#but im like swinging wildly between reliving the time i was on a fire and reliving the time i fell through ice | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

coldvampire · 2 years

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yall okay so im. okay u know that writer thing you do where whenever you have an Experience in life you keep like. tabs and notes on it in a semi-dissociative state to file away for future reference in case it ever pops up in a story and you need to descrbe the emotions and experience? ive been thinking of vampires and Food. (this veers into ED territory so im gonna drop it under the cut just in case)

(this is copy pasted from discord for my own filing purposes )

so mitchell, in case this was missed, is a former sufferer of a restrictive based ed. i only say former bc yknow, vampirism makes food impossible now. it was definitely a way she felt like she could control her environment and possibly conform to enough beauty standards to be deemed memorable and worthy of attention. i think being the odd one out personality wise gave her a complicated fixation w surface level beauty. she's underweight at the time of her embrace and it shows, tho she wasn't at hospitalization level yet--just kinda felt bad overall (brain fog, mood swings, anemia, vertigo, bad circulation, etc.)

and i think that like, while she knows now she looks visibly unhealthy, she's also got a distinct part of her brain that enjoys the fact that she got to be frozen in her illness? it's not progressing so there's no danger, she can just enjoy what she's hazardously cultivated. she also can't grasp that there are fledglings who miss having to intake food. it never tasted good enough to motivate her to eat, the mental energy and willpower was rarely there for cooking, and most textures were abhorrent to her. there's a period where she's more ashamed of the fact that drinking blood is somehow easier than eating ever was, and shouldn't she feel like a monster for that? isn't she supposed to mourn the fact that something so human was forcibly removed from her?

shouldn't she want to look healthier to keep up the illusion of humanity?

but like the thing is she doesn't lmao. she definitely wasn't at the stage where she was ready to get Help when she was embraced, but she did have enough self awareness to know she was playing with fire--she was just unfortunately too busy enjoying the suffering. i think on some level she believed that if she struggled enough, she would be able to assimilate & gain some sort of social status in her life instead of being alone constantly.

i dont think she would talk about this with other kindred tbh. she likes the fact that she's retained a high humanity level and the type of kindred who revels in the blood consumption typically hasn't been the sort she wants to associate with. she just can't relate to everyone else & would rather process that quietly over the risk of being ostracized again. she swings wildly between feeling as though she should have wanted to recover more/still want to recover now, vs feeling kind of relived that she never had to deal with it.

im honestly not too sure where i was going with this meta lmao. but it definitely carries through with mitchell's motif of being constantly torn about how she views herself & going between self flagellation and neutrality. at this point, her version of recovery would likely just consist of making peace with what's happened and that she doesn't need to carry forward a different version of her previous consumption-based guilt.

#oc tag #my writing #amber mitchell #vtm #vtmb #heed the warning above the cut #im sure ill expand on this at some point #this is what happens when my ramblings dont get attention behind the scenes lmao dgfhgjhk gotta subject everyone to it on main #so i dont forget for later

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jack-kellys · 5 years

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this came out of left field but it’s here anyway: i just was wildly pissed off recently and then wrote this. anyway

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routine

warnings: abuse, injury, blood +descriptions, cursing, vivid feelings ouch, al needs help, please, someone, help this boy, I need to stop hurting him,

words: 1250+

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He didn’t like admitting it was hard.

It wasn’t like he wanted to normalize it, either, but it felt better than feeling weak. Admitting it was hard would make him instantly lose whatever sick game his life had turned into. If he lost, he knew he would lose himself along with it, drowning in spirals of flashbacks and memories he would do anything to spend the rest of his life in. Anything was better than now.

Anywhere, too, so for once he was glad he had been thrown out.

Al had just been kicked out for the… He wasn’t sure anymore—he was losing count. He had been putting a bandage across Liam’s knee, since the eight-year-old had skinned it walking home from school. Al had seen him while he was selling and tentatively brought him home to fix it up. The apartment was empty, like it should be in the afternoon on a Thursday. But then their father had banged through the door, hours earlier than normal. Granted, Ignacio DaSilva probably thought it was the usual time, since he had been out drinking the entirety of the night before. The thing was that Al had been caught off guard and right in the open, Liam’s legs in his lap as Al gently tended to the cut.

Albert’s father over the years had become an advocate of self-reliance—an extremist, in reality. As evil as it sounded, Ignacio DaSilva believed that his children should help none but themselves, and seethed whenever he saw them show too much affection—weakness—towards each other.

Al’s father lost it, more than usual, a one-sided screaming match breaking out after Al had herded Liam to his room: drunken yelling versus wobbly apologizes. It must have escalated quickly, Al didn’t really remember—his memory was funny that way—but the next thing he knew he was being forcefully thrown onto his fire escape, his head hitting the bars before landing in a heap, being told “not show your Irish-lookin’ ass back here before I want it back here, you shit, you hear me, Aberto?!”

