum run of standard difficulty. It’s not difficult just annoying. Hopefully more experienced players will reveal my complaints to be unfounded but speaking of complaints there’s some PG listened to.

Checkpoints! Yes! Each verse now saves it’s own score so you don’t need to worry about playing perfect for the whole chapter and each chapter is now split into several checkpoints which makes replaying verses way easier. That is some nice QoL but it’s not perfect, there is no restart from checkpoint option so you are forced to end the chapter every time you want to retry.

I briefly mentioned before that the weapons can change Bayonetta’s movement abilities. Gone are her animal transformations which have been replaced with demon transformations based on the weapon equipped. It’s not just a cosmetic change as they all have a different sprint, jump and dash. This was done to add some variety to platforming which you will now be doing a lot of as the levels are bigger and full of hidden items, collectibles and challenges. It can be satisfying to come across a platforming challenge and skip the challenging part by using a weapon that has a high jump or a far dash or fast sprint.

— Viola is an intentionally cringey dorky character and I really enjoyed how she played off Bayonetta and Luka. I wish there was more time spent on her character. —

I’ve talked about Cereza for long enough so now it’s time to bring in Viola. I guess it’s apt to call her a witch in training. She’s rough around the edges, only has one weapon, one demon who can’t be controlled and activates Witch Time on a successful parry instead of dodge. She’s a blunt instrument and unfortunately plays like one.

I find her unenjoyable and awkward to play as. Her charge attacks are too easy to activate because the charge initiates before the attack instead of after like Bayonetta’s charge attacks, so I find myself constantly whiffing attacks. Her parry window for Witch Time feels too tight and the inconsistency in framerate only makes that window harder to judge. I end up having to rely on Cheshire, her demon, to save me. Getting Platinums with her is a chore.

All I can hope for is that I am doing something wrong and it’s a simple misunderstanding and Viola will finally click for me after some talented fan makes a video showing how to play her. And I hope it’s soon because I’ve skipped her chapters in the Pure Platinum run and I’m gonna need that help if I want to PP this whole game.

— I had a lot of fun with Bayonetta 3’s photo mode. It’s challenging to get good pictures but it’s worth the hassle! —

Shortly after the prologue during chapter 1 you are introduced to an epic sequence where you ride Gomorrah through a collideoscoping Tokyo, battling atop of skyscrapers and dodging trains, jets and debris. It’s to be expected from the series to get some sort of set piece like this but in Chapter 1? This is breaking new ground and it continues with almost every chapter featuring some sort of over the top gameplay changing sequence. It’s all epic stuff but quite controversial and risky, after all a lot of players like to test themselves with this genre and these set piece sequences are often seen as a distraction and waste of time.

I land on the side of enjoying most of these sequences. Some are unfortunately repeated throughout the game and don’t really hold up as something more than a single chapter gimmick but overall I think they fit nicely into the game that is Bayonetta 3. However Jeanne’s side chapters are an awful experience and the fact that they are mandatory is a shocking design decision. Her side content is stealth focused and awkwardly limits her combat options, it’s flat out not goodand she has 4 chapters dedicated to it.

Is the inclusion of all these sequences, whether they are good or not, disappointing? I argue that it’s not because it’s rare to see a game with this level of budget have this much creativity on display and put its faith in the audience to go along with it all. It’s not a safe decision and PG should be praised for it.

It feels like every idea PG has had was put into this game and it’s all the better for it. It’s different from past games, it’s got some weird ideas, it’s not afraid to stand out and it’s not a pure experience. Sounds like the type of game Bayonetta herself would like.

#bayonetta #review #gaming #video games #action

6 notes · View notes

tillerman1 · 1 year

Text

AUTUMN SONATA (sentence)

Autumn Sonata

a screenplay by Ingmar Bergman

translated to the sentence by Thomas Jester

PROLOGUE

VIKTOR: Sometimes I stand and look at my wife, without she knows about my presence. She loves to sit over there at the corner window, right now I think she's writing a letter to her mother. The first time she came into this room, she said, "That's good, here I want to be." We had only known each other any days, it was a bishops conference in Trondheim cum she was there as deputy for some church newspaper. We met at a lunch cum I told of the parsonage here out. She was so interested, I've dared propose that we should travel here one morning, as the conference was out. On the way, I asked her if she wanted to marry me. She didn't answer, but as we walked into this room, she turned to me and said: That's fine, here I want to be. Later then we have been living a happy and quiet life here in the rectory. Of course, Eva has told me about her past life. After graduating from college, she studied at the university, became engaged to a doctor and lived with him for several years, wrote two small books, became ill with tuberculosis, broke her engagement, and moved from Oslo to a small town in southern Norway, where she started working as a journalist.[sic] (looking in a small book) One here is the first of her books, I like it so much. There she wrote: "You have to learn to live, I exercise every day. The hardest thing the obstacle is that I do not know who I am, I blindly hit. If anyone loves me as I am, dare I might finally consider myself." (ends read) I would some only time want talk of for her that she is beloved without reservation, but I can none say it in one such way that she believes me, I lack the correct words.

EVA: I have written a letter to my mother! Can I read it to you, or do I bother?

VIKTOR: No, no, come in and sit down. We light the lamp. Now, notice that indeed that it has become a fall in earnest. Wait, I'll just turn the radio off, it's an afternoon concert.

EVA: If you want to hear the concert, I can come back later.

VIKTOR: I very much want to read the letter.

EVA: (reads) I was in town yesterday and met by chance Agnes, who was occasionally visiting her parents with her husband and children. She told me Leonardo had died. Dear little Mom! I understand how terrible this must be for you. Agnes also told us that you were in Ascona on temporary holidays between two concert tours. I called Paul and found out the address. (pause) Now I wonder if you would care to come to us in Bindal for a few days or weeks, just as you want or can. For you should not be too alarmed and immediately say no, I have to mention that the parsonage is very spacious. You have your private rooms, completely secluded cum all comforts. Here is already autumn, we have had some frost nights, the birches are yellow and reddish, we pick the last cloudberries on the marsh. But storms delayed and yet remains many done mild days. We have a fine grand cum you can practice so very you have lust.[sic] Would why not stay in a hotel for a few weeks? Dearest Mother, say you will! We will take care of you and pamper you in every conceivable way. There was so terribly long time since we met. In October, the seven years! Dearest greetings from Viktor and your daughter Eva. [sic]

(Charlotte arrives earlier than calculated.[sic] The clock is eleven in the morning when she queues up before the rectory's yellow range. Eva located to just in steps between floors. By screen sees her, self unseen, how the mother slowly rises from the car, how she indecisively stays of the trunk. One moment of immobility.)

EVA: (on farm) Dearest small mamma, welcome.[sic] So fun that you are here, I think almost not that this is true. Now stop you long, or how? Divinity such a hard case. Have you all your notes with you? How I'm pleased myself, now provides you me some lessons, that make you well! Mamma small, how you look tired outward. But it is clear, the drive where the long understood. Viktor is not home for some moment, we thought not you would come so early.

CHARLOTTE: I sat at Leonardo that last day. He had severe pain, despite that he had got syringes every other hour. Sometimes cried he, but he was not timorous for death, only cried, for that it did hurt. The day went cum that was evening. Without some hospitals kept them on with construction, they drilled and hammered and slammed, the sun fried, there were no blinds or awnings. Poor Leonardo, he was so embarrassed that he smelled bad. We tried getting one other place only several departments were closed for repairs. Night fell silent alarm from the building site and when the sun went down, I could open the window. The heat was like a wall outside, very calm. The professor came, he is an old friend of Leonardo. He sat on the chair at the head of the bed and said that now it was not long, he would get a shot every half-hour so that he could sleep without pain. The professor patted Leonardo on the cheek and said, that he would go to a Brahms concert in the evening, but that he would look in after the concert. Leonardo inquired what they would play cum then the Professor spoke about how they would play the double concerto with Schneiderhan cum Starker asked Leonardo, that he would greet Janos that he wanted yield him his Coltermann-cello, that he long had thought of them. So went the professor cum a departmental nurse came in and gave Leonardo a shot. She thought I should eat something only I was not peckish, I felt just ill of the smell. Leonardo fell asleep for a few minutes. When he woke up, he asked me to leave the room. At the same time, he called on the night nurse. She immediately came with a syringe. After a few moments, she reached out to me in the corridor and talked about Leonardo being dead. I sat with him all night. (pause) I thought that he had been my friend for 18 years, that we had lived together for 13 years, that we never told each other 1 evil or awesome word. In two years, he knew he was dying, that there was no hope.

As often as I could, I traveled and greeted him in his villa outside Naples. He was kind and caring and was pleased with my successes. We talked and had fun and played some chamber music, he hardly talked about his illness at all cum I didn't want to ask, he hadn't liked that. One day he looked at me for a long time, then he laughed and said, "Next year at this time I am away, but I'll always be with you anyway, I'll always think of you." It was the sweet told from Leonardo only it was a bit theatrical. (pause) I can't say that I'm walking around grieving. His death was both expected and overdue. One is clear that it feels empty any once in a while. But you must not dig down. (laughing) Do you think I have changed a lot in these seven years, we have not seen each other. Yes, I dye my hair understood Leonardo didn't want to see me gray-haired, though else I'm me like, don't you think? I bought this pantsuit in Zurich, I wanted something comfortable for me for the long car journey, I saw it in a window on Bahnhofstrasse, I went in and tried and it sat perfectly and it was amazingly cheap. Don't you think it's pretty good looking?

EVA: Well, dearest mother, it is very good looking.

CHARLOTTE: Now must I pack up, wants you forward me with the here bag, it is filthy, cumbrous cum I have such damn pain in the back after the trip. Do you think you could find a wooden board to put under the mattress, I have to lie hard, as you know.

