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twdmusicboxmystery · 2 years

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FTWD 7x13: The Raft - Details and Discussion

As I’ve done in past weeks, I’m just gonna share my fellow theorists’ thoughts on the episode. They tend to pick up more minute details than I do.

***As always, spoilers for this episode abound below. Don’t read until you’ve watched!***

@galadrieljones:

First things first: the title. Obviously, there's a literal raft in the episode, which Morgan boards with Mo to go off and try to find a new world, a safe place. That's HUGE. I'll come back to this.

There is also a huge metaphor going on here with Dwight and Sherry and their ongoing conversation, much of which lies under the surface, about propagating the new world. With the nuclear bombs as a flood of sorts, a literal purging, it's going to soon be time to leave this place, a la Noah's Ark (another "raft").

I was interested, too, in the overturned bus wagon where Morgan, Dwight, and Sherry meet and are attacked by rangers. At first, I couldn't tell what it was, but it was clearly a wagon made from a bus with its top cut off. It seemed to, at one time, have had a canvas roof stretched over curved rafters at the top, and it was being pulled by the Chevy Tahoe. This, an elaborate covered wagon, which clearly had been populated by multiple families, reminded me of the Oregon Trail, again, setting out for new opportunities in the new world. Unfortunately, these dreams were probably overturned by the bombs.

So lots of "Noah's Ark" imagery here, which ofc brings us back to Noah and S5 of the flagship. It's Noah who ultimately shepherds TF to Virginia, where they found Alexandria and the "New World," and Noah is a descendent of Beth's story.

Next thing: What is up with the full moons in every single opening credits sequence? Has this always been a thing, or is it just this season? Every single episode has a full moon this season. A little while I ago I talked about how I think tptb may be using dramatic irony in Fear to lay groundwork for Beth's return, ie: We know that Madison is returning, because they're the ones who told us, so we know what to look for to foreshadow that return, and those are clues we can apply to the flagship.

The full moon signifies the wolf. "There's gonna be a party when the wolf comes home." Madison is coming home soon. So, I'm just wondering if there's maybe a parallel there with what the full moon could indicate. The full moon appeared prominently with Leah as well.

Also, now since I'm obsessed with cars and license plates lol, I feel it's important that Morgan is hiding near the Chevy Tahoe. The Chevy logo is a cross. There's also a clear shot of the license plate. I don't have expertise on this so I'll hand it off to others to look into whether we have perhaps seen this license plate before.

Morgan says to Alicia at one point in this episode, "You find what you were looking for?" Pope says the same exact thing to Leah in Rendition. I have no idea if that's intentional, but it stuck out to me.

Now, for Dwight and Sherry's motivations: I was so charmed by Dwight's "auto-mobile." It struck me as something Daryl would do. Though, of course, he wouldn't be anywhere near so cheeky and proud of himself for the joke, lol. Dwight is much chattier than Daryl and has a palpable sense of humor.

The scene with the auto-mobile creates a clear parallel between Dwight and Sherry and Beth and Daryl. Sherry is "trying to keep them alive" while Dwight is "trying to show [Mo] a reason to stay alive." The surviving vs. living question persists. This question originates with Beth.

I guessed almost immediately that Sherry was pregnant in this episode. I saw the tells right away. She's like all worried about Dwight's safety and worried about Dwight in general and avoiding contact with the baby and unwilling to accept Dwight bonding with Mo, because it scares her. The whole time I was like, "OH MY GOD TELL HIM." Lol.

Anyway, in the car wash, while they're hiding from the rangers, Sherry is clearly trying to "control" Dwight and to control the situation, because she feels very out of control. She is projecting her own uncertainties about her motivations and her own fears onto Dwight and his motivations and fears. She says she's afraid, as usual, that Dwight will compromise himself to protect her and their hypothetical child. Seeing him with the "auto-mobile" scares the shit out of her, because she sees he's actually, functionally different now, a changed man, and she's terrified of what might lie ahead.

A large part of this is, of course, because she knows something he doesn't, but I think she's afraid of committing to her pregnancy because she knows that it could end, and she's afraid of losing Dwight because she knows that's a real possibility in this world. I feel that I've read somewhere also that Sherry had a miscarriage sometime in the distant past, with Dwight. It's all compounding now so that she's actually pushing him away and blaming a lot of old news, mainly, what happened with Negan, when Dwight knows and we know that that's not going to happen again, that Dwight is not who he used to be.

On a related note, Wes in this episode is a Dwight doppelganger. Dwight basically says this out loud. He's throwing in as a bad man's lieutenant, thinking it will help him survive when all it does is making living a living hell. This is also about Negan. I honestly thought Dwight might kill Wes in this episode, but they want to keep him around for some reason. I don't really know what Wes is up to. I kind of sadly think he's just making a mistake, but I wonder if they'll give him a redemption choice in the end. I guess we'll see.

So anyway, The Dwight/Sherry stuff is rich in this episode. Their relationship is one of the few functioning relationships in the entire franchise, in which both people are alive and together, so it's a major touchstone for romantic imagery and messages. Because of them, this episode and much of what it indicates for the future is very hopeful. I don't have any guesses for how this could foreshadow Beth and Daryl, other than perhaps that Beth will need to be guided by Daryl upon her return, which is the opposite of how it used to be.

I also want to point out that Mo is our little beacon of hope and a symbol of the future in this episode. She is similar to Judith, a little prop who represents a torch being carried forth to the next generation, and she is wearing yellow.

Another thing I noticed: The ramp leading the walkers out of the tunnel is huge. I can't tell what it's made of. I thought maybe part of a jetway or something? Or truck beds bound together? Idk. Either way, it's makeshift but it's a huge undertaking that one person couldn't do alone. A whole group of people had to do this.

I was very interested in the tunnel imagery, leading Dwight and Sherry out of the bunker. It felt obvious as a kind of "birth" or "rebirth" imagery, given the discovery they made while trapped. Could be another symbol of escaping the underworld. There is ofc also the tunnel at the end of the season 5 credits in which both Emily and Chad Coleman's names appear.

The numbers on the breaker box that Wes's guys are trying to mess with to turn off the alarm are alls in the 40s-60s. The guy is switching circuits in the 40s-50s. Seasons 4-6 came to mind. Madison also "died" in season 4.

The moment Dwight grabbed Sherry's bag and she freaked out, I knew there was a pregnancy test in there. Immediately I was like, "Shut up, there is going to be another cross (+) on the test, indicating that she is pregnant." Sure enough...

The pregnancy test is also upside-down. Not sure if that's a thing?

Finally, my last thoughts were about Morgan leaving with Mo and the mystery woman. I think Sherry mentions toward the end that the woman was "clean," which indicates that she comes from a community. She was far enough out, across the water, that she didn't know what was going on with the bombs on the mainland, but she was also close enough that she caught Strand's message on the radio.

Dwight guesses this couldn't be more than 20 miles. I wonder if she came from a ship, like a large freight ship, or it could be an island--ie: Galveston, home of the Galveston National Lab, home to several Biosecurity Level 4 research facilities where they research highly infectious diseases. The GNL is outfitted to withstand a Category 5 hurricane. Perhaps the perfect locale for a CRM research facility?

So as Morgan is now sailing into the wide open blue with Mo, I wondered if perhaps HE will find Madison.

One thing I was trying to place though is the fact that the "clean" woman said her kid got taken. Who takes a kid? We have talked a lot about child abduction as a theme in TWD and whether it could come to pass that Judith and/or RJ are taken. Rewatching Lost, I'm reminded that there's nothing more important to propagating the new world than children, and when children become scarce, that's a problem.

We know that the CRM, at one point, during the initial Fall, valued human life as a "resource," based on the WB episode "Truth or Dare" in which Huck stops the marines from killing the innocent civilians and ushered them to safety. So...idk? Are they taking kids? Is the radiation problem projected to cause a spur of infertility? Very unclear.

@frangipanilove:

The “automobile” reference was huge! I’d have to take a closer look, but I definitely saw an apple there. So, was I the only one who thought automobile = car? My mind immediately goes to trunk symbolism, and now I’m wondering if the mobiles we’ve seen in in TWDU are synonymous with cars? I’d have to let it simmer, but I definitely took notice of the “automobile”. Dwight placed the mobile in Morgan’s raft, which to me just amplifies the trunk symbolism. Remember that car = vessel, we saw Rick’s boots on a “vessel” which imo is synonymous with the “trunk” symbolism which allows for Beth to survive post-coda.

Maybe I misunderstood this, but didn’t the CRM straight up admit that they were collecting “young talent”? Wasn’t that the whole reason they wanted Hope to begin with? They were selecting the “gifted” kids and referred to them as “assets”? The infertility angle is interesting (and very Handmaid’s Tale-y). It always felt like they were alluding to hoped genetics being special, and that she was an asset in more than one way. I initially thought it was something revolving around immunity, but maybe fertility is also a part of it.

There was a sequence of events when Dwight and Sherry entered the bunker that was literally symbolism galore. They entered an underground bunker (underworld symbolism) there was a red light by the door (red controls the gates), there was a positive pregnancy test (literally resurrection symbolism inside underworld/death symbolism), they entered a birth canal of a tunnel, they “died and resurrected” if that makes sense. Symbolism galore!

@galadrieljones:

I think so, yes. but I’m thinking more along the lines of just abducting kids into the CR because they’re running low on kids. So not necessarily because they have talent or something, but literally just because they are kids. I wish we had more info on the fear timeline. Like, how close are we to the centennial in Omaha, which ends with a genocide? We don’t really know much about why Major General Beale ordered the genocide, but if it was planned well in advance, perhaps “curating” children from the remaining population was part of the plan in advance. Ofc I’m just wildly speculating lol.

@wdway:

5 air freshers a lemon , a pine cone, a plam tree and an apple . I just don't know what the one Dwight is holding is. A flower? Could it be a dove?

@twdmusicboxmystery:

I also noticed them passing a dead, irradiated horse. I’m sure that happened when the bomb hit, but it has radiation burns like the irradiated walkers do. And given that it’s a horse, I thought it was a purposeful symbol.

The fire alarm they pull could be part of the alert/horn symbolism we’ve talked about before. And then the raft itself. I agree with your analysis and think Morgan very well might run into the CRM or Madison. It made me mostly think of Huck from TWB. And if Daryl gets on some kind of boat to go to Europe, we’ll see it then as well. So, its definitely a thing.

@wdway:

I just want to mention the moon in the opening credit. If I remember correctly there was no moon in the episode that featured Charlie. Other than that, we have seen the white circle in all the episodes. I really got the impression that in this episode The Circle must represent the Sun. So that makes me wonder if the circle could represent both, it could be the Moon or the Sun but either way it's a circle of white and white=Beth.

Guys, I think this is an important clue that the writers do not want us to forget about. The reason I think it must be imported is because they gave it to us on a silver platter, literally. P.A.D.R.E. it's an abbreviation for something connected to the government. Yes, I know you know that already. I was remembering in s6 Swear Tara realize that Heath I've been taken and she found a card (that opens doors) with PPP. I've thrown this out in the past, the idea that (P) would stand for Primrose one of the names of the two projects. Now I'm wondering if it can also be stand for Paris, Pemrose Paris Project. I can't remember which one Paris group were, the V or Primrose? Or would each project have at least some of the others project in order to do research with.

The Ark, I mean raft. When I first saw this shot, I thought, "look there's a 6 and a walker." In the same line of thinking as above series number 6 was s1e6, TS-19. The episode where the CDC is blowing up. The other thing that struck me was 6 could stand for s6. Where the first half of the season with the Great Walker Exodus.

Morgan leading the multitude of walkers in what looks like a desert area. In TWD s6 we had Daryl on his bike leading the multitude of walkers away. In that same storyline Morgan played a huge part in running back to Alexandria to help with the walkers and to fight the wolves. Morgan also reminds me of a nomad or a Biblical character.

In the tarot cards we've talked about both Morgan and Daryl reminding us of the Hermit. In this instance Morgan reminds me of Moses who led his Hebrew people to the mountain to receive the Ten Commandments. In this episode Morgan is leading the walkers to the opposite of a mountain a massive crater.

At the end of the episode, we see Morgan and baby Moses/ Mo get into their own Ark to float off into the unknown hoping/having faith that someone along the way will rescue them. In the episode Strangers, we saw many pieces of children's artwork of Baby Moses put in the basket being sent down the Nile and hopes that someone would save him.

Y'all don't remember this do you? It's immediately after the opening credits. Dwight is calling Luci. Here's what caught my attention. The fact that it is fast and seem so strange for this person to be walking in front of the camera like this. The big thing for me is the striped black and white shirt. Remember I've been following striped shirts all season.

Stripes? Where have I seen black and white stripes like this???

TWOO, maybe that what it is. That doesn't feel quite right. And we've been talking so much about Europe and the other episodes all have so many hints/clues pointing to Europe and WW1/WWII. How could a striped shirt remind me of Europe/France and WWII? Then it hit me.

The famous French mime, Mariel Marceau. Who was known as the Master of Silence. Besides the black and white striped shirt, he was known for a silk hat with a flower attached. The flower represented beauty and fragility of life.

I remembered watching the movie, "Resistance," last year about him and how he helped to save Jewish children from the Nazis. He would be a perfect hint to a storyline about children in danger or taken away from their parents. An unlikely person from the Resistance trying to get them to safety.

It might be over reaching but the history of Marcel Marceau fits very well with what we've been specializing about in the coming storyline.

@twdmusicboxmystery:

I really love the French/Marcea thing! I have no idea if that's what they're going for with the striped shirt, but I just hope you're right. Because I agree. Leading children to safety is exactly the kind of arc I envision for Beth. So, here's hoping you're 100% right about this! Love it!

@Frangipanilove:

I love that! Is that where the whole stereotype of French people wearing striped shirts originated from? I don’t think I know of Mariel Marceau specifically, but I definitely have seen the French mime type character in films and tv and comedy, and I’m sure that could totally be a reference to Mariel Marceau. And I do not think it’s reaching to think of the striped shirt as a potential reference to France.

@wday:

Guy's I just Googled the question about the striped shirt and France. You'll love this. The Breton stripe shirt was introduced in 1858 as the uniform for French Navy Seamen in Northern France. 21 stripes, one for each of Napoleon's victories. So, the striped shirt can be tie to the French Navy.

And Napoleon.

I actually thought about Marcel Marceau when I saw little Herschel hiding in a tree in HSH. In the movie Resistance, Marcel taught the children to hide in the treetops from the Nazis searching below on the ground level.

@Galadrieljones:

I did not catch the striped shirt person but I agree with what’s already been said that at the very least I think it’s a strong symbol of French culture!!

I also agree about your earlier suggestion about the P.A.D.R.E. folder. I have it in my notes, but I didn’t really know what to make of it. I think you might be right that it’s meant as perhaps just a reminder of that whole plot arc. Alicia and Morgan also talk about the senator in this episode and remind us that Alicia’s last big thing was leading her people on a failed mission to PADRE by following him.

I think PADRE must be real or that it must be some sort of operation initiated as a failsafe rule response to the pandemic. It might have something to do with the island where Morgan is headed with Mo. Oh, and I also love your interpretations of all the wardrobe in this season of fear! I have also been getting a strong Old Testament vibe, Exodus in particular. I feel like so much of the early flagship seasons (1-4) have strong Genesis vibes. Lori as committing original sin, Rick killing his brother, being tested when Carl is shot, Daryl and Beth as Adam and Eve, etc. So, this interests me a lot.

OH and PADRE again. I never thought about whether it could have something to do with the PPP card at Oceanside. But that’s super intriguing!!

I love the comparison to Huck. Yes!! And there’s another episode with a raft in WB, when the endlings cross the Mississippi and meet Percy on the other side. Crossing the Mississippi represents a major turning point in their journey, as it represents almost like crossing the final threshold to adventure (re: the hero’s journey).

I was also trying to think about that dead horse. I noticed it too and thought it might be related to the pioneering theme and this idea of the American dream. I get a strong sense that our current setting is dying, ie: a dying Texas as this representation of the death of the Wild West.

The Wild West came to an end in the last 1800s with the onset of the industrial revolution and urbanization across the country. This could suggest we are moving closer to the CRM, a more “developed” and industrialized future. I think it’s safe to say we will be leaving Texas soon.

Remember one of the last times we see Madison, it’s in “Good Out Here,” she’s walking through the Texas Bluebonnets, full of hope for the future. Fear has always been in some ways about the shifting chimera of the American dream, examining the classic Los Angeles setting, immigrant characters, characters who come from nothing and grow empires (ie: Strand), Mexico and metaphors about immigration, homesteading, baseball, cowboys (John Dorie), etc. Now we’re at the end of the old world, the old world is inhabitable, and in the true American spirit, our team is going to have to pioneer forward and migrate. Morgan and Mo(ses) lead the way. Anyway, that was a lot about a dead horse lol.

Also, Strand’s rangers remind me of the Pinkertons of old. Basically, elaborate mercenaries hired by rich, industry magnates to hunt down henchmen and outlaws, any last vestiges of a lawless world. Strand’s regime is clearly based on Virginia’s, only far more tyrannical and far less functional. I’m interested to see where it lands.

@wdway:

I forgot to show and mention this shot earlier. It's blurry because the focus has been on Sherry as she steps away with Alicia's weapon. I just found it interesting, we have two coats one a dark or black the other gray.

I'm thinking Rick and Beth. The phone a communication symbol is a soft yellow. A bright light shines over the desk area but it's the map that really drew my attention. It's as if the United States is in two parts with the white separating roughly the East and the West. I don't know how closely the white is to following the Mississippi but that's the impression I got of the separation of the two. The east and south appear to be quite green except for the northern states near the Great Lakes. The Western half seems almost dead except for the extreme Northwest, the Pacific coast of Washington state and possibly some of Oregon.

@frangipanilove:

Ooh I really love your observations here. Love the idea of the two coats representing Rick and Beth. I’m partial to the head canon of the two of them having met up, although I don’t really have a great theory on the how, the when and the why. Also love your map analysis. I love maps in general and I find that they’re used consciously in TWDU. I don’t have much to add here, but I definitely follow your thoughts.

I’m also glad you brought up the book, because as you remarked; we were served it on a literal silver platter. It’s most definitely something we’re supposed to take notice of. My immediate thoughts when I saw it was that it was blue, so it’s a blue clue.

It also has a red sticker on it, which pretty much is a “red flag” like we’ve seen so many times (satellite, car antenna in Coda, the mailbox in 7x2(?) etc). I tend to interpret books as a convoluted Sirius symbol, like book = back, but I admit that’s a bit unsatisfactory. I’m working on a better way if articulating it. But basically book = back in the same way as serious = Sirius. So it’s a shot in a scene with a lot of familiar symbolism. Dwight’s Sirius mention, the cross on the pregnancy test, the door and the red light, the underworld and resurrection symbolism of the underground bunker and the resurrection symbolism of the positive pregnancy test, the tunnel imagery.

And about the blue book, I usually interpret the blue clues as something that speaks to the police symbolism surrounding Rick (the police officer) and Beth (the new sheriff in town). So maybe the blue book speaks to the story of the returning police officer and the new sheriff in town. And the red sticker (red controls the gates between the realms) is a reminder that the ones that are in the death realm sometimes cross over to the realm of the living. They return, they resurrect, like Madison, Rick and Beth.

@twdmusicboxmystery:

I’ll stop there. I think we’ve given you enough food for thought. Anything you saw that we missed?

#beth greene #beth greene lives #beth is alive #beth is coming #td theory #td theories #team delusional #team defiance #beth is almost here #bethyl

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

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Fractal Scarring

[Broadway Kids]

FINALLY THIS IS FINISHED. two days to write 12,000 words? that’s so shameful :/

also i hate writing in present tense

Word count: 12,029

Prompt: “And just WHERE do you think you’re putting your hands?” “Don’t you hurt a single hair on her head.” “Shh, you’re safe. I won’t let you go.”

Tw: Abuse, waterboarding

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The sound of the doorbell ringing rudely interrupts the heated kiss between Lynn and her girlfriend, Estelle. Lynn pulls back with a growl of frustration, waiting a moment before leaning into Estelle again.

“You’re not going to get that?” Estelle asks.

“No need,” Lynn says dismissively. “It’s probably just the Amazon guy.”

