#and then he faded from the peoples cognitions and died (or 'died') forgotten

[phantomthievez]

it's too late im emotional over akechi again

#.txt #rn my poison is: would akira actually move on #like maybe he'd live his life until he was 100 years old but would he ever forget akechi? i don't think so honestly #how could you forget your equal and opposite? he was akiras friend. akira could have given up reality itself for him #or even in shke terms #i feel like he's date looking for that emotional fulfillment of their dynamic but in the end nobody can #bc akechi was special!! and i think the moment he realizes that he would truly allow himself to mourn akechi #or maybe i'm thinking abt this too hard bc it sucks that akechis like 'i had a shitty life and this special thing (personas) is #all i had. i pulled myself up from the ground to fhe very forefront of the media. im an ace détective a celebrity. one of my worst fears is #that it's all for nothing and i'm not special and everyone hates me and i die forgotten' #and then he faded from the peoples cognitions and died (or 'died') forgotten #doesn't that leave a bitter taste in your mouth? he makes me so fucking sad #goro akechi goner by twenty one pilots moment

[fishmongeringstudies]

nine: the tender machine kindness of daily routines and actions whose net worth comes not from their immediately visible impacts but the way your hands learn to steady themselves in the warm flickering light of morning, years after the candles and the ouija board have been put away

being a college student means having to face up to big, harrowing decisions every day such as should i drop this shirt on the floor after i take it off or walk the extra two and a half meters to my laundry hamper? most of the time i opt for the former, although the peculiar thing about leaving stuff on the floor is that the ratio of stuff to floor gradually inverts itself like a body turned inside-out to reveal the soft, fleshy inside until there is no more floor and altogether too much stuff. at that point, there are no more decisions to make. either you pick up all those shirts or make the walk to breakfast in the nude. given that the dining hall is known to be unenthusiastic about the smallest of transgressions like bare feet and people without skin, i doubt they would let me in. unless i seduced them. but it is hard to seduce a building.

the dining hall in this college is named after yet another rich alumnus who, fearing that they would be forgotten when they died and fade away into obscurity, therefore experiencing a second, more significant death, decided to assert dominance over one of the key facilities for survival at their alma mater. the building is short, squat, and emits a faint glow like a convenience store glimpsed from afar at four o'clock in the morning. upon entering the first set of swinging doors, one finds oneself greeted with two more sets of doors and a choice of one or the other. the left door will take you past an office. the right will take you past two more doors. one of them leads to the bathroom. the other leads to hell.

the dining hall appears to have been built on some kind of slope, because once you get past the first door and the second and pass through the gates of reckoning, the path splits again into two rather grand staircases of significant width and height, which lead you some two storeys down to a square-shaped room with a big fireplace perched at one end. it dawns on you then that this, this place hidden under the great yawning jaw of heaven, is the real dining hall. you squint at your surroundings in mild disbelief while awkwardly fingering your phone in your pocket so that the other person waiting in line doesn't strike up a conversation. the path outside looks flat as fuck and yet the stairs seemed to go on forever. the only conclusion: this building is cursed.

other things that are cursed: unripe bananas, misplaced sympathies, birds with teeth. liberal arts colleges. sad novels. people who end all their text messages with a full stop. the last one is a lie.

wow liberal arts colleges are really cursed though. i know what you're thinking. not this again, you moan in an extremely non-sexual way, dragging the heel of your palm down your face. not him again. i am tired of him, you complain. excellent. this makes two of us. but one cannot put something away until you are sure of all its contents. and even now, days and weeks and months later, i'll be brushing my teeth and admiring my reflection in the mirror when i'll find myself abruptly subjected to the blunt force trauma that is delayed realization. memories are like mille feuilles. a lot of effort to make and a lot of effort to get rid of. and if you take the lazy way out, slicing your knife perpendicular to this delicate, thousand-layered monstrosity, you are bound to miss something crucial.

question: have you missed anything this semester? what have you overlooked; what have you let slip you by? look over your shoulder. do it right now. perhaps you will discover the ghost of your deceased great-grandmother, trying to whisper to you her beloved recipe for tang yuan. take everything she says down. you will need it one day. i promise.

these days i'm not scared of anything in my head anymore. that's the nice thing about having fear manifest itself as a thing with skin and some internal organs (at least i assume he has them. to be honest you could tell me he has half a kidney in there and nothing else and i'd be like yes that makes sense, of course you're right) that moves and walks and talks like a person but otherwise has the cognitive capabilities of a chair. it's like playing an rpg horror survival game. only the antagonist isn't hot.

i am though. and so is summer, sweet sticky-skin summer, though i woke up today and it felt like february all over again. it was eight degrees celcius in the morning; eleven in the afternoon. now it is nine. so this is how it is when one is thousands of miles from the equator. one step forward, two steps back. take ten steps in a rough circle and then four steps to the left. tango with me. chase cars with me. we can chase cars all day. i'll wear your shirt and you'll eat mine.

this semester the salsa club held its weekly meetings on friday at 8:45 in the lounge attached to the dorm i lived in. on one such friday i was playing pool in the adjacent room with someone i don't talk to anymore and another i wish i still did but never seemed to find in the same room as myself. it was my first time playing pool. the stick reminded me of sun wu kong, the monkey king and his magical monkey king staff. or was it a stick? the details escape me. the evening escapes me, too. i know at one point one of them left to join the salsa club. i know at some point i cleared the table.

it must have been the third or fourth week of the semester when they convinced me to play pool, because i said yes without thinking the way i never had before that and never will again. back then i was still scared and lonely and to be fair, i was scared and lonely for half of april and most of may, but these are fundamentally different sentiments. back then i was scared of everything. these days i am acquainted with a more academic, nuanced fear; persistent laughter, 500-word moodle short responses sent over text, fists.

the first time i did laundry in the spring i googled "[my college name] laundry machines" because i had to be sure that the laundry machines in this specific basement in this specific college weren't super fucked-up for some reason and i was terrified that they would be and that i'd fuck up even the laundry, dear god, if i couldn't do the laundry then what was the point of trying to do friendship? i threw everything in the washing machine at five o'clock in the morning and dragged it across the white-tiled floor to the dryer at five-thirty. at five-fifty i texted good evening to a friend. at six-twenty-seven i washed my chopsticks.

at six thirty-five i stood in front of my dresser in my room with a freshly-laundered shirt pressed against my face and a spill of sunlight sliding down the left side of my body. i breathed in. the fabric smelled like flowers. like it'd emerged from the cycle of reincarnation, pure and dumb as a baby. i breathed in again. my hands and cheeks were warm. the birds outside my window were screaming in french. in that moment i found that i believed, for the first time since i'd gotten here, in the transient nature of all things. even sadness. even the sneaking feeling that i would never settle into this room with its shitty ceiling light, which turned out to be true, which was paranoia later justified by truth. even you.

then i folded it up carefully, and put it away.

05.29.21

#the author cannot recall if the salsa club met at 8:45 or 8:30 but they know it was 8 something so if anyone from the salsa club #reads this please dont get on my case i was never part of the club i only spectated on it once with a hidden agenda that died 2 days later #amen

[theirwarmth]

like something out of his nightmares : her in his arms and bleeding and bleeding and bleeding and this isn't REAL except for where it IS and he finds himself nauseated and waiting to WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP but the rest are behind him and around him and worrying and worrying and it's a riot in his ears and he wants to scream. wants to shout. ( he's afraid to say even a word. ) he holds her and wants to plead and wants to -- "kairi," her name is all he can say. quiet. desperate. // well...

think of me fondly when we’ve said goodbye.  //  @martyricide

      KAIRI  DOESN’T  THINK  SHE’S  EVER  moved  so  fast  in  her  life .  she  briefly  thinks  about  how  in  movies  the  heroes  often  speak  of  how  their  bodies  moved  before  they  even  had  time  to  think  or  process  the  situation  at  hand .  she  wouldn’t  really  consider  herself  a  hero  (  that’s  him  …  that’s  always  been  him  ) . as  much  as  she  would  like  to  believe  she’s  one  or  like  to  become  one  she  can’t  deny  the  truth .  she’s  no  hero  —  she’s  just  a  girl ,  an  ever  wilting  flower  who’d  refused  to  let  herself  be  trampled  again .  but  maybe  just  maybe  she  can  be  a  hero  just  this  once .

      SOME  WOULD  CALL  IT  IMPULSIVE  to  do  what  she  did .  some  may  go  as  far  to  say  it  was  foolish  &  stupid  &  perhaps  kairi  might  have  too  if  it  had  not  been  him ,  anyone  but  him .  she  hopes  in  the  weeks ,  months  &  years  to  come  her  actions  won’t  be  remembered  as  impulsive  or  foolish .  she’s  had  all  her  life  to  be  remembered  for  being  such  a  thing .  she  wants  to  be  remembered  for  being  brave .  she  wants  all  of  her  teammates  to  remember  that  she  did  this  for  him ,  for  love .  