EVA: There is already a wooden board under the mattress. We put it there yesterday.

CHARLOTTE: Wonderful. (hesitates) What is it, little Eva? Are you crying. Well, wait, now I'll see. Are you sad? My little kid, are you sad. Did I say something stupid, you know how I talk!

EVA: I'm just crying because I'm so happy to see you.

CHARLOTTE: Now we hug each other really hard, just like when you were little. I'm just talking about myself all the time{,}[;] now you have to tell me, dearest Eva. Get a look at you. Haven't you been very lean in the last few years, now I see, you're not happy either, but then you have to tell me why you're sad, come on, let's sit down here, do you mind if I take a cigarette? How are you really, little Eva?

EVA: I'm doing fine. Very good.

CHARLOTTE: Do you not live very isolated?

EVA: We have the parish work both Viktor and I.

CHARLOTTE: Yes, of course.

EVA: I often play in church. Last month I had a whole music night. I played and talked about what I was playing. It was very successful.

CHARLOTTE: You must not forget to play a little for me. About you feel like it, of course.

EVA: I would love to.

CHARLOTTE: I had five school concerts in Los Angeles in their Music Hall. Three thousand children each time. I played cum told. You have no idea what a success. But terrible grueling.

EVA: Mom, that's one thing I have to tell you.

CHARLOTTE: Yes.

EVA: Helena is here. (pause)

CHARLOTTE: (evil) You should have written to me that she was here. That is not right for you to face me fait accompli.

EVA: If I had told you she lived here, you would not have come.

CHARLOTTE: I'm sure I would have come anyway.

EVA: I'm sure you did not come.

CHARLOTTE: Is Leonardo's death not enough? Was it necessary to drag poor Lena here too?

EVA: Lena has lived here for two years. I wrote to you that Viktor and I decided to ask Lena if she wanted to live here with us. I wrote to you.

CHARLOTTE: I have never received that letter.

EVA: Or you did not bother to read it.

CHARLOTTE: (suddenly calm) Not a pretty unfair accusation.

EVA: Yes.

CHARLOTTE: I can not stand to see her. At least not today.

EVA: Little mom! Lena is a wonderful person, she's just so hard to tell, but I have learned to understand what she says. I can help translate. She longs so terribly to meet you.

CHARLOTTE: My God, she was doing so well in that chronic home.

EVA: But I longed for her.

CHARLOTTE: Are you sure she's feeling better here with you?

EVA: Yes, she has. And I have someone to take care of.

CHARLOTTE: Has she gotten worse? I mean does she have…? Is she …? I mean worse?

EVA: That is clear that she has gotten worse. It is connected with the disease.

CHARLOTTE: Come on, let's go and visit her.

EVA: Are you sure you want to?

CHARLOTTE: (smiles) I find it terribly uncomfortable though I have no choice.

EVA: Mamma!

CHARLOTTE: I've always had a hard time with people who are unaware of their motives.

EVA: Do you mean me?

CHARLOTTE: You can take it as you like. Let's go.

CHARLOTTE: Lena little. Now you should get a hug and a kiss. I take your arms like this and put them around my shoulders. I have thought of you often, every day.

Helena says something.

EVA: Helena says that she has a sore throat and that she does not want to infect you.

CHARLOTTE: (kissing her again) Oh, I've never been afraid of germs. It's been twenty years since I had a cold. What a nice room you have. And what a view. It's the same view I have from my room.

Helena says something.

EVA: Lena says I should take off her glasses so you can see her properly.

CHARLOTTE: I see you anyway.

Helena says something.

EVA: She wants you to take her about the head with the hands cum then you should look at her.

CHARLOTTE: Is that good?

HELENA: Yes.

CHARLOTTE: I'm so glad Eva's taking care of you. I did not know anything, I thought you were still in that home.[sic] I was actually going to visit you before I left. But so here it is much better, not true.

HELENA: Yes.

CHARLOTTE: Now we can be together every day.

HELENA: (happy) Yes.

CHARLOTTE: Are you in pain?

HELENA: No.

CHARLOTTE: How nice you are in your hair.

Helena says something.

EVA: It's in your honor, Mom.

CHARLOTTE: I read you just now one mighty good book on French the revolution. If thou wants mayst me read aloud for you. We can sit together on the porch and read I for you. Would you like that?

HELENA: Yes.

CHARLOTTE: And then we can take a ride in the car. I've never been to these areas.

HELENA: Yes.

CHARLOTTE: I've thought so much of you.

Helena says something and laughs.

CHARLOTTE: What does she say?

EVA: Lena says that you must be mighty tired, and how you none need strain you more today. She thinks you've been good.

CHARLOTTE: Does Lena have no watch?

EVA: Of course! She has a clock by the bed!

CHARLOTTE: Here, Lena, you'll get my wristwatch. I got it from an admirer who thought I was bad at passing the time. Is Lena having dinner with us?

EVA: No, I usually give her the main meal in the middle of the day. By the way, she is losing weight. As long as she was in the hospital, she ate far too much.

Helena says something.

EVA: Lena says that …

CHARLOTTE: Wait, I understood what Lena wanted to say: There's a butterfly in the window! Was it right?

CHARLOTTE: (alone) Why do I feel like I had a fever? Why wants I'm just crying. So out of idiotic stupidity. I will stand there ashamed. That's the point. And such a bad conscience. Always, always a bad conscience. Had in such a hurry to get here. What was I really imagining? What was it that I longed for so desperately, even though I did not dare to admit it to myself? Now I'm taking a shower cum then I sleep for an hour, at least I lie down on the bed and close my eyes and then I have to put on something nice for dinner. So that Eva has to admit that her old mother is well maintained. There is no point in starting to cry; the clock is already over four. Damn it too. There she sat, looking at me with her big eyes. I held her face between my hands cum I felt the disease twitch in her stacks' neck muscles. Damn, too, that I not may uplift up her and carry her to my bed and comfort her as when she was three years old. That shattered soft body, it's my Lena. Do not cry now for hell. It is already a quarter past four. Self to take a shower, I've come up with other ideas. I shorten the visit. But four days should go well. I can do it. Then I travel to Africa as I had originally planned. It hurts. Evil. Evil. Wait. It hurts the same way in the Bartok Sonata second movement. (hums and humming for to self) Yes. I've taken those beats way too fast, of course. This is how it must be: the prelude pam-pam and then comes a little snake of torment. Slowly but without tears, because there are no more tears or there have never been. So yes. If this is true, the visit to the rectory has at least had a certain value. Now I'm going to take my red dress and that I do out of rudeness as Eva thinks that I should wear something more fitting like this shortly after Leonardo's death. In any case, there is nothing wrong with my body. It may not be that damn elegant harm that is a good and kind body.

When I get to Africa, I - Or maybe I would travel to Crete and visit Harold. (laughs) The certain is he a pig the good Harold only he cooks good food cum he knows how to live. I'm calling him tonight, that I do, that should be nice after four hours of godliness. (suddenly) So am self so mean, self am why angry all the time. Eva and Viktor have only been kind to me and shown that they are happy to have me here. And Victor is actually a nice guy. It's lucky for Eva, the lip herring, that she's got such a nice guy. Now you should see that the shower does not work either! Well, imagine it did.

EVA: This incomprehensibly strange mother! You should have seen her when I told her that Lena lived here with us. You should have seen her smile. Mayst you imagine that she got together into a smile, despite the surprise and horror. And then when we stood outside the door to Lena's room: an actress before her entrance, insanely scared but collected. The performance was superb. Believe thou my mother is completely emotionless. Why did she really come here? What she expected of a reunion after seven years. What was she expecting? And what did I expect? You never stop hoping.

VIKTOR: I do not think so.

EVA: Do you never stop being a mother and daughter?

VIKTOR: Some do.

EVA: It's like a heavy ghost that suddenly falls on you when you open the door to the nursery because you forgot a long time ago that it's the door to the children-chamber. Do you think I'm grown up?

VIKTOR: I do not know what it means to be an adult.

EVA: I do not know either.

VIKTOR: To be an adult is to be able to deal with your dreams and hopes. You do not long.

EVA: Do you think so?

VIKTOR: You might stop being surprised.

EVA: How you look sensible when you sit there with your old pipe. You are probably completely grown up.

VIKTOR: I do not think so. I am amazed every day.

EVA: Over what?

VIKTOR: Over you, for example. In addition, I have completely unreasonable dreams and hopes. And someone kind of longing with for that part.

EVA: Longing?

VIKTOR: I long for you.

EVA: The where is mighty beautiful words, is he not? I mean words that do not mean anything real. I was raised with beautiful words. The order "pain" till example. Mamma is not cursed or miscalculated or unhappy(,)[;] she "feels pain." You also have a lot of those words. Beside you is that well someone sorts occupational damage. If you say you long for me even though I'm standing here opposite you, I'm going to be suspicious.

VIKTOR: You know very well what I mean.

EVA: No. If I knew, you would never get the idea to say you long for me.

VIKTOR: (smiles) That's true.

EVA: What proves that I am at least as wise as you, perhaps wiser, which in itself does not mean much. Now I'm going to go out to the kitchen and look at the veal steak. Mom has always thought I'm bad at cooking food; she is one real guzzler; I have heard her talk all night with an American impresario about how you make sauces. They were actually both excited.

VIKTOR: I think thou prepares -

EVA: Wonderful food. Thanks(,) my friend. I must not forget to make decaffeinated coffee for my dear mother. I have often wondered why she is sleepless. I think I know the reason. If the woman sleeping normally would her vitality crush the environment(,)[;] her insomnia is natures own regulate for that get down it in fairly bearable proportions. (out, in again) Now you will see how nice she has made herself for dinner. Just look at the perfect outfit that will discreetly remind us that she is, after all, a lonely and grieving widow.

