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writefinch · 3 years

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Eurydicean Coda (CN: rape, ‘corrective’ rape, orientation-play, bondage, despair, mental conditioning, watersports, rimming, various degrading things)

The pain came in waves, but then, so did everything else. The nausea came in waves, the violence came in waves, the shocks, drugs and beatings came in waves, the men's hips clapped against her ass like a storm-waves against a crumbling sea barrier, Valerie was dragged under waves in a burning ocean, pulled further from the light as each one crashed over her.

"We don't let girls think around here," is what they told her on the first night and taught her every night and day thereafter. Thoughts mean abstraction and abstraction means distance and distance would be a reprieve and there would be no reprieve. On the first night they had nailed her into a wooden coffin to sleep, still hogtied, her joints on fire, eyes burning from the cum that the men had shot into them, with headphones taped over her ears blaring recordings they'd made with Lily. She suffered there in perfect darkness and the noise would peak and trough, her Lily's screams ear-splittingly loud, her Lily's cries rising and falling, her Lily's voice almost too quiet to hear.

She didn't sleep that night, nor the next night, nor any night. They hurt her until she passed out, and if they deemed it prudent, they would wait some time before rousing her. Sometimes they choked her unconscious, other times they sedated her, but never, never sleep. Sleep was the first thing she'd really begged for, the first time she'd let the words slip from her lips to their ears, "I'll do anything."

"We know you'll do anything. You'll do anything for a warm glass of my piss," the man had said. Two days of no water later, he proved himself right.

They wanted to strip her to her soul, to erode all the defenses protecting her sense of self until it was bared to them like a quivering lump of jelly, and then they would re-shape it. Each fresh horror would be brought down upon her until she had no conscious defence other than to accept it as inevitable and retreat deeper into her mind, and then as it ebbed away a new torment would be brought forth to drag her back to the surface. The first time she had been roused by a cock filling her ring-gag and blasting a torrent of piss down her throat she'd almost drowned, and the sheer terror at it happening again had made her work to avoid passing out rather than seeking it out. Now it had been done so many times that it brought no terror, only pain and misery.

It was a similar tale with so many of their games. The bruising, the biting, the diet of piss and cum supplemented by bloating, cramping, nutrient-rich enemas, the viewing sessions of Lily's gang-rapes, the tattoos and piercings, the throat-fucking, ass-fucking, double-penetration and blowbangs, the stifling leather hoods, the strappados and Spanish donkeys, the taint of unwashed male musk that seeped into her skin every time a pair of sweaty balls was dragged over her face, the nightly quizzes of having a cock shoved between her lips and being asked which of Lily's holes it had just been inside, all of these things brought pain, disgust and despair, but the terror had faded. Even the sight of the dreaded cattle prod no longer made her heart skip a beat—though, its bite often did.

Now it was the pleasure that Valerie feared. At first it had looked like simple humiliation: feed the dumb dyke a bunch of viagra, MDMA and morphine, strap her over a frame, jam a souped-up Hitachi against her cunt and watch her cum her brains out while her owners laugh at her. That's what it had felt like, and it had felt that way the next time and the time after, and it hadn't seemed out of the ordinary when the men started groping her and stroking her—gentler than usual—just before she climaxed. When they edged her, teased her, brought her to the brink and held her back, and only finally let her cum with a man's cock eight inches deep inside her, there wasn't a thought left in her head.

When they gave her the choice, she knew something was wrong. "Hitachi or bath time?" they'd asked, and the choice had shocked her so much that she'd just mumbled she'd do whichever one they preferred. That got her a hard slap across the cheek, hard enough to make her teeth shake. She picked the Hitachi over being waterboarded, of course, but she knew it was a trap. She began to notice the withdrawal symptoms, the despair and bone-deep exhaustion that came from coming down off of the MDMA and morphine, and she noticed what went along with it: when she was coming down, she was left unfilled. The men refrained from fucking, plugging, or even touching her cunt. The first time they caught her trying to touch herself, they broke her index finger and fitted her with a chastity belt.

They'd stopped strapping her down, they alternated between cock and vibrator, fingers and vibrator, sometimes fingers and cock. They still made her peel back the foreskin of a thick, greasy, unwashed cock and lick it clean, but now this crude ritual of humiliation coincided with her pleasure sessions. They kept making her choose. "What will it be, Valerie? Hitachi, or drink piss until your stomach feels fit to burst? Hitachi, or have chili oil rubbed into your cunt and asshole? Hitachi, or lick our sweaty assholes while we gang-rape your pretty wife? Hitachi or cattle prod, or caning, or the confinement coffin? Hitachi or standing in place for the night in a dark room with a chastity belt and nothing but your own awful thoughts for company?" At the start of her captivity, she would have chosen the pain and taken pride in it. Now, it was the closest thing to a rest. How could she make any other choice, now that the tide had come in so far, and the water was above her neck?

They made her work for it. They made her go on top. They made her bounce up and down as she looked down at the face of her owner. They made her cum while she kissed the man who she'd watched rape her wife only hours ago. They made her do it again, and this time, she came without the vibrator at all, and she knew in her heart that soon they would make her cum without the drugs.

She felt nothing at this. She was still Valerie. It hadn't changed her any more than she'd already been changed, and hadn't broken anything that wasn't already broken. Her captors had disagreed, evidently, and seen fit to provide her with a reward: with their mouths gagged, their hands bound up in leather mittens, and their cunts locked away in steel belts, Valerie and Lily were allowed to spend a night together. They embraced each other atop a pile of rags, warming each other's cheeks with their tears. Perhaps they slept.

The methods changed. The pleasure sessions went away and the pain sessions returned. Valerie ached for the pleasure to return, to be filled, to be fucked, to be smeared across the mattress underneath a man a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than her. She knew that they wanted her to beg, to admit defeat, to show that she was broken. So, she begged. They laughed and spat in her face, but at least gave her a cock to nurse while they fisted her asshole.

Domestic work crept in amongst the punishments and perversion. Shackled, hooded, they made her sweep floors and wash dishes, only seeing her own work through tiny slits in the leather. They brought in other men to use her. They made her serve drinks, before and after she'd been fucked. They were not gentle, but gentler—they were more concerned with their own pleasure than her training—and like the pleasure had before it, servitude became ersatz sleep.

These new methods of training grew in intensity, and like the cruder ones before, they also came in waves. These waves did not torment Valerie as the previous ones did. The waves can not thrash you, after all, once you are deep beneath them.

#stories #Eurydice in Sodom

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bitchassbucky · 4 years

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Ｔｗｉｎｅｄ: ＡＳｏｕｌｍａｔｅＡＵ

📎Word count: 1.5k

📎Warning/s: Mentions of death, f-bombs galore. MINORS DNI.

📎A/N: Hey lovelies <3 @honeyvbarnes and I worked on this Soulmate AU and we hope that y’all like it! I loved working with my bff and we’ll do it again hopefully <3 enjoy!

📎Honeyvbarnes’s Masterlist

📎Masterlist || Ask || AFTERDARK

When Bucky Barnes died back in 1943, he died knowing that he lived his life without a soulmate.

When he turned eighteen, he waited for a flash of annoyance, stress, or anything emotionally malicious that came from his soulmate since emotional pain is supposedly said to connect two wandering souls no matter how far they are from each other.

A bit sadistic, Steve Rogers would say. But Bucky would always counter his friend’s point with, “you see, Stevie when your soulmate gets hurt, you’re the only one who can hear them-- at least in your head-- and you can help them, you can help them find you,”

“Still, I don’t want someone to suffer just to make a connection with me,” Steve said, ever a gentle-hearted (but strong-headed) person.

“They’re not gon’a. Annoyance is enough for them to create a short connection,”

“What I’m hearing is that I get a pass for annoying you more,”

It’s hot. Searing. Humid. The air is so thick, you can almost choke on it.

The beach is filled with people-- couples and families mostly and your mind wanders to soulmates.

You never had one and as far as you’re concerned, you’re better off without one.

Since your eighteenth birthday, you felt a great deal of stress coming off from your soulmate. You had to go through various therapy sessions, evaluations, and couple’s counseling since the supposed love of your life won’t answer to your pleas and calls as to what the fuck is going on inside their head.

They never let you in and it seems like they will never let you in.

Not now and not ever especially since the torment of nightmarish inner turmoil had subsided; granted, there are still some night terrors but it doesn’t compare to the pain you felt back then.

You started thinking maybe they were in the army or something of that sort.

Maybe, maybe. What if, what if

That’s your inner turmoil; the boiling water inside the pot.

You weren’t sure where to start looking for them-- you spent years trying to get through but you never get as much as a word.

So you gave up.

And not a lot of people give up on their soulmates, at least not the ones who never had to spend literal years of their lives trying to coax out a word out of their loved one.

You still get worried and anxious about them. You still try to comfort them after a particularly bad nightmare even though you know they won’t answer back to you. You still tell them that you’re always there, ready to give the comfort only a true soulmate can give.

You wanted to give them warmth not knowing that they dislike the heat.

Bucky had always hated the summer. He hated how everything is so warm and dry and humid. He hated how he can’t stay bundled up in dark sweaters and jackets, he hated the way that the glow of the scorching sun brings out the best in people.

He prefers the cold. The harsh winters remind him of his past, and he likes to suffer, he allows the despair and loneliness to settle deep in his bones. The heat of the summer makes it more difficult for him to keep his mind separated from yours.

Bucky Barnes died back in 1943 without a soulmate, but after his resurrection in Wakanda, he knew you were there. The dull feeling of annoyance would come in waves and he knew you hadn’t felt him yet.

Oh, but you did, he came to realize. Over the years, Hydra had control over him, his mind, and his soul. The constant wipe of his memories not even sparing a chance for him to feel emotion, to feel you. The harsh realization that you had to feel the same pain he had, makes him sick.

Thinking of the years of abuse and torture makes him want to apologize profusely, but would you even understand? Would you ever love the person that’s caused you so much pain? He doesn’t know who you are or your age, and the fact that his soulmate lives in an era where he was never meant to live in, still confuses him to this day.

So he’s built up walls, a mind blockade in hopes that you’d move on without him. He doesn’t deserve love after all that he’s done. Mostly, you don’t deserve him as a soulmate. You deserve better, he thinks.

He feels guilty shutting you out, but he forces the guilt away because he knows you can feel that too. On his bad days, you still assure him that he’s not alone in this world. You give him warmth to soothe his ice-cold heart, but he rejects it, doesn’t want it, doesn’t deserve it, he’ll tell himself.

One fateful summer day changed that though.

As Sam Wilson finished packing the car with what he calls ‘beach essentials’, Bucky Barnes had his mind a thousand miles away.

“You okay, tin man? Got your sunscreen?” His dark-haired friend chides soothingly. Sam was wearing a red Hawaiian shirt, his Raybans clipped onto his lapel, and his skin smelled of berries and shea butter; he smelled and looked like the personification of summer himself.

“Let’s go, Wilson; I don’t have the patience of getting stuck in traffic with the both of ya,” Bucky rolled his eyes behind his dark sunglasses, his hair tied in a low bun, he was wearing a baseball shirt and a summer-themed beach short with seagulls on it, as per Sam’s request. His skin glistened with the newly applied sunscreen he snatched from his go-bag.

“And what’s so bad about it?” Steve wore a flannel and dark jeans combo, his baseball cap was on backwards, because ‘I wanted to try something new,’ he said, and he opted for a pine-scented suntan lotion instead, deciding to get a slight tan.

Bucky decided not to answer the question.

The ocean mist filled your senses as your book chapter hits its end. Putting down the easy-reading material, you stretched out and propped up yourself, thinking if you should join the other beachgoers in the water.

Giving it a quick thought and then glancing at the beach’s showering station, you decided against splashing around. This is more of a reading day for you.

You picked up your dog-eared book again and started to read when a good gust of wind kicked up the sand, sending a few grains your way, you quickly closed your eyes and yet, just as fate intended, you ended up with sand particles in your left eye.

“Ow, what the--” Bucky instinctively put up his arm to protect his eyes when a breeze flew past them, “something’s in my eye.”

Fuck.

Fuckity-fuck.

Your eye has been invaded by sand and it feels like it’s scratching your cornea raw. You can think straight, you’re in pain albeit minimal, it’s still pain.

You try to scramble for the bottle of water you kept close for hydration, hoping it will be enough to put you out of your misery, washing out the sand.

“Something’s definitely in my eye, Sam, I feel it,” Bucky tries not to squirm so much under Sam’s touch, but the pain feels almost invisible, like it’s not his.

“Stop moving so much, I can’t see anything,” Sam said, reaching into his bag to get his eye drop he was saving especially for this occasion, “I got your back. Don’t tell me that I overpack ever again,”

Drenching yourself in water was better than the agonizing pain you felt not five minutes ago. Your left eye was red, pulsating, and tearing up like a mad dog in a shed; perhaps this was your cue to pack up and go home.

Then you feel that magnetic pull again. Stronger this time.

You suddenly remembered the lore and the tall tales of the universe pulling soulmates together, literally, if they were close enough to each other. You try your best not to walk to your left side as the pull dictates.

“Where are you going, Buck? Our spot’s right here.” Steve said, unpacking the food he prepared for their beach day. Sandwiches, chips, fresh fruits, and beer are already in place when Bucky felt a strong pull to his left side.

“I just- I gotta check something out,” He said, not knowing where his feet are taking him.

The lore said when you meet your soulmate, the gravity will shift around you. The magnets of your souls will push you towards each other even if you try to pry yourself away. Your bodies were from the same asteroid before and now the universe wants you together again.

You feel your skin prickle as you try not to look behind you. You’re familiar with the tales, the personal anecdotes, how it feels to be pulled towards your literal soulmate.

Bucky just stands in the sand, his eyes not wandering too far from where you’re standing, your back behind him.

Is this it? Is this his soulmate?

What if you hate him? What if you don’t want to be with him?

Bucky’s heart quickens with the thoughts, his anxiety riddles his brain as he tries to come up with something to call you.

When the pull is strong and the bond is unbreakable, rare cases of soulmates knowing each other’s names before they met is attainable.