      SHE  THINKS  OF  ALL  THOSE  STORIES  in  literature ,  the  fairytales  her  mother  would  read  to  her  as  a  child .  it’s  always  seen  as  romantic  when  someone  sacrifices  themselves  for  the  people  they  love .  isn’t  love  all  about  sacrifice  &  putting  someone  else  before  yourself ?  she  may  not  know  akira’s  feelings  but  she  hopes  he’ll  at  least  will  know  hers  now .  actions  speak  louder  than  words  after  all .

      HER  BODY  FEELS  COLD ,  as  if  her  very  life  force  keeping  her  alive  was  withering  away  —  perhaps  that’s  because  it  is .  yet  at  the  same  time  she  feels  increasingly  hot  as  she  wound  in  her  stomach  begins  to  throb  &  seep  warm  rich  blood .  she  is  but  a  frozen  flame ,  a  burning  frost  that  makes  her  feel  everything  &  nothing  all  at  once .  kairi  wonders  if  this  is  what  dying  feels  like .

      IN  ALL  HONESTY  SHE  HADN’T  THOUGHT  she’d  go  out  so  soon .  but  then  again  does  anyone  expect  their  own  demise  before  they  reach  their  eighteenth  year ?  still  she  thought ,  she  hoped  she’d  have  more  time ,  they’d  have  more  time .  but  when  it  comes  down  to  it  she’s  glad  she  gets  to  go  out  this  way .  she  can’t  think  of  a  better  way  to  die  than  saving  the  person  she  loves .

      IF  SHE  WAS  SMARTER  she  would  have  stayed  back  would  have  realized  that  there  was  no  way  it  was  a  real  gun  pointed  at  akira .  as  far  as  she  knew  they  could  only  bring  fake  stuff  into  the  metaverse .  but  kairi’s  fight  or  flight  instincts  are  incapable  of  applying  logic  to  any  given  situation .  therefore  when  the  gun  went  off  she  did  all  she  could  do  &  jumped  in  front  of  the  bullet’s  initial  target .  she  thinks  perhaps  that  this  was  for  the  best  as  soon  thereafter  there’s  a  very  real  feeling  bullet  in  her  abdomen .  though  she  wonders  if  that’s  just  because  her  cognition  in  the  moment  thought  it  was  real .

      KAIRI  DOESN’T  EVEN  REALIZE  that  her  knees  have  buckled  &  that  she  was  falling  until  she  feels  protective  arms  catch  her  &  soften  her  fall  as  she’s  lowered  to  the  ground .  she  already  knows  who  the  arms  belong  to  before  she  sees  his  face .  akira  might  not  be  incredibly  physically  affectionate  (  not  as  much  as  she  is  anyway  )  but  kairi’s  long  memorized  what  his  touch  felt  like .  whether  it  was  a  supportive  pat  on  the  back  or  the  comforting  touch  of  his  hand  in  hers  —  she  knows  it  all .

      SHE’S  GLAD  IT’S  HIM  she’s  spending  her  last  moments  with .  she  can’t  imagine  a  better  person  to  be  with .  she  doesn’t  think  anyone  but  akira  could  make  her  feel  as  safe  &  as  comforted  as  she  does  right  now  as  she  dies  on  the  cold  floor .  as  she  bleeds  onto  her  once  pristine  white  gloves .  she  thinks  perhaps  there’s  screams  ringing  in  the  air .  however  practically  everything  is  muffled  in  her  ears  as  her  wide  eyes  look  up  &  meet  his  through  his  domino  mask .  all  she  can  hear  now  is  her  own  heartbeat  &  the  sound  of  akira’s  heavy  breathing .

      DESPITE  THIS  SHE  STILL  HEARS  HIM  call  her  name .  it’s  softer  &  more  scared  than  she’s  ever  heard  his  voice .  funny  …  she  would  have  thought  him  incapable  of  being  scared .  but  she  supposes  even  the  bravest  of  heroes  fall  at  times .  despite  her  own  conditions  she  finds  herself  more  concerned  with  akira’s  distressed  state .  it  takes  all  the  strength  she  has  to  raise  her  gloved  hand  from  her  abdomen  &  move  to  cup  his  face  tenderly .  this  would  perhaps  be  a  comforting  gesture  had  her  hands  not  been  stained  with  her  own  blood .  but  she  has  enough  thoughts  swimming  in  her  mind  at  present  so  that  thought  doesn’t  even  occur  to  her .  she  hopes  it  doesn’t  make  matters  worse  though .

      ❛    AKIRA  —    ❜  she  answers  his  plea  &  her  voice  is  as  quiet  as  his  if  not  more  so .  however  there’s  no  desperation ,  no  fear  —  she’s  almost  alarmingly  calm .  she  accepted  her  fate  the  moment  she  rushed  in  front  of  him .  there’s  no  point  in  being  scared  now .  ❛    it’s  okay .  everything’s  okay .  everything  will  be  okay .    ❜  she  wonders  if  she  says  it  enough  they’ll  both  believe  it ,  wonders  if  it’ll  stop  the  pain  in  her  stomach  &  the  numbness  in  her  body .  in  fairytales  they  always  say  believing  is  enough  even  in  the  darkest  of  times .  kairi  knows  this  isn’t  a  fairytale  but  she  hopes  her  belief  is  enough  to  make  things  be  okay  in  the  end .

      KAIRI  DOESN’T  WANT  TO  DIE .  there’s  so  much  in  the  world  she  hasn’t  experienced .  after  all  there’s  only  so  much  you  can  experience  with  only  seventeen  years  under  your  belt .  she  doesn’t  want  to  die  but  she  doesn’t  regret  what  she’s  done  nor  would  she  change  what’s  been  done .  nothing  matters  but  the  ones  she  loves ;  the  friends  circled  around  her  dying  form  &  most  especially  the  dark  haired  boy  cradling  her  in  his  arms .

      HER  HAND  TREMBLES  AS  she  uses  all  her  strength  to  keep  them  raised  upon  his  cheek .  she’s  feeling  herself  fading ,  everything  in  her  going  numb  now .  she  doesn’t  even  feel  the  pain  of  the  bullet  wound  anymore .  but  as  the  pain  leaves  her  in  it’s  place  kairi  feels  a  sudden  urgency ,  an  urgency  to  say  what  has  gone  unsaid  for  countless  months  now .  she’s  okay  with  dying  now  but  she  doesn’t  think  she  could  ever  forgive  herself  if  akira  never  knew  how  she  truly  felt .

      ❛    I  WANTED  TO  SAY …    ❜  her  voice  is  raspy  now ,  each  word  an  uphill  battle  to  get  out  as  she  feels  herself  struggling  to  breathe .  ❛    i  wanted  to  say  thank  you  —  for  everything .  i  …  i  don’t  know  where  i  would  have  been  if  not  for  you .    ❜  her  breath  grows  more  ragged  &  labored  with  each  moment .  she  knows  her  time  is  running  short  but  she  refuses  to  let  herself  fade  before  she  finishes  what  she  needs  to  say .  

      ❛    I  WISH  IT  DIDN’T  HAVE  TO  BE  LIKE  THIS .  ❜  her  voice  grows  stronger  now ,  her  own  determination  giving  her  the  strength  to  carry  on  just  for  these  last  few  moments .  ❛    i  wish  we  had  more  time .  there’s  so  much  i  wanted  to  tell  you .  but  most  of  all  i  wanted  you  to  know  i  love  you ,  i  love  you ,  kurusu  akira .   ❜  

      SHE  WANTS  TO  SAY  MORE  she  wants  to  say  that  he’s  made  her  forget  every  awful  thing  in  her  life  &  that  she’s  forgotten  what  it  felt  like  not  to  love  him  the  way  that  she  does .  she  has  so  much  she  wants  to  tell  him  but  the  words  don’t  come .  she’s  said  what  she  needed  to  say  &  therefore  her  body  finally  allows  itself  to  fade .  she  sees  the  light  at  the  end  of  the  tunnel  as  her  vision  goes  completely  dark .  it’s  as  if  a  timer  goes  off  as  she  makes  one  final  desperate  gasp  for  air  before  she  sinks  &  lets  the  grim  reaper  take  her .  it  is  then  &  only  then  that  her  hand  falls  from  akira’s  face  &  onto  the  cold  ground .

#martyricide #asks. #long post #oh boy #death // #blood // #guns // #uh is there anything else to tag???? #in the darkness you alone reached out & gave me hope . it's only fair i'd give you my life in return ( shukai / martyricide. ) #interactions: kairi. #kairi: persona 5.

[mintchocolateleaves]

Pay No Mind (2/6)

Summary:  During a villain attack, Midoriya Izuku is hit by a quirk that leaves him stuck in the recesses of his own mind. It’s up to Todoroki Shouto to enter, and find his way to the classmate he’s come to rely on. (TodoDeku.)

A/N: I’ve been in a BNHA mood recently, so I thought I’d continue with this fic.