EVA: Dear mother, what a beautiful dress!

CHARLOTTE: Do you think it suits me? I thought for a long time that I could not possess red yet as one day I met my old friend Samuel Parkenhurst and he said(:) "Charlotte, I just came from Dior's autumn show and there they had a red dress that was yours entirely." I asked him to get it and - the dress myself actually. I'm hungry as a wolf.

EVA: I hope you'll like it. I have fried a veal roast. You usually like that.

CHARLOTTE: Magnificent. Just that could eat homemade after all the hotel food.

VIKTOR: Yes, we'll toast when. Welcome to the rectory, dear Charlotte. Welcome to the heart, may you enjoy and stay long.

CHARLOTTE: (in English[directly from the film]) Hello, is that you, Paul. Hello? Yes; no, no, not at all, we've just finished dinner. Yes, that's the way it is. In this country, you eat dinner at four o'clock. What? Another concert? Wait a minute let… no, you must speak up, I can't hear you. Well, the line is so noisy. Wait a minute, I have to get my book and… my glasses, [where the hell did I put them.] [back to Swedish] Eva, can you see if I've put my glasses on the table by the window? (back to English/film] Where are you? In Monte Carlo! What are you doing in Monte Carlo? Mind you don't gamble my money away. What? (Eva brings glasses) Thank you, Eva darling! [CUT FROM THE FILM (from Swedish: (business-like) Yes, I have, but they should not think so should go equally easy as last time. Greet them for my part can be happy the fee be the same, minus your commission and travel expenses. Too should they cover my expenses, that was expensive, I became practically taken ruined, in addition, they are allowed to put their repetition so that it fits better. (looks in her calendar) I come from Munich(,)[;] they get to rehearse on Saturday and Sunday morning if Varviso insists on two rehearsals. I'm not going to rush life out of me(,)[;] the connections are abysmal(,)[;] you have to sit at different airports all day. …Now should you see] Now the old gal has the glasses on her nose. Here, let me see… Oh no, that's impossible! That's my time off, and you know that very well. No… no it's no good, I wouldn't dream of it. Here I have.. I have written free, free, free…. How much do they pay, did you say? Good Lord! (laughs) Alright, If they can make that concert on Wednesday, the 17th, it'll be alright. Ok. And tell them from me, that they have to fix a proper toilet behind the platform. Yes, so I don't have to pee in a flower vase. (laughs) Well, I don't care how baroque the castle is. In the 90's? Oh, well, Take care of yourself so you don't overdo it. Mm, and remember, we are not as young as we were. Yes, I love you, you know that. (hangs up) (back to Swedish) That each my agent, he's so cute. Today he is my only friend in this world. No thanks, no cognac for me, but preferably a small whiskey in front of the evening corner. Can I not now help to set the table.

VIKTOR: We said we would spoil you.

CHARLOTTE: (settles down at the grand piano) What a nice old instrument, what a nice sound. And newly tuned! (playing a little) Now I'm really in a good mood. I worried unnecessarily.

EVA: What do you mean, Mom?

CHARLOTTE: (tearfully) Yes, what do you think, my girl? Do not you understand that it felt uneasy to see you again after seven years. I was terribly scared and could not sleep all night and with morning held me at to call cancel, if you would know.

EVA: But mom then!

CHARLOTTE: Do you think I'm made of sheet metal? Thank you, preferably two pieces of sugar. This here decaffeinated coffee is indeed not fun only what makes man when not sleeping. I see you're doing the Chopin preludes. Will not you please play something.

EVA: Not now, Mom.

CHARLOTTE: Eva! Do not be childish. You give me great pleasure if you want to play for me.

VIKTOR: Little Eva, you said the day before yesterday that you hoped your mother would want to listen to you. Did you forget that?

EVA: If you absolutely want. But I'm far from - I mean that here is just cheating and completely technical. I have not cared about the fingering that is in this edition. I could not handle it.

CHARLOTTE: Darling! Now we've heard enough excuses. Just get on with it.

Eva plays Chopin's Prelude n: o 2 in A minor.

CHARLOTTE: Dearest little Eva.

EVA: Is that all you have to say?

CHARLOTTE: No, no, I was just so moved.

EVA: (bright) Did you like it?

CHARLOTTE: I liked you.

EVA: I don't understand what you mean.

CHARLOTTE: Can't you play any of the others? Now that we're having such a good time.

EVA: I want to know what I did wrong.

CHARLOTTE: You made no mistake.

EVA: But you did not like my way of playing this particular prelude.

CHARLOTTE: Everyone must have their own opinion.

EVA: Of course. Right. And now I want to know yours.

CHARLOTTE: What is it for?

EVA: (hostile) Because I'm asking for it.

CHARLOTTE: You're already evil.

EVA: I am sorry, for to you apparently not think the is while worth to speak if for me, how you self looks on just the here prelude.

CHARLOTTE: Well, if you absolutely want to. (calm) So we ignore the purely technical that wasn't so bad, even though you might well have taken a little more interest in Cortot's fingering, as it provides some help in the interpretation. But by all means, we don't care about that problem, without only speaks of the perception itself.

EVA: Well?

CHARLOTTE: Chopin is not sentimental, Eva! He is emotional but not sentimental. It is an abyss between emotion and sentimentality. The prelude you played speaks of restrained pain, not dreams. You have to be calm, clear and severe. The temperature is high fever, but the expression is male controlled. Views you round only the first beats. (shows and plays) It does hurt but I'm showing it none. Then a short relief. But it almost volatilizes immediately and so the torment is the same, no greater and no less. The mastery is always total. Chopin was proud, sarcastic, hot-tempered, tormented, furious and very masculine. So he was not an emotional bitch. This here second prelude must sham almost ugly. It must never be flattering. IT SHOULD SOUND WRONG, laboriously nor successfully fought through. So here, here you go. (plays the piece again)

EVA: I understand.

CHARLOTTE: (almost humble) Become not sorry for me, Eva.

EVA: Why would I be sad(.)[?] On the contrary.

CHARLOTTE: For forty-five years of my life, I've been doing these awful preludes. Where available still one pulp secrets, such I do not understand. But I'm not going to give up.

EVA: When I was a child, I admired you insanely. Then I was pretty tired of you and your pianos for several years. Now I'm starting to admire you again, albeit in a different way.

CHARLOTTE: (sarcastic) Then there is some hope.

EVA: (serious) Yes, by all means.

VIKTOR: I think Charlotte's analysis is seductive, but Eva's interpretation feels more urgent.

CHARLOTTE: (laughs happily) For this statement, Viktor gets a kiss!

VIKTOR: (embarrassed) I'm just saying what I think.

{in the movie, not in the script}

[CHARLOTTE: Eva, where are you?

EVA: I'm up here, Mama.

CHARLOTTE: I've changed, so we can go for a walk if you like. Is this the nursery?

EVA:Yes, It's Erik's room.

CHARLOTTE: Why would you keep it this way?

EVA: We've often talked about changing it.] ({removed from the film} I go here to the grave every Saturday. If it's mild like tonight,) I sit here on the bench for a while and let my thoughts go as they please. (pause) Erik drowned the day before he would turn four years old. We have one old well on the farm cum the lid is nailed down, but somehow he had gotten it up and failed down. We found him almost immediately harm he was already gone. Viktor managed not it there, so was something especially between Erik and his father. I mourned a lot in an outward way. Deep down, I felt from the beginning that he was still alive, that we lived close to each other. I need only concentrate on the very least, so is he there. Sometimes just with I should fall asleep can I feel that he breathes against my face and so pipe it at me with his hand. Do you think it sounds tense? Maybe I can understand if you think so. For me, it's completely natural. He lives one other life harm anytime mayst we reach each other, there is no limit, no insurmountable wall. Sometimes, of course, I wonder what the reality is like where my little boy lives and breathes. Simultaneously understand I the to the does not work to blazon, because it is a world of liberated emotions. Viktor has it much harder than I do. He says he can no longer believe in God because God lets children die or burn, or become insane, or shot, or starved. I try to explain to him that there is no difference between children and adults because the adults are still children, who have to live disguised as adults. To me man is an incredible creation, like an inconceivable thought and in man there is everything, from the highest to the lowest, just like in life, and man is the image of God and in God there is everything, everything is like mighty forces and so the devils are created and the saints and the prophets and the dark and the artists and the destroyers. [sic]

All are side by side and penetrate each other. It's like mighty patterns that are constantly changing, understand you what I mean? In this way, there must also be an unlimited amount of realities, not just the reality that we grasp with our blunt minds without a tumult of realities that arch over and around each other, inside and outside. It is only fear and common sense to believe in some boundaries. THERE ARE NO LIMITS. Not for the thoughts, not for the emotions. It is anxiety that sets the borders, think don't you there also? When thou playing slow rates in Beethoven's Hammer-piano sonata when need you the whiff that you pipe you in one world without restrictions, in of one vast motion as you never can through behold or explore. It is as with Jesus. He blew up the laws and restrictions with a whole new feeling, which no one had heard of before(,)[;] it was love. Klart att mänskor blev rädda och ursinniga, precis som de nästan alltid blir förfärade och försöker smita, när en stor känsla överväldigar dem, trots att de går där och längtar sig fördärvade efter sina förtorkade och dödade känslor.

CHARLOTTE: I will be horrified when I hear her reason. It is so over-stretched - so beyond reason. And then there is the obvious! She's hanging out with your little boy(,)[;] she has solved the world's riddle(,)[;] there are answers to all the questions.

VIKTOR: (smiles) Yes, yes.

CHARLOTTE: You may not let her go around with that there (the) way.

VIKTOR: What argues you?

CHARLOTTE: I believe that she really is terribly unhappy. And how she suddenly one day realizes how poor it is placed and then makes her somewhat crazy.

VIKTOR: Think you really that?