A single name popped up into Bucky’s head, “Y/N.”

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shesey · 3 years

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Wintering by Katherine May

“Wintering is a season in the cold. It is a fallow period in life when you’re cut off from the world, feeling rejected, sidelined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider. Perhaps it results from an illness; perhaps from a life event such as a bereavement or the birth of a child; perhaps it comes from a humiliation or failure. Perhaps you’re in a period of transition, and have temporarily fallen between two worlds. Some winterings creep upon us more slowly, accompanying the protracted death of a relationship, the gradual ratcheting up of caring responsibilities as our parents age, the drip-drip-drip of lost confidence. Some are appallingly sudden, like discovering one day that your skills are considered obsolete, the company you worked for has gone bankrupt, or your partner is in love with someone new. However it arrives, wintering is usually involuntary, lonely, and deeply painful. Yet it is also inevitable. We like to imagine that it’s possible for life to be one eternal summer, and that we have uniquely failed to achieve that for ourselves.” “Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through. Winter is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximizing scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight; but that’s where the transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible. Once we stop wishing it were summer, winter can be a glorious season when the world takes on a sparse beauty, and even the pavements sparkle. It’s a time for reflection and recuperation, for slow replenishment, for putting your house in order.” “That’s what humans do: we make and remake our stories, abandoning the ones that no longer fit and trying on new ones for size.” “In the changing room later, I experience a different kind of warmth: the nakedness of a dozen women, all unashamed. These aren’t the posing bodies you find on the beach, dieted beyond al joy to be bikini-ready, and tanned as an act of disguise. These are northern bodies, slack-bottomed and dimpling, with unruly pubic hair and the scars of hysterectomies, chattering companionably in a language I don’t understand. They are a glimpse of life yet to come: a message of survival, passed on through the generations. It’s a message I rarely find in my buttoned-up home country, and I think about the times I’ve suffered silent furies at the treacheries of my own body, imagining them to be unique.” “Ghost stories may be a part of the terror of Halloween, but our love of ghost stories betrays a far more fragile desire: that we do not fade so easily from this life.” “Winter has decorated ordinary life. Some days, everything sparkles.” “You realize that no one is what they look like, on the surface. Everybody has their dose of suffering; it’s just more hidden in some than in others.” “I think about this a lot, she says, the needle breaks the fabric in order to repair it. You can’t have one without the other.” “In the absence of sunlight, it would be too costly to maintain the machinery of growth.” “I’m fairly certain that my decision not to have a second child rests squarely on my worship of sleep.” “I have nothing to show for my forty-odd years on this earth, except for a pile of dusty books.” “4am. The ego flares like a struck match: bright, blue, fleeting. I am thankful to be alone when this happens, to let it burn out in private. We should sometimes be grateful for the solitudes of night, of a winter. They save us from displaying our worse selves to the waking world.” “Certainty is a dead space in which there’s no more room to grow. Wavering is painful. I’m glad to be travelling between the two.” “Sometimes writing is a race against your own mind, as your hand labours to keep up with the flood tide of your thoughts, and I feel that most acutely at night, when there are no competing demands on my attention. That slightly sleepy, dazed state erods the barriers of my waking brain.” “I can confess all my sins to a piece of paper, with no one to censor it.” “Our personal winters are so often accompanies by insomnia, but perhaps we are still drawn towards that unique space of intimacy and contemplation, darkness, and silence, without really knowing what we’re seeking. Perhaps, after all, we are being urged towards our own comfort.” “Lucy is a symbol of absolute faith and utter purity, but the sins for which she suffers are not her own. Instead, she shoulders the weight of the male gaze, and is destroyed by it.” “Some winters creep up on us so slowly that they have infiltrated every part of our lives before we truly feel them.” “We felt broken into pieces, but at the same time, never so loved.” “We changed our focus away from pushing through with normal life, and towards making a new one. When everything is broken, everything is also up for grabs. That’s the gift of winter: it’s irresistible. Change will happen in its wake, whether we like it or not. We can come out of it wearing a different coat.” “I could have stood there and cried on the spot, just knowing that I wasn’t alone.” “I felt accepted in a way that I hand’t for months.” “This isn’t just an unkind attitude, it does us harm, because it stops us from learning that disaster happens, and how to adapt when it does. It stops us from reaching out to people who are suffering. And, when our own disaster comes, it forces us into a humiliated retreat, as we try to hunt down mistakes that we never made in the first place.” “I simply had no defence against the changes that were happening in my life.” “Life never does quite offer us those simply happy endings. I often that that it’s all part of my own craving: the moral clarity of cause and effect, reward and punishment for my actions. A map for living that renders everything explicable.” “All her desires were for elemental things: love, a little comfort, the society of interesting people. Everyday life is so often isolated, dreary, and lonely. A little craving is understandable. A little craving might actually be the rallying cry for survival.” “I love the inconvenience [of snow] the same way that I can sneakingly love a bad cold: the irresistible disruption to mundane life, forcing you to stop for a while and step outside of your normal habits.” “In autumn, the male drones are sacrificed because they’re no longer of any use, and would otherwise just be hungry mounts to feed.” “Our lives take different shapes: we do not work in a linear progression through fixed roles like the honeybee. We are not consistently useful to the world at large. We talk about the complexity of the hive, but human societies are infinitely more complex, full of choices and mistakes, periods of glory and seasons of utter despair. Some of us make highly visible, elaborate contributions to the whole; some of us are just part of the ticking mechanics of the world, the incremental wealth of small gestures. All of it matters. All of it weaves the wider fabric that binds us.” “We may sometimes drift through years in which we feel like a negative presence in the world, but we come back again, not only restored, but bringing more than we brought before: more wisdom, more compassion, a greater capacity to reach deep into our roots and know that we will find water.” “Usefulness, in itself, is a useless concept when it comes to humans. I don’t think we were ever meant to think about others in terms of their use to us.” “We flourish on caring, on doling out love.” “Winter is a time for the quiet arts of making: for knitting and sewing, baking and simmering, repairing and restoring our homes.” “We sing because it fills our lungs with nourishing air, and lets our heart soar with the notes we let out. We sing because it allows us to speak of love and loss, delight and desire, all encoded in lyrics that let us pretend that those feelings are not quite ours.” “As I walk, I remind myself ot the words of Alan Watts: ‘To hold your breath is to lose your breath.’ In The Wisdom of Insecurity, Watts makes a case that always convinces me, but which I always seem to forget: that life is, by nature, uncontrollable. That we should stop trying to finalize our comfort and security somehow, and instead find a radical acceptance of the endless, unpredictable change that is the very essence of this life. Our suffering, he says, comes from the fight we put up against this fundamental truth: ‘Running away from fear is fear, fighting pain is pain, trying to be brave is being scared. If the mind is in pain, the mind is in pain. The thinker has no other form than his thought. There is no escape.” “The future, to which we devote so much of our brainpower, is an unstable element, entirely unknowable.” “When we endlessly ruminate in these distant times, we miss extraordinary things in the present moment. They are, in actual fact, all we have: the here and now; the direct perception of our senses.” “I’m beginning to think that unhappiness is one of the simple things in life: a pure, basic emotion to be respected, if not savoured. I would never dream of suggesting that we should wallow in misery, or shrink from doing everything we can to alleviate it; but I do think it’s instructive. After all, unhappiness has a function: it tells us that something is going wrong. If we don’t allow ourselves the fundamental honesty of our own sadness, then we miss an important cue to adapt. We seem to be living in an age when we’re bombarded with entreaties to be happy, but we’re suffering from an avalanche of depression; we’re urged to stop sweating the small stuff, and yet we’re chronically anxious. I often wonder if these are just normal feelings that become monstrous when they’re denied. A great deal of life will always suck. There will be moments when we’re riding high, and moments when we can’t bear to get out of bed. Both are normal. Both, in fact, require a little perspective.” “We need friends who wince along with our pain, who tolerate our gloom, and who allow us to be weak for a while when we’re finding our feet again. We need people who acknowledge that we can’t always hang on in there; that sometimes, everything breaks.” “I recognized winter. I saw it coming (a mile off, since you ask), and I looked it in the eye,. I greeted it, and let it in. I had some tricks up my sleeve, you see. I’ve learned them the hard way. When I started feeling the drag of winter, I began to treat myself like a favoured child: with kindness and love. I assumed my needs were reasonable, and that my feelings were signals of something important.” “We tend to imagine that our lives are linear, but they are in fact cyclical. I would not, or course, seek to deny that we grow gradually older, but while doing so, we pass through phases of good health and ill, of optimism and deep doubt, of freedom and constraint.”

#winter #books #quotes #katherine may

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bitchassbackup · 3 years

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Twined: A Soulmate AU

Word count: 1,580

Warning/s: Mentions of death

A/N: Hey lovelies <3 @honeyvbarnes and I worked on this Soulmate AU and we hope that y’all like it! I loved working with my bff and we’ll do it again hopefully <3 enjoy!

Bitchassbucky’s Masterlist

Honeyvbarnes’s Masterlist

When Bucky Barnes died back in 1943, he died knowing that he lived his life without a soulmate.

A bit sadistic, Steve Rogers would say. But Bucky would always counter his friend’s point with, “you see, Stevie when your soulmate gets hurt, you’re the only one who can hear them– at least in your head– and you can help them, you can help them find you,”

“Still, I don’t want someone to suffer just to make a connection with me,” Steve said, ever a gentle-hearted (but strong-headed) person.

“They’re not gon’a. Annoyance is enough for them to create a short connection,”

“What I’m hearing is that I get a pass for annoying you more,”

—

It’s hot. Searing. Humid. The air is so thick, you can almost choke on it.

The beach is filled with people– couples and families mostly and your mind wanders to soulmates.

You never had one and as far as you’re concerned, you’re better off without one.

They never let you in and it seems like they will never let you in.

Not now and not ever especially since the torment of nightmarish inner turmoil had subsided; granted, there are still some night terrors but it doesn’t compare to the pain you felt back then.

You started thinking maybe they were in the army or something of that sort.

Maybe, maybe. What if, what if

That’s your inner turmoil; the boiling water inside the pot.

You weren’t sure where to start looking for them– you spent years trying to get through but you never get as much as a word.

So you gave up.

And not a lot of people give up on their soulmates, at least not the ones who never had to spend literal years of their lives trying to coax out a word out of their loved one.

You wanted to give them warmth not knowing that they dislike the heat.

��-

One fateful summer day changed that though.

—

As Sam Wilson finished packing the car with what he calls ‘beach essentials’, Bucky Barnes had his mind a thousand miles away.

Bucky decided not to answer the question.

—

Giving it a quick thought and then glancing at the beach’s showering station, you decided against splashing around. This is more of a reading day for you.

—

“Ow, what the–” Bucky instinctively put up his arm to protect his eyes when a breeze flew past them, “something’s in my eye.”

—

Fuck.

Fuckity-fuck.

Your eye has been invaded by sand and it feels like it’s scratching your cornea raw. You can think straight, you’re in pain albeit minimal, it’s still pain.

You try to scramble for the bottle of water you kept close for hydration, hoping it will be enough to put you out of your misery, washing out the sand.

—

“Something’s definitely in my eye, Sam, I feel it,” Bucky tries not to squirm so much under Sam’s touch, but the pain feels almost invisible, like it’s not his.

—

Then you feel that magnetic pull again. Stronger this time.

You suddenly remembered the lores and the tall tales of the universe pulling soulmates together, literally, if they were close enough to each other. You try your best not to walk to your left side as the pull dictates.

—

“I just- I gotta check something out,” He said, not knowing where his feet are taking him.

—

You feel your skin prickle as you try not to look behind you. You’re familiar with the tales, the personal anecdotes, how it feels to be pulled towards your literal soulmate.

Bucky just stands in the sand, his eyes not wandering too far from where you’re standing, your back behind him.

Is this it? Is this his soulmate?

What if you hate him? What if you don’t want to be with him?

Bucky’s heart quickens with the thoughts, his anxiety riddles his brain as he tries to come up with something to call you.

When the pull is strong and the bond is unbreakable, rare cases of soulmates knowing each other’s names before they met is attainable.

A single name popped up into Bucky’s head, “Y/N.”

#bitchassbackup

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accidentally-a-writer · 4 years

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Seeing as the requests are reopened,, could you maybe do that one request another anon mentioned before?? The one where washingdad has to put alex out of his misery?? like??? i've been waiting and waiting for that one cuz holy heck that has tons of angst potential hjsakfahjklf But please write whatever YOU feel like writing! both your and stegekay's stories are always awesome!

Thank you so much! You’re absolutely right, this one has TONS of angst potential. Also, thank you for the compliment, Kay and I have just accepted that we share a single brain nowadays. I don’t know if this is exactly it, but it is mercy killing.

...

It’s a gut shot that does it.

Washington doesn’t even find out until the battle is over.

Neither John Laurens nor Alexander Hamilton report back to him. He shouts for them both, and they do not come. It’s an unprecedented occurrence.

The Marquis approaches, he will know. Lafayette is a friend to them both, he thought they might fight close together. George draws up short when he sees the look of grief upon Lafayette’s countenance.

“General, what’s happened?” Washington does not need to ask if something has happened.

Lafayette draws in a gulp of air before even attempting to speak, and when he does there is an unmistakable rawness to his voice. “Hamilton, sir. He- he’s been shot.”

Cold splashes over Washington, invades his very blood. In his ear he hears his own heart pound, it picks up its pace until it is an impossible rhythm, adding to the cacophony of his surroundings.

Hamilton. Shot. Wounded. Dead?

“What?! Where? Where did he sustain his wound?!”

Lafayette cannot hold his gaze, the boy drops his eyes down. “To the stomach sir,” he chokes.

No. No, no it can’t be- that can’t be right. That would mean... that would mean that Alexander is going to- he’ll die.

“Is he alive?” Washington is not sure what answer would be best for him to hear right now; gut shots are excruciating.

“Yes,” Lafayette swallows, “he is in an immense amount of pain, but refuses to take any laudanum yet. They are- John is... John is taking his will.”