[P1]

It takes roughly five minutes – or three loops of the same scene in which Midoriya grows increasingly terrified for Bakugou’s safety – for Shouto to realise he’s stuck. The scene isn’t going to change, he’s stuck within a memory, forced alongside Midoriya to repeat the moment over and over, the memory stagnant and unable to be altered.

This, Shouto thinks, is the product of Midoriya’s own thoughts. So, he’s going to have to find a Midoriya based answer to reach the conclusion that’s actually happened. So far, he feels like he’s trapped inside Midoriya’s own rambles, inside a spiral that only repeats itself, danger the most prominent feeling.

Danger.

Shouto turns his head and focuses on Midoriya. Looking at him now – and avoiding glancing at his terrified stare – it’s easy to pick out the differences. It’s not difficult really. Midoriya’s skinnier here, muscles less defined. For someone who seems to be convinced that he’s incapable of saving Bakugou… he seems to be right.

And yet, Shouto knows the outcome of this fight.

He’d been watching the news, although he’d not thought much of it at the time, not even when a small green-haired, freckled boy had pushed through the crowd, throwing his backpack straight at the villain’s weak spot.

What had been its weak sport again? Shouto’s certain he remembers, but the thought has been filed away, meaningless information that hadn’t seemed as important compared to the training regime his father had deemed appropriate to implement.

Maybe if he just gets nearer next time, he’ll be able to pick up on the things he’d seen before. Pushing through the crowd isn’t too difficult – it doesn’t feel like he’s navigating through real people, but rather wading through water. Which, frankly, it feels odd, when the flames make everything hot.

He glances backwards, towards Midoriya and the ashen colour of his skin. Even his freckles seem to have lost their colour, pale across his face in a way that almost seems unnatural. Shouto wants to tell him it’s alright - (not that he’d hear) – but the words are inaudible against his lips.

No fake promises, he thinks.

Instead, he promises that he’ll do everything he can to make it possible to get to a point where everything’s alright. And that begins with helping Bakugou – that’s what Midoriya wants, right? He’s always been the type of person who’s put others before himself, and Shouto doesn’t want him to carry that burden alone.

Not when…

“Okay,” Shouto says, “okay, let’s help.”

He pushes himself through the crowds, towards the flames and explosions that light up cloudy skies, trying to peer closer at the sludge monster as it quickly becomes more detailed before his eyes. It’s a putrid colour, something that’s sickening to even look at, but Shouto refuses to recoil at the sight of it.

Another explosion. This one is closer now – fire licks the surrounding area, leaving behind scorch marks and bursting through windows. Glass lines the pavements, it crackles beneath Shouto’s feet as he steps closer.

One of the bigger shards digs into the ball of his foot.

Shouto lets out a sharp hiss, but keeps walking. He’s dealt with worse. Right now, there are more important things to prioritise.

“What did Midoriya do again…?”

He’d hit the villain between the eyes, temporarily blinding it. Shouto remembers now, feels the memory wind him more than the smoke in his lungs from Bakugou’s blasts do.

Midoriya had blinded the hero, had done his best to rip Bakugou free. Then – then, All-Might had arrived right? He’d been the one to save them both. Even as he tries to rip into the monster though, it’s impossible.

Why isn’t Midoriya helping at all, with his strength he’d be able to beat this villain and send him flying. Except… wait, this is a time when Midoriya’s powers had brought him broken bones and pain isn’t it?

Shouto sighs, bites into his cheek.

The scene restarts.

“I don’t understand,” he mutters, glancing towards Midoriya. He’d done the exact same thing Midoriya had, repeated the scene and attempted to save Bakugou. Why is he stuck reliving this scene again?

Why hadn’t Midoriya reacted? Where is All-Might in this memory?

Wait.

Shouto closes his eyes, takes a moment to think through the situation – If this scene has been created by Midoriya’s doubt over his capability of saving others then… surely Shouto should be finding a way to absolve that?

If he saves Bakugou then it changes nothing. Shouto could save a million people but that’s not going to make Midoriya feel capable of anything. Not by a long shot. His classmate needs to a boost in his own confidence and that includes figuring out a way he can get the other to move.

How is Shouto supposed to do that?

Without any responses to his words, Shouto can’t get the other’s attention. And how can he spur Midoriya’s actions, install confidence in him if he can’t be heard?

The fire dies, the crowd returns to its original scene and once again, the memory loops.

“Wait,” Shouto mutters, glancing towards his friend. He’d felt the fire… He’d been able to blind the villain he’d tried to go up against… Even if he can’t be heard, he can still feel, can still interact with the memory.

And that means…

Shouto turns to Midoriya. He’s still stood, frozen, legs unable to move. All he needs is a little push and Shouto’s certain his instincts to save others will kick in. He moves forward, weaves through the crowd until he’s beside Midoriya, to the point where Midoriya is as near to the villain as he is in these loops.

Placing a hand on Izuku’s back, he offers the largest thrust he can.

The boy stumbles forward. He stops, almost confused, as if wondering why he’d even moved in the first place.

Shouto takes another step forwards, pushes his friend again.

This time, he doesn’t stop. Midoriya pushes through the crowd, as if he’s been pushed back into the original memory, not suspended by his own doubt. He races forwards, throws his backpack and tries to save Bakugou.

The scene dissipates with All-Might’s arrival.

This time, it does not loop. The world seems to dissolve around him, turning from memorable Tokyo streets, into a white box, growing smaller as the memories importance shrinks, smaller and smaller.

Part of the white shatters, creating a small crevice.

Shouto makes his way towards it, lowers himself in an attempt to crawl through it. For a moment, everything is dark. And then: he’s stood in a familiar area, a simulation area where they’d originally planned to be testing their evacuation skills.

-

The USJ has changed since the league of villains had invaded it.

Shouto remembers the teachers mentioning heightened security, alarm systems similar to UA’s main systems mechanics, seemingly impossible to hack into. Not that Shouto thinks there’s no chance of it being hacked into again, but well –

Some things are probably not meant to be dwelled on.

Unlike the previous area, where there had been a re-enactment of Midoriya’s own experiences, the USJ is… empty. Shouto glances around, for some sort of memory to kick in and draw his attention, but nothing does.

The area is simply – blank.

Moving past the entrance and down into the central plaza, Shouto forces himself to remain on guard. He’s surprised that his foot is aching from the glass he’d tread on, seeing as he’s not in the physical world. Part of him wonders if this is part of the danger, whether this is what the psychologist had meant when she’d told him to stay on guard.

That he can be injured, even if it’s by someone else’s cognition.

“Midoriya?” Shouto calls, glancing around. He heads down the steps, towards the area their homeroom teacher, Aizawa had once fought in, pushing himself past his usual limits to keep them all safe.

Now, there is no teacher.

Instead, all that remains is the blood the hero had left behind. Shouto isn’t sure what this means, but he steps towards it, wincing at the stains left behind. He’d not been there to watch as the villains – Shigaraki and his minions – had managed to grab the upper hand, but he does remember seeing Aizawa’s injuries afterwards.

Blood pools on the floor, the concrete beneath it cracked, showing the amount of force the attacking Noumu had put into bringing their teacher off balance. Any more force, and Aizawa would have surely suffered more than just the severe concussion he’d been treated for.

Shouto supposes they’re all pretty lucky that they’re teacher hadn’t been hit hard enough that he’d haemorrhaged, else they’d have all probably needed more therapy than UA could have offered them all.

He edges closer.

Past the blood, there’s dust – Shouto can only assume that it’s the dust from Aizawa’s skin after Shigaraki had started to use his decaying quirk on the teacher’s elbow.

Further on there’s –

A flash. Except no, it’s not quite a flash, but rather the white outline of a person that’s been cut out of the scene. An afterimage, maybe. Something Shouto would label a ghost, if he believed in such things.

“What is going on here?” Shouto says, as the after image seems to fade away. He heads forwards, steps quickening as he looks around him. “Midoriya, why is no one here?”

He doesn’t get any response. Not at first.

Then, as he turns to look behind him, more white outlines becoming apparent as he realises he needs to look closer, he realises what’s happening. The scene – everything that had happened at USJ…

It’s been erased. All he’s looking at now are after images. Things that can’t fully be forgotten or thrown away.

“What…” Shouto turns around, glances towards the various zones, areas that are designed to teach them how to be effective at rescue. Should Shouto head into one, is that where he needs to go?

He tries for the landslide zone and realises the entrance is sealed off. It’s the same with the conflagration zone, and the ruins zone. Each one has an entrance that’s blocked off, something Shouto can’t get past.

Letting out a sigh, he runs a hand through his hair. The previous area Midoriya’s mind had sent him too had been confusing, yes, but there was sense behind it. There had been a feeling of helplessness following the incident with the slime monster, Shouto understands that, but–

But this doesn’t seem much like a scenario that Shouto has to help Midoriya overcome at all. It looks more like something his classmate would much rather forget.

Shouto heads back towards the central plaza.