“What did you order this time? More sneakers? Special energy drinks?” Estelle says teasingly.

“Oh, hush,” Lynn bats at her. “Just because I’m a coach doesn’t mean everything revolves around sports. You, for example.” And then she leans in again, locking her lips with Estelle’s and falling back into the warm, buzzing trance of kissing.

And then the doorbell rings again.

And again.

And again, until it was going off every second in a rapid fire cacophony of chiming.

“Persistent Amazon guy,” Estelle observes.

“Oh my god!!” Lynn yells. She rips off the blankets, nearly exposing her girlfriend’s own naked body in the process, snatches her robe from the bathroom door (although she had considered flashing the solicitors to scare them off), and marches to the front door. There was a glass window at the very top, but was too high to see who it was, so she had no idea who was ruining her time with her girlfriend until she yanks open the door with force.

“Sue?!”

Her student blinks at her from the stoop, trying very hard to not look at the white robe she was swathed in and put the pieces together. The way she clears her throat and then proceeds to say absolutely nothing didn’t help the situation be any less awkward, either. A halo of raindrops from the drizzle falling from the grey-blue sky twinkles on the crown of her head like dozens of silver spider eyes that seemed to stare straight through Lynn’s fluffy covering.

“What-” Lynn finds her voice, although it came out tight and strangled from embarrassment for a moment. “What are you DOING here?! How do you know where I LIVE?!”

Shrugging nonchalantly, as if this was the most normal thing in the world, Sue says, “Chris knows a guy.”

THAT Lynn didn’t doubt. She wonders if this “guy” was Billy Nolan or her father tracking her or someone else entirely. Feeling like there were several more eyes on her, Lynn shifts uncomfortably and pulls the laces around her stomach even tighter.

“Why are you here?” She demands with her Coach Voice. It made Sue jump, but then she realized that it wasn’t in fear like she was hoping, but some sort of jolt of remembrance.

“Oh! Right!” Sue looks over her shoulder. Dismayed, Lynn saw that Tommy was there, too, but he was halfway hunched in his Jeep, fumbling with something. “Miss Gardener, you are the most trusted adult we know. Something happened- something really bad, and we need you.”

Usually, Lynn would instantly mount the problem that one of her students was facing and bring it down, but right now, she really rather be mounting something else and be brought down on a bed, so this was not her top priority at the moment. If none of her loved ones were dead, then she really didn’t want to hear it.

“What about your PARENTS?” Lynn says, shooing Sue backwards. “Go to them!”

“No, Miss Gardener, you don’t understand!” Sue cries. “It’s Carrie!”

Lynn froze.

And, at that moment, Tommy pulled out a bloody, beaten Carrie out of the backseat of the Jeep and into sight.

“Bring her inside.” Lynn says without a shred of resistance. “Sue. Tell me everything.”

------

“How do I look?” Tommy asked. “Good? Good enough? Christian-like?”

Sue giggled. “You look great, you dork. There’s no need to worry. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It absolutely IS a big deal!” Tommy squawked.

It really was, Sue had to admit. It was the first time Carrie White was EVER having people over at her house.

She said she had begged her mother for hours, swearing up and down that she would be the best daughter and never ever complain ever again if she could have her friends over, and her mother had finally relented. So, now Tommy and Sue were parked outside a cottage as old as time itself. It’s swathed by tendrils of ivy climbing their way towards the roof that was missing several shingles and splotched with patches of emerald green moss. The weathered wood is a chalk color, paint peeling and flaking off, and black peppering along its breast. The windows are tinted a deep brown and covered up by drapes, many of them cracked. The yard was a sea of weeds and the walkway leading up to the house was lined with deceased trees; their ebony branches bore no leaves. The very age of the cottage is shown in its deterioration.

This was no place for any child to be raised.

Withered brown leaves rustled in the ghostly wind. The street was almost silent, if not for the wailing gust, the crackle of fronds, and the gentle rumble of the Jeep’s engine. Black tires trampled over the dead blades scattered on the edge of the poorly-kept street, the crunching of their filaments like bones beneath a hammer. A flurry of brown leaves swept across the windshield.

The couple slid out of Tommy’s car after Tommy checked his neatly-combed hair for the tenth time. He was acting like he did the day he met Sue’s parents for the first time in junior year, which was actually quite polite of him to do so. He was taking this very seriously.

Above, the sky was awash with low churning clouds. Towering trees with ebony branches reached down far, almost blocking the way. Their naked twigs grabbed like fingers, clawing at their faces as they trekked up the driveway. The brittle limbs snapped and fell as kindling onto the ground when brushed away. They too cracked beneath footfalls as Sue and Tommy made their way up to the stoop, across the cracked sidewalk and through reaching snarls of weeds sprouting from the overgrown yard. The porch creaked beneath their weight, and for a split second they feared it might cave in, but the old wood held together firmly despite its age. Tommy knocked on the door; there were cracks inside the frame and the hinges were green. It looked like it would fall over if the curved door knob was yanked too hard.

There was a shuffling sound from inside and the tumblers of a locking mechanism fell away with a grinding crack. When the front door was pulled open, the hinges protested with a deafening creak, sounding as though the rotten wood was splintering even as the heavy door scraped along the floor. Carrie peered out at them like a lime green macaw in a tunnel of darkness in the overalls she was wearing, beaming.

“Hello!” She greeted eagerly. “Come in!”

They stepped inside and entered a world that reeked of religion.

Wall-to-wall there were crosses ranging in various sizes and made of many different materials. There were wooden crosses, metal crosses, crosses made of twigs twisted together and crosses created from woven tangles of barbed wire. Among them were pictures of Bible scenes, like The Last Supper and Noah’s Ark and Jesus doing something with a staff and water- or was that Moses? Sue wasn’t very up to speed on Christianity, so she didn’t know exactly what was going on, but the bearded dude was definitely doing /something/ with water.

Aside from the paintings and crosses and some candles, there didn’t appear to be any other decorations. No photos of Carrie as a little girl, no potted plants, no big wooden letters spelling out “WHITE” on the wall- there were only religious adornments.

Carrie led Tommy and Sue through the cramped front room, passing a closet door and a small circular table with a single red candle on it, and into the living room. The smell of baking bread wafted strongly in this room, flowing from the nearby kitchen. A large crucifix was poised menacingly over the ancient fireplace mantle, Jesus’s face frozen in a permanent expression of agony. Each rivulet of blood, every cut opened up on his skull from the Crown of Thorns held so much detail that it almost looked like a real person nailed to the giant wooden cross instead of just precisely carved plastic.

There’s no TV, not that either Sue or Tommy were surprised, so the scuffed, fraying leather sofa taking up a large space in the room was just sitting in front of the fireplace with only a grotesque crucifix to watch. The coffee table in front of it held a Bible that looked like it would crumble into dust if picked up and a well kept nativity set of baby Jesus’s birth. It was probably the nicest thing in the living room, maybe even the entire house, with all the animals shined to perfection and the humans not bearing a single scratch upon their porcelain flesh. There was also a washed out velvet lounge chair with intricate golden designs across the fabric, where a woman sat sewing an article of clothing and watching the new arrivals intently.

Mrs. White was as mangy as her daughter, but not quite as filled out as Carrie was. She was thin and bony, with sunken facial features and spindly fingers like the hands of a skeleton. Tangles of chocolate brown hair were tied up in a messy ponytail, revealing her pale, narrow neck to the light of the several lit candles around the house, and Sue and Tommy both concluded that Carrie must have gotten most of her features from her father because she looked nothing like this banshee of a woman dressed in a grey-blue gown sitting before them. The only noticeable thing they had in common were their brown eyes, which were so dark they were nearly black. Mrs. White’s were piercing, yet tired and haunted, and she was looking at Tommy and Sue like she already hated them.

This woman had done terrible things that tormented her, Sue could tell.

------

“That definitely sounds like Margaret.”

Sue and Tommy’s head whip around, but Lynn’s whips faster. She stares at her girlfriend, fully dressed, standing in the hallway spitting out into the rest of the house from the master bedroom. Her blonde hair is combed neatly, leaving no evidence of...things...having been going on. Her grey eyes are troubled.

“You know Margaret White?” Sue asks.

“Who are you?” Tommy says at the same time.

“Estelle Horan,” Estelle answers the nosy teenagers. “And, yes, I knew her.”

She strides across the floor and into the living room. Carrie is lying on one of the couches, expression pinched even in unconsciousness. Sweat is beaded on her forehead and she breathes raggedly.

“How do you know her?” Sue prods further.

Estelle looks at her, then says, “I was their neighbor.”

A beat of silence passes. A pin dropping would be the loudest sound in the room. And then-

“WHAT?” Lynn yelps.

Estelle gives her an amused look. “Did I never tell you?”

“No!”

“Oh.” Estelle shrugs. “There wasn’t ever a good time to bring it up. And I’ve tried to put it out of my mind…” She trails off, a haunted expression flickering in her eyes, like something had shaken her. She looks at Carrie’s frail, bruised body and frowns. “I--never thought she would live this long.”

Lynn gets a terrified look on her face. She didn’t exactly like showing so much fear and weakness around her students, but she couldn’t help it. There’s no way Carrie’s life was as bad as everyone was making it out to be. There’s no way she had suffered so much for so long and she hadn’t done anything to help her.

“What-- what do you mean?” Tommy asks softly. His expression is a mix of horror and rage and his fists are clenched tightly at his sides.

Estelle reaches out and gently touches Carrie’s head. “Everyone in the neighborhood knew of Carrie’s treatment. But nobody did anything. And then, one day when I was seventeen, Carrie came up to me while I was tanning. She was five? Maybe six? Anyway, she-” She laughs, “-she pointed to my breasts and asked me what they were. I told her and she said she wished she had some and then said how good girls wouldn’t. She said that her mother was ‘bad when she made her.’ Margaret called them ‘dirty pillows’ or something stupid.”

Tommy snorts. Sue elbows him lightly. Estelle shoots him a quick, agreeing smile, then continues.

“Then her mother came out and snapped at her to come back inside. Margaret called me a whore, I called her a cow- I was a very mature and polite seventeen year old.” Estelle chuckles. Her expression soon darkens, however. “I could hear--her screams--from inside the house. After Margaret dragged her back in. Carrie started screaming and crying so loud that I could hear them from outside. Everyone started coming out, but--” She sighs, looking ashamed. “--we didn’t help. Not after the meteor shower. We all ran.”

“Wait-” Sue says. “Did you say ‘meteor shower’?”

“Yeah,” Estelle says. “These rocks just started falling from the sky, but they only hit the White’s house for some reason. It was so weird.”

Tommy and Sue exchange looks.

“Carrie mentioned something about stones…” Tommy says.

Estelle furrows her eyebrows. Lynn kneels down next to her and takes one of her hands, not caring about secrecy around her students anymore.

“Sue,” She says to the girl, “continue the story. What happened next?”

------

“Mama,” Carrie said, and the sound of her voice startled both Sue and Tommy. They don’t know why they had assumed Carrie would sign at home; her mother didn’t exactly seem like the type to put up with sign language. “These are my friends! Tommy and Sue!” She beamed at them both, radiating with pride. Her voice was so sweet and youthful.

“Hmm,” Mrs. White merely said. Her hands are still working a needle and thread through the pale purple fabric, and Sue can see muscles rippling beneath the skin.

Tommy stepped forward first, gathering his shoulders up into a straightened position and marching smoothly across the room. Carrie skittered after him and stood beside one side of the chair, and then Sue followed.

“Tommy Ross,” Tommy extended a hand and flashed a dazzling smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

Mrs. White looked at Tommy’s hand with visible disgust, but she shook it firmly when Carrie nudged her arm. She did the same with Sue, but with less reluctance. Sue guessed that she probably had something against men, which was something she never had a problem with, there were MANY reasons to hate men, but this woman looked like she wanted to chop off the penis of every male in existence and violently choke them with it.

Or, perhaps, do something even worse.

“It’s nice to meet you both, too,” Mrs. White finally said in a voice that could crack an iceberg in two. She sized Tommy and Sue up silently, sneering at Sue’s skirt, which barely reached her knees, but didn’t comment about it. “It’s so...wonderful...to see my precious angel with people she can trust.” She lifted a hand and Carrie eagerly ducked her head beneath it. It was quite cute to see her blissfully get affection, but Sue got a feeling of uneasiness in her stomach when she noticed that the action made Carrie look like a trained dog. And Mrs. White was her owner.

“Carrie is a lot of fun to have around,” Tommy said, and Carrie grinned brightly at him. “Your daughter is amazing!”

“Hmm,” Mrs. White said again. She looked at Carrie and a smile tugged on her lips. “She is, isn’t she?” She patted Carrie’s cheek. “Run along, my darling. Go play.”

Carrie nodded and her face scrunched up adorably with giddiness when she got a kiss on the forehead. She jumped up a moment later, darting past Tommy and Sue and to the staircase. She waved to them to follow her eagerly, grinning her head off and doing a little dance on the first step.

“We’re coming, we’re coming!” Sue laughed as she and Tommy walked over. “Calm down!”

They ascended the stairs, and Sue could feel Margaret’s burning gaze scorch holes into her back with every step she took.

The first thing Sue and Tommy noticed upon entering the bedroom were the bars over the window.

Carrie’s room was plain. Plain cream walls, plain scuffed hardwood floor, plain white bed sheets and blankets (no pillow, as she had once mentioned before). There was a nightstand next to her bed with a lamp and a small Bible on it and a splintering bookshelf with very few books set up neatly. A chest at the end of the bed had ribbons of colorful fabric overflowing from the closed lid and a desk had a current sewing project spread out over its surface. A small table in the corner held a few old stuffed animals stacked neatly in a fuzzy pyramid.

“Welcome,” Carrie signed with a grand gesture with outstretched arms. She spun around once, looking around her room, then centered to Tommy and Sue again with a sheepish expression. “I--don’t know what to do now.”

Sue tilted her head, not understanding her hand movements, and Tommy translated. It made her pause in thought- what WAS there to do at Carrie’s house? There was no TV to watch movies on or teach her how to play video games like Tommy usually did. The place was actually quite...boring. Sue couldn’t bear to live in such a bare place.

“Sorry…” Carrie lowered her head in shame.

“Hey, no, it’s okay!” Tommy said quickly. “No worries!”

Sue looked around, trying to find something that would hopefully ease Carrie’s tension. She spotted the piece of fabric on the desk, which was a plum color with frills along the breast. She nodded at it.

“That’s pretty.” She said.

“Oh!” Carrie skittered over to it. “Thank you. It’s not finished yet, but it’s going to be a dress!”

Tommy translated her signs and Sue smiled. “Do you make all your clothes?”

“Most of them,” Carrie nodded.

“That’s so cool!” Sue said.

Carrie blushed. “Thank you.” She lightly brushed her project. “I can--teach you how to. If you want.”

------

“And then we started sewing,” Sue says. She stares into the cup of water Lynn had gotten for her with a deeply troubled look.

“I made a scarf.” Tommy states in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“It was supposed to be a sweater.” Sue manages a giggle, although it was tight and slightly strangled.

Lynn wants to smile, she really does, but as she is pressing a wet rag to a welt on her young student’s stomach, watching blood seep into the white fabric, such an action feels impossible.

If Carrie had looked worrisome when Lynn first saw her, then the removal of most of her clothes has only increased that concern tenfold. The few injuries that had been visible when she first got there were bad enough, but the skin on her torso and back were splattered with impossibly dark colors that were split open in the center of each mark, like she had been beaten with a thin object. Cuts and scrapes marred her tanned skin, which was now horribly pale.

Carrie is stripped down to the black shorts and white tank top she had been wearing underneath her green overalls, which were stained in her blood (not that it was much of a loss- those things were hideous). Her face is tight with pain and all her muscles were tense as if she wanted to run, but couldn’t. Each breath she took came out shallow and ragged.

There’s too many wounds. There’s too many injuries on her little body. She isn’t going to live. Carrie will die.

A touch on her shoulder brought Lynn out of her morbid thoughts. She looks up to see Estelle, still kneeling next to her, a worried, but “I’m here for you” look on her face. She leans against her and a sick feeling settles into the pit of her stomach. Her mind is a jumbled mess, a tornado of disconnected thoughts and overwhelming stress.

Sue takes a deep breath and all eyes turn to her again. She pries her gaze away from her cup, rests her head against Tommy’s shoulder for support, and begins the story again.

------

“WHAT is THAT?” Carrie signed.

“IT is a SCARF!” Tommy declared defensively, holding the long piece of red wool fabric as if it were a live snake. “And it’s very stylish!” He flicked it around his neck and lifted his nose in a very haughty, pompous manner. Carrie flopped backwards, giggling and kicking her legs in the air. Tommy looked delighted at her reaction.

“I thought we were making sweaters…” Sue said, blinking down at the misshapen purple blob in her hands. Carrie giggled louder.

She giggled and giggled, such a pleasant, relieving sound.

And then the bedroom door opened.

And a thunderous voice that could shatter a glacier spoke up.

“What is going on in here?”

Tommy, Sue, and Carrie all jumped and twisted around to see Mrs. White slithering inside, growing bigger and more menacing with every step she took. Tommy and Sue both straightened up, trying to look like model guests, while Carrie scrambled up off of her back and to her feet. She was still beaming, however.

“Hello, Mama,” She greeted sweetly. “I was just teaching Tommy and Sue how to sew! They’re not very good.”

“I made a scarf,” Tommy said, holding up the droopy ends of his silly creation for Mrs. White to see. She looked at it as if it were the serpent that had bewitched Eve. “Also, oi! Rude!” He poked Carrie in the leg, then glanced up at Mrs. White again, like he was saying, Look at how good I am with your daughter! Look at how nice I am to her! Please like me!

“Hmm.” Mrs. White merely said. She looked very suspicious of all three of them, even her own daughter. She looked around the room like she was searching for a shred of impurity that would give her a reason to throw Tommy and Sue out. This process, however, was halted when Carrie hopped forward and latched onto her arm.

“Mama, I finished the dress,” She said. She bumped her head against her mother’s shoulder and smiled up at her.

She really does love her mom. Sue thought. But does Mrs. White love her back?

“Did you?” Mrs. White said, half distracted. She was trying to not take her eyes off of the guests, Tommy the most in particular.

“Mhm!” Carrie ran and grabbed the dress she had finished while she was giving the sewing lessons. She presented it to Mrs. White proudly. “See?”

Mrs. White delicately ran her bony fingers along the stitching and frills. Then, she looked up and smiled at Carrie. “Very good, darling.”

That smile flickered away, however, when she looked back to her daughter’s friends. She frowned at Sue, who was rigid next to Tommy. She wasn’t trying to suck up to her like he was.

“You.” She said. “What are you making?”

“Oh, uh--” Sue looked down at the malformed, barely-sewn sweater flopped pathetically in her hands. “A-a sweater.” She wanted to kick herself for stammering. Why was she so nervous around this lady? “I think?”

“My scarf is better.” Tommy muttered, then flashed a smile at Mrs. White. She blinked at him slowly. Even she was curious about his adamant attempt to get on her good side.

Mrs. White sniffed. The edges of her eyes crinkled in distaste. “Maybe you should try lengthening that skirt. You’ll be burning in hell in no time looking like that.”

Sue stiffened. She suddenly felt like her clothes were paper thin--or maybe not even there at all. Mrs. White was staring at her like she had just finished having sex with every man in the entire world and was currently dripping semen all over her floor. Sue struggled not to squirm as silence descended upon the room.

At her side, Tommy’s mouth was half open in shock that an adult would talk to a kid, especially a guest in their house, like that. He kept looking from Sue, to Mrs. White, and then back to Sue, conflicted on whether he should defend his girlfriend and risk Mrs. White hating him even more or not say anything and have Sue possibly hate him (but she wouldn’t hate him. if it were him essentially being called a man slut, she would probably be too scared to say anything, too).

Mrs. White was stood up straight and she looked like she was trying very hard not to smirk. She may be thin and ragged, but she was alight with disgust, like a flame that would never go out. Beside her, Carrie was rigid, but didn’t seem very surprised by her mother’s comment. Her head was lowered, dark eyes flitting towards Sue with an apologetic look. And then, she moved, slotting herself between Sue and Mrs. White.