Washington clasps a hand over his mouth, scrubbing roughly over it before taking a deep breath and trying to regain his composure. This cannot be real. He’s just a boy.

“Show me,” he finally croaks.

Lafayette obeys him, leading him through the ravaged camp and drawing the entrance back to his own personal tent. Washington does not have to enter to know that Alexander’s been brought here, the boy’s agonized moans fill the space, mingling with his best friend’s torn assurances and attempts at comfort.

He steps in, drawing both their attentions immediately. Laurens stands and salutes, but his eyes speak of only sorrow. Hamilton cannot even try.

He’s covered in his own blood, the tent stinks of piss and vomit and sweat. Bandages cover his otherwise bare chest, soaked through already.

“Your Excellency,” Laurens glances from him back to Hamilton. The boy can’t seem to think of any other words after that.

“At ease.” Washington can only see Alexander, barely coherent, and it is no mercy that he is. Laurens sinks back to his place kneeling next to Hamilton’s bedside, taking his hand in his own. “He is awake?”

“Yes sir,” Laurens looks back at him, despaired. “He doesn’t seem able to speak, they’ve just given him something for the pain. Father Joseph came and his- his will is in order.”

Even with the laudanum it is plain to see that Hamilton is in pain. His muscles shake with it, pulled absolutely taut.

“It is not going to be blood loss that kills him sir,” Laurens whispers. “The bullet nicked his stomach, they said it will be his stomach fluids, and the waste.”

Lafayette looks away, blinking away tears.

An agonizing way to die. It will take hours.

Washington chokes on a lump in his throat and approaches the two. “Does he have any last requests?”

He can’t imagine what would be in the will, Alexander has little in life.

“He wishes to be read to, sir.” As if that will dull the agony ravaging his body. Washington nods his understanding, sinking level with the boy.

“You did well Alexander,” he whispers, brushing a piece of sweaty hair from his face. “You fought bravely, and you’ve done the army and myself proud.”

Tormented eyes find his own and relax for just a moment, before the pain increases once again and rips a choked moan from his aide.

“Scripture or otherwise, take anything from my collection and fulfill his last wish.” Needing an excuse, Lafayette rushes away from the scene to obey the order.

“Sir,” John drops his voice low, conspiratorial. “He asked that I do not dictate this into his will but it is nevertheless his true final request.”

Through the wave of despair and grief Washington feels the slightest tinge of apprehension. “What is it?”

“If, in five hours’ time he has not passed on his own...” Laurens doesn't seem to be able to finish the thought. But Washington knows, in his soul, what’s been asked of the boy. John sobs, just once, clutching his friend’s hand desperately. “The laudanum hasn’t helped sir, he’s in so much pain...”

“Christ Laurens,” he breathes. The boy will do it, he will damn himself for the sake of his friend.

They kill dozens of men, but that is war, and this is murder.

“Look at him,” Laurens cries, “he doesn’t deserve this!”

Washington is already looking though, and through the torture of his own soul he makes a decision; he’ll not see another innocent man damned.

“I know,” he murmurs, his words slow in pace, “and if, in five hours’ time he has not passed on his own... you do not need to worry yourself with his last request.”

John looks up at him, and it is not disgust he sees in his eyes but trust, trust and gratitude.

“Really?”

“Yes, yes I’ll see that it is done.”

John nods, and though he dare not thank the general for such an act he is eternally grateful.

When Lafayette comes back they take turns reading, from the bible and one of Alexander’s many favourite novels. The general is caught in an awful tug-of-war game of wishing Alexander’s suffering to be over and desperately checking that he lives still every moment he falls still a second too long.

Every second is one second closer, and Alexander cannot seem to release himself. Finally, Laurens murmurs something to Lafayette in French, and they both shift.

“A moment, General? To say our goodbyes?” Washington will not deny them anything right now.

He returns when they slip out, both bowing their heads to him solemnly. And then it is just him and Alexander. The boy makes subdued noises of pain, the reading had relaxed him some but not enough.

He sees Washington and the general can see in his eyes that he knows what the general is there to do. He nods his consent, and then is wracked by another wave of agony.

Sweat coats Washington’s palms, his hands shake as he pours the glass of wine. He feels the rest of his body tremble too, and a band stretch over his lungs, suffocating him.

He sits at Hamilton’s side, dipping the mattress under his weight. Hamilton only manages a few sips of the wine, but even so he tries to smile in gratitude. Washington shifts, so that he can hold the boy to his chest.

Alexander is shaking in what can only be misery, but he relaxes minutely against Washington’s chest. He feels the general card his fingers through his hair, choking on his own cries of a different pain as he does so.

“I’m sorry,” Washington whispers into his ear. “For what I must do, and what I failed to do for you.”

“Th’nk you, sir...” Hamilton manages to force out, clutching at Washington’s shirt. Their eyes meet, and once again Washington can see that Alexander wants this.

He does not break that connection as his hand comes to cover the boy’s nose and mouth. Though he does sob, it rips out of his throat on its own volition. He holds his hand there even after Alexander’s eyes flutter shut- he knows, he knows it takes longer- When he is sure he rips his hand away like he is burnt.

And then he holds Alexander until the sun comes up.

#hamilton #hamilton fanfiction #heavy angst #emotional whump #mercy killing #character death #blood #injuries #gunshot wound #alexander hamilton #george washington #john laurens #lafayette #washingdad #writing #prompt response #requests are open

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bridgertonlife · 5 years

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“I think like, in a way, Tony Stark was always fated to die. And… here’s the thing about our culture that’s interesting. A lot of people get upset about that, when I say something like that. But when you’re a hero, your job is to die. That is your job as a hero, is to sacrifice yourself for the greater good. And that’s what we’re trying to teach people in the movie is that you’re either in it for yourself, or you’re in it for the community. And Tony was in it for the community.

And you know, I think again, as a father, it’s very difficult to watch a character like that have to make a decision, knowing that he has to give up his life at the cost of his daughter losing a father and his wife losing a husband. But that’s what heroes do. And they have to make those tough decisions. And only the best amongst us can make those kinds of choices. We should all aspire to be those kinds of people. So that was why I say that I felt like he was fated to die because, you know, our definition of what heroism is, is that. And he was a very complicated and compelling hero.”

Joe Russo (X)

Look, Joe & Co. because this now is adressed to Feige and everyone else at Marvel Studios... Writers, Producers, Directors...

I’ve been looking up to fictional heroes since I was 9 years old in 1992. I started soon, I know. My first introduction into the selfless, willing to sacrifice for the community hero was a 14 years old japanese girl named Usagi Tsukino/Sailor Moon who, like Tony Stark, was very human, far from perfect, but had a heart of gold and was always willing to sacrifice herself, her life, for the greater good. Saving everyone else was always her first goal. I grew up with this story, written by a woman named Naoko Takeuchi and brought into TV in an anime series by Toei.

Look, I don’t need you to teach me what is a HERO and what that hero or heroine is willing to do for the greater good. But the thing you conveniently always forget to teach is that part of that heroism is HOPE, hope in a better future. That’s why Sailor Moon was so willing to die but she always SURVIVED to figh another day. To fight the next fight, filling everyone else hearts with HOPE. And she got HER REWARD in the end, after enduring so much pain and suffering, she got to be the one to maintain humanity’s hope and wellbeing forever with the power of her love, WHILE being a mother and having the family of her dreams. So don’t come here to my house to tell me that another ending for Tony Satrk/Iron Man wasn’t possible, don’t come here to tell me that fightingh for the greater good is incompatible with hope.

Because it isn’t.

I’ve always loved the myth and figure of the hero/heroine. They usually are my favourite characters. Sailor Moon, Xena, Spiderman, Tony Stark... Tthat person who devotes their life and actions to the wellbeing of others.

Look, I even chose to be a doctor in medicine as my career choice. There’s no other profession that compares to be a real hero than that one in REAL LIFE. Could you imagine what the life of a doctor, a person that committs her or his entire life to save other people’s life, to comfort others in sickness... Would be without HOPE? Hope is what guides our everyday duty. Hope is what keeps us going everyday. Hope in science, in our capabilities... HOPE.

You stripped your fictional universe of hope the moment that you decided that Tony Stark should die and end his future as a character just like that. Decided that his sacrifice wouldn’t be rewarded, but punished, as his family is the one paying for it. Giving an ending to his character full of tragedy and hopelessness. You teached us nothing more than despair. That your life of struggles and trying to be better doesn’t deserve a well deserved reward. Only misery.

We didn’t need a fantasy movie to teach us that. Guess what? LIFE is unfair, unrewarding, every step of the way. LIFE IS HARD ENOUGH. If you were in a hospital for a few hours you would know just HOW UNFAIR and UNREWARDING LIFE IS for most people. Children dying at young ages, people with nightmarish illnesses I wouldn’t wish to my worst enemy, children that have stayed the majority of their life living inside an hospital...

That is my everyday life. Living with real suffering, and tears and trying to mostly comfort the human beings when they are at their weakest. Comforting people that’s dying.

Maybe your empty, bullshit words doesn’t permeate my brain because of that. Because I know what true human suffering is and maybe it has taken a toll on me and I’m just owerhelmed with it.

At least we all had fictional worlds like the MCU for awhile, fictional worlds were we had HOPE which helped with our real struggles but now, that HOPE is dead, just like the best fictional hero that I’ve ever loved: Tony Stark. And I will never forgive you all for stripping that character, which meant so much for so many, of his off-screen future in happiness. For killing off that HOPE.

The hope that your struggles get rewarded in the end.

#avengers endgame #talk #tony stark #joe russo #about me

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btgalaxy · 5 years

Text

The Broken Heart Of An Innocent

masterlist

➳ a/n: I hope you enjoy it! - admin soo

➳ genre: angst

➳ pairing: yoongi x reader

➳ word count: 2.7k

warnings: suicide and depression. please refrain from reading if you’re in a fragile state of mind.

Dear Yoongi,

I’ve tried to figure out why you broke up with me for the past few months. I honestly thought at the beginning that this might have been my fault. It was me, after all, that couldn’t have kids. It was me that was different. Even though you made sure that I believe in myself; that I love myself and that I speak for myself, I lost those things when you broke my heart, Yoongi. Did you lose them too?

It isn’t your fault that I am doing this, please do not take it that way. But our break up helped me to realise one thing, I don’t want to live. I never wanted to live. I did live, yes. But why? Did I do it because I had some goals? Or did I do it because society wanted me to? I can only imagine what people are saying now. “She must have been weak, that’s why she killed herself”. Is that what they’re saying?

Or are they understanding of my pain? Of the pain of having this empty void inside my heart? I could feel something, some emotions, only when we were together. I learned what a joy and what a colourful world we have, when we feel things. So now I lost this ability to feel, I am lost. I want to enjoy things, I want to smile at the kids running through water fountains when it’s hot outside. I want to smile whenever I smell my favourite white roses. I can’t. Why?

I’m sorry to the boys, please, take care of them. I’m sorry that I’ve pretended to be better, I just didn’t want them to worry. I know that they wouldn’t be able to forgive you this unless I move on. Please, don’t tell them what really happened. Please, do keep this a secret, and have your family by you. Will you do that?

I’ve organized everything for when you come back, there will be nothing left in the flat, I’ve put some important things in our deposit box, you can give them to the boys, say that I went back to my birth country and that those are the only things that I left behind me. For you, I’ve left you something precious. I don’t know if you’ll want it, but I hope that my thoughts aren’t real and that you still love me. Do you?

I feel sleepy now, so I’m going to finish it quickly. I love you, I thank you for the amazing 2 years, thank you for showing me how life should look like. Thank you for waking up the spark within me, thank you for the dreams I started to have when I met you. Thank you for introducing me to your bulletproof family. Thank you for your...

It was too late to apologise. Mistakes had been made, words had been said. All the hurt that wasn't meant to be given, was not only given but received. A person that should give only love, a smile, warmth to the heart, gave nothing but the feeling of a broken heart.

This endless misery of despair and sorrow should give you pain only, but when your heart is shattered by your soulmate it shows the happy memories; it takes you back to the happiest moments of your relationship, when you both shared your most honest smiles. It tells you the story of how you should be grateful for the love you received. It doesn't tell you to hate, to hide in your feelingless shell. No, it shows you the best moments so you could learn what you've lost.

It shows you how you’ve met, the shy smile that you shared when you both ordered large iced americano at local Starbucks. How he surprised you and came to your table asking, how such a pretty girl orders such dark coffee, to which you replied with the same question. How does such pretty boy order such dark coffee, but, in reality, you wondered how does such a handsome man talk to you? It shows you your first kiss, how his lips touched yours, afraid of you running away from him. Your lips returning his kiss, your tongue slowly opening his upper lip, afraid of going too fast in your relationship.

“You don’t have to force yourself to do something you don’t want to do, darling” was the very first sentence that convinced your heart that this man is worth your trust.

“I need to break up with you,” he said. As if your world didn't break apart the moment words left his lips. He left. He moved on with his life. He decided for both of you, that this is the time. This is the end.

And so, with those words, you thought of the end, of how to end this excruciating pain. Yet, you couldn't force yourself to reach for that blade, for those pills, for the liquid poison that you liked to savour in small amounts.

You were sitting with this emptiness in your heart, in your thoughts, when you heard a knock, a doorbell being rung. You knew you were supposed to leave the warmth of the bubbly water; it is something that is expected of people, after all. To open the door. But at that moment, you honestly couldn’t care less. You lost your light; you lost your will to fight, to live.

So, you sat in that lukewarm water, becoming colder with every passing minute. You wondered if maybe your recent talk had caused it. You knew that this secret of yours would destroy any relationship, yet you decided to reveal it. After all, it was honesty that was the foundation of every good relationship. You wondered if maybe that statement wasn't true; if maybe some secrets should never be revealed.

“I can't have kids. I can't get pregnant.”

When the water became ice-cold you reached the conclusion that devastated you forever. You were the cause of why your world fell apart. Even though he claimed there was nothing that could break his love for you, this must have been the limit of his love. The limit that he’d never met before the obstacle that couldn't be overcome. The Berlin Wall. The Dutch Water Line. The Mount Everest of his love.