This time, when he arrives, there’s a shift in the air. Whispers circling around the erased memories, so faint that it’s like they’ve been put on mute but are only starting to fight back.

Straining, Shouto stops his footsteps. He blinks, waiting for something more than rambles to fill his brain, ears struggling to process anything informative. And then:

“Nothing bad happened at the USJ,” Midoriya mutters, “maybe if I keep telling myself that, it’ll be ok.”

Gritting his teeth, Shouto clenches his fists. His nails dig into the skin, leaving crescent shaped indents against his palms.

“So that’s it, is it Midoriya…?” He says. It all seems so unlike his friend to run from things that he can’t help but be annoyed. Shouto’s never been an explosive person with his anger, and so instead, his tone freezes, the warmth fading as he fully embraces his right side.

His voice is ice. “You’re going to pretend the league of villains didn’t attack the USJ? Well – I’m sorry to break the news to you Midoriya, but they did.”

Flecks of white almost seem to have colour added to them. Shouto narrows his eyes.

“And you know you can’t forget it completely, because Aizawa-sensei’s blood is still staining the ground.” Shouto glowers at empty space. “You can’t pretend he didn’t get attacked, that he was injured. And Thirteen – he was injured too. You’d forget what they did for our classmates?”

He turns to glance towards the entrance, pedals backwards at the sudden… appearance of said heroes. Aizawa is collapsed against the ground, Thirteen unconscious from where he’d turned his own suit into dust.

They’re… here?

Except no, looking at them, they’re already starting to fade away. Midoriya wants to continue to forget, so why are they back again… unless:

Shouto’s voice had been a reminder. There’s no forgetting things when people force you too talk about them. And maybe it’s not healthy to force the memories back into his head, but it’s not healthy to disregard them completely, either.

So, all he needs to do is talk about it, right?

“Stop trying to forget how we had to fight for our lives,” Shouto continues. “That the villains – Kurogiri, Shigaraki, that creature they brought with them, the noumu – aren’t worth thinking about it nothing but arrogance.”

He glances around, takes a step back at the sudden appearance of the villains. Shigaraki watching his noumu as it restrains Aizawa. Kurogiri still up by the entrance. Other villains have popped up as well, littered across the scene before him but without any real features to their faces.

Understandable, Shouto doesn’t really remember their faces either. Other than Shigaraki and Kurogiri, the other villains had been nothing but backup, intended as a diversion.

“And Asui, you’re going to disregard the trauma she has, almost murdered, because you don’t want to think about this?” The frog-like girl appears now, peering at their teacher, Mineta by her side. “And All-Might, you’re going to pretend that they didn’t get close to killing him?”

Past Kurogiri, All-Might’s figure appears. In this memory, he is not wearing his usual smile, but rather a frown. Worried for them. Worried for all his students that have been placed in danger. Shouto’s always wondered whether the pro feels guilty about the attack, but he’s never been brave enough to ask.

Hopefully not.

“Bakugou was here. I was here – we were all here Midoriya, and no amount of telling yourself that you weren’t is going to change that fact.”

Now, a version of himself appears. Beside him, Bakugou appears.

Opposite them both, stands Midoriya. Except where everyone else had been frozen, almost like Shouto’s looking at a picture, Midoriya appears real.

Midoriya takes a step forward, raises a hand to Shouto, before letting it drop. He says, “I’d wanted to forget.”

Shouto takes a step forward, “Midoriya, we need to get back. You’re–”

“I’m not the real Izuku,” Midoriya says, and almost immediately Shouto deflates. “I’m just part of his cognition. The part that wanted to forget everything about the villain alliance.”

“What happens when you realise you can’t forget?”

The cognitive version of Midoriya glances away, stares at the floor. He scuffs his trainers against the ground, and with an almost sad voice says, “I disappear, go back to the original.”

Shouto takes a step forward. He says, “how do I find him?”

“Just keep going,” Midoriya responds. “It’s probably for the best that you’re the one going looking anyway, you’ve always had a way of helping put things into perspective.”

Shouto blinks, and just like that Midoriya is gone.

-

[Next]

#BNHA #Todoroki Shouto #Midoriya Izuku #TodoDeku #Boku No Hero Academia #My Hero Academia #Fic: Pay No Mind #mywriting

[jswdmb1]

Pain

“I've been pulling on a wire, but it just won't break I've been turning up the dial, but I hear no sound I resist what I cannot change And I wanna find what can't be found”

- War on Drugs

A lot of people ask me how I come up with ideas for this blog.  Well, that’s not really true.  People rarely ask me questions about much of anything, and when they do it’s usually to ask if I know where the bathroom is.  Still, let’s pretend they do ask me about my writing process because it’s a good lead-in to this particular post.  So, I’m glad you asked how I get ideas for these posts!  Let me tell you all about it!!!

The reality is that I don’t really know what makes a good post and what doesn’t.  I probably get a couple of dozen ideas a day for posts but most just float away from my brain into the ether and are long forgotten. This whole blog came out of an exercise I started a year or so ago of daily journaling so a lot of this is just me writing my thoughts and once in a while I say to myself, let’s post that. I have written lots of stuff that has never seen the light of day and never will (believe it or not this is the filtered stuff).  Sometimes, a post starts and then sits on a shelf forever until something makes it gel later and then it becomes a post.  Other times, I just sit and write it out and hit post without thinking much at all about it.  Those are the ones full of spelling and grammatical errors but are usually the purest thoughts I have about that topic.  Then, there are the songs.

I will often hear a song, or more specifically a lyric in a song, and immediately want to write something about it.  Problem is that sometimes I don’t understand why.  I may not even know what possible subject it could be tied into.  I’ll write the song and/or lyric in a notebook, or maybe even start a post with it, and then it will just sit there.  There are a few of those sitting in my draft queue now and until today, this was one of them.  The song came out about a year-and-a-half ago and I immediately knew it was going to be a favorite of mine.  After playing it a whole bunch, I knew the lyrics were reaching me, but I didn’t know how.  It got cued up in my draft folder and I waited.

What finally broke the ice on it was a separate thing I had been thinking about a lot this week. Some of you have been following my travel blog about my recent trip to Las Vegas (if you want to read it go to jswrollthebones.tumblr.com) and you know that I have been searching for meaning about why I felt a need to take that journey and then take the next step to document the whole thing.  I began to think that there really was no reason and that I just went to have fun (I tend to overthink lots of things), but I sensed there was more to it.  I then thought about the lyrics to “Pain” and how my last two trips out there went.  The trip I took out there in 2015 was the last time my Dad went there.  He was pretty sick at that point, but still able to get around, so I wanted to get him back to a place he had loved his whole life.  I remember talking to him as a kid about it and won’t ever forget the spark in his eye when he would talk about a recent trip to Vegas.  When I graduated college, he paid for airfare and hotel for my first ever trip there myself with my buddies.  After that, we spent numerous times there always really enjoying it. It became a location that I readily associated with good times but more importantly times I got to spend with my Dad when everything else could be left behind.  That last trip in 2015 provided us one more opportunity to do that.

When we got back from that trip, I knew that we would not be able to take another one.  His physical and cognitive skills just wouldn’t allow it. At the time, I didn’t necessarily think about him dying, but I knew that things were not going to improve from that point forward and his ability to handle such a trip would be gone no matter how much longer he lived.  Needless to say, I felt some real pain after we got back.  I vowed to never go back unless somehow, someway, my Dad could go with me.  Of course, that wasn’t meant to be and he passed away early in 2017.  As a tribute, my family wanted to go back to the place he loved to celebrate the first passing of his birthday since he died (August 12th).  It seemed like a good plan, and I did enjoy some fun moments with my family during some sad times, but the pain was real.  And it wasn’t just after the trip, but I could feel it happen as I was there. I immediately turned to the substances I readily had available to numb the pain (alcohol and Ativan).  I kept it pretty under cover during the day, but once everyone went up to bed for the night I would really get rolling.  I would sit at a gaming table and order one “free” bourbon after bourbon until that pain went away.  Sometimes I got lucky and won some money, but other times I just let it go not really caring about results as long as the booze kept coming. It was an awful way to act in a place that my Dad loved so well and it certainly was no tribute to him.  Once the booze and drugs wore off, the pain was still there and I had made it worse.

After I got back from that trip, I felt awful.  It wasn’t the start of my downfall, but it certainly made it clear to me that I was in trouble.  I went into a very deep depression for a few weeks not hardly getting out of bed on some days.  When I did get up, I usually would hit the bottle or the pills after a few hours when the reality of my situation hit me.  I hid it well from friends and family, but it became clear to those close to me that I needed help.  As most of you know, I ended up in the hospital on an outpatient basis and it at least changed my life if it didn’t save it.  I came out of there with a new outlook and some better tools to deal with my problems.  I also decided while there to give up alcohol and drugs to allow my treatment to continue without interference.  In a couple of weeks, it will be almost a year since that all happened.