“Mama, Sue is the nicest girl I know.” She said, and Sue felt a flutter of guilt inside her stomach. At one point, she had participated in all the teasing Carrie got. She had been in on schemes to humiliate her and had looked at her like she was the most awful creature to ever walk the earth, and Carrie knew this, she had known it, and yet she still defended her. “If she doesn’t go to heaven, then heaven is wrong.”

Crack, went something in Mrs. White’s head.

Carrie noticed it first, the way her mother’s twisted expression twitched and rippled on her face like a melting wax mask, the way a diseased light flickered behind her eyes, the way her nostrils flared with a silent breath, and then Sue and Tommy followed. They could see it now, too, how Mrs. White still had the same look on her face as she had when she insulted Sue, but just slightly lopsided. It was like a wrinkled photograph cut from a magazine or a blurry movie still. There was something awful swimming behind those beetle-black eyes, and Carrie had accidentally awakened it.

Sue wondered for a fleeting second if she were infected with the same parasite as her mother.

Carrie was very tense, so much so that Sue could see the muscles in her neck bunching up and popping out painfully. Her knees were shaking and a bead of sweat ran down the side of her face slowly. Sue and Tommy had both seen her scared before, but this was nothing like the fear that came from bullying at school or being called on in class or getting humiliated somehow.

Carrie looked terrified. Genuinely terrified. Like she thought she was going to die.

“Carrie.” Mrs. White said calmly, but they all still shivered. The weight of the fury in that one simple word--Sue hoped she would never have to hear anyone say her name like that. She might as well have called her daughter ‘Disappointment.’ “Dear. Come here.”

But Carrie didn’t move. Her breathing starts to become more ragged.

“No, mama,” She whispered, and Sue had never heard so much fear in her voice before.

Twitch, went something on Mrs. White’s expression.

“M-my friends--” Carrie went on shakily, trying to give a good reason for her to talk back. “Th-they’re here. C-can’t we wait…” But her words trailed off into meaninglessness when she met her mother’s sharp gaze and she fell into helpless silence.

Mrs. White stretched her neck to the left and there was a series of pops that reverberated around the room. She seemed to be swelling up like a venomous snake.

“Hey--” Tommy leapt to his feet, the tail of his sweater-scarf wagging lazily in front of him. “It’s not Carrie’s fault. She was just being a good friend.”

Mrs. White snapped her smoldering gaze over to Tommy, and that was enough to send him slamming right back to the floor in a rigid sitting position. Sue had never seen him obey so much like a trained dog before. It was horrifying how much this single woman could strike so much terror into all of them.

“Carietta Nancy White.” Mrs. White hissed, her voice dripping with icicles. “I will not tell you again.”

She knows she could just grab Carrie. Sue realized with a twist in her stomach. She wants the satisfaction of Carrie obeying her.

Carrie moved slowly, dragging her feet as if they were weighed down by chains, head bowed in a submissive way. The moment she was in reach, Mrs. White snatched her by the forearm and dug her nails in so deep tiny jewels of blood bubbled up around her fingers. Tommy twitched at Sue’s side, like he wanted to jump up and tackle Mrs. White, but his nerves were holding him back.

“I’m sorry…” Carrie whispered, although Sue doesn’t know if it’s directed to her and Tommy or to her mother. She’s briskly guided out of the room a moment later, so fast that she actually clipped her forehead on the doorframe, but Mrs. White doesn’t stop to let her recover. Their footsteps shuffle and stomp down the hallway, down the steps, and then disappear downstairs.

Silence.

Sue and Tommy waited for yelling, crashing, banging, fighting to break out, but there was nothing. They could only hear the distant sound of Mrs. White’s voice, but neither of them dared to move to listen closer. They just sat there in Carrie’s room, surrounded by scraps of colorful fabric and sewing needles, not speaking a word.

Mrs. White came to get them five minutes later. Her eyes were filled with disgust and hatred and her mouth was twisted in a sneer.

“Get out.” Was all she said in a voice filled with malice.

Sue and Tommy leapt to their feet and scampered out of the house with metaphorical tails tucked between their legs as fast they could. Mrs. White followed close behind them, like the devil on their heels, until they were out on the stoop. She slammed the door so hard Sue was surprised the entire house didn’t come crumbling down and they heard the sound of a lock clicking into place.

Silence.

“That...was eventful.” Sue said.

Tommy doesn’t answer. He just began to pace up and down the front walkway, crunching gravel and pebbles underneath his shoes.

“Tommy?”

“We have to do something.” Tommy blurted.

Surprised, Sue said, “What?”

“We can’t just leave her in there!” Tommy said, then quickly quieted his voice. He looked around. “We have to save her.”

Sue knew they had to, even if the thought scared her. She wouldn’t be able to sleep that night knowing Carrie was probably thrashed for the skirt her friend had been wearing.

The two of them wait a moment, then sneak around the side of the house, romping through overgrown weeds and grass and knowing full well that they’ll get hell rained upon them if they’re caught. Tommy peeked in through a back window with a crack in it and saw the fleeting figure of Margaret ascending the staircase, giving him and Sue a chance to slip in through the back door and re-enter the house.

Being inside that place felt wrong, like they were intruding on sacred grounds. But the house was anything but sacred, especially with the muffled sniffles echoing from somewhere they couldn’t see.

Sue and Tommy ducked into a small closet that was cluttered with moth-eaten blankets and boxes. They were at the end of the main downstairs hallway and it was dark enough for them to crack open the door and peek out without being seen. There, they waited, peering out of the barely-open door. Sue’s back was just starting to hurt from hunching over when footsteps stomped down the staircase. She and Tommy watched as Mrs. White unlocked what they thought had just been a coat closet, reached in, and pulled Carrie out.

“I’m sorry, Mama!” Carrie blurted instantly, as submissive as always.

Mrs. White answered in a low rumbling noise. She dragged Carrie into the den and out of sight.

“Mama, please talk to me.” Sue and Tommy heard Carrie beg. “Please, I’m sorry! I just-- they’re my friends and I don’t like when people are mean to them. I’m sorry, Mama. I shouldn’t have talked back to you.”

Mrs. White snorted. “Friends.” She repeated the word as if it were a curse. “They aren’t your friends.”

“They are!” Carrie said. “They are, Mama! And they’re really nice, too, you’ll see!”

Mrs. White huffed out a breath and Sue thought she may be shaking her head. “Nobody is friends with you, Carrie. You don’t have friends. You know why.”

Sue winced. That felt like it was needlessly cruel to the poor girl.

“No, Mama,” Carrie said, this time much softer.

“If I told them what you are--what you can do, they’ll run for the hills. Or worse: they’d lock you up and use your gifts. But me? I’ve always accepted and loved you the way you are, my sweet girl.” Mrs. White crooned. “You’re different, Carrie. And you know people love to destroy what is not like them.”

“I don’t have to be,” Carrie said. “Tommy says I can be whoever I want!”

“Oh. That BOY.” Mrs. White said with great disgust. “You know how boys are, Carrie. Do I need to remind you of your father?”

“No, Mama.” Carrie replied with a shudder in her voice.

Sue and Tommy exchanged looks. They had both wondered on their own about Carrie’s father, but neither ever brought it up to her. By the sound of it, whatever happened to him wasn’t very good.

“They’re good, Mama,” Carrie was saying when focus was brought back to the conversation. “I promise! I’m sorry for talking back, but Tommy and Sue are good people!”

“They’ve entranced you,” Mrs. White said, not even listening to her daughters. “They are imps sent from the devil!”

“No, Mama!” There’s a rustle of fabric and the scuffing of feet against the floor- Carrie must have been standing up. “They aren’t! Don’t you dare say that about them! They’re not imps, YOU are!”

The sound of a hand smashing against flesh filled the house; Carrie’s body fell backwards into sight on her stomach. She’s frozen in shock for a moment before pushing herself up on her hands. A second later, one of her legs was grappled and she was dragged backwards into the den, screaming and clawing helplessly at the floor.

It was like a scene ripped straight out of a horror movie.

“Mama, stop! Stop it, Mama! I’m sorry!”

“You’re going to repent, you vile little beast--”

Another slap reverberated through the house, followed by a sharp yelp reminiscent of a puppy getting its foot stepped on.

“Mama! Mama, no! Please, no! I’m sorry!”

“You must be washed clean of the filth they put on you.”

There’s the sound of fabric scraping against the floor that traveled into the kitchen. A clatter of a body being thrown into a chair echoed from that room, followed by a stern, “Stay.”

“Mama, please,” Carrie pleaded. “I don’t want to, Mama, I don’t want to be cleaned--”

Sue heard the sink running in the kitchen. What was going on?

A hand yanked her head backwards by the hair. Water hit the over her face cloth- small drips and then a heavy torrent. It flooded into her nose. She instinctively opened her mouth to gasp for a breath, and the water poured in. Her heart was racing, and her whole body was frozen. She could feel the freezing water trickling down her throat. She tried to toss her head to escape the torrent, but she couldn't even twitch. The only part of her that was moving was her chest as her body fought frantically to cough, to escape, to breathe, to survive.

“Don’t like that, do you?” Mama’s voice was crowing as she lifted the cloth. She smirked at the way her daughter gasped for air, taking in quick, rapid breaths to soothe her lungs. “No, you don’t.” She felt her shake her hand beneath her hand. “Admit it, my darling. Admit that that boy and girl are sent from the devil and dirtied you. Admit it and it will end.”

Desperate to retain at least a shred of her dignity, Carrie said, “No.”

The cloth drops back down over her face with a wet plop.

She felt the moment the water hit her lungs this time around- there was a lot more poured over her. There was a sickening chill, so at odds with the burning pain. And then her arms and legs were tugging against the ropes as sheer panic enveloped her. She wasn't thinking of twisting her wrists to try to free them; her arms moved of their own accord, tearing the skin. She wasn't thinking of kicking out with all her strength; her legs jerked and tugged against the restraints, wrenching their own muscles. She wasn't thinking of trying to get away from whatever was pinning her down; her body writhed and shifted as panic and fear pulsed through it.

When Mama lifted the cloth again, water was spit up from Carrie’s lips. She lowered it, not giving her much room to breathe. She whined sharply, pathetically when she just inhaled a wet rag.

“Please, please, Mama...” Carrie begged through breathless sobs.

“Tell me the truth. Admit it. You know you want to. You want to damn their souls to hell for cursing you.”

“No, Mama, I don’t--”

Carrie cut herself off with a horrid gag and water rushed down her throat, choking her.

Dying. Dying. Dying. She could feel it. Her very bones were vibrating with the knowledge that she couldn't survive. That oxygen, held away from her by nothing more than a piece of fabric, was still too far away for her to reach. That every frantic heave of her chest was drawing the water further and further down, pulling in more and more liquid.

Every fiber of her being wanted to fight, was trying to fight, but it wasn't a fight she could win. There was nothing she could do.

Unless…

“I--”

Carrie’s squeal ended in an intense dry heave that twisted her stomach so badly she began to feel nauseous. Her head spun and the crying was adding to the extreme pain that infected her chest and abdomen.

“Mama--”

A whimper, a whine, a keen of helplessness as Carrie’s limbs began to go limp.

“I do!”

The bowl clattered to the ground. Mama removed the rag from her face, stared deep into her teary eyes.

“What was that?”

“I--” A weak sob shook Carrie, “I do. I do want to send them to hell. They made me dirty.”

She thought she’s having to lie to get out alive, but her mind is too fuzzy to know for sure... Maybe she does want them to burn for all eternity in hell.

“You do?”

“Yes, Mama. Yes, Mama.” Carrie bobbed her head rapidly. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m so sorry. I should have listened.”

Mama knelt down beside her and began wiping her face off with a dry cloth. When fresh tears streamed from her eyes, she gently dabbed them away. Carrie couldn’t help but press into his touch.

“Is this the truth, Carietta? Are you really sorry?”

“Yes, Mama,” Carrie said with a sob. “Yes, yes, I am. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

“Good girl,” Mama crooned, continuing to dry off her face.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes, I’m glad you know to tell the truth, but that doesn’t change what you did.”

Ice cold fear shot through Carrie’s veins.

“I took your gun.” She was desperate now.

“You still have to be punished, little jade.”

She lets out a whimper.

“You know what you did.”

The dry cloth is put over her face.

Water sloshed above her.

She wanted to say she was sorry. She was sorry. She was so sorry. She wanted to be a good, obedient daughter. She wanted to make Mama happy. She wanted her to be proud.

Drip-drip-drip

The cloth soaked up the water, slowly this time, to drag out her punishment. Carrie took a shuddering breath of air, fills her lungs as far as they can go, fills them so full she feels like they’re going to burst.

Mama’s voice echoed.

You need to be punished

The water soaked the cloth. The cloth clung to Carrie’s nose as she inhaled, clung when she exhaled, and the panic exploded in her chest. Water slid down her throat, over her neck and into her hair, over her shoulders. So cold it burns.

She’s drowning. She’s dying. She’s suffocating.

Screaming.

Her throat hurts. There’s no air in her mouth, in her lungs. She can feel the water trickling into her nose. Can’t breathe. No air. No air. No air.

The ropes on her arms loosen and then are gone. She wanted to die. She can’t breathe past the panic in her chest. She was shaking. She was dying. She wanted it to end.

Oh god, please keep pouring. Please. Please. Please. You can kill me right now.

But then the faces of Tommy and Sue and Miss Gardener flash in her head and she thought, Do I really want to die?

Sue and Tommy didn’t think anything could get worse than Mrs. White waterboarding her own child, but then she raised a wicked-looking switch when Carrie lurched out of the chair she had been punished in. She coughed violently and slipped in the water coating the kitchen floor, falling to her hands and knees, but jolted forward as the switch swung down at her. It just barely missed her left leg.

“I’ll thrash the devil out of you!!” Mrs. White screeched.

Carrie catapulted herself over the dining room table to get away from her and her switch. Sue and Tommy watched as she clambered over the top, scattering porcelain plates and cups, before tipping over in a very ungraceful landing. After hitting the ground, she scrambled up again to flee, but her mother was already upon her.

“Ma--!!”

Before she could get the word completely out, the switch connected with her back with a horrible CRACK.

Carrie doesn’t scream, but she does whine sharply at the burning sensation that had to be blazing through her shoulder blades, even with her shirt on. She scampered around like a mouse below Mrs. White, as she had easily been sent to her knees by the blow. She’s fidgeting and fumbling, trying to speak up without sounding pained, as that would make her seem even weaker.

“Mama, please, I--”

Another lash streaked across her lower back and Carrie gritted her teeth through the pain. Her fingernails claw and catch into the floorboards, but she would have much preferred splinters uprooting her nails than this beating.

“Worthless girl! When will you learn to obey me?!” Mrs. White roared overhead before cracking the switch against her daughter’s waist.

Carrie’s arms gave in and she toppled over onto her side. She squirmed helplessly, pushing her heels against the ground in an attempt to get away, mouth agape as she watched Mrs. White raised her arm yet again.

“Mama--”

This time, Carrie does scream.

She does scream because the switch lashed right across her belly. Her head threw itself backwards, knocking her skull against the floorboards, but it’s not enough to lessen the searing sensation burning itself through her midsection. For a moment, she can only choke and cry out, but then the incomprehensible wail turns into words.

“MOMMY, STOP IT!! PLEASE, MOMMY, STOP!!!”

But Mrs. White doesn’t stop. She just kept on lashing her daughter until blood is soaking through green overalls and Carrie is a shuddering, whimpering ball at her feet. Even then, she does not stop.

Not until a voice cried out.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!!” Tommy barreled out into the den, absolutely fuming and seeing red. It surprised Sue, who had been recording the abuse on her phone in shocked silence. She followed after him quickly.

“Don’t you hurt a single hair on her head.” Tommy warned. His fingers were clenched and shaking, teeth bared, eyes alight with rage.

“Tommy,” Carrie coughed out weakly.

Tommy looked down at Carrie and his eyes softened instantly. He looked anguished about how he wasn’t able to go to her, not with Mrs. White poising the switch over her back.

“I’m here, Caz,” He murmured. “I’m here.”

Carrie made a feeble whimpering sound. She tried to look up at him, blinking through tears and water and sweat and blood, but she was exhausted from the beating and her head flopped uselessly to the ground. She panted heavily, trying to curl away from her mother.

“I thought I threw you both out.” Mrs. White said.

“We would never leave Carrie.” Tommy said. “Not so devilish now, huh?”

Mrs. White snorted. “You think this proves anything? I know what you people are like.”

“I got what you did on video,” Sue said, holding up her phone. “Just so you know.”

Mrs. White laughed an awful laugh. “Oh, you empty-headed whore,” She cackled. “You think evidence is going to change anything? Everyone in the neighborhood, new and old, have heard Carrie’s cries for years and they have never done anything. Not even when police are called. Nothing is ever done, and you want to know why?” She smirked wickedly. “It’s because nobody cares.”

Sue felt a sinking feeling of dread. Would really nothing be done to save Carrie even with video evidence?

“I care.” Tommy said. “Sue cares. So does Miss Gardener.”

------

“I do,” Lynn murmurs, gently touching one of Carrie’s hands. Tommy and Sue both give her tight smiles, then Sue continues telling the story.

------

Mrs. White rolled her eyes. “No you don’t! You’re lying!” She nudged Carrie with her foot and Carrie moaned weakly in response. Her daughter rolled over slightly, blood squelching beneath her, and gave her her full attention, even after being beaten to a bloody pulp. “I’m the only one who cares about you. No one will ever love you except me. You’ll always be a monster to everyone else.”

Sue shivered. It sounded like some kind of chant or curse, like something Mrs. White had repeated this to Carrie several times before.

Carrie whimpered. She craned her neck slowly, wincing in pain, and looked at Sue and Tommy desperately. Mrs. White nudged her again, prodding her foot against one of the cuts along her lower back and making her look back at her.

“She’s not a monster.” Sue spoke up, glaring at Mrs. White.

Mrs. White barked a laugh. She looked down at Carrie quivering beneath her. “Is that what you’ve made them think? That you’re just some shy, innocent little mouse?” She laughed again and turned her blistering gaze back to Tommy and Sue. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourselves into, children.”

What did she do? Sue thought. What has Carrie done to make her own mother call her a monster?

And will she do the same thing to us?

“Don’t you DARE talk about Carrie like that!” Tommy growled. “You have no right!”

“I have every right,” Mrs. White said airily. “I am her mother.” She spread her arms in a grand gesture. Droplets of sparkling red blood twinkle on the edges of the switch she was still holding. “And I am just trying to cleanse the little devil he put inside of me.”

A tense silence descended upon the den, only broken by Carrie’s soft gasps and sniffles.

“Who?” Sue asked quietly, reluctantly.

Mrs. White began to pace around the room, swinging the switch at her side and sending blood flying through the air in glittering crimson arcs. “I didn’t want him to put it in me. I tried to fight him.” She said.

“Mama, please don’t,” Carrie begged weakly. She covered her ears and curled up tighter.

“But he didn’t listen.” Mrs. White hissed, ignoring her daughter’s pleas. “He made me enjoy it. Satan gave him sin and, in return, he put a devil child inside of me.”

Oh. Sue realized with a jolt. She was raped.

Mrs. White shook her head. “I don’t hate Carrie. Far from it. If I did, she would be long dead.” She looked down at her daughter with a strange look in her eyes. “I just...have to cleanse her. Remove all her sin.” She tilted her head like Carrie was a new plastic body to decorate the crucifixes with. “And then--she will be--perfect.”

There was something very, very wrong with Margaret White. And Sue didn’t feel safe being around her any longer.

How could Carrie live with such a mother?

Mrs. White looked up at Tommy and Sue, scrutinizing them. “Does that make sense?”

Sue nodded a tiny bit and Mrs. White gave her an appraising look. Tommy, however, only fumed even more.

“What the fuck?” He seethed. “No! Not only no, but HELL NO!” He glared at Mrs. White. “You are fucking psychotic! You can’t treat people like that! Why did I want you to like me? You’re insane!”

Mrs. White glared right back at him. “I should have known you wouldn’t understand. Men.” She nudged Carrie, who tentatively removed her hands from her ears. “Why don’t I show you why purification is necessary? Carrie, my darling little creature, show them.”

Carrie doesn’t move. Mrs. White exasperatedly rolled her eyes and grabbed her by the top of the head, throwing her to Sue and Tommy’s feet. Carrie landed with a heavy thud and a soft grunt. She looked up at the pair with guilty black-brown eyes so eerily like her mother’s. Sue shivered, finding it difficult to look at her anymore.