His love for you withered away like a flower without light. His dream of being a father was something that always kept him motivated; his dream of telling stories - of making his dreams come true - was something that kept his body going. But when this possibility was taken away from him, he gave up on you. He gave up on your future, he gave up on your heart.

Your ears picked up a slight creaking noise when the heavy entry door was being pushed open and before you took notice of this fact, you heard your name being called throughout the house.

“Y/N!” it wasn’t the voice you longed for; it wasn’t the voice that could glue your heart back together. When your name is being summoned, you’re supposed to answer this call, but the only thing you did was stare at the view in front of your bathtub.

You loved the fact that you lived high up in the building and had a window stretching through the whole length of the wall in your bathroom; it allowed you to appreciate the crystal-clear night sky. The sky seemed to share your pain; stars being covered with the clouds, fighting for their light to shine through the vale of darkness. But when it seemed that the stars might have had a chance to win, the clouds covered their source of motivation; their moon was taken over by the same darkness that covered your heart, the moment you heard those devastating words.

“I don’t love you anymore. It’ll be better for both of us if we end it now.”

He was the one that thought of it. He was the one that decided for both of you. You, on the other hand, weren’t better off without him. You still loved him; he was your light, and you thought it worked both ways. That you were also his light.

“For fuck's sake, Y/N! You answer when someone calls you! Are you okay?” Your brain told you to answer, but your body refused. What’s the need for speech? You have no reason to live. What’s the need to announce that you’re still breathing? What’s the possible reason behind admitting that you’re still alive and in pain?

You felt your hand being taken into another; you saw worried eyes in front of yours. Yet, you didn’t react. You just looked at the face of your dear friend - another reminder of your broken heart. He was not only your best friend, but also you his. You should have felt some kind of emotion, probably negative, but you felt nothing. You went numb. You didn’t want to cry, smile, hug. You wanted nothing. You wanted to disappear from this world and join the stars in their fight. At least they wouldn’t suffer the way you were.

“Y/N.” This time it was a whisper. A warm whisper, an inviting whisper; the kind that brings peace even to the most violent fight. “Why are you in your clothes?”

He hadn’t even noticed the bloody blade next to you, same with the half-empty bottle of vodka. The blade was so close to you, yet so far away. You saw the blood on its ridges and wondered who had a chance to get to it before you. You were the one that wanted to suffer no more. The only thing that you needed to do was to just stretch your hand. But even this simple move was too much for you. Your friend must have noticed that there was no point in trying to cooperate with you.

“Get up, change into new clothes. I’ll take you to bed.”

Instructions were something you could follow, as it turned out a few minutes later when you were being put to bed by your dearest friend, Namjoon. He asked if you wanted him to lie with you, and you must have nodded your head, as he soon held you into his body. You knew it was healthy to cry your sadness out, but it must have been out of your limits, as you closed your eyes and went straight into deep night sleep.

You wandered through the land of Morpheus, dreaming of the future that was now lost, of the happy moments with your three kids. Your dogs chasing after them in the garden through the sprinklers. Then you, sat on the porch with your husband right next to you, your fingers entangled with his, smiles and pride evident on both of your faces. Your heart filled with joy, happiness, love, pure bliss.

Soon enough, though, you had to leave the land you started to love so much, to go back to the cruel reality. In your bed, there was no one. Namjoon must have gone to work; at least that’s what you thought and slightly hoped for. You reached for your phone that was placed yesterday on the nightstand next to your bed. Your stomach reminded you of the desire to eat, so you decided to order something from the place near your house. Jajangmyeon and japchae. Your favourite dishes.

Ten minutes later your food had arrived, so you left your bed in order to get breakfast. That’s when you noticed that Namjoon didn’t leave your apartment. No, in fact, he went even further. He brought the rest of your group. You thought it was your delivery ringing the doorbell, but it was your friends.

“Y/N!” Jimin ran to you and enveloped you in an honest hug. You didn’t return it, you only looked at the hands of Jin that had them full of dishes he must have cooked for you. So, you left Jimin, grabbed the dishes you needed, went to the kitchen for some chopsticks and sat by the table to eat.

“Hey, baby girl, you alright?” this was all you needed to snap. The two words that were reserved for your lover, the cause of your self-hatred, was all you needed to snap. To start screaming, to start the uncontrollable stream of tears going out of eyes.

All of it was such a blur, that until this day you don’t know what you screamed. The only thing you remember from snapping was what happened after it. All 6 of the boys cuddled you, not letting go until your legs gave out. Until your heart brought the sadness it should bring from the beginning. Until your tears dried out, and until your devastating emotions came back alive.

“It’s all my fault.”

“Darling, it isn’t your fault, trust me. It’s even beyond him, he had to do it.” You heard Jin’s voice clearly, so clearly that you felt as if his words were a loud church bell sounding on the Sunday’s morning mass. His words lingered in your thoughts and when you thought that this is the end; that they were gone; that you could let it go, move on, they came back. The thoughts of you being the fault for your unhappiness, the thoughts of him being forced to break up with you because of your circumstances. Because you were different. Because you weren’t normal as every single person around him. They always sneaked their way back to your mind.

You saw your friends almost every day after the breakup. They always made sure for someone to drop by your place in the evening and check on you. Sometimes they’d stay for the night, hugging your body tightly to their chests, talking to you total nonsense to stop you from crying. To distract you.

That’s how you came up with your plan. You decided to make the boys feel good, make them happier, remove this constant worry from their lives. You didn’t want to add to their stresses and worries; you knew what kind of restraint their careers put on them, and you didn’t want to add another problem to the already big pile. You watched them becoming more relaxed around you; you watched them giving you their biggest smiles, whenever they saw a delicate smile on your lips. You watched them going to their own beds at night.

Finally, after a few weeks of this tiring affectation from you, you got the big news. This was actually the first time you felt happy in months. Yes, you pretended to be happy, and you felt relieved when you saw your boys smiling, but what you felt at that moment was pure happiness. You jumped around your room, singing to happy songs, dancing around with wine in your hand and snacks on the table. They were going on tour, finally.

There was still a lot of time before they went, but you’d found endless sources for being happy in front of them, now that you knew they were going away. This only made them feel even better. They were worried for you for the past few months, ever since Yoongi broke up with you. They all tried to convince Yoongi to ask for you back, they all believed that you two together, was what made you both truly happy. That you both were destined to be together. They didn’t understand why he broke up with you. He never told them the true reason behind, always dismissed them with:

“It’s better for both of us.”

Finally, the day came. You’ve met with them the day before, drank some alcohol, wished them luck on their tour and wished them to have many amazing memories to tell you when they’ll come back. And you hugged them. Jimin asked you constantly whether everything is alright, but the only thing you said to him, every single time, was:

“Yes, Jimin. I’m finally happy.”

So you’d prepared everything the same night. The moment they left the country, you’d started to realise your plan. You went to your favourite restaurant, your favourite park, played with dogs at the shelter. You bought your favourite brand of vodka, you took out your pills and ran a warm bath at night, to watch the stars for the last time.

#bts reactions #bts imagines #bts drabble #bts yoongi #bts angst #bts au #bts fanfic #yoongi angst #bts suga #bts writing #admin soo

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vegannightschool · 5 years

Text

Manchester Pig Save

by Connor Thomas

At 4am on a dark & crisp summers morning, the soft gentle chill of the air through my open window carries the sweet songs of the early rising winged creatures. A beautiful start to a day that we had all not been looking forward to. I make a hearty wholesome Tupperware box of porridge for each of us. It’s full of bursting blueberries and zingy ginger, a hug in a bowl for the journey down. Ben arrives at 5:05 and is greeted with an energetic loving smile by all three of the hounds I share a house with. We head to Dale’s house, pick him up and finally set off for Ashton Under Lyme on the outskirts of Manchester.

We give ourselves a small pep talk on the way down, as we drive through parts of the Peak District and witness spectacular sights of low hanging intense clouds on endless rolling hills. As we grow closer to our destination, a grey mist cushions Ben’s Mini through the higher hills. In this bubble of misty thought, we rattle our brains and remind ourselves of why we put ourselves in the spectators’ seat of such immense suffering and how we are going to devour a gigantic hearty breakfast after the vigil. Self-care and the scrupulous planning of it is so important!

We pull up on a terrace parallel to the slaughterhouse. As we take our first step out the car, I feel a sharp chill; this is a re-occurring sensation I’ve found in my own personal experiences of visiting slaughterhouse areas, even on summer mornings. To our right is a high cemented wall around 9ft high with barbed wire. To our left is the ordinary world, a simple terrace that reminds me of the old family house I previously lived in. I wonder if kids still play street football like I used to at home when I was a bairn. If so, are they aware of what happens behind these high walls?

I’ve been holding a pee for a few hours now and the moment we arrive, I quickly say hello to a few of the welcoming faces in high visibility vests before I dart along the riverside to find a secluded spot to relieve myself. Behind the woods, I hear the first sound. It is piercing. It is 8:30 in the morning and we have gone from harmonious birds to deep and fiercely terrified squeals. It is their call for help, for relief. The sound is awful, like a baby screaming in pain. You know you can’t turn your back; you must address that cry for help to alleviate the sound that we ever so naturally respond to. What shocks me most is how hard it is to tell if the cry was human or non-human. The intensity of the orchestra of screams touches every millimetre of my physical structure and I just desperately wait for a crescendo to come and end it all.

It never does. It continues.

Something occurs to me. What if within all the screams, the slaughterhouse workers also cry out for help? They work with unnatural non-human tools - a far cry from the sharpened stone on a long stick, the tools used by our ancestors in times of food urgency. Nowadays we demand workers to use tools such as carousels that rotate through pits of carbon dioxide, flamethrowers so hot they burn every hair from their skin, huge harsh knives that cut through dense twitching protective flesh and penetrating bolt guns that fracture skulls and periodically miss, leaving animals to meet the sharp blade fully aware of their feelings, fellow friends and their unforgiving fate. Do you think this sounds violent? If yes, what does this violence do to the mind of the human holding the tool? Do they ever get caught in these machines or have they become machines themselves?

After ten long minutes, I walk back to the front of the gate. I am told there has already been six trucks enter the yard since the early hours. I can see the backs of the trucks which have the name of the location the pigs have travelled from. Each and every one of them has an obnoxious picture of a happy pig looking out at the drivers who follow the trucks on their long journeys. This is a comforting image to those who have never witnessed the inside of a farm, truck, slaughterhouse or probably even something I had smiled at when I used to eat bacon and sausage. Long journeys they certainly were; each individual had travelled without water or food, packed so tightly that many of them could not lie down at the same time. It took between one to four hours to reach the pigs’ final destination, while the drivers would return within the week with another hot box of snouts.

I look left. The Manchester Pig Save banner is now out of sight, blocked by a colossal three-story high trailer, fitted with small rectangular mesh slats on each level. This sight was a shock to the mind; I had seen trucks like this on videos of American and Canadian pig saves and I had never imagined it happened in the UK on this scale. Now my nostrils are twitching, something doesn’t smell good. This nose filling scent that feels so permanent. Intensified by the heat of many bodies packed so closely together; similar to that of when you’re very ill for days, you feel you need to keep cosy and the minute you lift those covers, you smell the fever inspired body odour arise from the warm depths of your quilt. It is a smell much worse than one can describe with words. Imagine faeces from your toes, up your legs and smothered on your belly as the truck comes to a sudden halt. Your friend accidently crashes their arse into your face. Now with every breath you inhale your fellow beings’ gruesome shit scent. You have no way of getting it off your nose. This confined space is abhorrently different to the woodland you are so used to stewarding, a place where you get to enact your instinct of keeping your toilet far from your sleeping quarters and much further from your snout.

“You use all of your senses when bearing witness at a vigil”. This is what I once heard Alex Lockwood talk about on a podcast about bearing witness. To me this is key, this is reality. It’s not a video filmed by someone else, neither is it your minds ability to use what it thinks is the ‘best guess’ and imagine what the experience would be like. Ask anyone who has been to a Save Movement vigil; their words can describe it so well, yet they’ll all tell you, “you must experience it for yourself”.

Back to the gates. This first truck I see is lively. The pigs look out from their confined space with searching eyes that are focused curiously on our high visibility vests, voices and video devices. At Tulip meats, the Manchester Pig Save group have an agreement that they can spend five minutes with the animals before they enter the facility. This helps us a lot and we bring pop up stools with us so we can peer into the lowest slat that usually sits around head height - this is how we gather the footage that we want to share with people. It’s also how we get to see the individuals for who they are within their confinement. It is smallest act we can do, to share their story and show them love.

The horn of the truck blares and my body suddenly becomes tense. I feel a hollowness within this stressed structure. I feel like a strong wind could blow into me and fill this empty space to such a volume that I just blow away into the grey sky, like a balloon left unattended by a distracted child. I look around at the people I’m bearing witness with. Some are in tears; others are looking deeply into their own minds and emotions. I look for a cue from Ben or Dale to see if they would want to talk about that first truck full of curious snouts. We come together and check if we’re all alright, embracing each other in a tight heartfelt three-way hug.

As we let go and share our experience within our trio, I see a car swinging in. A mother dressed in a nurse’s uniform dropping off three young men. They head into the facility for another regular day of processing. I wonder which area they work in as this plant is huge! Do they work with the tall gas cylinders that fuel the screams? How about the kill floor a real life house of horror containing the carousel of pain that spins continuously, turning life into death? The ‘process’ in this plant takes inquisitive trusting pigs and transforms them into a commodity through a process that not many people would be willing to do or witness themselves. I, along with every activist within the non-violent Save Movement have only compassion for these people. It didn’t start like that for me though. I think of how angry I was attending my first save. I blamed the workers. I now realise that this is the wrong orientation to have. If you’re feeling stuck in this rut, remember it’s not the people we are fighting, it’s the oppressive system that Melanie Joy coins as “Carnism”. Workers, animals and our planet are all under the oppression of this powerful ideology.