So how does this tie into my trip last week?  When you go through a period of sobriety, certain milestone events can be hard. Holidays, birthdays, parties, family events and the like can be hard to face sober for the first time.  Then if you are mourning a recent death like I was you will have to get through their milestone days (birthdays, anniversaries, Fathers’ Day, etc.) without a drink or anything else to help you forget it. For the first time on this particular trip, I was letting myself feel the pain head on versus deferring it through numbing agents to avoid feeling what I really was feeling.  A couple of months ago when some good friends suggested a trip to Vegas, I realized that was one of the last places I would need to go to conquer some of my demons as a sober person.  I knew it would be a huge challenge, which is why I booked a few days ahead of time to be there by myself to work through whatever process I needed to work through before they showed up.  I kept myself busy with fun activities that kept me away from some of the temptations, but most of the time I just allowed myself to feel happy when I was having fun, and sad when I started thinking about my Dad.  Once a feeling passed, it was amazing to see that the pain started to fade.  Before I wasn’t able to tackle it head on, but now I was letting it have its moment and then I was done with it.  By the time my friends got to town I felt refreshed and ready to enjoy their company. We had a great time and I’m happy to report that my sobriety stayed fully intact.

When I got home, it took me a couple of days to put this all together.  Part of the reason for that is that I came home so relaxed and didn’t understand why.  I came back the last couple times such a mess, but this time, through some perseverance, I turned that around.  For the past few days, instead of regretting my time spent in Las Vegas, I am instead relishing the week-long sabbatical I took there.  It’s an odd place for sure to have such and experience, but it worked for me and it was worth the time and money spent to do it.  As for the journaling of the whole thing, that was just a way for me to hold myself accountable and not let the experience float away (or worse allow me to devolve back to my old ways).  One powerful lesson that I learned in the hospital was through an exercise where we journaled and then they made us read it out load to the rest of the group.  This blog, and the Vegas blog, serve that purpose and allow me to basically read my journaled thoughts out loud to whomever decides to read this.  It's just another tool in dealing with the pain.

I never know when I’m done with one of these posts if this is going to make sense to anyone and I am particularly unsure about this one.  But I am going to post it anyway as I think that it is necessary for me to be open and honest about my feelings as I come up on a year of sobriety and a commitment to treating my mental health issues as well as I possibly can.  It seems indulgent, just like the whole Vegas blog did, but I take solace in the fact that no one reading this has been forced to do so.  If anything, I hope you can take away from this that while facing whatever pain you have head on my sound scary or even insane, it is actually the best thing you can do for yourself.  The process may not always be pleasant, but I’m confident you will be pleased with the end result.  I’m not suggesting you can make all pain go away, but by at least acknowledging it exists will allow you to begin to understand why you hurt.  Without that, there is no chance you’ll ever make it go away. It took me many years and a lot of pain to figure that out, but hopefully you can get there quicker than I did and start living life as pain-free as you can.  Or, at least understand what to do about pain the next time it shows up at your door and learn to coexist with it.

As always, thank you again for letting me do this and for those of you that read the Vegas blog and put up with my silliness over there.  I don’t say this enough (not at all actually), but those that read this blog mean a lot to me even if I don’t really know who you are.  My goal with this is to continue to try and spread the hope that life can be enjoyed and celebrated whether the times are good or bad. We just have to learn how to deal with what comes our way and I continue to find it my calling to bring that message to as many people as I can.  

Enjoy the rest of your weekend,

Jim

[covid19updater]

COVID19 Updates: 08/05/2021

UK:  Vaccines to be required for open travel ‘for evermore’, says Shapps LINK

RUMINT (UK):  I lost a close friend to covid yesterday. He lost his battle after a four week ordeal two weeks in a ventilator. RIP John. Never forgotten.

Maryland:  An epidemiologist from Johns Hopkins walks into a maskless party with 14 fully vaccinated friends… 11 of 14 got breakthrough #COVID19   —so yes, even some epidemiologists had severely underestimated #DeltaVariant. @CDCgov definitely made a grave mistake. LINK

World:  JUST IN - Moderna #COVID19 vaccine: Third "booster" dose will likely be necessary prior to the winter season.

Arkansas:  This AR hospital is so short on nurses in this newest Covid-19 surge, it's offering a $25,000 signing bonus. LINK

US:  MODERNA PRESIDENT BELIEVES THERE WILL A LONG-TERM ENDEMIC MARKET FOR COVID-19 VACCINES

RUMINT (Arkansas):  My friend's husband got covid in September. He was listed as a "recovery". He is now a 52 year old man that has dementia. He worked as an accountant. He can no longer work, and they're about to lose their home. His wife, my friend, now has no feeling in her left hand. My cousin had to go on a ventilator. Thankfully, he pulled through, but he can't remember things and has difficulty remembering simple things. He's 45. Also counted in that 99% recovery.

Arkansas:  West Memphis family mourning 11-year-old who died from COVID complications LINK

Maryland:  No New Mask Mandate Despite Surge In COVID-19 Cases, Gov. Larry Hogan Says – CBS Baltimore LINK

Philippines:  JUST IN: At least 113 health workers from Mariano Marcos Memorial Hospital, Ilocos Norte’s biggest public hospital and major COVID-19 treatment center, have been infected with COVID-19, the hospital says in an advisory.

Thailand:  Thailand reports daily record of over 20000 COVID-19 infections LINK

US: Doctor:  Many of us doctors think sending the children back to school during the delta surge is insane. We have no idea what the consequences for their long-term health will be.

US:  NEW: Number of Americans hospitalized with COVID-19 tops 59,000, highest since February

UK:  BREAKING: Not wearing a face mask on the Tube should be a CRIMINAL offence says Sadiq Khan

RUMINT (US):  A mild case involved struggling for breath, constant fever, agonising chest pain and other horrid symptoms for 6+mos. Now, 16 months later I’m left with dysfunctional breathing, tinnitus, hernia, dysautonomia, waking insomnia and cognitive impairment. 49, previously super fit.

UK:  WELLS FARGO DELAYS OFFICE-RETURN PLANS TO OCT. 4 FROM SEPT. 7

Libya:  #Libya records 1,996 new Covid-19 infections, 28 deaths in 24 hours

Georgia:  Tyler Fairley, 17, high school student, football player, beloved son, Douglasville, GA, died of #COVID19 on August 1, 2021. He was known as a gentle giant. Tyler would have started his senior HS year soon; planned on going to college & continuing his promising football career. LINK

California:  COVID cases surge at highly vaccinated nursing homes - WEHOville LINK

US:  Rolling 7-day average of daily coronavirus cases in the U.S.: 4 weeks ago: 15,219 3 weeks ago: 26,894 2 weeks ago: 41,205 1 week ago: 66,633 Today: 97,522

California:  Los Angeles County reports 3,734 new coronavirus cases, the biggest one-day increase since February

Thailand:  Thailand reports 20,920 new coronavirus cases, the biggest one-day increase on record, and 160 new deaths

Japan:  Tokyo reports 5,042 new coronavirus cases, the biggest one-day increase on record

Louisiana:  Kids and COVID—Dr Mark Kline at Children's Hospital New Orleans: "#DeltaVariant is every infectious disease specialist's worst nightmare. There was a myth—that children were somehow immune—It has become very clear that children are heavily impacted"

Hawaii:  Twenty hospitals from across the state report they’re in desperate need of help. LINK

RUMINT (Arkansas):  I just found out that my great-nephew is in the ICU unit in Little Rock with COVID. He’s a week old. A tiny, innocent little baby who now may never have a chance. I’m holding lawmakers responsible for this. Never dreamed I would see politicians sacrifice children for re-election.

Florida:  As COVID admissions spiral, Memorial Health in South Broward suspends elective surgeries

California:  L.A. will consider requiring vaccine proof at restaurants, gyms, indoor sporting events LINK

World: Lambda Variant:  yes, a few countries and areas reporting more Lambda, including some bits of Spain

Philippines:  Lockdown reimposed in Manila from midnight, to slow spread of Delta variant across capital, adjacent provinces may be pulled into LD, if health facilities are overwhelmed. Thousands arrived to try to sites before curbs come into force for next two weeks;

China:  Large-scale events and exhibitions are being cancelled or postponed in China’s capital, Beijing, as cases of the coronavirus continue to grow in the country. The Beijing government has today stressed events taking place in August should be cancelled, and public places such as parks, cinemas and libraries should now start limiting the number of visitors they have.

World:  Azithromycin in patients with Covid-19; a systematic review and metanalysis Conclusions: These results presented in this review do not support the use of AZM in the management of Covid-19. They also show that any harm caused to the patient who received it is unlikely. Future research on treatment for patients with Covid-19 may need to focus on other drugs. LINK

World: More Data Point to Lambda Variant’s Potential Lethality LINK

US:  Florida and Texas recorded one-third of all US #COVID19 cases in past week, latest figures show. @marthakelner reports from Jacksonville where the number of unvaccinated young people hospitalised with coronavirus is on the rise. 