“Go on.” Mrs. White waved a hand.

“No, Mama,” Carrie whispered. She tried to make herself as small as possible.

“Why not?” Mrs. White smirked. “Is it because you know they’ll hate you for it?”

Carrie whimpered. Fresh tears stream down her cheeks. She began to rock herself back and forth on her knees.

“Look at that,” Mrs. White mused. “She doesn’t trust either of you at all. How sad. Some great friends you are if she can’t tell secrets to you.”

Sue felt a smudge of betrayal streak through her. What was so important that Carrie couldn’t tell her and Tommy about? Did the best friend's oath she once made them take mean nothing? She looked to Tommy to see his reaction, but there wasn’t a hint of hurt on his face. He squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes at Mrs. White.

“It’s her business,” He said. “She can tell us when she’s ready. I wouldn’t admit anything while being pressured, either.”

I should have reacted like that, Sue thought with a twist of guilt. Not immediately assume Carrie is a bad person. She looked at Mrs. White. She’s...so cunning. And convincing. It’s scary.

“Tommy,” Carrie gasped from below. She gripped tightly to one of his pant legs. “Tommy, it hurts.”

Tommy dropped to his knees in front of Carrie and bundled her protectively in his arms. Blood smeared against his clothes, but he doesn’t seem to care much. Mrs. White watched with a murderous look in her eyes.

“Shh, you’re safe. I won’t let you go.” Tommy whispered to her soothingly.

“And just WHERE do you think you’re putting your hands?” She spat.

Tommy glared right back up at her. “I’m protecting her from you.” He said.

“Foolish boy,” Mrs. White shook her head. “You don’t know what she could do to you.”

“Carrie would never hurt me.” Tommy said.

Mrs. White laughed. “That’s what you think! But she could! She easily could!”

“Mama,” Carrie wheedled.

“Release my daughter.” Mrs. White said. “This instant.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes at her and said, “No.”

Mrs. White’s face twisted in fury. She gripped the switch in her hands tightly and, for a moment, Sue worried she was going to strike Tommy with it.

But she didn’t.

She didn’t move.

“Mama, please stop.” Carrie begged. She had her head twisted around to stare at her mother. Most of her wounds have stopped bleeding by now; dried blood clashed horribly with her green overalls.

“You devil,” Mrs. White hissed lowly.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Mama.” Carrie whispered. Her body had gone worryingly cold in Tommy’s arms. Her voice was the sound of dead leaves rustling against pavement. “Please don’t make me hurt you…”

Mrs. White was stiff in her spot, arm half raised. The muscles were contracted tightly beneath her skin. Why wasn’t she moving? Was she scared of Carrie? And if so...why? Carrie was anything but threatening.

The next words Carrie spoke made her mother go deathly pale.

“I’ll bring the stones again.”

Mrs. White staggered backwards, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t.” She whispered.

Thunder rumbled deeply, then cracked across the darkening sky outside like a warning. Lightning flickered in through the tightly-drawn drapes, illuminating Carrie’s eyes like ebony flames, and Sue realized they weren’t as black as she thought. There were hues of amber and red-brown, and they glowed intensely in her skull. Her gaze was hard and cold.

“I will, Mama.” Carrie said. Her voice was drained and dry; she sounded so tired. “If you touch them-- If you dare--” She was shaking like a newborn baby goat in Tommy’s arms. She looked up at her mother with the same diseased light that had been in her mother’s eyes. “I will bring the fire down on you.”

Mrs. White dropped to her knees, falling like a bird with broken wings. She clasped her hands together and began to pray loudly, although her words were wavering and slurring together. She rocked back and forth, shaking her head like she was trying to ward off sinful thoughts from worming their way into her brain.

Carrie sucked in a sharp breath, her body shuddering in an awful, bone-shattering way. Her head flopped limply onto one of Tommy’s shoulders, panting heavily. Sweat was soaking her brow and a feverish expression contorted her face.

“Tommy,” She gasped weakly.

“Grab her.” Sue ordered. “Grab her, Tommy! Let’s go!”

Tommy scooped Carrie up into his arms and ran for the door, Sue tailing right behind him.

Mrs. White did not stop them.

------

“And then we got in the car and drove here.” Sue concludes with a frown.

An uncomfortable silence descends upon the house, only broken by the pattering of rain on the window and low rumbles of thunder. Tommy shifts closer to the couch, casting Carrie yet another worried glance. His gaze practically screamed, Wake up. Please wake up.

“That can’t--that can’t be true,” Lynn whispers. Her breath is caught in her throat in horror. There was just no way. No parent could possibly be that cruel to their own child. She didn’t want to believe it.

“It is.” Sue says sadly. She slips her phone out of her pocket and hands it to Lynn. Estelle leans over her shoulder to see. A video is displayed on the screen. With a quaking finger, Lynn presses the play button.

And it all fell away.

Hope that the story wasn’t true, hope that Margaret wasn’t as bad as Sue and Tommy made her out to be, hope that Carrie wasn’t getting brutally abused this whole time, right under her nose, and she never did anything to help her.

Because on the screen, clear as day, is Margaret White lashing her young daughter with a whip-thin switch, splattering blood everywhere. And the agonized yowls of Carrie will echo in her ears, haunt her nightmares, for years to come, always reminding her that it was very, very real.

Lynn’s vision blurs and she realizes she is tearing up. She blinks and claws away the tears hopefully before anyone would notice, trying her best to be strong, trying to not let her facade fall and reveal that she was actually horrified. Horrified and sickened and shocked and livid. She would not let her mask fall, and not just because she was supposed to be a tough-as-nails gym coach that would make numerous students vomit during Suicides and never flinch when bones broke savagely during games. But because she has to be strong for Carrie’s sake.

And then she looks up and sees blank onyx eyes peering at her blankly and tears cloud her vision all over again.

“Carrie!”

Tommy is the first one to react, lunging to his friend’s side in an instant, nearly falling face-first into the rug in the process. He clasps one of her hands with both of his.

“Carrie,” He says again, this time quieter. “How are you feeling?”

“Everything hurts,” Carrie replies in a soft, hoarse voice. She sighs. “But what else is new?”

She...doesn’t sound very surprised, Lynn realizes with an awful twist in her stomach. Like this has happened before.

Like she’s gotten used to it. Waking up in pain.

Carrie lifts her head slightly, wincing, and looks around the room. “Where am I? Why is Miss Gardener here?”

“Hi, sweetheart,” Lynn smiles at her warmly.

“We brought you here.” Sue says.

“Oh.” Carrie’s dark eyes dart around again, searching, and then fall on Estelle. Her brow pinches together. “I know you.” She whispers.

Estelle moves closer. “Hello, Carrie. It’s been a long time.”

“You were my neighbor,” Carrie says. “I asked you what breasts were. Estelle.”

Despite the situation, light laughter ripples through the room. It almost, almost eases the weight pressing on Lynn’s heart.

“Yes, that’s me,” Estelle chuckles. “It’s good to see you again, Carrie.”

“You called Mama a cow,” Carrie muses, slightly dazed. Sue gets up to grab the painkillers Lynn left on the kitchen counter.

Lynn gives Estelle a look that says, “You what?” Estelle returns with a crooked smile.

“Where is she?” Carrie asks. She’s looking around more fervently now and trying to get up. “Where’s my Mama?”

Lynn feels that awful twist in her heart again. Even after what Margaret did to her, Carrie is still so attached to her mother. But after living with such a treatment all her life, she must have gotten used to it. Maybe she even learns to overlook it.

“She’s at your house, Caz.” Tommy says, brushing back a loose fringe of hair from Carrie’s face.

“Is she alive?” Carrie asks. Then, more softly, “Did I hurt her?”

The beat of silence and exchange of worried glances is just a bit too long; Carrie begins to whimper and cry. Tommy soothes her quickly, brushing her tears away with gentle hands.

“She’s okay, Caz. She’s alive, I promise.” He assures her. “Shh… It’s okay.”

Carrie looks up at him and calms slightly. Lynn is impressed- out of everyone in the room, she would have thought Tommy would be the least comforting, but here he was, treating Carrie so tenderly. Perhaps the most awkward one with comfort, at least with Carrie, would be Sue, who was standing listlessly with the bottle of Ibuprofen gripped tightly in her hands. Lynn takes it from her and she and Tommy are able to convince Carrie to swallow two of the pills.

“They’ll make you feel better,” Tommy tells her, stroking her hair.

“Do you ever take medicine?” Sue asks curiously.

Carrie shrugs. “Sometimes. Not always. Mama didn’t--believe--in that kind of stuff.”

With weak arms, she pushes herself up into a sitting position, despite the several arguments for her to stay laying down. She sucks in a sharp breath, the cuts along her belly straining and stinging in the open air, and she stubbornly tugs her shirt back down to shield the expanse of scarred flesh. Lynn makes a clucking noise of disapproval.

“You shouldn’t have your clothes covering them,” She says. “They could get infected.”

Carrie gives her a wry smile, “I haven’t got any awful infections yet, have I?”

Lynn’s heart wrenched once again, like a claw was dug inside her chest and turning it to mush. Carrie looks so used to this, so used to getting up and shaking off wounds from abuse, and she hates it. She wants to take her away from that kind of lifestyle so badly.

For a long few minutes, the house is silent. Carrie is looking down, her eyes clouded and haunted; Sue is over near the window, hands gripping the sill firmly, peering out at the storm with a deeply troubled expression, like she was considering leaping out into the tempest so the rain could wash away the chill rattling through her body; Tommy has climbed up onto the couch beside Carrie and kept squeezing her hand like he was trying to remind himself that she was still there with him and still alive; Estelle’s arms are crossed over her chest and she’s considering Carrie in thoughtful silence, most likely straining her memories back to the days when she was the White’s neighbor; Lynn is currently getting her heart turned into pulp, emotions tumbling over themselves in the whirlwind that was her mind- anger, guilt, shock, fear, maternal instincts, anger again, then guilt...it was all mixing together.

Everyone was lost in their individual thoughts, listlessly wandering the winding corridors of their own minds.

The one who speaks first is Sue.

“Carrie,” She says slowly, turning away from the window, “why do you love your mother?”

“Sue!” Tommy hisses, then whips his head around to see Carrie’s reaction.

For just a moment, there is a flash of anger, and Lynn so badly wants to see it come out. She wants to see Carrie get mad at her mother for the treatment she got. But it is chased off by deep sadness and confusion, like Carrie herself didn’t know why she was so attached to such a wicked woman.

“How much do you know about her?” Carrie asks instead of answering. She looks around, including everyone in the question. “Aside from her being an extremist, how much do you know?”

Looks were exchanged as minds were dug through for any information on Margaret White that weren’t rumors. Carrie waits patiently, a tiny, sad smile ghosting her lips.

“You once said,” Estelle starts slowly, “that she was ‘bad when she made you.’”

Carrie nods, her smile twitching up a little more. “My Mama,” She says, “is a delusional, accursed witch.”

Stunned silence. Carrie tilts her head at them, as if to say, “What? I thought you were waiting for me to say something mean about her?” She shakes herself out, like she was getting rid of evil spirits clinging to her, then went on, “She hates everything about the world. Men, most girls, people who follow different religions, even churches. She doesn’t trust them, so we hold our own ceremonies at the house. She’s the preacher, I’m the congregation…” She splays open her hands and looks at them as if they had nails lanced through the palms. “She hates my father the most, I think. Even though I believe she does love him still, despite what happened. And that makes her hate him even more.” She closes her fists and looks up with dark eyes. “She hates me, too. She says she doesn’t but I know. I’ve seen the way she looks at me. I remind her of him.”

“Have you seen him before?” Sue asks softly. “Your dad?”

“Only once,” Carrie answers. “In a picture. I look like him.”

There’s a beat of silence. Carrie runs a hand thoughtfully over her bottom jaw, looking horrifyingly calm while speaking of her home life. But there was fear in her eyes. Lynn could see it flickering in her hugely dilated red-brown-black pupils, very much there, but being stamped down. It was honestly quite startling to see her young student, who would flinch when someone simply raised their hand to ask a question, who always tried to make herself seem smaller when teams were picked for games, who had to use sign language to speak to people because she was too anxious to even verbally talk, be so reserved and nonchalant.

That was another thing- Carrie speaking so many words. Lynn doesn’t think she’s ever heard her talk so much before. She’s wanted to hear her talk, yes, but not like this.

“If a prayer was said just a little wrong,” Carrie begins again, “if a cross was bumped and became crooked, it all fell apart for her.” She leans back, staring out the window. What is that look in her eyes? Disdain, fear, anxiety, relief about finally telling about this? “And she took it out on me over...”

“…and over…”

Carrie’s eyes became vacant, darkening until they looked completely black, lost in the abuse that gripped her so tightly. The calm demeanor only then breaks and is replaced by intense terror and anxiety. At her side, Tommy is too stunned to react, so Lynn lunges forward, grabbing the girl by the shoulders. As soon as contact is made, Carrie begins to thrash and cries out, “…AND OVER!”

Lynn’s grip on Carrie’s shoulders does not break, even when the girl swats fearfully at her arms in a panic. She could only stare as she seized out of control. It was like watching an exorcism happen right in front of her.

“Carrie, stop!” Tommy pleads.

With a start, Carrie stops breathing and tightens every muscle in her body. Prolonged contact with someone who wouldn’t hurt her is starting to have an effect. Her eyes close and her spasms slow. Silence fell around the group.

Then, Carrie expels her breath and sucks in another. She grasps Lynn’s hands and gently pries them away from her shoulders; her touch is like ice.

Sue beseeches her, “What happened to you?”

And on the inside, Lynn thinks, “Is this the girl I want to take in?”

Carrie didn’t look at anyone. Shame carves deep grooves in her face.

“Mama says I’m different,” Carrie smolders. “That I was born from my father’s sin and that’s why--I’m the way I am. And she believes that she has to purify me and remove the devil from inside of me.”

After a second, Carrie turns her head back ever so slightly and peers at the group around her out of the corner of her vision. There was pain in that bloody ebony eye.

Her next three words were tight with humiliation.

“She broke me.”

The pit in Lynn’s stomach dropped until it was a chasm. She can’t speak. Nobody could speak. Carrie looks away again, hiding her disgrace from sight.

“My Mama damaged me in a way that cannot ever be repaired. No matter how many decades pass, I will always be just as broken as I am now. I can’t become whole again.” Her voice cracked as she mourned. “She passed her sickness onto me.”

Tommy reaches over, slowly bridging the gap between him and his dear little sister figure, but Carrie shrinks away from the hand, shaking her head and whimpering, “It’s like a curse that spreads from people to people.”

Tommy swiftly retracts his hand, and the speed at which he does so causes guilt to bloom all over his face. Carrie looks up at him with an understanding frown.

“I will never let anyone share in my sickness. I can’t.” She shakes her head miserably. “I have to--stay away--from people. To protect them. That’s what Mama says.” She clenches her fingers into claws and anger, pain, longing, shame all flash in her eyes.

“But Carrie, how could you pass that sickness onto other people? Onto us?” Tommy asks. “You wouldn’t hurt us!”

Suddenly, a guilt-ridden sob tears out of Carrie’s throat and she doubles over, face buried in her hands.

Quivering, Tommy whispers, “You wouldn’t hurt me, right?”

Carrie wails.

Everything is falling to pieces, to ashes. Lynn is frozen, unable to think straight. At her side, Estelle is frowning--like she’s seen this before.

“You don’t want to hurt us.” Estelle says. “You don’t want to hurt anyone at all.”

Carrie sniffles and looks up from her hands. She looks absolutely miserable.

“Would it matter if I did?” She shakes her head and looks at her hands with so much hatred. “I’m a monster. Just like Mama always says.” She covers her face again and sobs.

Lynn can see it now: Carrie wasn’t just shy and anxious and socially awkward, she was fragile, too--too fragile for the awful things she’s been through.

“Oh, Carrie,” Tommy murmurs. Despite what had been said, he pulls Carrie securely into his arms and she lets him, curling into his warmth. “Carrie. Carrie, I love you anyway. I don’t care.”

And Carrie cries.

She cries and cries and cries for a long time. She cries until she’s reduced to weak sniffles and hiccups and can barely lift her head from Tommy’s chest. She looks absolutely exhausted by the end of it, completely drained. She is feeling the full effect of her wounds, now, and whimpers softly.

“I have a spare bedroom,” Lynn says. “She can sleep there. She’s tired.” She frowns at Carrie’s pale face.

Tommy nods silently and carefully picks Carrie up. Lynn leads him to the guest bedroom and he sets Carrie down beneath the blankets. Her eyelids are fluttering as sleep--or maybe unconsciousness--begins to take hold of her. Tommy kisses her forehead.

“Sleep well, Caz,” He murmurs.

Silence descends upon the house once again. Lynn, Estelle, Tommy, and Sue all sit at the dining room table with mugs of peppermint tea Estelle had made. They didn’t look at each other for a long time.

“What are we gonna do?”

Everyone looks up. Like before, it was Sue who spoke first.

“About Carrie.” Sue states, but it wasn’t really necessary. They all knew who she was referring to.

“She can’t go back home,” Tommy says.

“But she also needs help.” Sue says. “I’m not-- I don’t know if it’s the best idea, but there’s a mental hospital in--”

“No.” Tommy growled. “Hell no.”

“Tommy, she needs help!” Sue says.

“She wouldn’t last a day in a place like that!” Tommy reprimands. “You know that. And mental hospitals aren’t exactly well known for actually helping people. Locking Carrie up with batshit insane people isn’t going to fix her, it’s just going to make her worse.”

“He’s right,” Estelle nods. “I have a cousin who was in a mental hospital for a few days. He said that both suicidal people and homicidal people were put together. So there would be someone who tries to kill themselves with any object they could get their hands on and then someone who loudly talks about wanting to kill everyone in the place in the same room. Not exactly very comforting.” She shakes her head. “What Carrie needs is a stable place to live with sane people who can take care of her. Does she have any relatives?”

“Doubt it.” Tommy sighs.

“She can stay here.”

All eyes turn to Lynn. Her jaw is set and she looks confident in what she said.

“Really?” Tommy’s eyes lit up slightly in hope.

“Yes, really,” Lynn says. “As Estelle said, she needs someone who will take care of her. I can. I /will/. And I want to.”

“That’s a really sweet thing for you to do, Lynnie,” Estelle coos.

“Ooooo, Lynnie?” Sue and Tommy tease simultaneously. For the first time in hours, they had real, wide smiles on their faces.

Lynn rolls her eyes. “Watch it, Snell. I’m still your coach. I can make you run until your legs give out.”

“But you’re not mine.” Tommy says, puffing out his chest.

“You doubt my ability to make kids run Suicides.” Lynn smirked at him.

For just a moment, things felt good again. And maybe they would continue to be good, because if Lynn had her way, Margaret White was never going to see her daughter ever again.

#carrie #carrie the musical #broadway kids carrie #carrie white #tommy ross #sue snell #rita desjardin #lynn gardener #estelle horan #margaret white #carrie fanfiction #carrie fanfic #my writing #tw: abuse #tw: waterboarding #fractal scarring

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nooooooooooooo00000000 · 4 years

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for the character meme: tyki and allen please!

Suuuure!

Tyki.

Why I like them: I like his spontaneity in being what he feels like and doing what he wants to. There’s authenticity in his will to not limit himself to just one role but to live as both a Noah and a human / a noble and a hobo. This is the total opposite to Allen, who has a “constructed” personality...

Why I don’t: he’s too oblivious to everything that happens around him. Like seriously he has no idea of anything.

Favorite episode/scene: when he plays poker with Allen for the first time on the train.

Favorite season (rectius: manga arc): his first appearances when he shows his duality the most.

Favorite Line: “having a light side and a dark side is what makes life interesting”

Favorite outfit: black trousers, white shirt.

OTP: I can’t see him with anyone permanently, tbh. He’s a free spirit.

Brotp: Allen. I love how he tries to unleash his facade.

Head canon: he skipped school to smoke weed

Unpopular opinion: I don’t think he’s that stupid. I think his intelligence is about understanding people under the surface.