CHARLOTTE: Yes, so believe me indeed.

VIKTOR: Is she up at Lena?

CHARLOTTE: She would do it for discipline for the night.

VIKTOR: Fashion you now down a moment, dear Charlotte, and associated with, so shall I try to explain how I see my wife.

CHARLOTTE: Yes, currently sitting me so?

VIKTOR: When I bad[e] Eva that she would marry herself to me, said she immediately in of that she not adored me.[sic] I asked about her beloved somebody else. She replied that she never had loved any humans, that she was unable to love. sic Eva and I lived here for several years, we were kind towards each other, worked much, traveled abroad on my holidays, then born Erik. We had already given up hope to receive the own child and spoke one part about to we would adopt - (pause) So. In and with pregnancy underwent Eva a total change. She was glad, soft and outward. She was lazy, ignored over parish work and her piano-playing. She could sit for the whereat stolen with legs on one other chair and look on the light's walk over the mountain and the fjord. We were suddenly much happy - you sorry if I'm stating the - we were much happy in the bed indeed. I am twenty years older yet Eva, I'm liked enough that it had started lead as a gray film over existence, about thou understand what I mean. I liked that I could see myself round and say, so, yes, this here was then life, so here would it become. But then was all different, it was some extremely - (pause) There were some extremely (pause) You may forgive me, Charlotte, but it is still somewhat difficult to (pause) Yes. There were some years like were very rich. You would set Eva. You should really have seen her.

CHARLOTTE: I remember them there years around Erik's birth. Just then recorded me in all the Mozart sonatas and the piano concertos. I had not one single day free.

VIKTOR: No, just that. We invited thyself time to time, but you had pity probably never time.

CHARLOTTE: No.

VIKTOR: Near Erik drowned became the gray the film even grayer. For Eva matter that thus differently.

CHARLOTTE: Differently? How, differently?

VIKTOR: Her sense lives uneaten, at least acts that so. She has become lean and angular and is more unbalanced till mood - she mayst till example receive huge fury. But I don't think she's overstretched or strange. And if she feels that her son lives in her neighborhood, maybe that's how it is. She doesn't often talk about it(,)[;] she's probably afraid it'll hurt me - and it probably does. But what she says sounds true. I believe her.

CHARLOTTE: Yeah, sure. You're a priest.

VIKTOR: The little faith I have, living on her terms.

CHARLOTTE: I'm sorry if I hurt you.

VIKTOR: It's okay, Charlotte. Unlike you and Eva, I am a diffuse and insecure person. I have to blame myself.

CHARLOTTE: Don't you think I should feast on a couple of hefty sleeping pills tonight? Actually, I think so. This is so calm and still, only some rain which murmurs some good against some ceiling. Two mogadone and two valiums are usually just right.

EVA: Hast thou all you need?

CHARLOTTE: It is so excellent. Right the variety of biscuits and mineral water and a tape recorder and cassettes and two detective novels and earplugs and blindfold and extra pillow and my little itch. If you want to taste my good Swiss chocolate, fresh from Zurich. Please, you may take two bits.

EVA: Thanks, Mom, but I'm not that fond of chocolate.

CHARLOTTE: That's weird. I want to remember you were crazy about sweets as a kid.

EVA: Helena liked sweets. Not me.

CHARLOTTE: All the better, I have my chocolate for myself.

EVA: Good night, little mother.

CHARLOTTE: Good night, my kid, and thank you for tonight. Viktor is really a delightful person. You have to take care of him.

EVA: It is me also.

CHARLOTTE: Are you happy together? Are you all right?

EVA: (patient) Momma little. Viktor is my best friend. I don't know what life would look like if I didn't have him.

CHARLOTTE: He said you didn't love him.

EVA: Did he say that?

CHARLOTTE: Yeah, sure. Why?

EVA: Just a little surprising.

CHARLOTTE: Was it a secret?

EVA: No.

CHARLOTTE: But you don't like him saying it.

EVA: Viktor doesn't usually confide.

CHARLOTTE: We were talking about you.

EVA: If you want to know anything, you can ask me directly. I promise to be as sincere as I can.

CHARLOTTE: Dear child, you really can't make a big deal out of this. It is not very unnatural for an old mother to be curious about how her daughter is doing. We talked about you with the greatest affection, I can assure you.

EVA: If I might understand why you can't leave people alone.

CHARLOTTE: I think I've left you alone for too long.

EVA: (smiles) You may be right about that.

CHARLOTTE: Let's not talk about this sad feeling. Then I won't sleep tonight, even with the sleeping pills.

EVA: We can talk some other time.

CHARLOTTE: That's right. Yield me a hug and promise me you're not evil over your old mother.

EVA: I promise.

CHARLOTTE: I love you, you see.

EVA: (mild) I love you too.

CHARLOTTE: It's not so damn fun to be alone all the time, I'll tell you. I'm just getting jealous of you and Viktor.

EVA: Yeah, yeah.

CHARLOTTE: Now that Leonardo is dead, I'm so damn lonely. Can you understand that?

EVA: Yes, I understand that.

CHARLOTTE: No, no, no. Now I'm about to start crying with self-pity[,] and we had decided there would be no surge of emotion tonight. This detective novel is actually not that bad. It's a new writer, Adam Kretzinsky. Have you heard of him?

EVA: No.

CHARLOTTE: I met him in Madrid. He was crazy. I could hardly resist. That is, I did not resist at all. Good night, little Eva.

EVA: Good night, Mom.

CHARLOTTE: He admired me as a crazy person and said I was the most beautiful woman in his life. What do you do about that?

EVA: You tell me when you want breakfast.

CHARLOTTE: No trouble for me.

EVA: But I want to pamper you.

CHARLOTTE: Supposing you absolutely insist.

EVA: Strong coffee, warm milk, two slices [of] darkened German bread with Jarlsberg cheese, [and] a slice [of] white toasted bread with honey. Is that not the case?

CHARLOTTE: And a glass of pressed orange juice.

EVA: I almost forgot.

CHARLOTTE: I mayst really …

EVA: I'll give you your juice. Good night, Mom!

CHARLOTTE: Good night, darling.

CHARLOTTE: (alone) I think I'll look at my accounts. (brings out a red notebook) I must not forget to let Brammer put the money after Leonardo. The house is also worth quite much(,)[;] thou bothered you never about things like that which assets and debts, you were above earthly worries, you left all the problems to Charlotte. "You, Charlotte, who's so smart with money, you, Charlotte, are my finance minister." Once when you were mad at me, you said I was mean. Am I stingy? Careful with money, of course. Grandfather's farmer bloody and bond sense. 3,735,866 francs. I can't believe you had so much money, Leonardo. Who would have thought that? And you'll bequeath it all to your old Charlotte. I've got a little money, too. That adds up to over five million. What do I do with so much money? I'll buy a nice car for Viktor and Eva. They can't ride around in that old cart, standing down in the yard. It seems to be lethal. On Monday, we'll go into town and watch a car. It will cheer them up. And me too. (yawn) Now I'm starting to feel calm and sleepy. I'll read a little in Adam's book cum then I'll put out. Here's real quiet. The rain has stopped. Oh, yeah. (reads) "She handed him the red flower of her virginity with dumb dignity; he received it without enthusiasm, even though he had fixed her small hard breasts all morning and the strong light pubic hairs that stood above the waistband of the bikini." God, that's rubbish! He was intrinsically a correct idiot the there Adam even though he almost killed himself for my sake. (smiles) If I were to buy a new car myself and give Eva and Viktor the Mercedes. Then I can fly back to Paris cum I can buy a car there I won't have to drive all the way. (yawns) Tomorrow I'll get started on sharp with Ravel, divinity what I've been sloppy the last few weeks, simply unforgivable. (closes eyes) He is a sad man, Victor, eerily like Joseph, but more insignificant. They get bored of each other, of course!

The door opens. Charlotte gets very scared. Short comes Helena rushing in on the room, throws herself over the mother, she is heavy cum stark. After a brief battle, Charlotte wakes up.

EVA: But mother then, what has happened. I heard you call, and when I came into your room, you weren't there.

CHARLOTTE: I'm sorry if I woke you up only self had such an unpleasant dream. I dreamed that -

EVA: Yes?

CHARLOTTE: No, I don't remember what it was.

EVA: I'll be happy to keep you company if you want to talk.

CHARLOTTE: No, thank you, dear. I'm just going to sit for a while and pick myself up. Go to bed.

EVA: Then I'll do it.

CHARLOTTE: Eva!

EVA: Yes, Mom!

CHARLOTTE: You like me, don't you?

EVA: Yeah, sure. You're my mother.

CHARLOTTE: That was not a sincere answer.

EVA: Then I want to answer with a counter-question. Do you like me?

CHARLOTTE: I love you.

EVA: That is not true. (smiles)

CHARLOTTE: You accuse me for lacking love. [sic]Eva does not answer, looks at her.

CHARLOTTE: Do you not realize the unreasonable nature of such an accusation?

EVA: (looks at her) It was not an accusation.

CHARLOTTE: Do you accuse yourself of lacking love for Viktor?

EVA: I have told Viktor that I do not love him. You're playing eroticism. There is a difference.

CHARLOTTE: And if I've been in good faith?

EVA: Now I don't understand what you mean.

CHARLOTTE: About I sure I've been deeply convinced that I loved you and Helena.

EVA: That is not possible.

CHARLOTTE: Do you remember when I interrupted my career and decided to stay home?

EVA: I do not know which was the worst: the time you were home to play wife and mother or the time you were on tour. But the more I think about it, the more I understand that you did hell for us, both Dad and me.

CHARLOTTE: You know nothing about Dad and my relationship.

EVA: Dad was as cuddled and as submissive as I and everyone else.