US:  The United States is working to give additional COVID-19 booster shots to Americans with compromised immune systems as quickly as possible, as cases of the novel coronavirus continue to rise, top U.S. infectious disease expert Dr. Anthony Fauci said Thursday. LINK

US:  Amazon is delaying its return to the office for corporate employees until 2022, adding to the wave of companies adjusting their plans amid a Covid-19 surge LINK

Singapore:  From 16 Aug, Unvaccinated persons to wear a unique visual identifier at all times at worksites (Nazi Germany, anyone?)

Texas:  COVID-19 cases continue to climb in Taylor County, newest deaths include young mother who gave birth in ICU LINK

Spain:  Over 2,000 people who attended three major music festivals without social distancing last July later tested positive for Covid-19 Health authorities have since regretted authorizing the events LINK

Florida:  Official: State refuses to give daily coronavirus data to Seminole County LINK

Texas: Harris County Manager:  NEW: I’ve ordered our COVID19 threat level to be moved to RED due to severe and uncontrolled spread in Harris County. If you’re unvaccinated please stay home. Everyone please continue to wear a mask in public.

US:  BREAKING: Number of Americans hospitalized with COVID-19 tops 60,000, highest since February

Op/Ed:  As experts have been saying all along, “A #vaccine-only strategy is short-sighted and reckless”. Ventilation, test/trace/isolate and masking are all necessary. So basically, not trying to stubbornly return to “normal” before it’s safe to do so. #COVID19

World:  CVS Health Embraces mRNA Vaccines LINK

South Africa:  To date, 17 members of South Africa’s parliament have died due to #COVID19

US:  Republican lawmaker Ralph Norman, who's suing Pelosi over a $500 fine for not wearing a mask during a floor vote, says he has Covid-19  (via AP) LINK

Florida:  Florida children's hospitals see pediatric COVID-19 cases soar LINK

World:  Regeneron Pharmaceuticals Inc (REGN.O) reported a more than tripling of its quarterly profit on Thursday, buoyed by robust demand for its COVID-19 antibody cocktail. LINK

Italy:  Italy makes COVID-19 health pass mandatory for teachers LINK

September:  NEW: California will now require workers in healthcare settings to be fully vaccinated against COVID-19 by September 30th.

UK:  Reduced service on Manchester Metrolink trams due to COVID-19 absences

Canada:  Alberta reports 397 new COVID-19 cases, 1 death LINK

UK:  An estimated 945,000 people experienced self-reported long COVID in the 4 weeks to 4 July (where symptoms persisted more than 4 weeks after the first suspected infection) LINK

Israel:  Doctor: "95% of the severe patients are vaccinated". "85-90% of the hospitalizations are in Fully vaccinated people." "We are opening more and more COVID wards." "The effectiveness of the vaccine is waning/fading out" (Dr. Kobi Haviv, earlier today on Chanel 13 @newsisrael13 )

Massachusetts:  Mass. reports 1,046 new COVID-19 cases, 2 new deaths (http://Boston.com) The state also reported 264 hospitalized COVID-19 patients. 

Alabama:  Alabama’s COVID positivity rate at all-time high. Health leaders want to see it under 5%. The state is currently over four times that rate. Back in June, for one day Alabama’s positivity rate dropped down below 4% to about 3.8%. This week, the state is setting records just about every day. “On the worst day of the pandemic, we were at 22.6%. Yesterday, we exceeded our previous record and Thursday we exceeded yesterday’s record,” said Dr. Don Williamson with the Alabama Hospital Association. Alabama is now standing at 23.6% - an all-time high.

US:  NEW: Number of Americans hospitalized with COVID-19 tops 61,000, highest since February

Australia:  NSW recorded 291 new locally acquired cases of COVID-19 in the 24 hours to 8pm last night.

New Jersey:  Gov. Phil Murphy is set to announce that New Jersey students in grades K-12 and staff will be required to wear masks in schools. It's a reversal from a few weeks ago when Murphy said it would take a “deterioration” of COVID-19 data to require masks. LINK

[yunxies]

DLKFGJHLJKDFG I’M SO GLAD FOR THE PRAISE........also on the chance i don’t finish it (very likely rip) here’s what i have so far below

[there was supposed to be a beginning about iii coming into iv’s room at like 2 in the morning and waking him up but i skipped that because of writer’s block)

"I can't sleep," says III, "and when I can't sleep, I start -"  His hands twist into the fabric of his nightgown, the pink faded closer to gray. "- thinking.  About things."

IV yawns and says, "Why couldn't you just go bother V instead?"

(He knows full well why.  V is a satellite orbiting Tron high above their heads, and III and IV are left on the ground below them, pulled down by the gravity of worry and doubt.  Together.)

(And if he's honest with himself - which he really doesn't like doing, if he can avoid it - he's glad III came to him instead.)

Before III can answer, he sighs and says, "Come here."

III shuffles onto the bed and IV moves to make room for him.  III tucks his knees up to his chest and wraps his arm around them and doesn't say anything.

The moonlight outlines his hunched-over back, the ruffles on his nightgown.  IV is about to tell him impatiently to say what's wrong or get out of his room, when III says in a very small voice, "Do you ever think about... how things used to be?"

Well, that's one hell of a loaded question.  IV flounders for a moment, bogged down in his own sleepy brain, and settles on, "I try not to."  III nods, a motion curled in on itself.

"I can go a while," he says, and the words start stumbling out, slippery in their haste, "a long time, even, without thinking about it, there are books and things to distract me, I like thinking about archaeology instead of - of - Anyway then I'll look out the window and there'll be a dog like the one you used to have, or a father holding his child's hand, or something.  And then I remember."

IV has tensed up.  There is an unspoken taboo on the word "father".  "She was a good dog," he says.

(He doesn't like thinking about her because at least she was - a friend, a companion.  Now he's alone -)

"She was," agrees III wistfully.

[some more stuff happens. god it’s been months i’ve forgotten what i was going to put in here oops]

III half-raises his head from the bedsheets and says, with a bit of a sniffle, "Thomas."

The air in the room hangs still.

Very carefully - because there is the feeling that something has been made transparent and fragile, and a single misstep will bring it shattering crumbling down - IV says, "Don't call me that."

"Why not?" says III, and he's starting to cry in earnest, but silently; IV can just catch the glistening on his cheeks in the moonlight and the thickness in his voice.  "It's still us.  It's not like we're different people -"

IV thinks that's not true.  He thinks that before their father seemingly died and then came back as an inhuman being of space and sly giggling and endless revenge - he wouldn't have been the type to turn his fans into playthings for the joy of seeing their adoration turn to terror.  He wouldn't have manipulated a competitor into cheating and by doing so become a cheater himself.  He wouldn't have pretended that a horrific accident was done on purpose and worn it on his face like a trophy.  Thomas Arclight wouldn't have -

"I don't think so," he says.  "I think we're pretty different from before.  Or at least, I am."

A part of it, he knows, was from the grief of losing his father and the shock of having him return like this.  But much of it is by design.  Tron wanted him to be like this, wanted a pawn that would do terrible things for him, and - and now he is.  And he has to love it, has to take pleasure in being a sadistic bastard, because to not do so would mean too much cognitive dissonance to handle.  He’s learned to love it.

It's not something he likes to think about - only in the dead of night, when the role he's so caught up in falls away in the sleepiness.  And even then it's a sickly creeping sensation, the sudden and terrifying distance from who he is in public, as though that's not the real him - which is a catastrophic calamitous feeling, because if that's not the real him, then what is?  He feels sometimes like an accumulation of masks, and when they fall away - emptiness beneath.  

He has been molded into a different person, and he doesn't even know if it was Tron's doing or his own.  "If you've managed to stay the same person after all this," he says, and can't stop the bitterness from coming into his voice, "then props to you."

"I'm sorry," says III.  "I didn't think -"

"No, no, it's fine.  Whatever.”  III is probably a different person too, even if he doesn’t think he is; the secrecy and sneaking around and holding their father’s grudge heavy in their hearts by proxy has changed all of them.  In any case III is crying harder now, still silent with a shaking in his shoulders, and it’s his fault.  “Hey.  Hey, it’s okay.  Come here.”

[tfw i don’t remember how it was supposed to end bc of how old this wip is....rest in fucking pieces]

#replies #italian-king #my stuff #my writing

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 15

A. The Ace

Third Act – Cognition

 “What do you mean ‘the Ace’?” questions the young man, “is that the name of this old lady here?”

Huh? Did I say that out loud? Damn. Now everyone here will think I’m insane. Well, more than before.

“You know about the Ace?” asks an elderly woman’s voice from deeper into the basement.

Everyone present starts at that voice, myself included. The elderly woman in the far-off gloom stops her incessant sobbing and crawls towards us hesitantly.

“Don’t come any closer!” screams the older man, attempting to put on a brave tone of voice, “we have reason to suspect that you have killed someone!”

“Me? Killed someone?” the elderly woman exclaims in surprise, “then you mean those screams from before, they were because someone died? Don’t tell me it was…”

“The Professor was murdered” I say, calmer than I thought I could manage.