A wish: I wish to see more of his life as a hobo

A oh-god-please-don’t-ever-happen: I wouldn’t want him to turn into a good character. I like that he’s a murderous killer with a white side.

5 words to describe them: carefree, charming, quirky, gray, complex

My nickname for them: tyki-pon ~

Allen.

Why I like them: the reason I like Allen is the same reason why I don’t like him. He hasn’t lost his light although everything in his life went wrong. I low key love the fact that he can be a bitch as well. The contrast between his actual personality and the polite pretty boy that behave like a gentleman.

Why I don’t: when I started reading dgm I didn’t like Allen this much because I could not understand his kindness. It looked forced to me. But then I grew up (I’ve been in the fandom for over ten years) and realized how much of that personality is a copy machanism for his trauma, that he put up not to be drowned by his lack of identity, depression and everything life has caused him.

Favorite episode/scene: when he first evokes CC.

Favorite season (rectius: manga arc): after the Order was destroyed, how he dealt with the truth about the 14th and his despair of seeing both his memories with Mana and his beloved life at the Order fade because of something he has no real control on and that wasn’t really his fault.

Favorite Line: oof that’s hard. I have many written everywhere. Maybe “Even though the wounds will heal the scars will remain”.

Favorite outfit: the outfit he had in volume one!

OTP: I ship him with Road because I like their dynamics. I don’t think I can see him with anyone else.

Brotp: Kanda. Since I can’t see Kanda with anyone else but Alma, I don’t ship them together, but I think Kanda is the right person to motivate him. They have similar yet opposite personalities and they both will grow by sharing their points of view. Also, their relationship is the one that developed more throughout the story.

Head canon: Allen’s stomach muttered all the time in the ark when he refused to dine with tyki and road.

Unpopular opinion: I don’t know if that’s an unpopular opinion but I don’t really like him with Lena, except as friends.

A wish: if he’s going to survive this, let him have a happy ending. If he’s going to die, let him be happy and satisfied with the life he lived.

A oh-god-please-don’t-ever-happen: basically, I don’t even know anymore.

5 words to describe them: martyr, complicated, fragile, despair, mask

My nickname for them: moyashi!!

#ask me #noo replies #allen #tyki #textpost #text #dgm text #text post

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keruworld · 4 years

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KR Zero One ep29: The ep where Fuwa was the protagonist... in fact i feel Fuwa is the true protagonist. XD Aruto fails as main character in many ways, but anyways, that’s just my feeling. Now that finally, after 15/20 eps the plot is moving may be... just may be Aruto could do something good and worth and reclaim his main Rider position.. and for not annoy anyone with my CRITIC about this show...

We left with a defeated Aruto, because his humangear went berserk at his own will and began to insult people, but yeah... for Aruto humans are meanies. Of course Gai took advantage of that situation in the most treacherous way as he always does.

And Fuwa got controled by Gai thanks to the brain chip... really i wish they could have showed a small flashback of how and when they intalled him the chip. Dear lazy Zero One writer... flashbacks are good, please... use them.

Probably Naki will only appear in the special of the Bluray box. I really hope dont because will be another wasted character.

Can we appreciate the good Fuwa’s butt?!

Here the power up item that Fuwa will control quickly. XD

Yua just keep repeating I'M NOT A TOOL, wonder why? What's Yua background? Probably we will never know.

In this case...both are to blame. But yeah... for Aruto the bad one is humanity.

And instead of apologize and use technology for broadcast to all homes an speech that can reach human hearts... what Aruto does is...

... being pitiful. It’s not that Aruto speech is wrong or bad... in fact he have a point but feels like empty words. I feel Zero One want to pick the problem of machines stealing human work... in a very wrong way! XD And here we can clearly see that Izu is just a cute robot. She don’t have any dialogue, she is just there... being cute and being a victim the most dramatic way. And this don’t help, just makes feel Aruto more lonely than he already is.

And Fuwa just observing in the back... is... worse!! XD I mean... why he is not helping them? It’s not his duty? come on... he had already say it, he do what he want. This was a golden opportuny for show friendship, cute interaction. But no. I mean even Geiz and Sougo had A LOT more interaction, more dialogue than these two in 29 eps. And you know Zio is really BAD WRITTEN was awful, but the characters speaked to each other, interacted to each other, it was... good, characters were good. Here in Zero One... they are superficial, their only treat are their good looks, and even i admit Horobi and Jin, i like them more for the looks than anything else, they are good looking characters. Sorry, if you not agree with me, but that is what i feel.

Gai have a not healthy impulse to control tools! Wonder... why?! Probably we will never know.

Aruto... the only human employees you have are those two... any others are humangears and you don’t pay them any cent. Either way i guess Aruto is more concerned about the destiny of the humangears... wish... he really had a counter plan for that.

Is my head canon that every time Horobi want to say because he love or like, he says it’s the ark will. XD

I feel that is a big shame to know Naki only in the special of the Bluray box.

I know this was a dramatic scene... but... i laughted so hard... i mean... Horobi and Jin are in background watching Fuwa scream!! XD

It’s the first time i heard Humangear have souls! That is the singulaty point? But how can you program that? How even Humangears are made? By the magic of a satelite? I mean even Roidmudes in Drive have a good reason for them to feel human. For much that i didn’t like Drive... i have to admit that is way better than Zero One.

Starting to feel pity about Aruto.

But why Yua... WHYYYY!!

Izu for god sake... you are a Humangear... wish she could defend for herself instead of being the excuse for characters to showoff. There are other ways better to show off than use a damsel in distress, worst a ROBOT damsel in distress. But that could have been a lot of thought for our dear LAZY writer right?

THIS, this was good... so good, finally!! Finally some character grow!! I want to cry!! Fuwa, by his own will controlled the chip and transform. That’s so main character! TTvTT

And the transformation was really cool!!

Aruto being a good background character!! X,D

That was romantic?! X,D Ok no, but... ahhh the ship!! Guess i ship Fuwa and Yua too!! X//D This too was too main character. I mean Fuwa was trying to take back Yua. He was speaking to her. Something that Aruto never did. In fact... with who Aruto speaks? XD And the fight was... so good. Screencaps will not do justice... so i skip it.

Again... Aruto didn’t say a thing... like some stranger. Excuse me... but i can’t... i can’t like Aruto and Izu like this... i can’t... i know everyone LOVES THEM... but... i can’t (goes to cry in a corner).

Yua... girl... WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?! How many siblings you have that depends on your salary?

Oh yeah... the only dialogue of Aruto... and Izu... 0 dialogue... It must be easy to Noah to memorize all Izu dialogues. XD

So... it was true that Aruto lived on Hiden office?! He will return to live on the streets?! Let’s find out in the next chapter. XD

#keru watch #tokusatsu #kamen rider zero one #critic #i can't like aruto and izu #i know everyone loves them #but i can't #i seriously can't #spoilers #screencaps

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stanford-pines · 5 years

Text

A Fairly Nice and Accurate Timestamp Cheat Sheet for Good Omens (2019)

All timestamps should be correct, give or take a gnat’s whisker on the seconds, and titles of individual scenes may occasionally be obtuse references to the book or fandom shenanigans. Feel free to save the list as a file on your word processor and rename or otherwise alter specific scenes as you see fit.

For all your MV, gif, screenshot, and graphics needs, and all your fanfic, fanart, and meta analysis references.

Good Omens Timestamp Cheat Sheet

———

S1E1 - In The Beginning - Total runtime: 51:15

00:00-01:53 - God’s Introduction

01:53-03:08 - In the garden

03:08-06:00 - On the wall of Eden

06:00-07:30 - Opening Credits

07:30-08:35 - Hastur & Ligur

08:35-12:00 - Crowley arrives in the graveyard

12:00-12:47 - Crowley almost gets hit by a lorry

12:47-14:22 - Aziraphale enjoys some sushi

14:22-15:28 - Deirdre and Harriet rush to the hospital

15:28-18:13 - The Chattering Order

18:13-20:15 - Crowley delivers a baby

20:15-25:55 - An accidental swap is made

25:55-26:40 - Crowley makes a phone call

26:40-29:00 - A meeting at St. James’s park

29:00-32:30 - I will pay the bill, you taste the wine

32:30-33:30 - Hastur commits arson

33:30-35:00 - Two godfathers make an agreement

35:00-37:10 - Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth

37:10-38:50 - Visiting headquarters

38:50-39:30 - A clandestine bus meeting

39:30-40:20 - Feeding a hellhound

40:20-43:18 - A meeting at the Crystal Palace Dinosaurs

43:18-45:50 - A rather disastrous birthday party

45:50-48:00 - Dog travels to Hogback Wood

48:00-49:10 - Welcome to the end times

49:10-51:15 - Ending Credits, the one that got left in the car

———

S1E2 - The Book - Total runtime: 56:09

00:00-02:50 - Gabriel and Sandalphon buy some pornography

02:50-03:55 - Hastur and Ligur in the A.M.

03:55-06:30 - War gets her sword

06:30-08:00 - Opening Credits

08:00-13:25 - Agnes Nutter, witch

13:25-15:10 - Anathema Device, Malibu

15:10-15:45 - Newton Pulsifer, Dorking

15:45-17:35 - Newton gets and loses a new job

17:35-20:15 - Anathema arrives, and Newton meets Shadwell

20:15-21:12 - Moving into Jasmine Cottage

21:12-23:00 - Crowley menaces some houseplants

23:00-23:45 - A brief Aziraphale interlude

23:45-25:13 - Madame Tracy meets Newton

25:13-26:20 - Welcome to the Witchfinder Army

26:20-27:55 - A harrowing ride down Oxford Street

27:55-29:40 - The Them, a proper introduction

29:40-31:00 - Anathema goes surveying, and the new British Inquisition

31:00-32:10 - An ordinary cock-up

32:10-34:00 - Art Thou a Witch, Olé?

34:00-41:00 - Tadfield Manor

41:00-44:35 - Two consenting bicycle repairmen

44:35-45:35 - A call from mama Device

45:35-46:20 - Whatever water slides off of

46:20-48:00 - Arthur and Deidre contemplate their son

48:00-50:00 - Ducks, Bebop, and Tickety-boo

50:00-53:57 - The Nice and Accurate Prophecies, and the right number

53:57-56:09 - Ending Credits, strings arrangement

———

S1E3 - Hard Times - Total runtime: 57:43

00:00-00:47 - And the Lord did not ask him again

00:47-02:47 - Noah’s Ark

02:47-04:27 - The Crucifixion

04:27-05:30 - Ancient Rome

05:30-07:55 - Medieval England

07:55-11:50 - The Globe Theatre

11:50-15:30 - The Reign of Terror

15:30-17:25 - St James’s Park

17:25-24:10 - World War II

24:10-26:45 - Soho in the Sixties

26:45-28:35 - You go too fast for me Crowley

28:35-30:05 - Opening Credits

30:05-31:10 - Aziraphale panics in his shop

31:10-34:15 - Adam befriends Anathema

34:15-35:22 - Newton reads about Smith, Smith, Smith, and Smythe

35:22-36:45 - Crowley meets Shadwell with a job

36:45-38:45 - Anathema indoctrinates the youths

38:45-41:25 - Aziraphale visits HQ and gets BTFO by his superiors

41:25-43:00 - R.P. Tyler accuses Anathema of smoking copious amounts of weed

43:00-43:20 - A brief angelic interlude

43:20-46:40 - Aziraphale calls Shadwell with a job

46:40-48:50 - Famine gets his scales

48:50-49:40 - Newton is assigned to Tadfield

49:40-49:50 - Aziraphale is bad at alternate rendezvous

49:50-50:40 - Adam begins to worry his parents

50:40-53:10 - Breakup at Battersea Park

53:10-55:34 - Adam replaces a few tonnes of plutonium with a lemon sherbet

55:34-57:43 - Ending Credits, psychedelic pop arrangement

———

S1E4 - Saturday Morning Funtime - Total runtime: 56:14

00:00-01:10 - Atlantis rises

01:10-02:30 - The Them discuss the New Aquarians

02:30-04:30 - Opening Credits

04:30-05:42 - Gabriel goes for a jog

05:42-06:35 - Lesley and Maud

06:35-08:15 - Michael makes a phonecall

08:15-09:23 - Crowley hangs off his chair for a bit

09:23-13:38 - Pollution gets their crown, and Death receives a message

13:38-14:20 - The Them harass Anathema

14:20-18:15 - Newton begins a Very Odd Day

18:15-19:55 - The Kraken awakens

19:55-20:55 - Hastur and Ligur are my last two braincells

20:55-22:25 - Newton Pulsifer has a concussion

22:25-24:50 - The fields of Megiddo

24:50-26:55 - The Them bring Newton to Anathema

26:55-29:05 - Warlock insults Hastur to his face

29:05-29:45 - Suddenly, Happy Tree Friends

29:45-32:35 - Newton and Anathema actually meet

32:35-33:30 - Adam begins to frighten his friends

33:30-34:40 - Crowley tries to make an apology

34:40-38:00 - Crowley commits homicide

38:00-40:10 - How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?

40:10-42:00 - Aziraphale gets accosted by some dicks with wings

42:00-43:00 - Adam learns how to levitate

43:00-45:15 - Anathema and Newton enjoin their hearts

45:15-48:15 - Shadwell panics and Newton gets laid

48:15-48:45 - Adam takes away his friends mouths oh god what the fuck

48:45-54:00 - Speaking to the Metatron, and an exorcism

54:00-56:14 - Ending Credits, Boo Boo the Fool edition

———

S1E5- The Doomsday Option - Total runtime: 52:41

00:00-01:27 - Crowley breaks into a burning bookshop

01:27-01:48 - Adam’s eyes begin to glow red

01:48-03:15 - Opening Credits

03:15-04:15 - Somebody to Love

04:15-06:10 - Shadwell enters the den of iniquity

06:10-08:45 - Aziraphale deals with the Quartermaster angel

08:45-09:25 - Adam does that really horrifying smile thing to his friend

09:25-11:00 - Newton needs to put on his goddamn pants

11:00-13:20 - Crowley drinks himself silly

13:20-14:03 - Madame Tracy pulls aside the veil

14:03-16:08 - Fun times at the Happy Porker Café

16:08-20:55 - A case of angelic possession

20:55-22:25 - The M25

22:25-23:40 - THE southern pansy

23:40-25:05 - Hail the Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds

25:05-26:45 - Hastur eats a legion of cold callers

26:45-28:17 - Aziraphale convinces Shadwell to commit infanticide

28:17-31:44 - Burning Bentley

31:44-35:55 - Adam divides up the world and changes his mind about things

35:55-36:55 - Anathema has a revelation about disused aerodromes

36:55-37:32 - A flying scooter

37:32-38:15 - R. P. Tyler encounters the Horsemen

38:15-39:00 - Behind the Eagle’s Nest A Great Ash Hath Fallen

39:00-40:50 - The Horsemen break into a military base

40:50-41:50 - Anathema and Newton break into a military base

41:50-42:35 - The Them begin the ride to Armageddon

42:35-43:00 - The Horsemen walk dramatically into a building briefly

43:00-43:48 - R. P. Tyler harasses some youths

43:48-46:25 - The Horsemen bring about Armageddon

46:25-47:50 - R. P. Tyler doesn’t know how to tell a man his car is on fire

47:50-50:30 - Everyone else breaks into a military base

50:30-52:41 - Ending Credits, church organ arrangement

———

S1E6- The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives - Total runtime: 54:23

00:00-01:45 - The trial of the demon Crowley

01:45-04:35 - Requiem for a Bentley

04:35-05:08 - R.P. Tyler harasses a father

05:08-06:38 - Opening Credits

06:38-07:30 - The Them confront the Horsemen

07:30-08:15 - Newton and Anathema discover some nice and accurate terrorism

08:15-09:50 - Aziraphale fails to shoot a child

09:50-10:40 - He is not what he says he is

10:40-12:47 - Adam decides who his friends are

12:47-13:35 - Dagon encourages the legions of hell

13:35-14:00 - Newton fixes a computer

14:00-14:55 - Death unfurls his wings

14:55-16:10 - A quiet moment in which all our heroes converse

16:10-19:45 - Gabriel and Beelzebub make their entrance

19:45-21:10 - The Devil is coming

21:10-22:27 - Human incarnate

22:27-24:25 - Benedict Cumberbatch has a cameo

24:25-27:08 - A couple returns a package and catches a bus

27:08-28:05 - The very first day of the rest of their lives

28:05-29:15 - Adam and his mother

29:15-31:00 - Why is your car called Dick Turpin?

31:00-32:57 - A kidnapping in broad daylight

32:57-33:25 - Aziraphale gets tied to a chair

33:25-36:25 - The verdicts

36:25-38:00 - Madam Tracy invites Shadwell to dinner

38:00-41:00 - Baddicombe and a further book of prophecies

41:00-42:25 - Shadwell pops the question

42:25-45:46 - Trial by fire/Trial by water

45:46-46:20 - Anathema and Newton have a bonfire

46:20-48:38 - Adam leaves the garden

48:38-50:32 - Choosing faces

50:32-51:40 - To the World

51:40-54:23 - A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square

#good omens spoilers #good omens 2019 #go tv #good omens amazon #good omens

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penaltybox14 · 4 years

Text

For @dying-redshirt-noises cupped-face prompt.

When Bob was a kid, a real kid, just a little kid with a brush haircut and milk-tooth molars, his mom would open up the windows on summer nights just to let their apartment breathe, and he could hear the sirens down below. He could lie in bed and try to guess each one as it went by: police, or fire, or ambulance. Wasn't any paramedics, in those days, and the man behind the ambulance wheel might just as soon be the undertaker, and himself he might not know which til he got on scene.

When Bob was a kid, when he was Bobby, when he was Frank's kid brother, when he was Ed and Louise's son, two boys from his block went swimming in the Des Plaines river, under the hot, fat, shimmering August sun, but only one boy came back out again. Bob (Bobby) walked into a funeral parlor in his Sunday best, starch and a clip-on necktie and hair his mother fussed to flatten, and saw a dead boy lying still and ordinary, as if lulled by the soft weeping of grown-ups and the grinding wheeze of an industrial fan in the corner. Bobby walked up to the dead boy trying to work out what that meant: dead. There was something pale about the boy that he had only vaguely known, something missing, something too sweet and fine-spun about his stillness.

A woman, who might have been the boy's mother (it was a room of bodies: of shuddering bodies in black suits and sunday dresses, veils and whispers, grown-up bodies swaying and heaving like the cars of a freight train), bent and stroked the hair, the cheek, the hands. A woman looked down at him with shining eyes. Bob (Bobby, his cock's comb hair straying from its pommade bonds) touched the hand of the boy who wasn't, anymore, because his skin was cold, cold like a door in the morning, before the sun come out and woke up the streets and the buses and the world. Colder than the gentle face of the moon, colder than the comforting stars.

Wasn't any paramedics, back then, and Bob wonders sometimes if there had been, would there still be two boys and not one, would there be two boys grown to young men. Two boys gone to work, two boys gone to Vietnam, two boys come home and starting families. Two boys went swimming and one came back, and one had a painted cheek that felt like the bottom of a river.

Summer in Chicago was a season of sirens: police and fire and ambulance, and in the later afternoons when the storms rolled in you'd hear the tornado warnings go off, howling like something trapped and wounded, like something raging to get out.

It doesn't storm like that, in Los Angeles. Back home you'd go days of heat, days of swelter, the mercury all but busting out of the thermometer on the drugstore window. Drink Coca-Cola, said the fading metal, with the similing lady on it, and boy you did, boy you drank it half-solid with ice. The heat would rise from the day to the night, from the pavement to the bricks to the El, all the way to the sky until at last God deemed it right to break, and the lightning split the world to pieces and the thunder might've cracked the foundations of the earth and rain came spilling out of the sky like Noah was building an ark on the shores of Lake Michigan. But the heat, here, is brittle and fierce, and holds you in its teeth.

When the rain comes, if it comes at all, it sneaks up on you, and all of a sudden the power's out and the cracked-concrete culvert they call a river here is a raging torrent, rolling fury down to the port, to the ocean, rolling fury like it wants to tear everything down, like a bad trip, like a schizophrenic throwing himself against the walls of a cramped house in a neighborhood of cramped houses and cramped alleys and bad, boiling summer madness.