CHARLOTTE: It's not true. Dad and I were happy together. Joseph was the finest, tastiest, and most tender man in the world. He loved me cum me could have done what that preferably for him.

EVA: Of course. You deceived him.

CHARLOTTE: I did not deceive him. I fell in love with Martin and traveled with him for eight months. Do you think that time was a dance on roses?

EVA: In any case, it was me who got to sit with Dad in the evenings and the where I who got to comfort him and the was I like constantly forced to repeat that you enough despite everything loved him and that you right would surely come back, it was I who got to read your letters. Your long, tender, loving, funny, humorous letters where you told selected episodes of your interested travel. We sat there like stupid idiots and read your letters twice, three times and thought there was no more wonderful person than you.

CHARLOTTE: (still, surprised) Eva, thou hates me.

EVA: I don't know. I'm so confused. Suddenly you come here after seven years cum I rejoice me to bring you here. I don't know what I imagined. Maybe I thought you were alone and sad. I don't know. I thought maybe I was fully grown, that I looked clearly at you and on myself and away Helen's disease and in our childhood. Now I understand that it is all one great chaos. (pause) Good night mother. There is no point in talking about the past. It hurts too much cum further is it makes no sense.

CHARLOTTE: You throw out a lot of accusations and then go!

EVA: Because in any case, it's too late.

CHARLOTTE: What is too late?

EVA: Nothing can change.Now, through silence, a plaintively drawn-out tone is heard, hardly human. Charlotte looks horrified at her daughter. Eva says: "Helena has woken up(,)[;] I'm going up to her for a little while and see if she needs anything." She hurries through the dark house, knows the way, does not need to light up(,)[;] outside the window[,] the moonlight stands immobile. It's still, no wind, no bird. Eva carefully opens the door to Helen's room. The complaining sound almost stops immediately. She turns on the table lamp. Helena sitter [sits] high embedded on the screen-equipped bed, she jerks in the neck and shoulder cum she biter[s] on the lips. The eyes are tightly closed, she sleeps. Eva wakes her gently. Slow opening her eyes, slowly familiar her back her reality, she tries saying something but refrains almost immediately. Eva asks her if she is thirsty; she declines, closes the eye. Sleeps immediately. [sic] The twitching subsides, the face becomes calm. Eva sits with her, looks at her. Extinguishes the lamp. Views at her.

EVA: To you, I was a doll that you played with when you had time. If I got sick or troubled, you left me to the nurse or more Dad! You shut yourself up and worked, and then no one was allowed to interfere. I was standing outside the door listening. When you took your coffee break, I dared sneak in to see if you existed. You were kindly but absent. If I asked you about anything, I hardly got an answer. I was sitting on the floor looking at you, you each large and beautiful, the room was starved and airy, the marquis each drawn down, outside it blew into the leaf masses, it was all wrapped up in an unreal green shimmer. Sometimes I had to row you out on the bay, you had a long white curled summer dress that showed your breasts that were so beautiful, you were barefoot and had braided your hair in a thick braid, you liked to look down into the water, it was clear and cold, you could see the big stones down there at the bottom, the plants and fish, your hair got wet and your hands got wet. [sic] Because you were always so pretty, I wanted to be nice too. I was pedantically careful with my outfit. Always anxious that you wouldn't like my look, I thought I was so ugly, skinny and angular and big cows and big ugly lips and no eyebrows and eyelashes, the arms were far too long cum my feet were too big and my toes too flat and - no I thought I looked almost disgusting. But you showed almost you never said you were worried about my look, once you said: I think you should have been a boy and you laughed because I wouldn't be sad. But I did understand. I cried a whole week in secret, as you hated tears - the tears of others.

Then suddenly one day your suitcases were standing below the stairs cum you spoke on the phone in foreign languages, I went into the nursery and prayed to God that something would happen that prevented your travel; grandmother would die or so would car earthquake or all flights would receive engine failure; but you always traveled, the doors were open, and the house was blowing, and everyone was talking in each other's mouth, and you came up to me, and embraced and kissed me, and hugged me, and kissed me again, and looked at me, and smiled at me, and you smelled good and foreign and yourself you were also alien, you were already on your way, you didn't see me, I thought now the heart stops, now I'm dying, it hurts so bad, I'll never be happy again, it's only been five minutes, how can I endure such pain for two months and so wept me on Dad's knee cum dad sat completely immobile with his small soft hand on my head, he sat forever and smoked his old pipe, he surrounded us with smoke, he sometimes said something: If we're going to the movies tonight or today, I think it would taste like ice cream for dinner. But I didn't care about ice cream or cinema because I was dying. So went the days and weeks, Dad and I shared solitude correct good; we didn't have much to say to each other, but it was so calm with him and never that I disturbed him, sometimes he looked a little concerned, self didn't know he had constant financial difficulties only always when I came clinging wanted it up cum then we conversed for a while nor also patched it me only with his little faded hand nor also he sat on the leather couch with Uncle Otto and drank brandy cum both of them were quietly muttering with each other, I wonder if they heard what they said, or uncle Harry was there playing chess cum then it was as well as extra quiet, then heard man three different watches ticking in the house.

[Disheartening?] Several days before you came home, I had a fever of arousal, and I was anxious that I would get sick for real because I knew you were afraid of sick people. [Neutral?] And then when you came, I almost couldn't bear my happiness and nothing I could say either, so sometimes you got a little impatient and said: Eva is determined not very happy to have her mother back home. Then I became fiery red in the face and right sweaty yet could not say anything, as I none had any words because you had taken care of all order home with us. I loved you, I think it was life and death, but I distrusted your words. I instinctively understood that you hardly ever meant what you said. [neutral] You have such fair voice mother, when I was small felt this in all the body, when you spoke till me and often became you annoyed at me, for that I not had heard what you told till me. It was because I listened to your voice, but it was also because I didn't understand what you were saying. I understood didn't your words, they tallied not with some expression in your eyes or your tone. The worst part was that you smiled when you were evil. When you hated Dad, you called him "my dearest friend," when you were tired of me, you said, "beloved little girl." Nothing was right. Wait, Mom, I need to finish speaking, I know I'm a little drunk, but if I hadn't had a drink, I would never have said what I said. [inspirational?] Then, when I'm dropping courage and not dare say more or fall silent, because that I'm ashamed for what I'm saying, when can you speak and explain, I shall listen and understand, precise as I ever hast listened and understood. After all, it went well to be your little kid. There was nothing wrong with me loving you. You tolerated me like that pretty because you had your travels. [informal?]But there is something I have never understood cum there is your relationship with dad, I've been thinking so much about both of you lately, but your relationship is a mystery.

[Informative?] Sometimes think I that you were entirely dependent on dad, despite that he was so much weaker than you, in some way showed you one regard towards him, that you never showed towards myself and Helena. You ashamed away Daddy, thou spake about him as were he of grander matter. Still was poor Dad just one small mediocrity, kind and modest and inoffensive. As far as I understand, you paid Dad's debts several times. Was it not like that?

CHARLOTTE: Yes.

EVA: I think how dad had tiny events, I remember in all fall least three foreign ladies that came home till us and sat in some living room, as you were out on journeys. One of them was probably named Maria van Eyck and was your student?

CHARLOTTE: Dad had a relationship with Maria. Pretty short and pretty modest.

EVA: Did not you care about those stories?

CHARLOTTE: No, I really could not hurt Dad for his little stories. In addition, he had good taste. You said Dad was an average person. That is one both cruel and unfair judiciously, that presents that you none knew your Father. Under other circumstances, Joseph would have been one of Europe's great architects, but he was far too considerate and far too decent. He had to stand back for his older brother, who wasn't half as talented, and it was an accident that they inherited your grandfather's firm together. Joseph never wanted to quarrel or assert his opinion. But he had great ideas, he designed till example one concerto house till Copenhagen or was it Oslo, no, it was probably Lyon actually, and all [sic] were agreed about that it was one of the prettiest buildings as created under the thirties, then came the war cum the project expired. Poor Joseph, he was unlucky with everything he did. He was videlicet one REAL big man and not at all average. You look so skeptical, Eva. Do you not believe me?

EVA: What does it mean? Your words apply in your reality, my words valid in mine. If we change words, they are useless.

CHARLOTTE: You talked before about my self-deception. I do not think you're right. I never lied to myself. The actual relationship was pretty scary: I had back pain, could not rehearse properly, my concerts were poor, I lost important commitment. I began to think that my life was meaningless. At the same time, I had a bad conscience for you and Joseph. I thought it was idiotic to drag myself around from city to city, scolded and ashamed, when I could instead be at your house. You laugh ironically. I'm trying to tell you truthfully, I'm just telling you what I was thinking, and then I don't care what you think. But one time may you this be said, then we never talk about it again.

EVA: I'm trying to understand.

CHARLOTTE: Self was in Hamburg I played Beethoven's number one, it is not very difficult cum everything had gone well. After I went and old Schmiess, you know the conductor - he's dead now, at a local and we used to do that. When we dined and drank real long cum self was satisfied cum relaxed cum back pain almost did not feel so Schmiess said: Why do not you stay at home husband and children and live a respectable life instead of subjecting yourself to constant humiliation? I stared at him cum then I laughed. Did you think I played so badly tonight? No, I didn't think so, he said, smiling. But I can't help thinking about August 18th, 1934. Then were you twenty years and we played Beethoven's one coupled in Linz, will you remember that evening, it was thirty-five gradations warm, the hall was packed, we played like gods, it burned in the orchestra, for the concert went them folk and screamed and stomped and the orchestra gave touche. You wore a red all-simple summer dress and long hair right to your waist.You were cheerful and unmoved, for your part we could have played the concert five times that night, it would have been just as fun. How do you remember all that? I asked. I have it written down in my score, Schmiess said. I usually record my great experiences.When I got to the hotel, I couldn't sleep. At three o'clock in the morning, I called Joseph's house and told him that I had decided: I'd stop the trips, I'd stay home with him and you, we'd be a real family. Josef became awful glad. We cried with emotion both of us, we spoke for almost two hours. So much for that. At least it was not a fraud. Perhaps a childish notion that life could perform merciful ways out for Charlotte Andergast as well. That was, of course, stupid. After a month, I realized that I was a terrible burden for you and Dad, that I longed for home. After a few years, I calmed down, started giving lessons, devoted myself to you and your upbringing, participated in Dad's worries.