The elderly woman gasps, “maybe if I left that gun with him this wouldn’t have happened.”

“You have the Professor’s gun?” exclaims the young man.

“N-no, I don’t” she says, recoiling from the accusation, “I took it from him to protect myself, but then someone stole it from me.”

Is that true? Is any of what she’s saying true? There’s so much happening I can’t put anything straight. I don’t feel like myself anymore.

I need to gather my thoughts. I know that the Ace was the one who killed my teacher and I know how I can determine who that is. I just need to do what I’ve always done. I need to search my thoughts and surely I’ll find the truth somewhere. I need to trust in myself.

 A Dance in the Embrace of Darkness

 I can’t trust anyone here.

The person that I thought cared about me the most since my husband died has betrayed me. He only looks out for himself. I was only a toy to him. Granted, he wasn’t much more than that to me either, but the man is supposed to protect the woman in times like this right? That should be a given. I should be protected, not having to cower in a basement with my trembling fingers wrapped around a gun’s trigger like this.

If I had any voice left in me, I would scream out right now. Scream for help, but help from who? I’m in the middle of nowhere with nothing but future murderers and past betrayers around me. I could run, but to do so I’d have to leave this basement, and then someone could find me. I can’t let that happen. I’ll stay safe, right here, where no one can see me and surely this whole situation will simply fade away, like a bad dream.

What was that noise? Someone is coming down the stairs. What should I do? I could go back into the dumbwaiter, but what then? I’ll just be back in the Professors room. I’ll have to face that asshole again, and maybe even face that psycho too. I need to just stay put. It’s dark in here, surely no one will be able to notice me. So long as I stay perfectly still…

A lantern is lit by the staircase. Ah, of course, they could just do that. I recoil from the sudden light and point my gun shakily in the direction of the light, willing myself to pull the trigger, but am unable to.

“There you are, little Priestess” speaks the malicious voice of the psycho from before, “don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you. It’s just that there’s something you have that I need.”

“I have nothing to give to a murderer like you!” I scream as bravely as I can muster, which isn’t much.

“I’m not a murderer. I don’t like to kill” the murderer says with mock innocence, “well, I can’t exactly say whether I like it or not, given that I’ve never tried it before. The prospect of ending that hack does seem quite nice right now. But I assure you, I’m not the psychopathic killer you may think I am, just a concerned patient taking up a complaint with their therapist.”

The psycho inches closer to me. I try as hard as I can to squeeze the trigger on the gun, but my fingers refuse to obey me. Why do I have to be such a nice person in this moment in particular?

I hear the slow footsteps of the murderer come closer and closer to me. I look away and brace myself for the worst.

But the worst doesn’t come. I feel the touch of a soft hand on my own outstretched hand. In a moment like this, feeling the touch of another is almost comforting, but knowing whose touch it is ruins the effect.

“You should know what that Professor is like as well, if not better, than anyone” whispers the murderer, “he left you behind like the self-interested Hierophant he is. He uses you for self-gratification and diagnoses you with ailments you don’t have just to exploit you for money and fame. He has made it his career to ruin people’s lives and as such, he has forfeited the right to his own.”

What kind of logic is that? You don’t kill people, it’s as plain as that! Just because you don’t like someone doesn’t mean that you can just decide whether they live or not! Who does this psycho think they are?

“I see that you have a very strong sense of what is right and wrong” calmly speaks the psycho, “a High Priestess like you believes themselves to be wise enough to understand the true nature of things, but they never contemplate anything beyond the surface of matters, always seeking an answer that is ‘good’ over an answer that is true.”

What is this Hierophant and High Priestess nonsense? This person must be crazier than I thought.

“Not killing someone is common sense” I finally muster up the courage to say, “if common sense isn’t right, then what is?”

“Common sense is the supposed ‘wisdom of the masses’” the murderer speaks, “it is built upon the agreement of the general populace and as such is considered to be absolute. But just because more people agree with it, that is no reason to believe that it is more correct. You yourself have surely seen more unfathomably wrong and idiotic people in your life than you have seen people that you can truly agree with, so it follows that the wisdom of the masses is likely to be wrong more often than not.”

The murderer squeezes my hand, and the gun clutched in it more tightly than before, “therefore people should decide for themselves what is right. I have faith in humanity, that when unclouded by the need to conform to the expectations of others, that people will choose what is right of their own accord. Do you not believe in the fundamental goodness of humanity?”

I would say that I do, but how do I say that to someone who has professed to wanting to commit murder? My mind races, and my grip on the gun loosens.

The psycho pries the Professor’s gun from my hand. My mind focuses in this moment of duress. I bite deep into the forearm of the assailant. I don’t know why I’m putting myself in more danger than I need to be, but it seems like the right thing to do. The murderer recoils from the bite, not making a sound despite the pain. Unfortunately, my last-ditch effort is in vain, they still have the gun in their hands and all I’m left with is the disgusting taste of cloth and human blood in my mouth.

“Ugh. So I suppose you don’t understand what I said” says the injured psycho, “not like it matters. You’ll understand in time, that the only one that can help you is yourself.”

They inspect the gun for a second and manipulate the mechanism a bit. It looks like they’re reloading the gun, but where could they have found more ammo?

The soon-to-be murderer turns away, the light of their lantern fading with them. I am soon left once again in the darkness, no longer with anything to protect myself, but now with nothing to protect myself from. The man that I thought I loved will soon die. There is nothing I can do about it. I can’t help him, and he couldn’t help me. More specifically, he didn’t try to help me. The only thing that has brought me happiness in my elderly widowed life, my relationship with that goodly Professor, has been wrested from me. How am I to live if not with him, if not in the embrace of another. I am only alone, here in the darkness, with only my thoughts to keep me company. I cry because what else am I to do?

 02:05:11

 “You’re crying. That’s new.”

“Of course I’d cry. After an experience like that.”

“Really? I thought you were a man. You should at least act like one.”

“!?”

“What?”

“It’s nothing. It’s just, hearing you call me that…”

“Of course I’d call you that. I hate you with every fiber of my being, but I recognize that you are a human being with your own thoughts and desires. If I didn’t, I would be a disgrace to my profession.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, finally you recognize that you are a proper human being worthy of being treated well despite your crimes. Fantastic.”

“I want to know why I did this. I want to face myself.”

“Wonderful. You are not some sort of mentally defective animal incapable of rational thought. You’re a person like anyone else, and that means that you made the choice to kill of your own volition having believed, in the moment, that it was the right thing.”

“So you can forgive me for what I’ve done?”

“No. The fact that you are like anyone else makes your crime all the more heinous and unforgivable. You chose to kill, and that can never be changed or forgotten. You will have to live and suffer with that for the rest of your life, but you will have a life after this, I will make it so.”

“This whole session was just so that I could be punished, wasn’t it?”

“No. If anything this is my punishment. I could have written you off as just an insane murderer, but I chose to try to understand you, but as I am, I am realizing what made you do it. Understanding why you killed my teacher, I start to think that if I was in your situation, I might have done the same, and that disgusts me. This is my punishment as much as it is yours. We will both search the past to find the truth of that night, no matter how painful it is for us both.”

“…you’re right. I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”

“Stop being so meek and kind now of all times. You just need to answer my questions. Now tell me, the fifth guest that met you in the basement, did they kill the professor?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, at that time, was there any proof that you could have presented that would have demonstrated her guilt?”

“I don’t…”

“Of course you know. You saw that situation. The fifth guest was alone, with direct access to the Professor’s office and the murder weapon in their hands. You know that she’s not the murderer, but how can you prove that? If you think it through, you’ll recognize what you need to do to find the true culprit, as much as you may not like it. Now tell me, do you have any proof that the fifth guest was not the murderer?”