They're in the throes of the heat, they're at the mercy of the mercury, and Bob's gone through two uniform shirts and Craig's gone through four, and Bob's thinking about asking dispatch to post them up at a landromat for a couple of hours cause he's running out of shirts before he's gonna run out of sweat to soak them in. They drink water like horses and no one at Station wants to cook, and Cap says the hell with it, popsicles for dinner, and Leroy says Cap they're gonna melt before we get to eat them and Cap says the hell with it, just throw them in a bowl and call it soup. Craig says, from the couch where he has wilted, ever so slightly, gaz-popsicle, and chuckles. Gaz-popsicle, like gazpacho, get it?

Parker says Brice made a joke, Cap, I'm gonna shove my whole head in the freezer and don't take me out til January.

Bob laughs, and laughs, and Craig smiles, and the tones go off for a structure fire, as if the whole of the basin isn't hot enough already, just gotta add a few more degrees.

Fire's like death, he thinks, while Craig drives. It ain't scary, or not. It's just there, like sky or sand, like birth or sleep. You're meant to be at least little scared of it, like all the things that'll kill you out in the wide world, but it's no sense to lose sleep over it. No sense but to be prepared, as Craig is always reminding him, in his sweetly bothersome way, you're a fireman, Bob, how can you forget to change your smoke-alarm batteries?

The structure fire's a house, or it was a house, but it isn't going to be one soon - it's a Craftsman, Bob thinks, and in his mind he sees the layout, in his mind he sees the timbers and the frame, he sees the insulation packed in the walls. He sees hollow-core doors and shag carpeting. He sees these things as he hitches up his SCBA. He sees Craig doing the same, and pats him on the shoulder and Craig pats him back and no one questions it, even if they see it they haven't questioned it for months now.

The sun is a murky eye in the west and the heat of the sky and the cement pushes them toward the house as the house breathes out smoke. There is no heat like fire: it's like being inside a body, like being inside a fever. Twenty minutes in and out: it's all you can stand. Twenty minutes, that's a whole mile walking, twenty minutes, that's nothing, that's an intermission at the drive-in, that's popcorn, that's a thousand years in black smoke.

Twenty minutes. Craig triple-checks his SCBA every morning every shift, and Bob does the same because why not, because he's close to Craig that way, he does it because Craig does it and once upon a time he just did it to make peace with his partner but he does it now because that peace is like water, that peace is like smoke-detector batteries and bullhead catfish on a barbecue grill.

When Bob comes out of the fire stumbling, slapping hands like a relay to send the next crew in - and 51 is there, and 8s, and 10s, a small army - he falls to his knees on the grass and breathes its sweet summer-cracked smell. Someone is wrangling the ambulance attendants to bring out paper cups and water and coolers full of ice and he'd shove his head right in but he thinks: what would Craig thing, me shoving my sweaty, sooty face in everyone else's water?

What would Craig think?

He looks around and squints and doesn't see his partner. He shoves a man from 10s. You seen my partner, he says? You see Brice? The grimed face is blank. He walks among the kneeling rows: you seen my partner? You seen Craig? Roy DeSoto is crouched on the sidewalk, his ginger hair streaked in grime. You seen Brice, Roy?

Roy has always had that softly concerned face, an expression that seems at first too gentle for a fireman. He shakes his head. No, he says. No, he's not with you?

Now his heart is thumping. Now his heart is jumping. Now his muscles hurt, and the gauge on his SCBA is in the red, and twenty minutes is much too long. There's an army of firemen in the same beige and blackened coats, the same black helmets, breathing the same thick air.

Cap, he says, Cap, you seen -

There's a hand on his shoulder and a glimpse in his eye, and Craig is missing his glasses somewhere, what a stupid thing to think at first, Craig stares nearsighted at him and pats his arm again. Bob, he says. I've been looking for you.

His heart beats in his chest so loud his ribs feel like the rafters of a church. Oh god, he thinks, oh god. Craig's live and living and confused face. His myopic gaze he swipes with one gloved hand.

"Aw, jeez, kid, don't do that - "

You forget yourself sometimes. Act like a probie, act like a person.

So he bites his glove off instead, and swipes the grime from under Craig's eye, and smudges it further. He wants to say: jesus, kid, don't scare me like that.

But Craig puts a hand flat against his chest, so instead he lets his hand, of flesh and blood and fever, linger longer than it ought.

#bob bellingham #craig brice #brice/bellingham #emergency!#steering the ship into ritalin bay #this actually includes the prompt as requested

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tessatechaitea · 4 years

Text

Kid Eternity #2

This cover says, "Don't look at who wrote it! Just look at how interesting these visuals are! Sucker."

In my review of Kid Eternity #1, I threw out a few theories on why Ann Nocenti's writing is so weird. After reading page one of this issue, I've thrown those theories out again but in a different way. That makes complete sense if you understand English idioms and also understand that everything Ann Nocenti writes is basically pre-trash.

This is page one of Kid Eternity #2 and it will probably get this review banned on Tumblr.

I have a new theory: Ann Nocenti asked what a Vertigo comic book should be and editor Tom Peyer probably joked, "They're mostly tits and profound nonsense." So Ann Nocenti's vagina gobbed in her underwear and she squealed with glee. "That's what I do!" she chortled merrily! I probably shouldn't abuse Ann Nocenti for writing things I don't understand. I have plenty of choices of other people to abuse for it: my elementary school teachers for not calling me out on doing just enough to get by; my junior high school teachers who let me get away with not putting any effort into big year-end projects (In science, we were supposed to make a stone age tool. I rubber glued a carved-to-a-shoddy point stick to another stick (which was worse than my friend Robert who put some pine needles into a split stick, calling the weapon "Ow"); in English, we had one project based on Romeo and Juliet (because all we did that quarter was watch and read various versions of the play) and I refused to do it because the teacher was wasting my time; in Computers, I found Dan Felipe's project, a trivia program, and I just copied it and used it for my own project (changing all the questions and line numbers and other things to make it seem like it wasn't plagiarized but, I mean, come on! In fairness to me, I only did it because the stupid fucking school changed computers halfway through the semester, dropping the TRS-80s for Apples and my project was relying on the Poke images of the TRS-80 to create an animated sequence)); my high school English teacher, Mr. Borror, for reading nearly everything I wrote in front of the class so that I began to think I was the wittiest fucker in Santa Clara High; my college teachers for some reason or another that allows me to not blame my own lack of ability; and probably my parents because if they were any good at their parental jobs, I wouldn't be writing a blog about comic books. In other words, I'm sure Ann Nocenti is a philosophical genius while I'm just a guy who blames everybody else for things I don't understand. Even if I truly felt Ann Nocenti was an underrated genius whose writings I'm incapable of parsing, I would never ask her to explain what she meant by this first page of Kid Eternity #2. I just wouldn't feel comfortable putting her on the spot like that. It's not up to the artist to explain their art to the foolish audience! Only the Christian Messiah bears that responsibility (and, let's face it, he wouldn't have had to explain every fucking parable if he'd been able to convince smarter people of his bullshit). So if it's up to me to interpret this first page gibber gabber, I suppose I should get to business. Or kill myself. I mean, killing myself would be easier and less painful. And I totally would kill myself before reading more Ann Nocenti comic books except I have plans to cut my toenails in a few months. Before I begin trying to understand this hogwash, I'd like to point out that if she'd written it as a sonnet, I wouldn't have a problem with it. I'd read it, think, "Yep, that's a sonnet!", nod my head in sage understanding, and then jerk off to the titties. But this is not a sonnet so it is not allowed to be obtuse simply for obtuseness' sake. So this fucking speech. First off, who is speaking? The serpent trying to fuck the naked lady? Is this the speech the serpent used on Eve to get her to eat the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil? Although if that's the case, how would talking about Buddha convince Eve of anything? I'll assume the serpent is omniscient (because he may or may not be Satan, depending on what holy men or con artists you believe but certainly isn't Satan if you're simply going by the Book of Genesis. I bet the serpent was God doing one of those Zeus things minus the rape. Zeus loved to trick people so he could get laid; Yahweh tricks people to test their faith). I guess since she had yet to eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil (come on, God! That name is terrible), she wouldn't know what she doesn't know and can't defend against any nonsense the serpent spews at her. Let's assume the art goes with the speech and it's the serpent speaking. So why is "God in repair" and what the fuck does that mean? And why is it followed by the statement, "Why not call the wisest man a freak?" Does the snake only speak in non sequiturs? Was that a stupid question since I already know the snake's dialogue is being written by Ann Nocenti? It is kind of refreshing to see that her dialogue style never changed in thirty years. The shit the serpent says on this page could be nonsense spewed by Coil from Nocenti's New 52 Katana. You know what? I don't have to continue this because, in the end, it's just a carnival barker's pitch to get people to believe in the freaks in his freak show. He's all, "What's the difference between freaks and religion?!" That's not a riddle I have an answer for. The only religious joke I know is "What do Noah's Ark and The Bible have in common?" That might be a joke that was extant before I came up with it but I did come up with it on my own. And I think the answer is so obvious I would be insulting the intelligence of all four people reading this. Oh, and the snake trying to fuck the lady? It's a tattoo on the Tattooed Lady. The reason the comic begins in a circus freak show? Because Kid Eternity is the newest freak on display! The opening sideshow scene is just one of Kid Eternity's dreams. The demon angel babies get into Kid Eternity's dream and when he wakes up, they've tied his hair to the floor which totally has him trapped for like three panels. That was a close one! Kid Eternity decides he can't truly know what he's doing unless he utterly knows himself. So it's time to get his brain probed.

Let me guess: Carl will blather on about synchronicity and dreams while Freud tries to figure out how big Kid Eternity's penis is.

Carl doesn't initially discuss anything. He's just the straight man for Freud saying all the typical things you'd expect Freud to say: penis this, envy that, fuck your mom, kill your dad, more penises, many more penises, everything is penises. But then he comes on fast and furious with his archetypes and collective unconscious and human mythology stuff, all the biggest Carl Jung hits (aside from synchronicity but I'm sure he'll get around to that later. Ann Nocenti isn't going to miss showing the readers all the knowledge nuggets she mined to make her brain big). If only Nocenti would spend as much time writing the story as she spends making sure the readers know she knows a lot of shit then maybe I would have kept reading this comic book. Meanwhile, Zeus wanders around looking for somebody to trick fuck, Madame Blavatsky hunts down the next best burger before she slips back to the past, Beelzebub and Judas wander through Limbo, Jesus gets drunk and falls off a bar stool, and a phone yells at a woman. That all happens on one page to make sure the reader remembers other things are happening. But why does Ann Nocenti spend two panels of that dense page on Madame Blavatsky when she could have updated the reader on the non-X-File FBI agents who will probably hate fuck each other before the story ends? I also wanted an update on the Buddha Christ Trash Child. But no! Instead Nocenti just moves on to more of her proof that she's read all about Freud and Jung and totally understands the shallow top layer of their theories and philosophies. I don't mean to say I know any more than Ann Nocenti! But I understand how little I know of Freud and everything she's had him say are things everybody knows about Freud from all the dirty jokes about him: ids, supermen, parental relations, and phalli!

Oh, that's why we didn't get an update on the dense update page; Nocenti needed a full page to document the hate/fuck.

My new Ann Nocenti writing theory: Ann Nocenti has never had an original thought. She simply reads things, takes copious notes of bits and quotes she likes, and then shoves them sideways into whatever script she's currently writing. No wait. She does have original thoughts but they're almost not worth having. Like "everything in life is a prison" and then proving it by stating a few things about life that can be cell-like. It's profound in that way that things are profound when you're on acid. If you don't think about it, you can find yourself nodding along going, "Yeah! Yeah! Everything is a prison! Life is a fucking prison!" But if you do stop to think about it, it's like coming down off acid. You start to see how that thought you had about how the number three ties everything else in the universe together because of the way the corners meet didn't wasn't as mind blowing as it was six hours ago. Although the rant you went on about how pressing play on the VCR remote play the show and pressing pause pauses it but then to unpause it you have to hit pause again when you should really hit play was pretty fucking good. Speaking of acid, I'm two-thirds of the way through the acid documentary on Netflix and it's fucking fantastic. I wasn't really thinking a lot about it but I was nodding along going, "Yeah! Yeah! Everything they're saying about acid is absolutely spot on!" throughout. I actually had to take a break because it was making me too happy listening to all Sting and Carrie Fisher tell their acid stories. I don't know why I didn't just spend five paragraphs discussing why the FBI agents were playing Scrabble while they fucked. It's probably just one of Sean Phillips' kinks. Oh, maybe they were just playing Scrabble and not hate-fucking. It's hard to tell because on the next page, Jerry asks Val if they can finally fuck and Val is all, "You're a nerd!" Then she slits his throat. But then in the next panel, his throat isn't slit and he's all, "You feeling better?" And she's all, "Yeah!" So I don't know what the fuck is going on and I don't really care. I've still got like eight pages of this mess to get through and I'd rather just nod along than try to understand it. And then just like last issue, Ann Nocenti sputters out a bit of writing that I totally agree with because I've said basically the same thing before. About how every day, I fall in love with some person I see on the street because of the smallest of things. And then I love them forever.

My story isn't as good but I once fell in love walking through the airport in Minneapolis. I was passing by an attractive woman and she was gazing off somewhere as I looked at her face. She was coming up on my right and then I glanced down at her breasts and back up at her face. And that was the moment she noticed me, as I glanced from her breasts to her face. And, catching me, she smiled and laughed and kept on walking. And I still love her to this day.

And for this page alone, I forgive all of Ann Nocenti's past (future?) transgressions and find myself eager to read Kid Eternity #3. Oh wait. I still have a few pages left in this piece of crap. I read a lot of books in college that I sometimes still say are my favorite books but I should probably just say they stuck with me because I know which books are almost always in my top five and a lot of the ones in college aren't those. But Edith Wharton's Age of Innocence always stuck with me. It's possible that I completely missed the message of the novel but to me, the book was about how true love only exists when it's unrequited. Archer Day-Lewis doesn't love Ellen Pfeifer more than May Ryder for any other reason than that she was the one he didn't marry. It seemed to me that Wharton was trying to portray how hard love is and true, phenomenal love only exists in the imagination. Only a love we can imagine can remain magical. Only when we love an object, or the imaginary person we've placed on a pedestal, can we evade disappointment in the reality and flaws of another actual human being. Being in love with Ellen Pfeifer was easy because she wasn't there for all those years. There were no fights or disappointments or multiple times accidentally walking in on her taking a huge shit. She was pure and beautiful and imaginary. But then again, maybe that wasn't the point of the book at all. I was young and romantic at the time and I still absolutely loved the women I'd had unrequited crushes on in junior high and high school while my college relationship was slowly circling the drain due to personality conflicts. But not due to sex. The sex was fucking great! Anyway, Freud and Jung decide Kid Eternity is in denial and they leave. Hemlock and Dog spread some new reality across the world via a computer virus. Madame Blavatsky starts making time go backwards, probably so she can vomit up all the Twinkies she ate and eat them again with their delicious creamy filling. And the devil and Judas wind up in a bar in Limbo with Jesus to make plans for Kid Eternity. There's probably a lot more going on but there'd be too much for me to process even if it wasn't confused by Nocenti's writing style. No wonder I gave up on this book after three issues. There's no way by the third issue I could remember anything that was going on, if I even understood it the month prior. Kid Eternity #2 Rating: C-. A confusing mess that's about 90% Ann Nocenti just vomiting out things she's read. Even the things that, with the benefit of the doubt, I want to believe sprang from her own philosophical musings, I can't bring myself to absolutely believe it. I feel like every thought and piece of dialogue she's placed in this story just came from piles of notebooks filled with notes she's made while reading other people's works. It's practically a collage of philosophical ideas and moral musings pulled from myriad sources and shoved into a Kid Eternity framework "written" by Ann Nocenti. Which could explain Nocenti's penchant for stilted dialogue. If she were making up all the character's thoughts, the dialogue would flow from one character to the next. But when each character can only respond with some profound thought Nocenti read elsewhere, it comes across like a ransom note, each word cut from the mind of somebody else and pasted as a reply to another bit cut from some other thinker, no relation existing between the two thoughts except the proximity relationship Nocenti has given them.

#Kid Eternity #Vertigo #Ann Nocenti #Sean Phillips

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sometimeinjoon · 5 years

Text

Smiles

3.5k

Min Yoongi. Perpetual frowner. Scoffer.

Also the guy you’ve tried your sunny advances on, to no avail.

“Now, _____,” the instructor points at you from across the room. He’s half seated his butt on the teacher’s desk. “Tell us what you would say to the man that needed an ark in the story?”

Against better judgment, you answer without delay. “I Noah guy.”

And the Min Yoongi. The perpetual frowner. The scoffer.

Laughs.

He cracks a smile for a split second before he bursts out into a fit. An entire fit! Soon he’s got his eyes closed, leaning back on his chair, hands on his stomach like some major comedian just gave him the literal best he’s got.

And instead of getting angry and/or annoyed at the scene in front of him, the instructor starts laughing too. Giggling, mostly. But he’s also apparently surprised that the entire class is cricket silent spare the only guy that never laughs at his jokes despite his immediate need for recitation grades, let alone anyone else’s.

Yoongi recovers and you prepared to count the seconds before his face goes back to blank, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t! Yoongi looks at you with a thin lipped smile the entire time you spoke out your actual answer to the literary prof’s question. It made your heart soar, yes, but it was also unnerving. You’ve tried everything for him to notice you, to acknowledge you, and he’s never. What makes this time so special? It couldn’t be the pun, even though it obviously had to be. It was terrible!

You take it though. You take whatever sliver of attention thrown your way, like a deranged dog turning around and chasing after a stick his owner pretended to throw. You engrave this moment into your brain, planning to cherish it forever. Despite your huge crush on him, all the times you’ve tried to approach him had been shut down. Your mind was made that Yoongi just was not the one for you, but you’re young and you’re in no rush. Little moments that make you feel giddy, like when he accidentally brushes your shoulder and when he looks in your general direction are enough for you. So instead of moving on to liking someone that you actually had a shot with, you pine after Yoongi like a maniac.

An extremely tingly maniac, since you can feel Yoongi’s eyes at the back of your head. He’s a row behind you but a couple of seats away, so he doesn’t escape your peripheral when you angle your head to the right, slightly, pretending to be listening to the instructor. Maybe it was only your delusion and that he’s not actually looking at you, but you’re more than satisfied with yourself like that.

Next after literature came gym, and you curse whatever commission mandated sports to be part of your general education subjects in university. Though, there’s a really cute guy that spikes really well during volleyball and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he liked you. What was his name, Jungkook? He keeps looking at you after he scores, as if looking for affirmation. Like he’s saying “did you see that? Yes. I did that. I’m good at volleyball.”

You’re starting to actively wait for him to glance at you every once in a while. He’s actually looking past you, but he’s too absorbed at whoever he was actually looking at to notice you returning his looks. With you in the sidelines and him in the court and all the unintentional, weird eye flirting going on, you’re extremely surprised to find Yoongi’s chest suddenly coming in between your lines of vision. He’s just trotted on in front of you, hands in his pockets.

“I didn’t think you were a fan of volleyball?” he asks, hunched down towards you so you could hear him over the noise.

“I’m not. Just spectating.”

“Ah, I see,” he says, sitting down beside you. Your cheeks burn almost instantly, your hands building up a sweat.

“So what are you a fan of?” he asks, setting his elbows on his knees, hands together looking out onto the players on the court. He’s facing you a bit with his body and you’re sure you’re about to faint.

“Basketball, I guess, since I know how play works,” you lie. You only said that cause you knew Yoongi was into it.

Yoongi grins at your answer, dropping his eyes to his hands. “Funny, I’ve never seen you during games?”

You want to protest at what he’s said, but you realize you couldn’t without sounding like a complete idiot. What were you going to say? That you watched every single one this season except you’ve tried to hide yourself from Yoongi, because instead of the games, you’re looking at him? Of course not.

“Hey, I’m just joking,” he consoles you when you take a little too long to answer. He bumps his shoulder into yours and ohmygod I’m literally about to piss myself.

That was the beginning of something. You weren’t sure what to call it, but it was definitely something. He’s still cold and smug, but he’s also indirectly nicer. To only you, you’ve noted. He’s switched seats with the guy behind you in literature and now you’re not sure of how you’re supposed to move when in class. He walks out the room with you on the way to your next class and you talk. He gives you his spare snack bars before any activities begin. He also picks you on his team during gym. Sure, you’re never first pick, but you’re a good third. That’s good enough.