For the summers dwelled us in a small house in the archipelago - you remember that. (Eva nods, smiles without smiling) We were pretty happy, I think. Or were we not?

Thou was not happy?

EVA: (shaking on head) No, I wasn't happy.

CHARLOTTE: (sighs) You said that you never had it so good.

EVA: I didn't want to disappoint you.

CHARLOTTE: There you are. (laughing) What did I do wrong?

EVA: You did nothing wrong! As always, you were magnificent.For me, you were terrible. I was fourteen years old, and for lack of any better, you turned all your pent-up energy on me. You'd bet you'd neglected me, and now you'd make up for the neglect. I fought my way as best I could, but I didn't have a chance. For everything else, I loved you and was always absolutely convinced that you were right and that I was wrong. Do you know what you did? You remarked ne'er on-line, you used rewrites. But every hour of the day, you came with your smiles, your little jokes, your tender care or slightly worried tone of voice. There was not a detail that was not subject to your loving energy. I grew too fast. You started gymnastics, naturally did we practice together, referring to your own bad back. I had pimples(.)[;] I was you in puberty; where existed immediate a dermatologist who each good friend to the family, he prescribed ointments and tinctures which I must ill of and which did some skin yet redder. You thought that I was also much trouble with my long hair, which you regarded that I mishandled, therefore shortcut you me, it was horrible, I thought I looked grotesque outward. Then worst of all, you got to think my teeth had grown wrong cum you made sure I got braces, I didn't look wise. [neutral?] You explained to me that I was a big girl and that I wouldn't go in long pants and vest without on dresses that you had sewn or sewn yourself without asking what I thought and self I couldn't say no, because I didn't want to make you sad. You gave me books to read that I none thought about, as they were just for sophisticated for my sense, I read and read and then would you and I discuss back what I had read. [very strongly cautionary?]

You explained and recounted, I understood not what you spoke about, was only cautious for that one day you would expose me and my limitless stupidity. I became being lame, but I understood one thing very clearly: there was not a millimeter of it that indeed was me, who could be loved or even accepted. You were obsessed cum self became more and more afraid, increasingly destroyed. I no longer knew who I was, as I'd at any moment please you. [very strongly neutral?]I became as a clumsy puppet which you those manage, I said what you desired, I did your gestures and movements for to you would like me, I dared not be self myself a single moment, not even when I was alone because I cool disliked that which was my own. It was horrible, Mom, and I'm still shaking my whole body when I talk about those years. It was horrendous, but it would get worse. I didn't realize I hated you because I was utterly convinced that we loved each other, cum that you knew everything (the) best. So I couldn't hate you as hatred was born insane anxiety. [very intensely concerned?] I had terrible dreams, I bit my nails and pulled big shots out of my hair, I tried crying but couldn't - didn't make a sound, I tried to scream - it just turned into stifled grunts that frightened me even more. One day you took me in your arms, sat next to me on the couch cum cried small cum said you were worried about my development and that we should talk to a good doctor about my situation. I understood that you actually meant that I was becoming insane - I felt a kind of melancholy satisfaction with that opportunity. [informative & inspirational with strong intensity?] So come me then to a psychiatrist, one olden tired uncle at white coat which all the time while we talked to each other, threw a large paper knife into his thick belly. [informal with very strong intensity?] He started asking me about my sex life, but since I did not know what he was talking about - I had not even had my first period - I had to come up with something.

I believe he was middling amazed by my sophisticated taste and my perverted fantasies. Or he looked through me and didn't want to hurt me. He was kind and well-meaning and said that I should think that my mother loved me and wanted my best, but I already knew that.

CHARLOTTE: And so I traveled my way with Martin. You never understood that?

EVA: I never thought of those words.

CHARLOTTE: But you thought I let it down.

EVA: Yes.

CHARLOTTE: Never have you ever - (stopping. pause)Eva is silent. Charlotte is silent.

EVA: Do you remember Stefan?

CHARLOTTE: I remember Stefan. You would never have made it with a child!

EVA: Mamma! I was 18. Stefan was an adult, we held each other, we had managed -

CHARLOTTE: You'd never make it.

EVA: We had managed ourselves, WE WANTED HAVE CHILD, but you, you ruined our relationship.

CHARLOTTE: That is not true. That's fucking not true. On the contrary, I told Dad that we had to be careful, that we should wait. Understood you not that your Stefan was a slob, a semi-criminal little punk, who at all times cheated you.

EVA: (with hatred) You hated him from first the instant, as you saw that I loved him, that I held on sliding away from you, you did everything you could before to destroy our relationship. Simultaneously what you played understanding and trusting.

CHARLOTTE: And the baby.

EVA: Stefan was completely changed when he found out I was pregnant.

CHARLOTTE: Your Stefan drank her full, borrowed my car, drove on in the dike cum became indicted for drink-driving, SO was his reaction to your pregnancy.

EVA: (furious) Do you think that you know everything? Were you present at Stefans and my calls, low you under the bed when we were together, know you over header what you speak on? Have you ever bothered to find out another man's thoughts and feelings? Do you care about any living creature other than yourself?

CHARLOTTE: I've heard those accusations a few times.

EVA: Stefan wasn't like anyone else(,)[;] he was only much better and far more honest.

CHARLOTTE: [joyful with very strong intensity; assertive with strong intensity] I guess that's why he stole that small Rembrandt etching and pledging on, so where well because he lied to you about his childhood and upbringing and his tragic family circumstances, that I guess that's why he broke into our summer house with his good friends and drink up the spirits and pigs down.

EVA: All it there happened AFTERWARDS. Did you forget? [Neutral with very strong intensity] Have you forgotten that you managed to get me placed in a psychiatric clinic after the abortion and that you reported Stefan to the police when he entered the villa to talk to you?

CHARLOTTE: If you real If I wanted you a child, I would never have forced you to have an abortion.

EVA: And what did I have to resist? You had brainwashed me from childhood(,)[;] I always had complied with your will(,)[;] I was scared and unsure and needed help and support.

CHARLOTTE: (anxious) I thought I was helping you. I was convinced supposing that abortion was the only solution. I have been convinced about that point until this moment. It's terrible that you've been carrying this hatred for all these years. Why have you never said anything?

EVA: Because you never listen. Because you're a notorious escapist, because you're emotionally disabled, because you really hate me and Helena, because you're helplessly trapped in yourself, because you're always yourself in the way, because you've carried me in your cold womb and thrust me out with disgust, because I loved you, because you thought I was disgusting and failed and untalented. [sic] [Neutral with very strong intensity] [Neutral with very strong intensity] And you succeeded damage me for life precisely as thou oneself are injured, the all that which is sensitive and delicate gave you thyself to, the all living you came at attempted you suffocate. You're talking about my hatred. Your hatred was no less. YOUR HATRED WAS NO LESS. I was small and malleable and loving. You Band me You needed my love, just as you need all other people to love you too. I was unprotected. Everything happened in the name of love, thou I kept saying you loved me and Dad and Helena. And you mastered the tone of love and gestures. People Like You - People Like You fatal, you should be locked up and rendered harmless. A mother and a daughter, that fearful combination of emotion cum confusion and destruction. Everything is possible cum everything takes place in the name of love and care. [Assertive with very strong intensity] The mother's damage to inherited by the daughter, the mother's miscalculations shall the daughter apply, mother's accident shall become the daughter's accident, it is as if the umbilical string never became severed. The daughter's accident is the mother's triumph, daughter's pain is the mother's underhanded enjoyment.Helena wakes up to Eva's voice. She becomes cautious, tone of intonation and voice position scares her. She works her way out of bed, takes over on lofty end cum sliding down on the floor, dragging facing the door on elbows and knees, falling on the side, is breathless and trembling.

EVA: We lived on your terms, on your miserly testimony. We thought that life would be like that, a child is always extradited, does not understand, is helpless, cannot understand, does not know, no one says anything, there is dependence, humiliation and so the distance, the insurmountable wall, the child cries, no one answers, no one comes, do you not understand? [sic]

CHARLOTTE: You have in your terrible hatred made yourself a picture of me, is it true? Do you seriously think that's the whole truth?Eva hides her face in her hands, shaking her head.

CHARLOTTE: Remember your grandmother. No, natural none, you were seven years when she died. Grandfather recalls you better, I believe till and with to you cum he had pretty good contact.

EVA: I was afraid for Grandma(,)[;] she was thus overwhelming both bodily and spiritually. Grandpa was kind.

CHARLOTTE: Yeah, yeah. That's how it was for you.

EVA: But not for you.

CHARLOTTE: No, you can hardly say that. Mother and father were distinguished mathematicians, obsessed with their science and each other. It was dominant, credulous cum good-natured. We children regarded them with astonished benevolence, only without heat or actual interest. I can't remember any of them ever concerned over me or my brothers, whether with caresses or punishments. In by ourselves agency was I full ignorant of all things that had to do with love: tenderness, touch, closeness, warmth. It was only through music that I was able to show my feelings. Sometimes when I lie awake at night I wonder if I have lived at all. [sic] What a wonderful life you are living, Mrs. Andergast, says someone who wants to be friendly. Imagine making people so happy. And I'm thinking, I ALIVE NO, I'VE NEVER BEEN BORN, I PRESSED FRONT FROM MY MOTHER'S BODY, IT JOINED AND IMMEDIATELY TURNED AGAINST FATHER, I DO NOT EXIST. Sometimes I have wondered whether it is the same for all people or whether some have more talent for living than others. If some people never live, only exist?