  >Pick one:

A.    There is proof

B.     There is no proof

[kartiavelino]

Separated-at-birth triplets met tragic end after shocking psych experiment

This article contains spoilers for the documentary “Three Identical Strangers,” opening Friday. When 19-year-old Robert Shafran drove from his home in Scarsdale, NY, to the Catskills for his first day at Sullivan Community College in 1980, he was shocked to find that everyone already knew and adored him. “Welcome back!” guys said. Girls ran up and kissed him. Finally, a fellow student, Michael Domnitz, connected the dots after asking if Shafran was adopted: “You have a twin!” he said. Domnitz was a friend of Edward Galland, who’d dropped out of Sullivan the previous year. He knew Galland was also adopted, and he called him right away. Shafran was stunned to hear a voice identical to his own on the other end of the line — and decided he couldn’t wait to meet his “new” brother. That day, Shafran and Domnitz drove to the New Hyde Park, LI, home where Galland lived with his adoptive parents. When the door opened, Shafran says in the film, he saw his own face staring back at him: “It was like everything faded away, and it was just me and Eddy.” But as he would soon discover, it wasn’t. Months later, David Kellman, a student at Queens College, saw a news story about the reunited twins and recognized his own face in the photos. He called Galland’s house and got his mother, who said: “Oh my God, they’re coming out of the woodwork!” “Three Identical Strangers” chronicles a story so wild that, as Shafran says in the film, “I wouldn’t believe [it] if someone else was telling it.” And once the long-lost siblings found each other, their story became even more shocking as they discovered they had been part of a decades-long psychological experiment that had controlled their destiny. The triplets were born to a teenage girl on July 12, 1961, at Hillside Hospital in Glen Oaks, NY. Split up at 6 months by the now-defunct Manhattan adoption agency Louise Wise Services, the boys were raised within 100 miles of each other. None of the adoptive parents knew of the other brothers. ‘Those who were studying us saw there was a problem happening. And they could have helped…and didn’t.’ Before the babies were placed in their adoptive homes, the agency had told the prospective parents that the children were part of a “routine childhood-development study.” The parents say it was strongly implied that participation in the study would increase their chances of being able to adopt the boys. For the first 10 years of their lives, the siblings were each visited by research assistants led by Dr. Peter Neubauer, a prominent child psychologist who had worked closely with Sigmund Freud’s daughter, Anna. “It appears there were at least four a year for the first two years and a minimum of one visit per year after that,” said the film’s director, Tim Wardle. Officially, the study went on for a decade; however, said Wardle, “it’s clear from some of the study records that the scientists continued to follow from a distance and collect data on the triplets’ progress for many years after this.” Neubauer’s study, initially brought to light by New Yorker writer Lawrence Wright, involved separating a still-unknown number of twins and triplets at birth and placing them with families of varying economic and emotional reserves. The intention? To answer the question of nature versus nurture. The brothers were placed with families who were working class (Kellman), middle class (Galland) and upper middle class (Shafran). Kellman’s father, a grocery-store owner, was a warm and loving man who eventually became affectionately known as “Bubula” to all three of the young men. Shafran reports his upbringing to have been slightly more reserved, with his doctor father often away. Galland clashed with his father, who, according to Wardle, “had a different idea of what men should be.” Collectively, they represented a spectrum of “nurture.” Robert “Bobby” Shafran (left) and David KellmanBrian Zak “That era, the ’50s and ’60s, was the Wild West of psychology,” Wardle said. “The Milgram experiments [on human obedience], the Stanford Prison Experiment. Psychology was trying to establish itself as a new science, and people were pushing the envelope.” Still, Neubauer and his associates were not roundly accepted, said the director. “They approached other agencies to be part of the study, and [were told], ‘You can’t split up twins and triplets — what are you thinking?’ Even at the time, it was pretty extreme.” Conducted in the families’ homes, the meetings involved cognitive tests, such as puzzles and drawings, and were always filmed. Behavioral problems were evident almost immediately in the triplets. According to their adoptive parents, as babies, all three would regularly bang their heads against the bars of their cribs in distress. Kellman thinks he knows why: “It was absolutely separation anxiety.” Mental-health issues continued as the boys got older. By the time they were college-aged, Kellman and Galland had been in and out of psychiatric hospitals; Shafran was on probation after having pleaded guilty to charges connected to the murder of a woman in a 1978 robbery. “Those who were studying us saw there was a problem happening. And they could have helped,” Kellman told The Post. “That’s the thing we’re most angry about. They could have helped . . . and didn’t.” In the early days, life for the reunited triplets was a party. The strapping young men made the talk-show rounds and moved into an apartment together in Flushing, Queens. “We were sort of falling in love,” said Kellman of the time. “It was, ‘You like this thing? I love that!’ There was definitely a desire to like the same things and to be the same.” But as they spent more time together, he recalled, “there would also be times when one of us was closer to another. And it was not fun to be the odd man out.” They met their mother, briefly, in the early ’80s. Hers was an underwhelming story, says Kellman in the film: “A prom-night knock-up.” She had drinks with them but didn’t pursue any further relationship. In 1988, the trio opened a restaurant in Soho, called Triplets Roumanian Steakhouse. (Shafran left the business several years later, and it closed in 2000.) “We did do a lot of crazy things,” Shafran told The Post. “Like march down 42nd Street with one of us perched on the other two’s shoulders, stopping traffic. “One night, we ran into [celebrity photographer] Annie Leibovitz,” Shafran added. “She said, ‘I work for the Village Voice and Rolling Stone. Let me hang out and take your picture.’ She took us to Peppermint Lounge and the Mudd Club. We were wearing these Izod Lacoste shirts and, like, matching white jeans, going to places where people had multiple piercings and all kinds of color in their hair. We felt like virgins in a brothel!” They were also spotted on the street by director Susan Seidelman. “She was like, ‘You’re the guys! Will you be in my film?’ ” Shafran recalled. That film was 1985’s “Desperately Seeking Susan.” In one scene, Madonna jumps out of a convertible and heads into an apartment, catching a smile from the three brothers lounging by the stoop. “We were kind of cautious about doing it,” said Shafran, “because the whole crew had this sort of leathery, punk look.” As the triplets basked in their newfound bond and endless similarities, their adoptive parents were beginning an investigation into why the trio had been separated in the first place. They convened a meeting with several officials at Louise Wise, who gave them little information. “They said the reason was because it was hard to place three children in one home,” Kellman says in the film. “At that moment my father blew his stack. He said, ‘We would have taken all three. There’s no question.’ ” The parents left frustrated and angry, but Shafran’s father had forgotten his umbrella. “He went back to get it,” says Shafran’s stepmother in the movie, “and he walked into the room to see them breaking open a bottle of Champagne and toasting each other, as if they had dodged a bullet.” The furious parents vowed to take legal action. But, said Wardle, “they couldn’t find any law firms that would take the case — some firms told the parents they had partners who were trying to adopt from the agency and they didn’t want to damage their chances.” Eventually, the brothers married off and had kids of their own: David and Janet Kellman had two daughters, Ali and Reyna; Robert and Ilene had a daughter, Elyssa, and a son, Brandon; and Eddy and Brenda had one daughter, Jamie. Of all the triplets, Galland seems to have been the one who was the most affected by their discovery of one another. Growing up, Galland and his adoptive father “didn’t quite see eye to eye,” Wardle said. “They had a very dysfunctional relationship. So when he met his brothers for the first time, he felt, this is my family. He put everything into being with the boys.” But in 1995, Galland, who had exhibited increasing signs of bipolar disorder, killed himself with a gun at his home in Maplewood, NJ. “A heartbreaking detail that isn’t in the film is that Eddy moved several times so that he could be close to the brothers,” said Wardle. “He did that, I think, three times. He had moved close to David and his family when he ultimately died — he was living across the street from them, which is kind of tragic.” After Galland’s suicide, Shafran and Kellman drifted apart, their relationship indelibly marked by the whiplash of initial euphoria and the harrowing events that came later. “It would be fair to say their relationship was very strained from the point [Robert] left the restaurant,” said Wardle, who says the two remaining brothers did begin to get somewhat closer over the course of making the film. Edward Galland and Robert Shafran2018 Cable News Network Today, Shafran is a lawyer living in Gravesend, Brooklyn; Kellman, who is still in New Jersey and in the process of a divorce, is an independent general agent working in life insurance, medicare and annuities. He has remained in touch with Galland’s wife and daughter. “My daughter and Jamie are extremely close,” Kellman said. After everything they went through, the study that so altered the triplets’ lives was never published. Neubauer shelved his findings, and upon his death in 2008 and according to his orders, all documents related to the study were placed with Yale University and restricted until 2065. Through an attorney, the remaining siblings eventually gained access to thousands of pages of documents from the archive. “We were given some discs with notes and stuff like that, and it was pretty heavily redacted. Everything I got was just about me — it wasn’t about visits to me versus visits to Eddy,” said Shafran. Wardle was able to access short clips of film from the study, and the end credits play over archival footage of the triplets as toddlers, separately working puzzles, taking tests and looking quizzically at the person behind the camera who’s so interested in their behavior. Their search for answers as to why it was ever allowed to happen is still not over. “There are people living in New York City now, practicing psychiatrists, who were heavily involved in setting [the study] up,” Wardle said. “They refused to talk to [the filmmakers] even when we had the proof they were involved in it.” But, he hopes, once the film is out, “there will be a lot of attention on those involved.” In the film, viewers hear a recording of the psychologist speaking with New Yorker writer Wright about his work. “Neubauer showed no remorse,” Shafran said of that clip. “If anything, he reinforced his position. We were subjects, and it was a study. [But] you don’t do a study with human experimentation.” Robbed of the chance to confront Neubauer in life, Kellman is seen directing his anger into the camera. “Why?” he says. “What did you do? Why? And how could you?” Share this: https://nypost.com/2018/06/23/these-triplets-were-separated-at-birth-for-a-twisted-psych-study/ The post Separated-at-birth triplets met tragic end after shocking psych experiment appeared first on My style by Kartia. https://www.kartiavelino.com/2018/06/separated-at-birth-triplets-met-tragic-end-after-shocking-psych-experiment.html