Good enough is what you keep telling yourself. That you don’t need any more than whatever this was. Random hellos in the halls and small smiles. It was enough. That you and Yoongi will never be together, but this, being his friend, was enough.

“Was my pun really that funny?” you ask him the first time you have lunch together on a whim.

“What?”

“We became friends after you laughed at me in class.”

“Oh, you kept track?”

You wanted to take what you’ve said back before Yoongi wipes away any embarrassment that was about to build in your system. He tells you he’s just kidding and that he’s just always wanted to be friends with you. That he’s not sure about how to initiate things, so he took that as gateway interaction.

You think to yourself that he’s literally an idiot. That you’ve tried to initiate at least a friendship about 70 times, and each and every single time, he seems unhappy to be around you.

But that’s okay. All those times he’s turned you down have led up to this glorious moment of actually having him in your contacts list, having him as an option to call on random food trips at night even though you would never. Of actually having him smile at you when your eyes meet. Of actually having him here, in this McDonald’s in campus eating a burger as you wait out the rain.

The pun, though, the ”gateway interaction”, it wasn’t funny. In fact, it took everything in Yoongi to laugh as much as he did. He was at such a high risk for sounding phony that he just tried the hardest he could to fake it until he made it. He swore he almost popped a vein that day, but it was worth it. He was unsure of how to approach you, given that when he realized he wanted to, you’ve stopped trying to get around him which made things about ten times more difficult.

He was ecstatic about your unofficial date today, when he’s caught you waiting in a shed for the rain to stop before asking you if you wanted to make a run for it to McDonald’s. He’s trying to keep his composure around you, trying not to fidget too much, not trying to chew too loud. But you kept coaxing him to talk and to talk and to talk that he’s now just caught himself talking with his mouth fucking full for the third time so far.

God, when your lips are a little bitten by the cold like that as you eat your McFlurry, he wants to kiss you. He’s not listening to what you’re saying anymore, just nodding and smiling with his teeth out. That’s how whipped he is.

But the rain stops, and so does his train of thought when “get going” leaves your lips.

“I’m sorry I—“ he tries to apologize for zoning out.

“Need to get going, yes. Namjoon’s going to skin you!” You say, already pushing yourself out of your seat. The literary reading, how could Yoongi forget. He volunteered at the theater so he could stare at you dreamily while you yelled at idiotic freshmen that made out under the stage. He’s also promised Namjoon he’ll critic his acting for the play.

Right now, Yoongi’s not sure why, but he’s sweating. Profusely. He’s already mapped it out in his head, take something that’s yours, and then run after you to return it so he could ask you if you want to go to dinner randomly tonight. Like a passive-aggressive way to ask someone out on a date.

He’s already got a pen and a hair tie in his pocket, but he’s all over the place. He can’t use these? What would make a pen so important that he’d have to go to you at eight o’clock at night just to return it? He sets the pen back down on the table. The hair tie, he’s decided to keep it for himself. You had about fifty, and he wants a remembrance.

Now he’s freaking because you’re about to go back into the locker room to get your things and leave, and he’s still scavenging around your belongings you’ve left messy on the table looking for that one thing. He already hears you laughing outside. He has to decide right now, this instant, what does he— oh, that’ll do.

It will definitely do. In fact, it’s so important to you it’s going to have him change 90% of his plans he’s so carefully pieced together tonight. He slaps his hand onto the screen of your phone to try and hide it from view as you swing the door open, and it works. You completely overlook it as you gathered the litter of things on the table, bid him goodbye and left. Now he’s in a real shit of a situation, because, how will he run your phone after you tonight?

The sensible answer would have been to run it after you right now, but he’s in a panic and his mind was set to this evening, where he was supposed to text you that you forgot something and if you could meet up by the fountain to get it from him. With his plans being thwarted too early, he’s still fixed on tonight, on 8 PM tonight. How was he supposed to text you now that he had your phone?

How was he supposed to text at all now that he doesn’t have his phone?

It’s gone! It’s not in his bag where the thought he’d left it, where could it have gone?

Oh, silly, it’s probably with you. You probably took it instead of yours by accident.

Now Yoongi really starts to sweat. You’re going to see that you’re his lockscreen. And that’s not so bad, except he’s also edited little emoji hearts on it. He thinks about just texting his number and say that you’re going to have to meet because you switched phones, but you’re going to see that he’s saved your contact under ”Wifey” with a ring emoji and three hearts.

Little did he know you’re in a panic too, wondering where your phone went and which stage member accidentally took it. If a stage member took it, actually, or if it had been stolen somewhere else.

You run into Jungkook at KFC on your way to your dorm and he notices you’re distraught.

“Everything alright?” he smiles.

You try to smile back. “Yeah, I guess.”

Jungkook hesitates for a second before asking you if you were going to head home alone. You nod your head yes and before you really notice what’s going on, you’ve already agreed to him walking you home. He also mentions his boyfriend’s apartment being a floor up, so it was really a practical thing to just walk together.

Yoongi unknowingly walks by your apartment while he was strolling around the building to calm his nerves and at the far end of the hallway, he sees Jungkook drop you off. He waits for him to kiss you, to absolutely obliterate him, but he doesn’t. He sees you close the door to your apartment and then Jungkook just leaves.

Yoongi’s stuck in his spot for a good while before he comes back to his senses. He debates on doing what he was thinking of doing, but he does it anyway. He’s sure he’s not supposed to and he’s going to seem extremely entitled to you after this but he’s so overcome with anger—jealousy, really, and trudges on to your apartment door.

Knock knock knock.

Who could that be? It’s like, 8 at night.

You swing the door open. “Oh, Yoongi, what brings you—“

In one swift motion he holds your cheek and pulls you in for a kiss. A soft kiss. It takes you both a second before you fully start kissing, moving your lips in sync. His other hand makes it around your waist and pulls you closer, kissing you a little harder, a little faster.

You shove at his chest lightly to tell him to pull away. You didn’t intend to break the kiss, but Yoongi’s taken a much deeper breath before the kiss compared to you and you were going to suffocate if you don’t get a breather.

Then Yoongi leaves. Leaves. His eyes widen and before you could smile at him and he mouths a quick sorry before running off. Literally running off. Into the hallway, disappearing at a turn. He’s so shocked at what he’s done and he didn’t know how he was supposed to recollect himself and actually explain what the fuck he’s just done, so he just left. He’s worried that he might have got in between something between you and Jungkook and he’s angry at himself now, angry at his impulsiveness. Angry that he thought that you could have been something. Angry that he wants you to be something, but he has no idea how to approach this whole thing. He decides he wouldn’t. That he won’t bother talking to you again after the sheer embarrassment he’s just drowned himself in. It was good while whatever you had lasted anyway.

Three days later, at theater, Yoongi finally shows up. He’s moved his seat to the back end of the room during literature and he doesn’t even show up during gym. You were seeking him out but wasn’t sure where to look, and without your old phone, you wouldn’t really have a shot at finding him since you didn’t have his number. You’ve borrowed your best friend’s old Samsung and it was tying you over well, but that meant not having half of the people you had on your contacts. Jungkook regularly walks you home now and Yoongi’s been creeping around waiting for him to do so every day. He’s still waiting for a hug, or a kiss, just to rub in his emotions.

You see him talking to Namjoon at the side of the stage and as soon as you said your lines, you ran to them.

“_____, hi,” Namjoon smiles. You see Yoongi turn away from you.

“Hey Joon, sorry, can I just—,” you squeeze yourself in between them, “give this fucker what he deserves thanks,” and then you yank Yoongi by his jacket and kiss him. His eyes grow wide and then they flutter shut eventually, kissing you back. You intended on a one-kiss thing, not a full make out, but Yoongi apparently had something else in mind.

“Ah, so things worked out,” Namjoon steps back and puts both his hands up. After a second of you two still not parting, Namjoon jingles his keys by your ears, face full of disgust.

“Take my office, but for the love of god don’t nut on my desk. You’ll ruin the wood stain.”

Yoongi smirks and takes the keys. Leading you inside, he yells “no promises” to the man that graciously gave you his office as fuck space. What a dipshit, you love him already.

“Listen,” Yoongi starts, leaning against the door as you settled yourself on the edge of the aforementioned desk Namjoon did not want any jizz on. “I’m not in here to fuck, alright?”

“Wasn’t hoping on it, really,” you cross your arms over your chest. “All I’m interested in is knowing why you just ran away that one night and have been trying to actively avoid me, asshole.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” he scratches the back of his head.

“I like you, maybe? Or you don’t and just needed something to do?”

“Fuck no, I fucking like you. Like like like you. I was so jealous of Jungkook and—“

“Oh, of course you were.”

“I fucking was! I still fucking am! I had this whole thing fucking planned, took your phone, would give it back to you and maybe have some dinner, may have even kissed you before I left, but who do I see taking you home? Shit, I know I fucked up cause you ended up with my phone, but sheesh,”

He tries to mentally prepare himself for you breaking it to him, that you and Jungkook are getting along well and are on your way into else things past friendship, but he knows it’s a crapshoot and whatever prep he does, it won’t prepare him for his heart officially tearing into two. He hasn’t liked anyone as much as he likes you.

“You fucktard,” you smile and walk over to him, reaching for his hands that were fidgeting with each other. “You fucking idiot, you took my fucking phone? So the one I have, with me as the wallpaper, was yours?” you smile wider and give him a peck. “And Jungkook, baby, he has a boyfriend.”

“He does?”

“No I’m just kidding. We’re together.”

Yoongi’s heart snaps, but you pick the pieces right back up and laugh.

“Would I really be locked in this room with you if I had someone else?” You ask. He shakes his head. Without his worried expression changing, Yoongi pulls you in and kisses you again, slower than the last time he did. His hands were placed firmly on the lower part of your hips and he’s almost moaning as you pull at his shirt. You place both of your hands on his cheeks and lick at his lips, asking for permission and he gives it to you. Your tongues meet and at first it was shy, subtle, small licks in between kisses. Yoongi’s flushed, cheeks pink and he’s starting to sweat a little bit, but he loves it, he loves the adrenaline that’s building in his stomach. He grabs your ass after he begins to lose control but he doesn’t intend on taking things any further. Not yet. Not here. He wants a bed for that. Maybe some candles and some roses. Maybe after some dinner he’s going to cook. He’s not sure.

“Settle down,” you whisper against his lips when he starts to heavily massage your cheek.

“Sorry, I’m— they were right there, you know? Big and ready for the taking.”

“You didn’t even ask permission,” you frown. He immediately lets go of your butt and his mouth gapes open but you just kiss him again, smiling.

“_____, may I please grab your ass as we make out?” he asks, smiling, staring at your lips that he’s already turned so red.

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Be my guest.” His hand finds your ass immediately. Both cheeks this time.

“Oh, and,” he says before your lips could touch again. “Will you be my girlfriend too? Is that appropriate to ask in this situation? I swear it’s not just cause we’re making out and I’m getting infatuated, I’ve been sure I liked you for a while now. I promise, I’ll take you out and shit and—“

You kiss him, softly, on the cheek to cut him off. “Yes.”

And at that moment, Min Yoongi. Perpetual frowner. Scoffer.

Smiles.

#tsundere! yoongi #yoongi x reader #suga imagine #suga drabble #yoongi drabble #yoongi imagine #yoongi x you #i dont know how to tag this #bts imagine #bts drabble

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erin-hart · 4 years

Text

Self Evident

Ani DiFranco

Yes,

Us people are just poems

We're ninety percent metaphor

With a leanness of meaning

Approaching hyper-distillation

And once upon a time

We were moonshine

Rushing down the throat of a giraffe

Yes, rushing down the long hallway

Despite what the p.a. announcement says

Yes, rushing down the long hall

Down the long stairs

In a building so tall

That it will always be there

Yes, it's part of a pair

There on the bow of Noah's ark

The most prestigious couple

Just kickin' back parked

Against a perfectly blue sky

On a morning beatific

In its Indian summer breeze

On the day that America

Fell to its knees

After strutting around for a century

Without saying thank you

Or please

And the shock was subsonic

And the smoke was deafening

Between the setup and the punch line

Cause we were all on time for work that day

We all boarded that plane for to fly

And then while the fires were raging

We all climbed up on the window sill

And then we all held hands

And jumped into the sky

And every borough looked up when it heard the first blast

And then every dumb action movie was summarily surpassed

And the exodus uptown by foot and motorcar

Looked more like war than anything I've seen so far

So far

So fierce and ingenious

A poetic specter so far gone

That every jackass newscaster was struck dumb and stumbling

Over 'oh my god' and 'this is unbelievable' and on and on

And I'll tell you what, while we're at it

You can keep the pentagon

Keep the propaganda

Keep each and every tv

That's been trying to convince me

To participate

In some prep school punk's plan to perpetuate retribution

Perpetuate retribution

Even as the blue toxic smoke of our lesson in retribution

Is still hanging in the air

And there's ash on our shoes

And there's ash in our hair

And there's a fine silt on every mantle

From hell's kitchen to Brooklyn

And the streets are full of stories

Sudden twists and near misses

And soon every open bar is crammed to the rafters

With tales of narrowly averted disasters

And the whiskey is flowin'

Like never before

As all over the country

Folks just shake their heads

And pour

So here's a toast to all the folks that live in Palestine, Afghanistan,

Iraq, El Salvador

Here's a toast to the folks living on the pine ridge reservation

Under the stone cold gaze of Mt. Rushmore

Here's a toast to all those nurses and doctors

Who daily provide women with a choice

Who stand down a threat the size of Oklahoma City

Just to listen to a young woman's voice

Here's a toast to all the folks on death row right now

Awaiting the executioner's guillotine

Who are shackled there with dread and can only escape into their heads

To find peace in the form of a dream, peace in the form of a dream

Cause take away our PlayStations

And we are a third world nation

Under the thumb of some blue blood royal son

Who stole the oval office and that phony election

I mean

It don't take a weatherman

To look around and see the weather

Jeb said he'd deliver Florida, folks

And boy did he ever

And we hold these truths to be self evident:

Number one, George W. Bush is not president

Number two, America is not a true democracy

Number three, the media is not fooling me

Cause I am a poem heeding hyper-distillation

I've got no room for a lie so verbose

I'm looking out over my whole human family

And I'm raising my glass in a toast

Here's to our last drink of fossil fuels

May we vow to get off of this sauce

Shoo away the swarms of commuter planes

And find that train ticket we lost

Cause once upon a time the line followed the river

And peeked into all the backyards

And the laundry was waving

The graffiti was teasing us

From brick walls and bridges

We were rolling over ridges

Through valleys

Under stars

I dream of touring like Duke Ellington

In my own railroad car

I dream of waiting on the tall blond wooden benches

In a grand station aglow with grace

And then standing out on the platform

And feeling the air on my face

Give back the night its distant whistle

Give the darkness back its soul

Give the big oil companies the finger finally

And relearn how to rock-n-roll

Yes, the lessons are all around us and the truth is waiting there

So it's time to pick through the rubble, clean the streets

And clear the air

Get our government to pull its big dick out of the sand

Of someone else's desert

Put it back in its pants

And quit the hypocritical chants of

Freedom forever

Cause when one lone phone rang

In two thousand and one

At ten after nine

On nine one one

Which is the number we all called

When that lone phone rang right off the wall

Right off our desk and down the long hall

Down the long stairs

In a building so tall

That the whole world turned

Just to watch it fall

And while we're at it

Remember the first time around?

The bomb?

The Ryder truck?

The parking garage?

The princess that didn't even feel the pea?

Remember joking around in our apartment on Avenue D?

Can you imagine how many paper coffee cups would have to change their design

Following a fantastical reversal of the New York skyline?!

It was a joke

At the time

And that was just a few years ago

So let the record show

That the FBI was all over that case

That the plot was obvious and in everybody's face

And scoping that scene

Religiously

The CIA

Or is it KGB?

Committing countless crimes against humanity

With this kind of eventuality

As its excuse

For abuse after expensive abuse

And it didn't have a clue

Look, another window to see through

Way up here

On the hundredth and fourth floor

Look

Another key

Another door

Ten percent literal

Ninety percent metaphor

Three thousand some poems disguised as people

On an almost too perfect day

Must be more than pawns

In some asshole's passion play

So now it's your job

And it's my job

To make it that way

To make sure they didn't die in vain

Ssh

Baby listen

Hear the train?

#Spotify

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river1983 · 5 years

Text

Journey

Hello guys! Back at it again with another aziracrow fic.

This is supposed to be the journey Crowley and Aziraphale had through the years of their friendship but tweaked a little so it shows more romanticism. A lot of the things described are my headcanons/ideas, and some of the historical events were not apart of the show and stuff I added in. Most of my added pieces probably aren’t historically accurate, though I tried, so I apologize in advance lol. Some of the speech lines have been cut out also. A lot of this is just what I saw and inferred as I watched and in no way actually canon. I hope you like it! :)

You can also think of this as being narrated by God or someone, but also as just a thing I dunno.

Credit Disclaimer: Some of the scenes and lines are from the TV show Good Omens. I DO NOT own Good Omens, it belongs to Neil Gaimen and Terry Pratchett.

journey - an act of traveling from one place to another.

Starting six thousand years ago, in the beginning, an angel and a demon met in the Garden of Eden at the beginning of everything. The demon had just finished his job, and though he wouldn’t explicitly admit it, he didn’t agree with the punishment that ensued to the only two humans on the face of the Earth. The angel didn’t either, and rebelled slightly by giving the humans aid. The demon and the angel stood side by side as the first storm rained down on them, and the angel offered his wing to the demon, who gladly welcomed it.

This was only the beginning.

A thousand years later in Mesopotamia, they met again as Noah and two of every animal (minus the unicorn...it got away) boarded the Ark to escape the oncoming raging storm that would wipe out the human race. The angel, named Aziraphale, explained the Almighty's plan to the demon, doubt creeping into his mind with every word he said.

“All of them?” The demon asked incredulously. Heaven? Kill all of Creation? That sounds more like Hell.

“Well, not all of them,” The angel responded. “Noah, up there, his wife, sons, and their wives will live.”

“And they’re going to drown everybody else?”

The angel nodded hesitantly. Of course, it was wrong, of course. But what was he to do about it?

“You mustn't judge the Almighty, Crawley,” The angel said. “God’s plans are--”

“Are you going to say ineffable?” Crawley asked with a huff.

“...Possibly.”

Rain fell down on the two, signifying the start of the wipe out the human race. The demon looked up like he couldn’t believe this was happening, and the angel looked down, ashamed.

“Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?”

In Golgotha, 33 AD., the angel and the demon found themselves together again.

“Smirk? Me?”

“Well, your lot put him on there,” The demon, now named Crowley, spat.

The demon had met him, Jesus. He felt...bad, for the man--for his fate. Showed him all the kingdoms of the world.

Aziraphale winced as the nail was hammered deeper and deeper into Jesus’ wrist. Guilt seeped into his angelic bones, despite knowing he was not consulted.

Jesus was pulled upright as he wailed in agony, the angel and the demon together watching on.

Eight years later the pair met again on accident, presumably, in Rome.

The angel spotted the demon at ‘the bar’ and moved to sit next to him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Still a demon then?”

“What type of question is that? Still a demon, what else am I supposed to be an aardvark?” Crowley retaliated, irritated. He took a sip of his house brown.

“Salutaria.” They clinked glasses.

The angel cleared his throat. “In Rome long?”

“Just popped in for a quick temptation. You?”

“I thought I’d try Petronius’ new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.”

Crowley sipped his drink again. “I’ve never had an oyster.”

Aziraphale looked at the demon incredulously. “Oh, well let me tempt you to--”

The demon turned around with a smirk, looking at the angel.

“Oh,” The angel muttered, realizing his mistake. “No, that’s your job isn’t it?”

Crowley smiled and sipped his drink again, falling just a little more for the angel.

Rome was falling.

It was 79 AD as the demon covered his face onslaught of soot fell on the ruins of Pompeii. He wasn’t even supposed to still be there, but one quick temptation turned into a more complicated matter.

But nothing that was happening now was his doing. He ran through the ruins as fire erupted in shop and homes. People running in all directions as they tried to escape the city.