EVA: How long have you known all this?

CHARLOTTE: Three years ago, I was sick, it maybe you didn't know, I received some sepsis and low two months in a hospital in Paris. Leonardo canceled his concerts and stayed with me the whole time. I was about to - well, I guess I was the closest to dying. Then it took quite a long time that - I had some sort's depression, or what to call it.

EVA: But Mom, I had no idea.

CHARLOTTE: There was no reason to worry you. Well, anyway, Leonardo and I started talking to each other, since we had such an unusual amount of time. That is, Leonardo spoke. I listened and tried to understand. It was quite difficult at first. By all means, I can be soulful, if necessary. But I have never cared about the soul itself. (sighs) It was like lectures in first(-)grade cum I was not a very good disciple. Before the most thought me that Leonardo was talking nonsense, at once enjoyed I thought it was nice to have him sitting on the edge of the bed. (smiles) He had endless patience. But sometimes he actually said that I was a big stupid faggot, and that he couldn't believe how I could be such a decent musician. (pause) [very strongly inspirational & strongly informal] To I ended up with someone kind of picture of myself: I'VE NEVER BEEN A VIXEN, MY FACE AND MY BODY ARE AGING, I'M GETTING MEMORIES AND EXPERIENCES, BUT INSIDE THOSE OBLIGATIONS I'M LIKE UNBORN. (pause) I don't remember any faces, not even my own. Sometimes tries I remember me[sic] mother's face, I recall it not - that is clear - I realize that she was large and dark and had blue eyes and big[sic] nose and rounded mouth and broad forehead, but I may not get the different pieces to agree, I see her not. [sic] In the same set is it impossible for me to remember your face or Helenas or Leonardos. [sic] I remember giving birth to you and your sister, but I recall none of the childbirth more than it hurt - but the pain, how it tasted, I don't remember. (pause) Leonardo once said, no, I don't remember. "A sense of reality is a talent thing," he said, "most people lack that talent cum that is maybe lucky." Do you understand what he meant?

EVA: I think so.

CHARLOTTE: Yes, it really is - (quietly)

EVA: (after pause) What?

CHARLOTTE: It is indeed awkward.

EVA: Awkward?

CHARLOTTE: I've always been afraid of you. (astonished)

EVA: I cannot understand that.

CHARLOTTE: (quiet surprise) I wanted enough that you might take hand about me, self wished that thou would keep me in my arms and comfort me.

EVA: I was a child.

CHARLOTTE: Does it matter?

EVA: No.

CHARLOTTE: I saw that you loved me cum I'm I wanted to love you, but I couldn't because I was afraid of your demands.

EVA: I had no demands.

CHARLOTTE: I THOUGHT you had requirements, which I couldn't fill. I felt awkward and disabled. I didn't want to be your mother(,)[;] I wanted you to know that I was as helpless as you but poorer, are afraid.

EVA: Is that true?

CHARLOTTE: I hear myself say things I have never said. Am I lying, am I playing theatre, I am telling the truth, I don't know, Eve. I don't know. Jag känner mig upprörd och förvirrad. Maybe it's Leonardo's death. Maybe Helena's disease. Maybe your terrible hatred. (anxious) Eva, be nice to me! It hurts so much!

EVA: I know it hurts.

CHARLOTTE: Why do you look at me like that?

EVA: I'll tell you soon.Helena has cum great trouble opened the door and taken herself out in the upper hallway; she has dragged herself up till the stairs, located prostrate in the dark, listening till the two women's deliberation.

CHARLOTTE: You're supposed to say what's on your mind.

EVA: I think of Helena and Leonardo.

CHARLOTTE: I do not understand.

EVA: Don't?

CHARLOTTE: They hardly knew each other.

EVA: Mamma!

CHARLOTTE: We were together on Bornholm one Easter.

EVA: You left after three days.

CHARLOTTE: I remember it raining. I even think it snowed.

EVA: Mamma!

CHARLOTTE: I was going to play Bartok's first with Ansermet in Geneva.(pause) I was anxious to get there on time. I wanted to go through the concert in peace with the old gentleman. So I might have traveled earlier. It was right one horrible weather.(long pause) Leonardo was in a bad mood. And you weren't that cheerful, either.

EVA: Mamma!

CHARLOTTE: I don't know why you want to make me remember that stupid Easter. I understand from your tone that I should be ashamed of something. You'll have to excuse me.

EVA: [freindly with very strong intensity; joyful with strong intensity] You and Leonardo came on Thursday(,)[;] we had a lovely night together(,)[;] we played and sang and drank wine and laughed and played some old game when we found through a closet. Helena was with us(,)[;] she wasn't unwell then; she became glad and warm and happy. Leonardo was delighted with her joy(,)[;] he talked and joked with her(,)[;] she immediately fell in love(,)[;] they sat together until well into the night. Neighbor morning told Helena for me in largest trust that Leonardo had kissed her. [Neutral with very strong intensity] In the morning scored Leonardo and Helena one outing with the car, it was on Good Friday, it was mild and still, a correct spring day, that you have forgotten it, mum? When they came home from their outing, where they cheer up and tan, you were on the phone; you had been calling all morning. [Joyful with very strong intensity] When they entered the tambourine and Leonardo set Helena down on a chair, you interrupted your phone call and said, "Now thank Leonardo very much for being so kind to you." Helena laughed and said: "My mother speaks to me as if I were eight years old. Is it not touching?" Then you said with a completely different tone, "It's nice that you haven't lost your sense of comedy." Then you continued your phone call as if nothing had happened. By the afternoon, Leonardo had been looking for a book out of his bag. It was a Mozart biography(,)[;] he read loudly for Helena(,) and they looked together at the pictures. You practiced your Bartok concert for hours. In You came out to me in the kitchen to make your tea. You said, "Have you seen Helena? Is it not touching?" We had guests for dinner. Leonardo was intoxicated and played all of Bach's solo suites; he was one very different, as like enlarged, heavy and mild cum awful drunk, he played poorly but beautifully. Helena thickset where in the dusk and shone, I have never seen any such. The guests strayed, deathly tired and a little melancholy.

[Direct with very strong intensity] You and I took us a night-promenade, you talked incessantly about some great trip you'd made of Kenya I don't know very well, I didn't listen, I thought only on those two people. When we got home, they sat as we left them at each end of the room, bonfire cum the candles had almost burned down. I saw that Leonardo had cried(,)[;] he made no effort to hide his outrage. Helena masked herself better(,)[;] she spoke to us about all sorts of things in a calm, somewhat indifferent tone. You went to bed cum me received aid Leonardo up the stairs. We stopped outside entry till you shared bedroom, he turned the countenance towards me and looked at me, so said it: "Can you imagine you, that is a butterfly there, hitting the window." When I came down to Helena, she sat upright in her chair, completely calm, where was present not a glimpse of her illness. I forget at the Greek calends her face, mamma, I FORGET at the Greek calends HER FACE. The next day you went to Geneva, four days earlier than we agreed. It was a snowstorm. The flight was Canceled, but you managed to get a seat on the ferry. I drove you to the harbor. Just before boarding, you said in passing: "I have asked Leonardo to stay a little longer, as I see it does Helena good." You smiled cum we embraced each other. Leonardo suddenly became restless and unhappy. He was distracted and rude, sitting in his attic and working. On Easter Sunday morning he was drunk and fell down the stairs, it made him feel better, he took a long walk in the rain, when he came back he was sober. [sic] He approached Helena and said that he had to leave in a few hours, that they would see each other again, and that he wanted to give her the Mozart biography as a souvenir. Then he called Geneva and spoke to you for half an hour. The same night he left on the last flight. At night I was awakened by a terrible noise. It was Helena who cried. I went in to see her. She appealed over how she rated one such horrible aching in the hip and right leg.

She thought that: she none would harden out until the morning, self searched ready on all we had for painkillers means only nothing helped. At 5:00 in the morning, I had to call one ambulance.

CHARLOTTE: So it was my fault Helena got sick.

EVA: I think so.

CHARLOTTE: You mean that Helen's disease -

EVA: Yeah, yeah, yeah.

CHARLOTTE: You don't mean you're serious.Eva tiger. Charlotte speechless.

EVA: When she was a year old, you abandoned her. Then you abandoned her and me incessantly. When Helena got seriously ill, you sent her to a chronic home.

CHARLOTTE: It can't be true that you -

EVA: (calm) What can't be true? If you have any rebuttals, let me hear them. Look at me, mom. Look at Helena. There are no excuses, Mom. There is only one truth and one lie. There is no forgiveness.

CHARLOTTE: Consciously, I have never –

EVA: I do not think so.

CHARLOTTE: Then you can't blame me.

EVA: Thou want ever to the should be several exceptions for you. You have established someone sorts rebate-system cum life, but ANY AISLE must you well-being discover that your agreement is one-sided. You must realize that you bear a debt like everyone else.

CHARLOTTE: What guilt?

EVA: I don't know. A debt.

CHARLOTTE: Irreversible?

Eva won't answer.

CHARLOTTE: Can't you come to me? Can't you hold me? I'm so terribly scared. Beloved, may you not forgive me for all I have done wrong. I'll try to change my mind. You will memorize me, VI. will speak to every other, long, plenty. But help me. I can't take it anymore. YOUR HATRED IS SO TERRIBLE. I don't understand. I've been selfish and childish cum anxious. At least touch me, beating me if you want. Oh, dear, help me!Now a cry is heard through the silent house. It's Helena calling out to her mother. Both women hurtle out into the hall, uphill the dark stairs. Eva is the first to arrive, but the sister pushes her aside and reaches for her mother, who presses her head against the sick woman's bosom.