Twenty minutes pass, another truck indicates its intended route into the plant. We approach the right-hand side of the truck, set up our stools to give us the extra foot we need to peer in and this time we bear witness to something different. These pigs don’t look at us; they don’t even seem to know whether we exist or if they themselves exist. All we can see are either wide scattered eyes or closed eyes along with heavy breathing, like zombies from an apocalypse film. This trailer is filled with misery. There are scratches, wounds, blood and shit all over the pigs. Most of them seem to have deformities on their bodies, they simply look either unconscious or completely unhappy and unnatural. I jot in my notebook that they seem to have no perception of anything but their own bodies, crashing around and pushing each other with their heads held low. Are they aware of what is coming, or have they come from one of the 85% of UK standard intensive pig farms? The epitome of ultimate despair.

As this truck leaves, I spot the driver hosing down the now empty insides of the trailer in the cleaning section. He departs after switching his now wet and faeces covered t-shirt. Just as he leaves, we see two other trucks flashing their indicators in the direction of the slaughterhouse gates. The first smaller truck of the two standing at two stories high drives straight in as the security must clear the busy road for the next truck, which is huge. I approach the second truck. I look up from my position at the side of the truck and see four levels of this ginormous structure. I then glance through more mesh and witness a mixture of lifeless looking bodies and frantic searching eyes in this first level.

I think of my dear friend Lesley, who has been to a vigil here before. She told me to talk, sing and vibrate with love towards these creatures who have probably never known this feeling before. Suddenly I feel a state of shock and find myself gazing into a pair of blue eyes that are looking directly back at me. Connected by this glance, I feel the urge to sing words to this individual and that’s exactly what I do. The ever so slight sense of embarrassment you may feel singing to a pig in the back of a slaughter truck suddenly disappears. Along with everything else except those blue curious eyes. It is a moment in which you realise that you are giving this pig a comfort it has never known in its life before.

The horn blares.

My chest is tight.

It’s not raining Connor.

Those are your tears.

As this truck pulls into the yard, my emotions overwhelm me due to this connection with the eyes of the individual. Those eyes I will be able to recall in every animal I meet. What the fuck can I do? I walk through the crowd of activists, straight to the riverside as the waterfall of emotions floods from my eyes. Frustration gets the better of me and I can feel the heat of anger arising. As this heat arises within me, I feel the cool calming hand of Dale on my right shoulder. Followed by Ben’s to my left. My eyes begin to dry up as we take a stroll through the thin line of woodland that surrounds the tall slaughterhouse walls.

Another six or seven trucks have come in the time we are present.

Now the worst part of a vigil is upon us. Here comes the abrupt return to reality on the other side of the wall. We came closer when you were in pain. We stayed with you when you were afraid. We wish we could watch over you, all through the night. Remember that every day, we’ll never give up the fight.

We walk from the back and head to the front. We gather our things and leave at 12:30. We’re heading straight to Manchester to fill up on some tasty delights at a rainbow beauty of a café named: Boho Utopia! We fill ourselves up on a full English breakfast and a mega chocolate, peanut butter & banana cake milkshake. We’re heading home now. What a day.

I can only try again from my own experience to describe the sensory circus that occurs when you walk to the back of the slaughterhouse. These words come to me at that moment in time, you may have a different experience:

Screams. Terror. Pain. Dominance. Burning. Crying. Witnessing. Helplessness. Hopelessness. Damage. Violence. History. Shock. Fire. Anger. Rage. Suffering.

The afore list of words is the dark side to describe the reality of a vigil. I’m going to share a different list of words now, under the title of; ‘How you feel when you talk to people who stand side by side with you at The Save Movement’.

Inspired. Committed. Fulfilled. Hopeful. Happy. Fair. Joyous. Connected. Warm. Calm. Loved. Empathetic. Caring. Truthful.

I want you to add to this list, your own words that come to mind when you think of an animal vigil. Let us tell everyone why bearing witness is one of the greatest things you can do in your life! You can simply think of these in your head or share them on Facebook, Instagram or under this Tumblr post. I’ll get you started with a few easy ones:

Tea. Cake. Coffee.

#vegan #activism #veganism #animals #pig #pigs #savemovement #witness #protest

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bd-steelyfam · 5 years

Text

As Dan stands there, trying to call out his friend’s name, a battle ensues inside the beast’s head.

“Give up already,” Devo says, eyebrows knitted, “you'll know how this will end."

"How?" The snake faces his master, looking disinterested. "You're the one who wanted me to be here, you fool. It was kind of me to have gotten inside your dumb brain and help you. The only way this will end is with me finally being one with this body.”

"Humans are always like that.... when they needed someone, they asked for their help, and after they are helped, they threw away their helper." He sighs, mimicking a sad face.

Devo growls in disgust.

“LEAVE ALREADY!” He shouts. “You have brought nothing but pain to everyone here, you wretched snake!”

“Remember, you wanted this,” the snake hisses, clearly looking upset, “you wanted me to end the suffering inside your heart. This is why I helped you, for you are me, and I am you.”

”CUT THE “YOU ARE ME” BULLSHIT!! YOU ARE ONLY HERE JUST TO TAKE CONTROL OVER MY HEART AND GET RID OF ME!!”

“I won’t. Remember, I am in control of your heart, right? I am the puppet master, controlling your mortal body into doing what you had wished. I shall do whatever it takes to make him give a proper answer.”

Devo shouts. “You didn’t hear him, dumbass?! He said he-”

“You know how you humans are,” the snake sighs, disappointed, “when they are afraid, they will agree with anything their attacker says in order to not get assaulted anymore. They are very horrifying, but they are cowardly as well.”

“You, Master, are of course one of them, as you are a human as well.”

Devo falls silent, gritting his teeth.

Attacker? How dare he-!

Talking back at him won’t result in anything. This snake is a terrible, horrible demon. Not only he is extremely terrifying and powerful, he also has a clear grasp on what to say next.

The snake moves his head towards his master, clearly taunting him. “You wished for this to happen, Master. We forged a contract; I can do whatever I want, as long it means to get rid of the turmoil inside your heart.”

Devo becomes stunned.

“Regardless of what Dan had said to you, this is all clearly your fault. You wished, and I gave. You hated the fact that you loved him... and this complicated your turmoil. Even though you envied him, you cannot bring yourself to hate him. You hated him because you loved him.”

“You‘ll never become as happy as Dan, Master. You’ll feel jealousy as long as he is present.... for he is the source of it.”

Silence envelops the assassin’s subconscious.

“You get what I’m saying, right?” The snake hisses. “You’re not THAT dumb, right?”

Another round of silence.

“The only way I can fulfill your wish is by eliminating him.”

And another silence.

Even though there are no spoken words, it feels dreadful.

“.....”

“Looks like you finally understood.” The snake remarks. “So now, do me a favor and stop getting in my way, will you? I’ll finally be able to leave y-”

Just when he is about to tighten his grip on his master’s heart, a voice interrupts.

“....so what, huh?”

Envy slithers, clearly angry at his interruption. “What’s what? Be more specific,”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Devo mutters, cringing at the fact that he agreed with something the snake says. “I am jealous of him. I envied everything about him. His voice is smooth and pleasing to hear, unlike mine, hoarse and deep. He is able to dress comfortably, while I was forced to wear heavy armory everyday. He is able to spend time with his children whenever he wants, but everyday I was sent to the front lines in war, forcing me to ignore my own son and loosening our bond.”

The snake’s eyes widen.

“In fact, I was supposed to hate him, according to what you said.”

“You finally get it!” The snake laughs, stretching his neck to get closer to his master’s face. “Yes, YES! You are to despise him, Master! He is the reason of your suffering and you should destroy him!”

Devo still puts on his straight face.

“That wretched rat is the reason why you lived in despair for years! The reason why you mourned more after your son’s death, the root of all your turmoil and suffering, is him, ALWAYS HIIIM!!”

The assassin doesn’t move.

“Now then, now that you have accepted me as your savior, let us proceed with-”

“Do I look like I have finished talking?”

The snake looks at him in confusion. “Huh?”

“Everyone envies someone,” Devo starts, “whether it’s their family member, or their peer, or their own significant other. They will find something that is better than them, and uses it as an excuse to make themselves feel jealous.”

“Of course-”

“Some humans decided not to forget about their jealousy. They found their own selves too hopeless and useless to do anything to get better and damned themselves because of it. They decided to live like a sewer rat, clinging onto other’s lives like a parasite.”

The snake falls silent.

“While some humans decided to do anything, everything, to become the best. They fought, killed, even laughed at other people’s misery to fill the gap in their heart that their own envy made. They made other people suffer, so that they would be higher than them.”

The snake stops sticking out his tongue.

“But there are other humans who did not want to choose between the two.” He says, emphasizing with his clenched fists, “They accepted the fact that the people they envied are better than them, and still look up to the future normally. They didn’t live in despair or wrath. They knew that they won’t surpass them and lives peacefully, content with their life.”

The snake doesn’t laugh anymore, and instead is trying to come up with words to refute his master’s words.

“Y-you-”

“You get what I’m saying, right?”

The assassin inhales deeply, before stating his next words.

“I, Devo the Cursed, am not going to choose between the two anymore.”

The snake moves backwards, his grip on his host’s heart not giving away. He looks very scared, terrified even, as if he has witnessed his own demise. In fact, he is about to witness his own demise as Devo continues talking.

“No, that’s wrong..!” The snake hisses, trembling. “You’re incorrect-!”

“I acknowledged this after a long time while you are here.” Devo says, “trying to get rid of our my jealousy is not going to work… as jealousy is a natural part of every human being’s life.”

“N-no...!”

“Humans will always want to be stronger and better than their peers.” He continues, walking towards the snake slowly. “Some of them continued to try their best to surpass other people without looking at the side effects, while the others accepted the fact that they are bland and normal, not pushing themselves forcefully to exceed their own unrealistic expectations.”

“You can’t....!”

“You don’t have to be a famous or strong or smart person to be able to live in harmony in this world. As long as you have accepted yourself, then you would be happy no matter what you do. For example, what’s the point of being a monarch if you’re still not satisfied and pushed by your own desire to be higher than you are now?”

“Stop it..!”

“It was never Dan’s fault to begin with. I am the one at fault, treating his better lifestyle as an excuse for me to envy him. He is genuinely trying to befriend me, while I’m here, being all cocky and wanting more from him.”

“No... that’s-!”

“Because of you, Dan, I’m able to become stronger. I finally realized that humans don’t always have to be the best. As long as we are satisfied with ourselves, we can create the future and decide it by ourselves.”

Then, he points a finger at the snake with a determined face.

“You,” The assassin shouts, startling the snake, “are no longer needed anymore, as I have realized my mistakes and accepted my current self. So, I cannot be so selfish of myself... I can look up to the future and leave the past behind, for I have gotten over them.”

“This can’t be it....” The snake screams, tongue sticking out, “THIS CAN’T BE IIIIIT!!!”

“NOW, YOU CAN NOW GO TO THE DEPTHS OF HELL FROM WHERE YOU CAME FROM, FOR YOU HAVE NO PURPOSE IN THIS WORLD ANYMORE!!”

“YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO FEEL ENVY TOWARDS HIIIIIIM!!!”

Then, Envy screams, clutching his head with his claws.

#this is it everyone.#jjba #castlesandcastesevent #the snake of envy #devo #haji.doc

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catlady1986 · 6 years

Text

@secret-treasury Prompt: "It was always you" (optional Reincarnation AU)

Hope this is okay, can’t really brain properly lately from working and getting settled into my apartment. Some slight Gladnoct at the end cause it’s me and that’s how I roll.

It was always you who I was destined to protect, yet every time we meet I fail you.

The first time we met you were my prince and I your shield. It was my birthright and duty to keep you safe and mold you into something grand. Yet it was you who protected me and the world by sacrificing yourself to end the darkness.

The second time we met you were a civilian and I a cop. There had been a hostage situation and I was helping some of the released captives escape when one of the gunmen broke free from being restrained, proceeding to grab his hidden weapon to shoot me in the back. It was you again who saved me, grabbing the gunman’s hand and getting a bullet to the stomach for your effort. I held you as you slipped away from the world, a tender smile on your face as you spoke listlessly.

“I’m glad I got to meet you again. And to protect you, Gladio.”

The third, fourth, and fifth times all followed the same terrible pattern. I began to grow tired of remembering you only to lose you mere seconds later, to not being able to do the duty I had sworn to do all those centuries before. It was like I was cursed to suffer the never-ending cycle of you sacrificing yourself and me wallowing in misery alive.

Then there was the sixth.

I was waiting at a street corner for the light to change and once it did you began walking across from me. Our eyes met and everything came flooding back all at once. But the sound of a horn blaring snapped us both back into the real world, with an out of control car barreling down the street. It felt as all of my past selves gave me a giant push forward as I leaped to you. The last things I remembered before everything went black was that it was always you who had protected me from harm, but now I was able to fulfill my duty and be the one who got to save you.

Noct.

A seventh reawakening took place and panic set in as I looked at you from across the train, your eyes filled at first shock then woe. Had I not done what I sought to do all those times before? Was I still to be cursed watching you die? Or had I caused a shift and now you were the one to be in my place? You flash a tentative smile at me and close your book, standing up and walking over to take a seat across from me. Your blue eyes seem to sparkle in the light that pours in through the windows and become even more vibrant as your smile widens.

“Hey.”

“Uh, h, hi.”

The rest of the ride went by with the only catastrophic thing being me spilling my energy drink over my schoolbag and you laughing at me as I fumbled for my phone. I received your number that day that lead to the happiest life I could have ever imagined and hoped for. Finally, there was no more despair or feelings of failure, just happiness and love. For you and me, always.

#gladio write prompt #final fantasy xv #gladiolus amicitia #noctis lucis caelum #gladnoct #death #reincarnation #au #small ficlet #i mean really small #kinda sad #but happy ending

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dirtyages-blog · 6 years

Text

TrashOpera and break for Garbatising

{Soliloquy of Ludovico Trashenberg, ordinary member of Cockrats colony}

From dust we are born

To dust shall return

Journey of life

Awaits final turn,

In cosmic timeline

Its as brief as a flash

So I better rush

Raising pile of trash!