Crowley ran through the ruins, trying not to get discorporated, when he bumped into a little girl who was crying. Kneeling down, the demon grabbed the little girl without thought and continued to look for an exit. As he passed a shop, he saw a sliver of white hair and turned around.

“Aziraphale?” He said incredulously as he walked into the shop, trying not to inhale the smoke with the little girl in his arms.

“Crowley,” He looked at the little girl then back at Crowley.

“What the Hel--Heaven’s are you doing!?”

“I was looking for some old scrolls--”

“The city is on fire and you’re looking for scrolls?”

They ducked as another boom shook the ground.

“Aziraphale, we have to go now or you’ll be discorporated!”

“What does that matter to yo--”

“No time! I have to get this girl to safety, come on!”

He tugged Aziraphale along and searched for a way out of the falling city. Soot covered them head to toe as they emerged from the city as volcanic ash continued to fall, coughing from the thick smoke that hung in the air. They got as far from the city as they could before Crowley set the girl down.

“Try and find your family, alright? Don’t go near the city.”

The little girl nodded and ran off, leaving the angel and the demon alone.

Aziraphale stared at Crowley. “Why’d you save her?”

Crowley snorted as he settled himself on the ground. “What was I supposed to do, just leave her there?”

“Well, you are a demon.”

Crowley scoffed. “You know that wasn’t my doing, right? I didn’t set that volcano to explode.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. “I know.”

As the demon watched the city fall, the angel couldn’t help but stare at the demon in curiosity. A demon showing empathy and compassion? It was different.

He could get used to it.

In the Kingdom of Wessex in 537 AD., the demon and the angel were doing their respective jobs, fomenting peace and causing trouble, without knowing of the other’s presence.

“I was hoping to meet with the Black Knight?”

Aziraphale (of the Table Round) walked forward as the Black Knight emerged from the smoke.

“You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one,” The Black Knight responded. “But you have found your death.”

Aziraphale squinted and tilted his head. “Is that you under there Crawley?”

“Crowley,” Crowley responded, pulling up his helmet, revealing his yellow, piercing snake eyes.

“What the hell are you playing at?” Aziraphale said in exasperation.

“I’m here spreading foment.”

“What is that, some kind of porridge?”

“No. I’m, you know, fomenting dissent and discord.”

“Well, I’m meant to be fomenting peace.”

“So we’re both working very hard in a damp place just canceling each other out?”

“Well, when you put it like that...it is a bit damp.”

“Be easier if we both just stayed home.”

Aziraphale looked at the demon, confused.

“Just send messages back to head office, saying we’ve done everything they asked for, wouldn’t it?”

“But that would be lying,” Aziraphale exclaimed.

Crowley looked to the side and shrugged. “Eh, possibly, but the end result would be the same.”

“But,” Aziraphale protested. “my dear fellow, they’d check!” His face hardened slightly. “You don’t want Gabriel to get upset with you.”

“Oh, our lot have better things to do than verifying compliance on Earth.”

“No! Absolutely not. We’re not having this conversation, not another word.” Aziraphale turned around, going back to the knights behind him.

“Right,” The demon muttered as he closed his helmet.”

“Right!”

It was right in the middle of the 14th century, in 1347 as the Black Death raged across Europe, Crowley and Aziraphale are together again.

“I hate the 14th century,” Crowley growled as he paced the room he was in. “The humans are all at war with each other, disease is wiping out half the population, there’s nothing to do.”

Aziraphale sighed. He had been hearing Crowley rant about this century for 20 years now. “Isn’t this supposed to be good for you? You can lie to your head office about all the wondrous work you are doing, possibly get that promotion.”

Crowley groaned.

“Can you do me a favor?” Crowley asked as he collapsed on the chair.

“What would it be?”

“What if you...” Crowley started. “Did both the tempting and the blessing?”

Aziraphale whipped around. “You can’t be serious!?”

Crowley shrugged. “The end result would be the same. There’s no point in both of us being here since we just cancel each other out.”

Aziraphale said nothing.

“It saves time,” Crowley added.

“But if Hell or Heaven found out--”

“No one has to know, Aziraphale.”

The angel sighed. “Fine, I agree to this...arrangement. But only this once, Crowley.”

The demon smirked. “Sure, angel.” He walked out the door.

The angel blushed at the nickname and watched Crowley as he left, sighing in defeat.

That was the beginning of the Arrangement.

At the Globe Theatre in London, 1601, the angel and the demon met again.

As Burbage performed Shakespeare’s Hamlet on the stage (with very few watching), Aziraphale watched with a smile on his face as Crowley stood next to him, smirking at the angel.

“He’s very good, isn’t he?”

“Age does not wither nor custom stale his infinite variety,” Crowley responds, profoundly.

Shakespeare looks at Crowley strangely. “Yeah, I like that,” he says, slowing walking off to write it down somewhere.

As Shakespeare walked away, Aziraphale piped up.

“What do you want?”

“Why ever would you insinuate that I might possibly want something?”

“You are up to no good.”

“Obviously. You are up to good, I take it?”

“No rest for the...well, good,” Aziraphale responded. He turned toward the demon. “I have to be in Edinburgh by the end of the week. A couple of miracles to perform.”

He made a face. “Apparently I have to ride a horse.”

Crowley grimaces. “Oh, hard on the buttocks, horses. A major design flaw if you ask me.”

Crowley walks around to the other side. “I’m meant to be heading to Edinburgh too this week,” He says. It was slightly too convenient, heading to the same place as Aziraphale.

“I thought we should...” He trails off, looking at the angel expectedly.

“You cannot actually be suggesting...” Aziraphale started, trailing off. “What I infer...you are implying.”

“Which is?” Crowley teased.

“That only one of us goes to Edinburgh, do both.”

“We’ve done it before,” Crowley says, looking back at the stage. “Dozens of times now.”

He leaned towards the angel. “The arrangement--” He sing-songed before Aziraphale cut him off.

“Don’t say that!” He whispered, more afraid of Heaven than of the demon next to him.

“Our respective head offices don’t actually care how things get done,” Crowley retorts.

“But if Hell finds out, they won’t just be angry,” Aziraphale protests, voice softening with worry for the demon. “They’ll destroy you.”

“No one has to know,” Crowley reassured, pulling out a coin. “Toss you for Edinburgh?”

Aziraphale sighs but gives in. “Fine, heads.”

Crowley flips the coin, both of them leaning in to look. “Tails, I’m afraid. You’re going to Scotland.” Aziraphale sighed, turning back to the stage.

“-it’d take a miracle for anyone to come and see Hamlet,” the pair hear Shakespeare complain, shaking his head.

Aziraphale turned toward the demon, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Yes, alright, I’ll do that one, my treat,” Crowley said, falsely exasperated.

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale says with a smile.

“I still prefer the funny ones,” Crowley says as he walks out.

Aziraphale turns toward the stage again with a smile on his face, popping another grape into his mouth. The angel won’t admit it, but he was starting to warm up to the demon.

And the demon would never admit he was already far gone on the angel.

Aziraphale sat in a cell, hands chained to the wall in Paris, 1793. He sighed as he looked at his confined hands. All he wanted were some crepes, for Heaven’s sake.

A man walked into the cell, speaking to him in French. Probably something about cutting his head off in about five minutes...His French was a little off.

After a bad attempt at responding to the man in French, the man revealed himself as Jean-Claude (in English), his personal executor.

“You are lucky that it is I, Jean-Claude, who will remove your traitorous head from your shoulders!”

“Look, this is all a terrible mistake. I don’t think you understand--”

“I have some good news for you. You are the 999th aristo to die at the guillotine by my hand! But the first English.”

The angel smiled curtly and nodded, beginning to regret dressing the way he did, and found himself wishing Crowley was here.

“Now--” Jean-Clause moved to remove his scarf.

Aziraphale stood up quickly, stepping toward the wall. “Please! No!” He said. “Dreadful mistake, discorporating me,” He blew air out of his mouth and rolled his eyes. “Ugh, it’ll be a complete nightmare,”

Jean-Claude looked at the angel, confused about his sudden outburst. The sound of the guillotine blade filled the cell again and the executor turned toward the window, then time froze.

“Animals,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only humans do that,” A familiar voice said behind him.

Aziraphale’s whole face and mood lit up (without his permission). “Crowley,” He said with relief as he turned around.

The demon sat on a rock in the corner, dressed in “appropriate” attire at the time, due to where they were. Aziraphale looked him over, appalled. “Oh, good Lord,” He said, setting his shoulders a little straighter.

“What in the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille? I thought you were opening a bookshop,” The demon says incredulously, propping his arm on the wall next to him as he stared at the angel through his glasses.

“I was,” He nodded. “...I got peckish.”

“Peckish?’“ Crowley inquired, leaning forward a bit.

“Well if you must know it was the crepes,” Aziraphale admitted, moving to sit down in his chair, still chained. “You can only find decent ones in Paris. And the brioche,” He said with a tilt of his head.

“So you just popped around the Channel during a revolution because you wanted something to nibble? Dressed like that?”

“I have standards.” Aziraphale defended.

Crowley smirked slightly, amused by the angel’s stubbornness, even if it almost got him killed.

Crowley snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale’s chains fell to the ground. the angel rubbed his wrists, looking back at the demon.

“I suppose I should thank you. For the, uh, rescue.”

Crowley got up from his seat, walking over to the angel. “Don’t say that. If my people hear that I rescued an angel I’ll be the one in trouble. And they don’t give strongly worded notes.”

“Well anyway, I am very grateful,” the angel said, looking at the demon in the eye. “What if I buy you lunch?”

The demon raised an eyebrow. “Looking like that?”

Aziraphale glared at the angel in annoyance, before huffing and snapping his fingers, changing his attire so it was similar to Jean-Claude’s.

The angel stepped over to the demon and stood next to him as Crowley snapped his fingers once more, changing Jean-Claude’s attire so it looked like he was the aristocrat, and the guards pulled him away while Crowley and Aziraphale watched undetected.

“So what’s for lunch?” Crowley said to the angel, turning to face him.

“How would you feel about some crepes?” Aziraphale responded with a smile.

The angel and the demon stood by a pond in St. James’ Park in 1862, Aziraphale throwing bread into the pond for the ducks while Crowley just stood, preparing to ask a question.

“Look, I’ve been thinking, what of it all goes wrong?” Crowley started, still staring out across the pond. “We have a lot on common, you and me.”

“I don’t know. We both may have started off as angels, but you are fallen,” Aziraphale responded someone terse. He had found himself becoming too attached to the demon, and by any circumstances, he simply couldn’t.

“I didn’t really fall,” Crowley argued, slightly hurt by Aziraphale’s comment. “I just, you know...sauntered vaguely downward.”

He cleared his throat. “I need a favor.”

Aziraphale threw the last of his breadcrumbs and put his hat back on. “We already have an agreement, Crowley.”

“This is something different,” Crowley handed him a slip of paper. “I wrote it down. Walls have ears. I mean, trees have ears. Ducks have ears.”

Aziraphale opened the paper and his eyes widened as he read the words.

“Do ducks have ears? They must do, it’s how they hear other ducks.”

“Absolutely out of the question!” Aziraphale retorted, appalled. How could the demon even ask him of this?

“Why not?”

“It would destroy you!” Aziraphale whispered, worry dripping through his voice. “I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley!” He shoved the slip back into the demo’s hand, angry that he would even suggest such a thing.

“Not what I want it for, just insurance,” Crowley insisted, handing him back the paper, which had the words Holy Water scrawled over it.

Aziraphale’s distant façade dropped. “I’m not an idiot, Crowley,” He almost pleaded. “Do you know what trouble I’d be in if...” He looked up at the sky, then quieting his voice. “They knew I’ve been fraternizing!?”

Crowley turned toward the angel, finally. “Fraternizing?” He spat. He thought they were past this--seeing each other as the enemy.

“Or whatever you wish to call it,” Aziraphale responded, his anger and hurt still seeping through. “I do not see any point in discussing it further.”

“I have lots of other people to fraternize with, angel,” Crowley retorted, when in fact, he did not.

“Of course you do.”

“I don’t need you,” When in fact, he did.

“Well, the feeling’s mutual, obviously!” Aziraphale said, whipping around and storming away, throwing the slip of paper in the pond where it caught on fire.

Crowley turned back to the pond. That conversation did not go as planned.

“Obviously,” Crowley mocked, hiding his hurt.

As Aziraphale negotiated with Nazi’s in London, 1941, he couldn’t get Crowley out of his mind. He hadn’t seen the demon in a little over a century. They had left on...less than ideal terms, and despite how much Aziraphale tried not to, he missed the demon. It was unlike Crowley not to pop up somewhere, and the angel worried that he might not see the demon ever again. He didn’t--couldn’t regret saying no to giving Crowley holy water, whether it was for insurance or not. The chance was too great.

Mr. Golzier pulled a gun after Aziraphale put his beloved books down.

“Such a pity you must be eliminated, but take heart,” he said, cocking the gun. “Just another death in the Blitz.”

“That’s not very sporting,” Aziraphale said.

Golzier cocked his head. “You don’t appear worried, my friend.”

A woman appeared behind him, cocking her gun, just like Aziraphale planned.

”He is not worried,” she said.

“Who’s she?” Mr. Harmony said, standing up.

“She, my double-dealing Nazi acquaintance, is the reason why none of those books are going back to Berlin! And why your nasty little spy ring will be spending the rest of the war behind bars!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Let me introduce you to Captain Rose Montgomery of British Military Intelligence.”

“Thank you for the introduction,” Captain Rose said calmly.

“So, Rose, where exactly are your people?”

Harmony let his hands fall. “We are all here,” He laughed.

Golzier walked towards the Captain. “Allow me to introduce Fraulien Greta Klienschmidt. She works for us.”

She pointed the gun at the angel, who stepped back, mouth gaped.

“Now, where were we? Oh yes, killing you.”

“You can’t kill me!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “There’ll be paperwork.”

A door slammed. All four turned their heads to the sound.

In comes no one other than Crowley, hopping around on the consecrated ground they were standing on, making sounds of discomfort.

Aziraphale had never been so glad and furious to see the demon.

“Sorry, consecrated ground,” Crowley gasped, still hopping around. “Oh! It’s like being at the beach in bare feet!”

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale exclaimed. I’m so glad to see you.

“Stopping you from getting into trouble,” He retorted.

Azirpahale rolled his eyes. “I should have known. These are your people.”

The demon leaned on a pue. “No! They’re a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies running around killing people, I just didn’t want to see you getting embarrassed. Gah!” He hopped around some more.

“Mr. Anthony J. Crowley,” Golzier says. “Your fame precedes you.”

“Anthony?” Aziraphale asks.

“You don’t like it?” Crowley responded, ignoring Nazi.

“No, no, I didn’t say that,” Aziraphale said quickly. “I’ll get used to it.”

“In about a minute,” Crowley said suddenly. “a German bomber will release a bomb that will land right here.” He pointed to the ground they were standing on (well, he was hopping on). “If you all run away very, very fast, you might not die. You won’t enjoy dying, and definitely won’t enjoy what comes after.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Golzier scoffs. “The bombs tonight will fall on the East End.”

“Yes. It would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw them off course, yes.”

Aziraphale looked toward the demon, realizing his plan.

“You’re all wasting your valuable running away time!” Crowley exclaimed. “And! If, in thirty seconds a bomb did land here, it would take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it.” He looked toward Aziraphale with his shaded eyes.

“A real miracle?” Aziraphale stammered. Oh, right.

“Kill them,” Harmony said. “They are very irritating.”

On cue, Crowley pointed his fingers up at the roof and the sound of a whistling bomb sounded. All three Nazi's looked up toward the sound in disbelief.

Then the bomb landed.

Aziraphale and Crowley stood unharmed in the rubble, the demon cleaning his glasses and the angel taking off his hat.

“That was very kind of you,” The angel said, in slight disbelief. After that entire argument they had a century ago, he was surprised the demon would come to his aid, that he even knew where Aziraphale was.

Crowley pulled his glasses over his yellow snake eyes. “Shut up.” He said jokingly, hiding his smile.

“Well, it was. No paperwork, for a start.” Aziraphale smiled.

“Oh, the books! Oh, I forgot all the books! Oh, they’ll be blown to--”

Crowley walked over to Harmony’s dead body, buried underneath the rubble. he wrenched the bag of books from his dead hand and handed it to the angel. “A little demonic miracle of my own.” He said. “Lift home?”

He walked away, and Aziraphale stared at his back in disbelief. He couldn’t believe Crowley had remembered his beloved books when Aziraphale didn’t.

That was the moment the angel realized the inevitable.

He was in love with a demon.

While Crowley negotiated plans to steal holy water in Soho, 1967, he wondered about Aziraphale.

There was something about the angel that Crowley couldn't pin that drew the demon in, as much as he hated it. He had feelings for Aziraphale, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. He wasn’t supposed to feel, not after the Fall. Especially not for an angel.

He walked over to his car after an interesting conversation with Shadwell, collapsing into the driver’s seat. He looked to his left and saw Aziraphale sitting in the passenger’s seat.

“What are you doing here?” Crowley asked incredulously. I was just thinking about you.

“I needed a word with you,” Aziraphale responded.

“What?”

“I work in Soho, I hear things.” He paused. “I hear that you’re setting up a...caper to rob a church.”

Crowley sighed and turned his head forward.

“Crowley, it’s too dangerous,” Aziraphale pleaded. “Holy water won’t just destroy your body, it’ll destroy you completely.”

“You told me what you think one hundred and eight years ago,” Crowley said, turning back to the angel.

“And I haven’t changed my mind,” Aziraphale interrupted. “But I can’t have you risking your life.” You mean too much to me.

“So...” Aziraphale pulled out a beige flask. Crowley’s eyebrows raised slightly as he looked at the flask. “You can call off the robbery.” The angel held the flask gingerly, as if it might break and the water would spill out, vaporizing the demon forever. He shuddered at the thought.

Crowley looked at the angel in surprised, then back at the flask. He took the flask gingerly, holding it out in front of him.

I’m not planning to use it on myself, angel. He wanted to say. But he didn’t.

“After everything you said?” He said instead, the century left not talking that they both regretted brought up without speaking of it.

Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley looked at the flask again in disbelief. “Should I say thank you?” He said after a while, looking back at the angel.

“Better not,” Aziraphale said, smiling softly.

“Well can I drop you off anywhere?” Please let me say thank you.

“No, thank you.”

Crowley’s face fell.

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed.” Please. “Perhaps one day we could...go for a picnic,” Aziraphale smiled at the thought. “Dine at the Ritz.” He smiled at the demon.

“I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go,” Crowley insisted. I love you.

Aziraphale was quiet or a time. Then he sighed. “You go to fast for me, Crowley,” He said sadly, like it hurt his very Grace to say that.

Crowley’s demonic heart broke, despite deep down knowing Aziraphale’s answer.

The angel left the car, walking away.

Crowley stared at the flask in his had once again, and set it down. He sighed, then started the car.

In the End Times, as Satan manifested on Earth and the Anti-Christ went against the Great Plan and stopped the Apocolypse. The angel and the demon clasped hands, and three words passed between them without being spoken.

I love you.

The Anti-Christ willed the Devil out of existence, leaving the Earth untouched just for a little while longer.

So, now, all of the angel and the demon’s interactions have led up to this moment, after preventing the Apocalypse by the sheer force of will, and defying their respective head offices just by being together, they sat at the Ritz, a glass of champagne in each of their hands.

“I think none of this would’ve worked out if you weren’t at heart, just a little bit a good person,” Aziraphale said.

“And if you weren’t, deep down, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing,” Crowley said with a smile.

Aziraphale gushed, looking down at the table then back at the demon.

“Cheers,” Crowley said, raising his glass toward the angel. “To the world.”

Aziraphale raised his glass, smiling. “To the world.”

They clinked glasses.

The journey of an angel who fell in love with a demon, despite what he had been taught, and a demon who fell in love with an angel, despite thinking he couldn’t even feel after the Fall, had ended, but was only the start of the beginning of the rest of their lives, together despite all odds.

They sat, fingers entwined, chatting at the Ritz while a Nightingale sang for the first time in Berkeley Square.

Finally! I’m done with this fic! It took forever because of the scenes, and I’m sorry about that! I’m really proud of how it came out! I hope you guys like it :)

-river

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