CHARLOTTE: (on the phone) I'm sorry, dear Paul, I'm calling you so early in the morning. I need to speak a little low so that no one can hear. Would you be so kind as to do me a great favor? When you get to your office, you are to send me a telegram demanding that I appear at once in Paris or wherever the hell it is. I can't stand it another day, but it's impossible that travel only I must have a reason. Find away what that preferably, kind Paul, thou are of course as nice on fairytales. Now I have to stop, that will be expensive too. Goodbye, my friend, and thank you for your help.Charlotte sneaks carefully to her room and closes the door. Eva's heard the call.

CHARLOTTE: (on board the train) Paul, it was good of you to come with me [till Brittany]. I don't think I could have taken it alone. I don't know, I had a slight shock I think [up in Bindal]. My daughter Helena was there quite unexpectedly, and sicker than ever, why can't she die. Do you think it's cruel of me to talk like that? You know me pretty well, don't you? I've never let down, never canceled a concert. You can trust me, can't you?

EVA: (single-handed) You have to comfort yourself(,)[;] you can't always count on other human beings shall be available to hand when you're sad. Sooner I guess you almost always have to cry quietly, so no one should hear.

CHARLOTTE: (on board the train) Paul, listen. Don't go to sleep now. The critics always say that I am a generous musician. No one plays Schumann's concerto with a warmer tone. Nor the big Brahm's Sonata. I'm not stingy with myself. Or am I? All these idiotic thoughts that suddenly I'm rushing around in my head. Paul, it's not like you provided holding along with Because you find it hard to disagree.

EVA: (alone) Poor little mamma that plunged neck over the head, so scared she looked and suddenly so old and tired cum the face became so small cum The nose was red with tears. Now sees me she never more, self has intimidated away her.

CHARLOTTE: (on board the train) Paul! You see that little village, the lights are on already in the houses, people are going about doing their evening duties, somebody's preparing dinner, the children are doing their homework. I feel so left out, always longing to go home, but when I get home, I understand that it must be something else I'm longing for.

EVA: (single-handed) Now it's almost dark cum the I'm getting cold. I have to go home and cook dinner for Viktor and Helena. I can't die now. I'm afraid of committing suicide, maybe God wants to use me one day, and then He will release me from my prison. I have to be ready.

CHARLOTTE: (on board the train) You know, Paul, my daughter Helena has beautiful eyes, Clear, clean eyes, she has Joseph's eyes, and when one holds her head, she can attach her eyes. Understand thou how she copes live with her suffering, my life has been right on the whole taken been magnificent, but HERS? (strongly joyful, formal, & inspirational) I have it good, so seems some melancholic see, that may I not deny till, but simultaneously feel That's good, I don't care about any self-awareness, I'll live anyway.

EVA: (is holding back) Do you touch my cheek? Are you whispering in my ear? Are you with me now? We shall never abandon together you and me.

CHARLOTTE: (smiles) You are kind, Paul, what would I do without you. And what would you do without me. Think what a trying time you have with your violinists, how they grumble. And what a hell of a noise they make when they practice.

EVA: The lights are on in Helen's room. Viktor's sitting there talking to her, there He's good. He's good. He tells her that my mother has left.

VIKTOR: Helena, there's something I need to tell you. Charlotte left this morning. We didn't want to arouse you, thou sleeping so deep on your hypnotic cum the night was Certainly a little upsetting. So, as I said, we didn't want to wake you up.Helena says something.

VIKTOR: Your mother says hello to you. She where sorry and nervous, she had grey.Helena says something.

VIKTOR: Eva's out at dusk. She is entirely calm, almost happy(,)[;] I think she thought it was nice that Charlotte went.Helena says something.

VIKTOR: Me vet not, dearest Helena. Eva was so eager before it here the meeting with its mother. She was hoping too much(,)[;] I had not the heart to warn her. That's how it went wrong.Helena says something with large-sized difficulty.

VIKTOR: I understood not what thou Says.Helena is trembling, repeating her question.

VIKTOR: You say you want to - What is it you want?Helena is increasingly upset, saying the same thing.

VIKTOR: Thou must try to speak calmly, dearest Helena, else have me no way to understand.Helena starts screaming. She's shaken off increasingly violent cramps, fractions of sentences between the screams. She bites her lips so they bleed, eyes urgent.

VIKTOR: Eva! Come on, Helena's had a seizure. Hurry up.Helena's screaming all the time; it is becoming increasingly inhuman; she throws herself violently into the chair, it overturns cum she falls on the floor. The body is drawn together, the arms are turned outwards, and white foam and blood running from her mouth. Viktor and Eva try to calm her down and squeeze the medicine between her hard-bitten teeth.

EPILOG

VIKTOR: Sometimes I stand out here and look at my wife without her knowing my presence. She's so tormented(,)[;] the last few nights have been awful(,)[;] she hasn't been able to sleep. She says that she can never forgive herself for chasing her mother away. If only I could talk to her, but it all turns out to be dusty words, empty phrases. I have to stand by and see how she's suffering, without being helpful.

EVA: Are you going away?

VIKTOR: I'm going down to the postal and retrieve a book package.

EVA: Ought you want to good please add this letter at the same time.

VIKTOR: I'd love to. It's for Charlotte!?

EVA: You can read it if you want. I'll go up to Lena for a while.

VIKTOR: (reading) I UNDERSTAND I MADE A MISTAKE WITH YOU. I met you with demands rather than with tenderness. I tormented you with an old, sour hatred that's no longer real. I was wrong all the time and would ask you to forgive me. Helena's insight is much greater than mine. She provided when I demanded. She was close to you when I left. [very strongly skeptical] Suddenly I realized that I was going to take care of you, that all the old things were gone, that I Never above will let you go, self will never above submit you alone. Self knows why not nearly if this letter reaches you, self don't even know if you read it, maybe it's too late. But I hope, NONETHELESS, that my discovery is not in vain. There is still a kind of grace. Self means the tremendous opportunity to get take manage where second; that to help each other, to show affection. You have to understand that I ne'er more will release you or let you disappear from my life(,)[;] I will persist! I will not give up even if it is too late. I don't believe it's too late. It must not be too late.Fårö, Wednesday 27 July 1977

Afterword by Jan Holmberg

In the memoir IMAGES, Ingmar Bergman claims that he wrote AUTUMN SONATA during a few weeks in 1977 as a safety measure in case THE TOUCH, which he had then recorded, flopped. The hell themselves work started him in the AUTUMN SONATA a little over a year earlier. Corrective has been its interest as the story's premise dead safe affected by events at the beginning of the year IN 1976. These events were, in the shortest possible summary, THE TAX AFFAIR. It would wait one and a half years before it cleared of all accusations, but after a first stage victory unto the process wrote it in the workbook the 26 March 1976: "The night behind acquittal time self not could sleep despite soporific come it for me that I would make a movie about mother-daughter, daughter-mother, where I would have Ingrid Bergman and Liv in the two roles and none other than the two. Possibly is there room for a third person."

The fact that the work on AUTUMN SONATA thus begins in direct connection with the tax deal invites the assumption that it is also an effect of the same. There are likely to be connections. A Reason that Ingmar Bergman took the allegations so hard, likes have been his paternalistic view of society. For EXAMPLE, IN THE FACE, THE RITE or FROM THE MARIONETTE'S LIFE, the state, through its authorities and representatives, supervises its citizens with the questionable care of a parent. After the tax affair, the inverse relationship also applies that Bergman's parents take on the guise of something more than just guardians: they become, with the stepfather in FANNY AND ALEXANDER as a clear example, an office. There is no doubt that the mother-daughter agreement in AUTUMN SONATA must indeed be understood as such - but it is also, I believe, an allegory of the unequal relationship between the individual and society.

It is clear that AUTUMN SONATA also has clear autobiographical elements in other ways, even if Bergman has made a tactical gender correction of his main character. Charlotte shares one's artistic trade, diverse neurotic peculiarities cum inadequate parental responsibility with her author. (It is about all probability also one kind of intern joke that her in the film played by Ingrid Bergman, a name close to confusion similar to the author.) In so fashion is AUTUMN SONATA preamble till Ingmar Bergman's autobiographical period, which then characterizes the rest of the writing and soon continues with FANNY AND ALEXANDER (1979). There are only two years between AUTUMN SONATA and FANNY AND ALEXANDER. Both take his initial point of private experience. They are also both born in exile, which is evident in their ambivalent relationship to the return, home, childhood, parents... With all their similarities, however, the two works could not be more different. Composed and stylistically, they are opposites. FANNY AND ALEXANDER portrays its teeming personal gallery with an epic narrative; AUTUMN SONATA is set over a day, in a single house, with only two people in the center and two supporting actors. Style is customized then, cum is fastidious at the verge of self-destruction. As in SCENES FROM A MARRIAGE five years earlier, there are virtually no environmental descriptions, hardly any instructions, only dialog. Even a monolog! In one scene, Bergman Charlotte speaks for herself in a way that hardly went home neither with 1970s Book Reader nor cinema public - unlikely today's either. There is no modernist or Brechtian monolog(,)[;] it is not intended to break a fourth wall. More like it marks a return to the theater's ancient traditions. It's classical drama. As such, it is eminently playable on stage, and after SCENES FROM A MARRIAGE, AUTUMN SONATA is one of Bergman's most frequently played film stories theatre worldwide. It's also incredibly readable. Its supposedly simple form hides a sense of style that only becomes apparent upon reading. Any so sad as punctuation is one including, where it becomes incredibly significant whether a sentence formulated as a question ends with a period or question mark. In AUTUMN SONATA, the punctuation marks are abyss.

0 notes