Competition for waste <wealth>

Is ultimate drive

At dirty-age phase

Of evolution of life,

It justifies

Any means to an end:

Hypocrisy, lies,

Harm to environment.

More garbage we get

More happy we’ve got

It’s as evident fact

As existence of God,

Countless piles

Are everywhere

But they are not mine!

Why fate is unfair?

I have intention

To reach success

I’d sell soul to Satan

Along the path

I never question

The direction I steer,

I follow the revelation

Of sacred voice which i hear

{Ludovico’s antennas start perceiving electric signal conveying speech}

Cocorats tune in!

To brain-polluting machine,

Clear mind is cardinal sin

In congregation of dirty regime,

Let ceremony of media stream

Into transmitters begin!

{STANDING OVATION burst as background noise of broadcast}

Flow of junk information

Is filling up your head

With simple explanations

Of difficult questions you have,

It carries conventional wisdom

About everything

Liberating from stress of decisions

And heavy effort to think,

Worries, doubts and pain

Will fade away

While you are entertained

By fairy tale,

We keep tradition

From ancestors in past

To bow in submission

To broadcast

Everything you should know

Comes from media net

Welcome to

Holy Propaganda Show

I’m your host Dictatorat

{Again STANDING OVATION, they rise and fade permanently during further broadcast, sometime other emotion appear resembling sitcom style}

Nature of Cocorat

Is trash pursuit instinct,

Clean environment is threat

To become extinct,

Long time ago,

Writes divine constitution,

God blessed this world

With global pollution!

Than our spices

Appeared for mission

To errect Trashopolis city

In these perfect conditions.

Prophets obtained

Derelict map

Which led the way

To island of dump,

Here God proclaimed

“Be junkful and multiply <fruitful>

You are going to reign

Over garbage you occupy!

Drag as much as you can

To this holy spot

To represent

Your love of God!

I’m gona rest

I’m already exhausted

But divine interest

Will be reinforced,

I put in charge government

To control the lab

Of sacred experiment

Which i set up,

Better comply

With righteous behavior

Providence eye

Maintains surveillance,

You are conditioned

To feel reward

When electric stimulation

Convey word of God!

Dictatorat

Will give proclamation

On my behalf

Standing Ovation!

Sermon today

Is going to preach

Virtues way

To get filthy rich!

There are in the wilderness

Treasures of waste

They wait hunter-gatherers

Of Tresheism faith!

Hurry up and move on

Into adventure

Bankorats bestow loan

To make trip arrangements,

Sail across

Pollutic Ocean

Avoding predators

With extreme caution,

Walk through the beach

Of the coursed land

Where’s no more garbage

Just palm trees and sand,

Follow the sign

Showing the course

Directly to mines

Of trecious resource,

Start digging and grab

As much as you can

After come back

Again and again

At the wild dumpster

Remember to pray

There are many monsters

Along the way

Countless scavengers

Have fallen on dirty alley

Carrying garbage

From the junk valley,

Dangers and troubles

Of Odyssey

Are nothing compared

To wealth you’ll receive

When you arrive

To Treshopolis border

Hardly alive

With post traumatic disorder,

Count the profit

You completed ordeal

After you settle

Bankorats dial.

{SIGN: Dirty Business District}

{Cocorats have to return the loan + interest to Bankorats, after this transaction is done they are left almost with nothing}

{Cocorat#1}

In Cocorat race

I compete and compete

But cant satisfy my ambition and greed

{Cocorat#2}

Life in Treshopolis is hard and unfair

I’m approaching edge of despair

{Cocorat#3}

I’m getting tired and sick

My pile is too humble to invite chick

{Dictatorat keep delivering proclamation}

Misery is essential

Part of this world

I offer salvation

To those who reach God

I have a dream

This dream

Is deeply rooted

In Trashopolis dream,

That one day

We’ll retire

From heavy working routine,

And go for vocation

To infinite amusement park

For eternal duration

And not coming back!

Various rides

Are everywhere you can see

Without lines

And entrance is free!

We are gona waste

Time just for leisure

On garbage surface

Too large to measure,

Gratification and pleasure

Are permanent at this place,

Im evidently talking about

The promise land

Which is above on the cloud

Heaven-Paradump!

I envision the day

When suffering stop

Once we build stairway

To climb on top,

And encounter God

On the gate

If you are Cocorat

Who wants the admission

You must work hard

On construction mission

Only dirty labour

Is pass to get in

Lord our slaver

Denies those who stay clean!

I roar to call

Each Cocorat

With impure soul

And sewage in blood,

Your saint obligation

To join building process

And give for donation

All garbage which you posses,

Your great sacrifice

Is gona be justified

As soon as we rise

Pile of trash to the sky!

Follow what you’re told

Because the story is true

We would never use mind control

To take advantage of you.

Holy Propaganda Show

Finishes this episode

Return to slavery work

In the name of God

{Standing Ovation}

{Cocorat#1 in the street}

Similar story

Plays everyday

I start to worry

If we ever complete stairway

{Cocorat#2 replies}

It waits as ahead

You must believe

Dictatorat

Wouldn’t deceive,

You better trust

His prophesy

Or get accused

In clear views heresy

{Cocorat#1}

Yes you are right

I concluded in rush,

Somewhere hides

Pure souls sabotage!

What’s your esteem

How long is delay?

{Cocorat#2}

Just follow routine

God works in mysterious way!

Why do you always think

If there is nothing you know?

Answers on everything

Are in Holy Propaganda Show

While it entertain <us>

All problems are gone

Finish complain

And turn it on!

{Cocorat#1}

Again, you are right!

I’ll ignore contradictions

And let holy scriptures

To be my guide!

Life is complex

Why analyze?

If I can relax

And get hypnotized,

I’ll mindlessly flow

In media feed

And play humble role

In class pyramid,

While noble elite

Take care of my need!

They are entitled

To fruits of my labour

But I should be grateful

For crumbs from their table

{Cocorat#2}

I have explanation

For this situation

Poor will be first

In the line for salvation

{Both look at each other bewildered / dazed and confused, alike they are satisfied with this explanation, but its obviously something is wrong with it, but they can’t admit it to themselves}

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Masterpiece Of Trash (@dirtyages) on Jul 29, 2018 at 12:32pm PDT

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doomedandstoned · 3 years

Text

Discarded Self Cooks Up a Simmering Stew of Dread in Foreboding Debut LP

~By Billy Goate~

Album Art by Thahir M

Flooding forth with misery and hate comes the first album from Discarded Self... Created during a time of personal isolation, the album ranges from tales of the macabre to introspective trips into self-loathing and personal degradation that dredge up terrible memories of the past to drown in personal regret. There is no hope for the future here.

Thus speaks the introduction to this self-titled debut from DISCARDED SELF, the brainchild of one Jarret Beach. Nestled on the border of Alberta and Saskatchewan in the small city of Lloydminster, Jarret has been jamming on bass with Ashes of Yggdrasil and fronting Destroy My Brains on vocals and guitar since at least 2014. It was the pandemic that drove him inward and inspired him to write this harrowing opus -- an album that erupts with pitch black sentiment, exploring unhappiness, hardship, and distress through several different lenses.

"I Smell Pipes" sets the record in motion with devilish growls over a searing guitar lead. The song becomes increasingly emotional with dissonant harmonies. Whether intentional or not, the drums sound muted, giving it a dank, low-fi feel throughout. The emphasis seems solidly on the riffage, which is all fine by me, though some listeners may wish for a more spacious approach. For full effect, turn those speakers up high!

"Orbitoclast" follows next with a strumming opening and jarring amp feedback. When the vocals join, it's a sludge moshfest ala Iron Monkey and Chained to the Bottom of the Ocean. The guitar is clear, dark, and menacing, and it contrasts with the harsh singing effectively. There are burts of frenetic grinding, with fevered drumming from Joaden Paluck (Destroy My Brains, Wrought) joining Jarret's fire and brimstone riffing. The song ends with clip addressing depression and the danger of suicide, from some old training video in a rather clinical tone.

"Push The Knife" is the longest track of the album, opening with death-soaked drumming (this time with Brett Steward from Ashes of Yggdrasil on the skins) and solemn doom chords that become increasingly animated, finally spilling over in a torrent of blackened tremeloes. The instruments pause long enough for Jarret to proclaim, "I'm barely being held together...fuck this life." The lyrics contemplate the misery of one's existence and the utter despair of realizing: I could really end it all. Having been there, I can identify with practically every word of this song. Also, I'm picking up on a Buzzov*en vibe here, with Jarret's raspy, metallic vocals drawing us into the hardship of the subject quite well. It's as though the pain of depression has gradually worn away at his person, transforming him into this savage beast before us. The sonic mix on this track does a decent job of accommodating the swirling array of death, doom, and black metal styles without sounding too thin and distant.

"On The Unlevel" is another 10-minute monster, with death-obsessed lyrics (this time, it seems, from the perspective of the oppressor). It takes on the mess of politics and policing, though at times I had trouble distinguishing between rage against the system and actually taking revenge on one's enemies. In some sections, I'm reminded of Eyehategod and their propensity for simple, melodic guitar motifs. The drums are especially pronounced here, a collaboration with Daden Paluk (Destroy My Brains). About 7-minutes in, a solitary bass announces the fiery coda, which grinds down on the words "This is what you get, greedy piece of shit." There are some maniacal screams mingling in the backdrop that made me think of a human being who's finally snapped and will no longer be trodden over.

"I'm Weak" is my favorite of the record, beginning as it does with those grim downward steps, followed by irradiated crooning grungy milling. The song is about living with guilt, shame, anxiety, and self-loathing while in isolation. For many of us, nothing felt more like solitary confinement than those unending weeks in lockdown, which forced some to come face to face with what they hated most about themselves. "I'm not well, in my cell, in my tomb, crying for doom" Jarret sings. A headbanger for damned sure.

"Cultist of the Pentagram" wisely picks up the pace with a tonal shift from self-pity towards an imagined deity from some dark dimensions, perhaps Cacus of Roman Mythology ("I am your Caco god"), who was said to be the fire-breathing son of Vulcan -- and a giant at that (eventually taken down by Hercules). Regardless of the cultist's identity, it is a most interesting lyrical theme and I found myself easily pulled into the narrative. Musically, this pure sludgey, grindcore!

"Abused (e)Motionless" turns our attention to the victim of treachery, attempting to see the word through their eyes. An interesting mix of circular, grinding guitar and drums, with slow, doomy progressions, and venomous vocals (which remain omnipresent throughout).

Finally, we arrive at the conclusion of this stormy, angst-filled journey. "Dance Upon The Dead" established a gentle arpeggiated acoustic theme, which is frequently interrupted by a crashing guitar and drum combos, until vocals join in with their usual corrosive fashion. This time, we're dealing with a true doomer, full of mordant chords and deep, emphatic bass notes. Jaden is up once again for drumming duties and executes his role with taste and tact. The song develops with increasing variation and intensity as it goes along. I thought of Grief as I listened, a band that also traffics in fierce, hot-blooded, sludgey doom action.

No doubt, Discarded Self is an enormous work and may be taken in doses on first spin. It will mean even more to the suffering, as I can imagine it being quite a cathartic listen for those who feel trapped, maligned, and in dire straits. Overall, a welcome entry from a prolific and highly motivated artist who does an admirable job collaborating with his drumming compadres. I can only imagine the beast that Discarded Self will become when the Lockdown is lifted for good and public performances become a viable option in Canada and places beyond.

Give ear...

Discarded Self by Discarded Self

An Interview with Discarded Self

By Billy Goate

How would you describe the vocal approach to the songs on this record?

After recording the guitars and bass to a programmed click track, I soon realized the song arrangements had some real potential to be something aggressive and memorable so I went for my first run of lyrics on a song. I wrote the lyrics for the song "I'm Weak" before I even had any drums (which is something I almost never do) and I wanted to record them since I was really feeling the flow and ideas I had for delivery, but it was too late at night and everyone in my house was asleep. So I decided to do a little practice vocal run in a quiet voice. When I do metal vocals in a quiet voice for practicing and stuff, I use kind of an evil Satyricon-Dopethrone black metal kind of voice. It's easier on my throat than my normal hardcore Destroy My Brains full blast screaming, and it helps me lay down my ideas without any type of voice damage.

You collaborated with a number of drummers on this release. How did you work in tandem with them during the Great Lockdown of 2020 and what impact did it have on the final outcome of your tracks?

After I recorded my idea, I sent the track to the drummer of the track Rob, and he said he really dug it. I told him those weren't the real vocals and I would do the real ones in a day or two after I practiced them a bunch and got my delivery down. But when the time came to lay it all down, I had the practice voice stuck in my head and when I tried to lay down my normal vocals, it sounded weird because I was already used to the way the black metal style vocals sounded. So I decided to give what was once my quiet practicing voice a try, and record the full song in that style. It blew me away when I was all done, so I decided to change up my idea and use this vocal style for the whole album. I really like it.

Talk about the artwork. It's a tremendous piece! Really stands out.

After that it was time to go on the hunt for some artwork. Almost as soon as I started looking, an artist I follow, Thahir M, put up a piece called "Monster Hunt" and I immediately knew that was the artwork I needed to represent the project. A very powerful giant demon with dragons flying above almost like a World War II photograph with the fighter planes littering the sky. It took me about a second and a half to rapidly fire him an offer on the art before someone else snatched it. That is where the album art came from. I actually used this art as inspiration while I was recording almost all of the vocals on this album. As I recorded them I would stare at the image of the art and try to imagine I was a demon soldier in that army. I already had the lyrics memorized, so I didn't need to read them as I recorded them.

I'd venture to guess that a lot of us assume one-man bands are just wunderkinds, you know, born with all this multi-instrumental talent. Were there areas you found particularly challenging for you as you sought to bring your vision to life?

I am not a drummer. I suck real bad, and I probably won't ever practice enough to ever record anything so I needed some drummers. I had this idea of using all of the best metal drummers in my city, and it would kind of help bring the scene together a little bit. 3 of the drummers I wanted to get, I was already in bands with, so that was easy, and the last drummer was a guy with some serious skills and creative talent, plus he had his own drum recording setup.

I ended up getting all the guys I wanted on the project which were, Jadan of Destroy My Brains, Rob the drummer of Ashes of Yggdrasil, Brett the lead guitarist of Ashes of Yggdrasil (who also plays drums), and BJ from the band Dahlmers Realm. I couldn't really be more happy about it. So every time I would finish my guitars on a track I would send them off to the guys with a click, and let them stew on ideas. Slowly the ideas came in and we got them all recorded. I was really impressed with what the guys came up with and we worked and tweaked the ideas until they all felt perfect.

It sounds like a very meticulous process!

Almost every time I got the final drums and guitars all together I would stay up for days with almost no sleep writing lyrics furiously, and perfecting my delivery for the songs. The last song Dance Upon the Dead, I actually stayed awake for about 30hrs, writing and recording. I even blew my voice out real bad, but I have a real stupid and bad habit of fighting through it and I finished the song with a pretty buggered up voice. (it just adds to the torment).

What's the benefit to writing metal as an independent musician-composer, compared with being in a band?

The best part of this project was I did it all in my studio at home, and I didn't have to change any of my mixing ideas because other band members did not like it (not that that is a bad thing having extra input or anything). So this album turned out 100% how I wanted it to sound. I went with a less is more approach, and didn't really do a lot of processing on the instruments to get the sounds I ended up with.

You initially were sharing songs as you created them. What kind of response did you get from your tracks early on?

As I completed songs, I would release them on Bandcamp and YouTube, and I set a goal to have one completed every two weeks until the release date I set, which was Jan 15th, I believe. The day I released "Orbitoclast," is where everything changed and I started receiving a ton of positive feedback. "Orbitoclast" was only the second song released, so I was really getting excited to pump this project out.

I was only about two or three weeks away from my release date when I was contacted by Piers Andersen from Cvlt Legion, and he said he is starting a record label called Sarcophagus Recordings and he asked if I wanted to be his first band. I didn't even need to think about it, because I knew he was a part of Cvlt Legion and those guys promote bands at a ridiculous rate, so I went for it. He wasted no time and he had me pull all my material down from Bandcamp and YouTube, so he could properly promote the album. We changed the date to April 30th, and he went to work promoting the album. He is good, he's had me on more sites and pages than I even knew existed, and we've even done a pile of interviews which I enjoy doing.

What did you learn from diving headfirst into such an ambitious first record?

All and all, this project taught me a lot, and I do believe I have further evolved my songwriting and recording techniques for the better, so it was a real good experience, and I've also learned more about the promotional side of music which is really important if you want anyone to hear your stuff. I hope everyone enjoys this album, and you can expect to hear another album from this project in the future as I'm already at six rhythm sections written for another album.

Let's close by getting into the specific breakdown of the album's songs.

1. I Smell Pipes

Discarded Self by Discarded Self

The opening track of the album is actually written about a close friend I used to have when I was younger. It is describing a short chapter of his life, which in turn was the end of his life. He was a good friend but became a fiending drug addict "I Smell Pipes" was actually a quote he used to say when he would arrive at a party, and it signaled for all of the other crackhead/jib users to go into a room a light up rock and crystal all night. What started off as what he called fun recreational drug use, turned into full on lying, cheating, stealing, robbing, rock bottom living on the streets drug use. He passed away with a needle in his arm banging speedballs.

I wrote the song with more fun style riffs, because that was the last thing I remember about him before he disappeared and wound up succumbing to his chemical addictions. He used to be a fun guy. Hard drugs are no joke, there are only two ways it will go for you, if you want to live that kind of life. The lucky ones go to jail and sober up. The unlucky ones die, or live a long time as a worthless drug fiend. If you are having trouble with addictions, talk to someone and seek help. The alternative is more than most likely going to be a coffin. I wrote this song with a heavy heart, and it was really hard to record the lyrics.

2. Orbitoclast

Discarded Self by Discarded Self

The song "Orbitoclast" is a collection of riffs and vocal ideas I actually started this project with. It starts off slow, but gets straight down to it with a thrashy section that has shredding vocals bleeding all over it. For those that aren’t aware, an orbitoclast is the instrument that is hammered into a person’s brain, when they were the poor individual who received a lobotomy in the late '40s early '50s. The song is of course about the horrifying practice of lobotomy, but has an extra hidden meaning. It’s a metaphor for giving your trust to someone who doesn’t have your best interests in mind, and only their own personal interest, with no concern of who they damage along the way.

3. Push The Knife

Discarded Self by Discarded Self

"Push The Knife" is a slow moving look into the mind of someone who is sick with depression and touches on the topics of suicide/blood sacrifice. How it feels like you don’t want to exist in society, and you want to disappear and be forgotten. The song was originally titled "Staple", and is essentially about barely holding your life together like a “bent staple with one arm” as the lyrics suggest. The song takes a horrible turn as the protagonist of the story performs a blood sacrifice of themselves in an attempt to become a demon, and seek revenge upon the whole world who has wronged them throughout their life, joining Satan's and executing revenge upon the world. This song features Ashes Of Yggdrasil’s lead guitarist Brett on the drums, and backup vocals as well.

4. On The Unlevel

Discarded Self by Discarded Self

This song is my hate-fueled message to the government and other forces of oppression and control. I wrote this whole album in 2020, and being the naturally rebellious person that I am, the government control, restrictions, and lockdowns are not anything I ever pictured happening in my life and the damage they have caused to our society is mindblowing. If you feel the same as me, I strongly suggest looking up the lyrics to this song to understand the anger seething from within me when I was writing this. "On The Unlevel" is an attack against oppression, control, racism, division, and lies. Things can’t continue like this, and everyone needs to work together to repair all of the damage, and seriously think about the crucial changes that need to be made in our world if we are ever going to see it the same way it was, or better than it was. This is a true rebellion song of 2020.

5. I’m Weak

Discarded Self by Discarded Self

"I’m Weak" is an ode to all those who are born into this world as a person with crippling disabilities, mental health problems, or sub-par lesser functioning beings, that are unable to accomplish anything in life, and the feelings that are often associated with that, which are often followed by self doubt, self loathing, low personal esteem, drug abuse and suicide. "I’m Weak" is a tribute to a close friend who lived with all of the above named issues, and is no longer a part of this plane of existence. They will remain unnamed. This song embodies what the band name Discarded Self is all about.

6. Cultist Of The Pentagram

Discarded Self by Discarded Self

The track "Cultist Of The Pentagram" is about those who follow the rebel and master Satan, and their efforts to complete Satan’s work, in destroying God and his followers. This song is a complete assault on the world’s organized religions, and their slaughters and atrocities committed against their fellow men, women and children of earth, in the name of their so-called God. The true liar and evil presence that plagues our realm we exist in.

7. Abused (e)Motionless

Discarded Self by Discarded Self

This song was another personal and painful song to write. It is about the many forms of abuse from a loved or trusted person. The damage and trauma caused is generally irreversible, unforgettable, and leads to all sorts of problems throughout the person who was abused. It is a deep look into the person’s mind, and how fucked up they can become from it. If you or someone you know is being abused, be brave and get out of that situation. Reach out, someone will be there to help.

8. Dance Upon The Dead

Discarded Self by Discarded Self

I’ve been watching a lot of serial killer movies for I don’t know, the last 25 years. (laughs) I used those types of films for the inspiration of this song. This song was written from the perspective of a husband or father of a victim of a serial killer. It is clearly a revenge song, and describes the hate and rage that would be felt by the families of the victims. It’s a disgusting dive into that reality, and ends in a way that quenches the thirst of pure revenge.

9. Upside Down (Fistula cover)

Upside Down (Fistula cover) by Discorded Self

I wanted to pay tribute to a band I love and admire, so I recorded a cover of Fistula’s song "Upside Down." Almost every single time I’m hanging with friends I always make them listen to Fistula. Almost everyone I know now knows about them, so that’s really awesome. That also must mean I drink a lot! (laughs) The original song "Upside Down" is a real simple one, so I wanted to really spice it up and added a few things, yet kept it the same, and my drummer Jadan, who is also a big Fistula fan, does a two and half minute drum solo at the end of the track. If you are reading this, and you haven’t heard of Fistula. Do yourself a favour and just turn my Discarded Self album off and check them out. You are going to get simply destroyed!

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romancereadingdiva · 3 years

Text

A Vow of Hate Chapter Reveal!

A VOW OF HATE by Lylah James is coming January 5th, and today I have a chapter reveal for you!

Chapter Reveal:

Chapter One

Julianna

The ugliness of life is that sometimes we can’t undo what has been done. It doesn’t matter how devastating the outcome is; we can’t turn back time – can’t change the past – can’t fix the future.

“It is what it is,” my father had said that night.

The night I woke up from my coma, bedridden with two broken legs, three fractured ribs, a messed-up spine and a fractured skull… and more scars than I could bear.

One night, four months ago, I made a mistake that ruined more than one life.

Since then, I have learned that grief is just a stage of coming to terms with the situation.

Just like denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. Except, I was still on the fourth stage. Depression, my therapist would say with a pitiful sigh.

Misery still choked me every morning as I swallowed down my breakfast and every minute of the day. While it wasn’t as heavy as guilt, the imbedded grief still festered pus like an untreated wound.

But it was the guilt…

Guilt was what killed me everyday.

Pain became my companion; grief was my nightmare and guilt turned out to be my soulmate.

“Julianna, you haven’t had your breakfast yet.”

I could feel her presence behind me but I didn’t turn away from the window. “I’m not hungry.”

Selene, our elderly maid and my only friend, made a sound in the back of her throat. “Your father–”

“He doesn’t need to know,” I said, my nails digging into my palms.

“Your sister–”

My lungs caved in, my body growing cold. “Stop. Don’t even finish that sentence.”

“Julianna.”

“Please, stop. Stop trying. Just take the food and leave.”

My shaky voice was followed by silence and then the door clicked close. Her presence disappeared and I was finally able to wallow in self-pity again.

My window overlooked the stables from behind our mansion. My father’s estate expanded many thousand acres, but this spot used to be my favorite view.

Except now, it was nothing but a bitter reminder.

How could our lives change so quickly in merely four months?

If only we hadn’t sneaked out…

If only I hadn’t been so stubborn…

If only I hadn’t been driving that night…

My hand came up, trembling as I touched the black veil. The thin fabric started from below my eyes and hid the rest of my face. I kept my black hair down, with bangs that I never had before, keeping my forehead covered. Only my eyes were visible.

I hear she’s ugly now, that’s why she hides behind the veil, the whispers would say.

It’s good she keeps it covered. I don’t want her to give me nightmares.

Beasty, some sneered.

The poor girl, others pitied.

The whispers didn’t hurt. In fact, they had little effect on me. I had learned to shut the world out while I surrounded myself with my own misery. Jolie, my therapist, said it wasn’t the right coping mechanism. She said I was making it harder on myself.

She said a lot of things, but none of them mattered.

My sister – Gracelynn – was still dead. Because of me.

And I was still here, alive and breathing when it should had been me in her place.

I still remembered her wide-open, dead eyes. I could still smell the unpleasant odor of metallic copper; our blood and sweat. I still saw her mangled face so vividly in my memories and every time I closed my eyes.

I was in that car with her dead body for three hours.

Three hours that felt like three extremely long days.

I passed out many times, regaining consciousness only to see her bloodied face again and again, while I screamed at her to breathe, to stay alive.

Gracelynn wasn’t wearing her seatbelt that night. The force of the impact, and when our car flipped, sent her flying through the windshield. Her screams still echoed in my ears. Her swollen, mangled face with glass shards lodged in her flesh was still seared in my brain.

Most days, I spent my time like this. Listlessly staring out the window, watching the sun rise and set, watching the day go by, turning into months.

It wasn’t like I could run away from my misery. No, I couldn’t even walk.

That accident took more from me than anyone would ever see.

***

Hours later, the door opened again, bringing me out of my thoughts. I was still rooted in the same spot as Selene left me this morning.

“I’m not hungry,” I said, already knowing who it was. Only two people were allowed in my room. Selene and my father.

My father rarely visited me.

And Selene was the only face I saw everyday. Her presence and the only human contact I had since I woke up from the coma and was brought back to my father’s estate, kept what was left of my sanity intact.

“The room smells like death and despair. Quite frankly, I approve.”

My eyes widened.

No.

My head swam and the collar of my sweater felt too tight.

What was he doing here?

Killian Spencer was the last person I expected to come into my room. The last time we saw each other…

Two months ago, when I visited my sister’s resting place, for the first time. He had been there before me and when I had turned to leave, he didn’t let me go without giving me a piece of his mind.

Cold voice.

Dark eyes.

Cruel words.

That was Killian Spencer. The new him.

“Julianna,” he sneered my name. I imagined him curling his lips in distaste.

“Before you say anything,” I started to warn him, but he spoke over me.

“Our fathers have arranged our marriage. It’s being finalized as we speak.”

I shut up and closed my eyes, holding back a desperate cry. He approached me from behind, his footsteps sounding closer. I could feel his body heat. I could smell his strong, spicy cologne. Unique and familiar.

My chest rattled when I exhaled a shaky breath. “You could have refused.”

From my peripheral vision, I saw his hands come up and he placed them over the handles of my wheelchair. For the first time, I realized how powerless I was against him. Weak and fragile.

He could easily hurt me.

And I would let him.

“You say this and yet you know how important this marriage is for both our families,” Killian mocked.

My fingers latched onto my silver, charm bracelet. With a frantic need, I used the sharp edge of the heart and dug it deep into my wrist. I winced and the pain made me think. Made me feel alive. “Is that the only reason why you agreed to this marriage?”

He bent forward, bringing his head closer to mine. I felt his breath against my ear. “You know very well what my reasons are.”

“You could just kill me,” I said. “Make it easy for both of us, don’t you think?”

“Why should you have an easy death?” The hatred in his voice was unmistakeable. “She died a cruel death, Julianna. And you will suffer a worse fate.”

There it was. This was the reason why we were poison together.

I killed his love and he wanted vengeance.

“Do you know what date today is?”

How could I forget?

Killian was still too close. His presence was suffocating. “She was supposed to walk down the aisle today,” he said, deadly and heartless. But I didn’t miss the pain and the longing in his voice.

Gracelynn would have been the prettiest bride ever. I closed my eyes and choked on the sob threatening to spill from my throat.

My sniffling filled the room and there was Killian’s dreadful silence. His silence was eerie and disturbing. Killian was deadlier than a viper, as he waited for the right moment to strike.

He moved around my wheelchair and stood in front of me. Dressed in all black, he was an imposing figure. I dragged my gaze up, from his polished leather shoes, up to his strong thighs, his wide chest and shoulders and then his face. Full lips, dark eyes and a glacial expression.

Our eyes met and he blinked, once, as if to shake the image of me from his brain. As if I was a ghost, haunting him.

Maybe I was.

Killian leaned against the window, his hands going to the sill as he crossed his ankles. He looked every bit the powerful and confident man he was. So devious, so in control, so cruel.

I fidgeted under his gaze, feeling so out of control while he was so contained.

“Two years.”

I blinked. “What?”

There was a tick in his left cheek, his muscles clenching, and his jaw hardened. Killian nodded at my legs – useless and frail. “Your father said it’ll take you a long time to walk again, if you ever will. With all the necessary therapy, he’s giving you two years.”

I swallowed. “Two years…?”

“Two years so you can walk down the aisle. Our wedding will be held on this day, two years from now.”

I knew this was coming. My father warned me beforehand – I’d have to take Gracelynn’s place at the altar – but I was still not prepared for this announcement.

“What if I can’t walk again?”

He grinned cruelly. “Then, I’ll drag you down the aisle, on your fucking knees, if I have to.”

I sucked in a shuddering breath. Killian stepped away from the window and bent forward, bringing his face closer to mine. I couldn’t even move. My wheelchair kept me in place. His breath feathered over my veil, right over my lips. “Listen to me very carefully. You will marry me; you will pay for your sins and you will die at my hands.”

He didn’t see that I was already paying for my mistakes.

Just like everyone else, Killian didn’t see me. They saw my veil. They saw my sin.

No one saw Julianna Romano anymore.

They didn’t see my remorse– or that my sister’s ghost haunted me.

My nails dug deeper into my palm, drawing blood. I lifted my chin up, matching his cold stare. “You’ve made yourself very clear, Killian Spencer.”

He chuckled at my show of I’m-not-scared-of-you-do-your-worst. It was a weak attempt at bravery, but I didn’t want him to think I was as powerless as he thought I was.

My life was already hell. But I still had some kind of control over what Killian could do to me, even though I deserved everything he said.

I should pay for my sin.

I should suffer.

I should die at his hands.

It was his right. After all, I killed his heart.

It would have been easy to say that Killian was the villain. But it was far from the truth. He was just another casualty of my mistakes and the end result of my sins.

I was the villain in this messy fairy tale.

His hand came up to my face and I flinched, expecting him to strike me, but he didn’t. Killian curled a finger around a strand of black hair and then pulled. Hard enough to burn my scalp. “I will break you, Julianna Romano.”

You can’t break what’s already broken.

I turned my face away, no longer able to look into his dark eyes. There was just something in them. Something that made me ache.

“You’ve said what you came here to say. You can leave now.”

Killian pulled back and strode away. I clutched my chest, bearing the pain that seemed to dig itself deeper under my flesh. It wasn’t just my heart that ached. It was my soul that was tormented.

“Oh right, I forgot to give you this.” He fished something out of his pocket and then carelessly threw it my way. It skidded on the shiny floor, a few feet away from my wheelchair.

“Your ring,” Killian said coldly, his voice dripping with venom. “Wear it. Happy engagement to us.”

After he was long gone, Selene came back. Without a word, she lifted the ring from the floor and handed it to me. I took it from her, staring at the extravagant diamond ring. The rock was huge and nothing like my personal taste. But then again, this wedding wasn’t about me and Killian could care less about my preferences.

It was heavy in my palm, but the weight was more than just the shiny diamond itself.

I loathed it.

And yet, I still wore it on my ring finger.

When my father came into my room much later, he smiled approvingly at the sight of my ring, patted me on the hand and then walked away without a word.

It was official.

Two years from now, I would be Killian’s wife.

This marriage was his vengeance – the vows would not be of love, but of hatred.

His retaliation. My atonement. One imperfect marriage.

Blurb:

An all-new standalone hate-to-love, arranged marriage romance with a TWIST from Lylah James.

“Once upon a time…”

Hate consumed him.

Love wrecked me.

That night changed both our lives, turning our beginning into something toxic. We were poison together and there was no antidote.

Our story began like any other fairy tale ended.

With a beautiful wedding.

One kiss.

Two rings.

Three vows.

Killian Spencer became my lawfully wedded husband and I, his dutiful wife.

But he was no Prince Charming. He didn’t come to save me… and he vowed there would be no happily ever after.

And me?

Just like the legends I'd read as a little girl, I always thought I’d be the princess in my fairy tale.

Well, I was the villain of our love story.

“Till death do us part…”

📌 Preorder at the special price at $2.99!

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psychotherapyconsultants · 5 years

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12 Ways to Keep Going with Depression

About once a week I hear the same question from a reader, “What keeps you going?” The short answer is lots of things. I use a variety of tools to persevere through my struggle with depression because what works on one day doesn’t the next. I have to break some hours into 15-minute intervals and simply put one foot in front of another, doing the thing that is right in front of me and nothing else.

I write this post for the person who is experiencing debilitating symptoms of depression. The following are some things that help me fight for sanity and keep me going, when the gravity of my mood disorder threatens to stop all forward movement.

Find a good doctor and therapist.

I have tried to beat my depression without the help of mental health professionals and discovered just how life-threatening the illness can be. Not only do you need to get help, you need to get the RIGHT help.

A reporter once referred to me as the Depression Goldilocks of Annapolis because I have seen practically all of the psychiatrists in my town. Call me picky, but I am glad I didn’t stop my search after the third or fourth or fifth physician because I did not get better until I found the right one at Johns Hopkins Mood Disorders Center. If you have a severe, complicated mood disorder, it is worth going to a teaching hospital to get a consultation.

Be just as choosy with your therapist. I have sat on therapy couches on and off for 30 years, and while the cognitive behavioral exercises were helpful, I didn’t begin making real progress until I started working with my current therapist.

Rely on your faith — or some higher power.

When everything else has failed, my faith sustains me. In my hours of desperation, I will read from the Book of Psalms, listen to inspirational music, or simply yell at God. I look to the saints for courage and resolve since many of them have experienced dark nights of the soul — Teresa of Avila, John of the Cross, Mother Teresa. It is of great consolation to know that God knows each hair on my head and loves me unconditionally despite my imperfections, that He is with me in my anguish and confusion.

A substantial amount of research points to the benefits of faith to mitigate symptoms of depression. In a 2013 study, for example, researchers at McLean Hospital in Belmont, Massachusetts, found that belief in God was associated with better treatment outcomes.

Be kind and gentle with yourself.

The stigma attached to depression is still, unfortunately, very thick. Maybe you have one or two people in your life who can offer you the kind of compassion that you deserve. However, until the general public offers persons with mood disorders the same compassion that is conferred on people with breast cancer or any other socially acceptable illness, it is your job to be kind and gentle with yourself. Instead of pushing yourself harder and telling yourself it’s all in your head, you need to speak to yourself as a sensitive, fragile child with a painful wound that is invisible to the world. You need to put your arms around her and love her. Most importantly, you need to believe her suffering and give it validation. In her book Self-Compassion, Kristin Neff, Ph.D., documents some of the research that demonstrates that self-compassion is a powerful way to achieve emotional well-being.

Reduce your stress.

You don’t want to give into your depression, I get that. You want to do everything on your to-do list and part of tomorrow’s. But pushing yourself is going to worsen your condition. Saying no to responsibilities because your symptoms are flaring up isn’t a defeat. It is act of empowerment.

Stress mucks up all your biological systems, from your thyroid to your digestive tract, making you more vulnerable to mood swings. Rat studies show that stress reduces the brain’s ability to keep itself healthy. In particular, the hippocampus shrinks, impacting short-term memory and learning abilities. Try your best to minimize stress with deep-breathing exercises, muscle-relaxation meditations, and simply saying no to anything you don’t absolutely have to do.

Get regular sleep.

Businessman and author E. Joseph Cossman once said, “The best bridge between despair and hope is a good night’s sleep.” It is one of the most critical pieces to emotional resiliency. Practicing good sleep hygiene — going to bed at the same time at night and waking up at a regular hour — can be challenging for persons with depression because, according to J. Raymond DePaulo, Jr., M.D., co-director of the Johns Hopkins Mood Disorders Center, that’s when people often feel better. They want to stay up and write or listen to music or work. Do that too many nights, and your lack of sleep becomes the Brussels sprout on the floor of the produce aisle that you trip over. Before you know it, you’re on your back, incapable of doing much of anything.

Although pleasing our circadian rhythm — our body’s internal clock — can feel really boring, remember that consistent, regular sleep is one of the strongest allies in the fight against depression.

Serve others.

Five years ago, I read Man’s Search for Meaning by Holocaust survivor and Austrian psychiatrist Viktor Frankl and was profoundly moved by his message that suffering has meaning, especially when we can turn our pain into service of others.

Frankl’s “logotherapy” is based on the belief that human nature is motivated by the search for a life purpose. If we devote our time and energy toward finding and pursuing the ultimate meaning of our life, we are able to transcend some of our suffering. It doesn’t mean that we don’t feel it. However, the meaning holds our hurt in a context that gives us peace. His chapters expound on Friedrich Nietzsche’s words, “He who has a why can bear almost any how.” I have found this to be true in my life. When I turn my gaze outward, I see that suffering is universal, and that relieves some of the sting. The seeds of hope and healing are found in the shared experience of pain.

Look backwards.

Our perspective is, without doubt, skewed during a depressive episode. We view the world from a dark basement of human emotions, interpreting events through the lens of that experience. We are certain that we have always been depressed and are convinced that our future will be chock full of more misery. By looking backwards, I am reminded that my track record for getting through depressive episodes is 100 percent. Sometimes the symptoms didn’t wane for 18 months or more, but I did eventually make my way into the light. I call to mind all those times I persevered through difficulty and emerged to the other side. Sometimes I’ll take out old photos as proof that I wasn’t always sad and panicked.

Take a moment to recall the moments that you are most proud of, where you triumphed over obstacles. Because you will do it again. And then again.

Plan something fun.

Filling my calendar with meaningful events forces me to move forward when I’m stuck in a negative groove. It can be as simple as having coffee with a friend or calling my sister. Maybe it’s signing up for a pottery or cooking class.

If you’re feeling ambitious, plan an adventure that takes you out of your comfort zone. In May, I’m walking Camino de Santiago, or The Way of Saint James, a famous pilgrimage that stretches 778 kilometers from St. Jean Port de Pied in France to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. The anticipation of the trip has fueled me with energy and excitement during a hard stretch of my life.

You need not backpack through Europe, of course, to keep moving forward. Organizing a day trip to a museum or some local art exhibit could serve the same purpose. Just be sure to have something on your calendar other than therapy and work meetings.

Be in nature.

According to Elaine Aron, Ph.D., in her bestseller The Highly Sensitive Person, approximately 15 to 20 percent of the population is easily overwhelmed by loud noises, crowds, smells, bright lights, and other stimulation. These types have rich interior lives, but tend to feel things very deeply and absorb people’s emotions. Many people who struggle with chronic depression are highly sensitive. They need a pacifier. Nature serves that purpose.

The water and woods are mine. When I get overstimulated by this Chuck E. Cheese world of ours, I retreat to either the creek down the street or the hiking trail a few miles away. Among the gentle waves of the water or the strong oak trees in the woods, I touch ground and access a stillness that is needed to navigate difficult emotions. Even a few minutes a day provide a sense of calm that helps me to harness panic and depression when they arise.

Connect with other warriors.

Rarely can a person battle chronic depression on her own. She needs a tribe of fellow warriors on the frontline of sanity, remembering her that she is not alone and equipping her with insights with which to persevere.

Five years ago, I felt very discouraged by the lack of understanding and compassion associated with depression so I created two forums: Group Beyond Blue on Facebook and Project Hope & Beyond. I have been humbled by the level of intimacy formed between members of the group. There is power in shared experience. There is hope and healing in knowing we are in this together.

Laugh

You may think there’s nothing funny about your depression or wanting to die. After all, this is a serious, life-threatening condition. However, if you can manage to add a dose of levity to your situation, you’ll find that humor is one of the most powerful tools to fight off hopelessness. G.K. Chesterton once said, “Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly.” That’s what laughter does. It lightens the burden of suffering. That’s why nurses use comedy skits in small group sessions in inpatient psychiatric units as part of their healing efforts. Humor forces some much-needed space between you and your pain, providing you a truer perspective of your struggle.

Dance in the rain.

Vivian Greene once said, “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.”

When I was first diagnosed with depression, I was sure that the right medication or supplement or acupuncture session would cure my condition. Ten years ago, when nothing seemed to work, I shifted to a philosophy of managing my symptoms versus curing them. Although nothing substantial changed in my recovery, this new attitude made all the difference in the world. I was no longer stuck in the waiting room of my life. I was living to the fullest, as best I could. I was dancing in the rain.

References

Rosmarin, D.H., Bigda-Peyton, J.S., Kertz, S.J., Smith, N., Rauch, S.L., & Björgvinsson, T. (2013). A test of faith in God and treatment: The relationship of belief in God to psychiatric treatment outcomes. Journal of Affective Disorders, 146(3): 441-446. Retrieved from https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S016503271200599X

Hildebrandt, S. (2012, February 6). How stress can cause depression [blog post]. Retrieved from http://sciencenordic.com/how-stress-can-cause-depression

Frankl, V.E. (1959). Man’s Search for Meaning. Cutchogue, NY: Buccaneer Books.

Aron, E. (1996). The Highly Sensitive Person. New York, NY: Carol Publishing.

from World of Psychology https://psychcentral.com/blog/12-ways-to-keep-going-with-depression/

#World of Psychology

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