So now Al was moving quickly down the street, breathing hard and refusing to control it. He felt hot, his blood ablaze with an anger that raged so fierce he felt like he couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of him without the rest of his vision blending into a cloudy scarlet color. His ears rang with silence despite the noise of the city around him, burning tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Like he’d let them. No weakness, right? he thought bitterly.

The ironic thought couldn’t help but slightly cement itself in Albert’s brain after hearing it so many times though. He couldn’t be weak. Couldn’t let his brothers down, couldn’t let that fucking bastard get the better of him.

Yet the man’s words always managed to fight for a seat at the table of Al’s psyche. Don’t be weak. Don’t act tough, learn to be it and nothing else. Stop being so gentle. You rely on yourself to survive in this world, Aberto, don’t you want to survive? To live?!

Al veered into a tight alley he wasn’t familiar with. His hard breathing had only quickened its pace, forcing him to get away from his city surroundings. From everything. He couldn’t handle everything. Everything was too fast, mobile, rude, and- and—

This world is ruthless, you gotta be ruthless to live, to just get by. Ruthless, boy, I’m tellin’ you. Listen to me when I’m talkin’ to you. Ruthless to yourself, too, gotta teach yourself ‘fore it gets taught to you, ‘fore it’s too late, or I w—

Al slammed his fist into the wall, senses more in tune to the satisfaction it gave him than the splitting of skin and blood dribbling between his fingers. His expression was tightly drawn, his eyes narrowed to unforgiving slits and his teeth grit together. Ruthless, right?

It doesn’t care who lives or dies—clearly, boy, we’d know—it just goes on without caring about you. It changes you. One moment you’re happy and thankful and soft, and the next, you’re—

Al crashed his other fist against the brick with a strangled yell, squeezing his eyes shut against the moments flying through his thoughts. He couldn’t let himself feel them, couldn’t let himself...feel. He didn’t want to. He felt safer—secure—in the hot red haze that he was contentedly stuck in. Only the hammering of his heart, blood in his ears, knuckles repeatedly scraping brick, was audible, was real. Al had to admit—much to his father’s approval, he thought with a chill—that it felt good to shut everything out but himself. His red surroundings weren’t suffocating, and even if they were, he liked it that way. Al could latch onto his first tangible feeling in days.

It felt fantastic to finally be allowed to be absolutely fucking furious at something.

After shoving everything so far down into his gut, the pressure that built every few weeks was released at last as the raw, violent feeling it was meant to be. Al could feel its power overwhelming him as the emotion evolved into his only thought, his mind blank except for the constant rage. He continued to swing his fists into the wall, hear himself scream every single curse he wished onto his father until his voice was hoarse, feel the boiling hotness run through his body at how much utter hatred was coursing through his blood, how much anger and glee and outrage and infuriation was spinning around and around his brain, Al enjoying every minute of it.

Too soon, the feeling subsided and his mentally-induced trance broke. Al’s punches weakened as he inevitably zeroed in on the excruciating pain in his now mangled hands. His breathing slowed to deep intakes as he realized how lightheaded he felt. His comforting red haze faded away, the city returning to him in one big burst of volume. His anger turned into a memory he already longed to relive.

Al slipped into the lodgehouse an hour later, eyes scanning for Mush, who, when he made eye contact with him, had looked like he’d been looking for Albert. Mush quickly motioned for Albert to follow him into the empty kitchen area.

Al placed his hands on the cool countertop.

“Fix ‘em.”

Mush gave Al’s hands a once-over and sighed, eyes sad rather than alarmed as he pulled out supplies.

“Again, Al?” he whispered rhetorically, lightly dabbing at Al’s knuckles with a wet cloth. “I gotta stop you one ‘a these days.”

A faint amount of red filtered into the edges of Al’s vision. “Just fix ‘em, Meyers,” he growled, then let a short breath out of his nose, letting the color dissipate. “I jus’...ain’t in the mood for talkin’ about it. Sorry.”

Mush only nodded, his expression sympathetic despite his straight face as he disinfected the cuts littering Al’s skin. At least Mush knew not to push him by now.

Mush continued to work in silence, Al’s head a jumble of emotions—he felt guilty for snapping, but mad that Mush had said anything, but sad about what happened, and worried about his brothers, and stressed about what Race would say, and-

He didn’t like admitting that he missed blind rage more than normal feelings. It was so much easier to slip into it and not care about anything else around him; such a nice feeling to forget about the mess of emotions in his heart and just focus on the one burning in the forefront.

So for the umpteenth time, he couldn’t wait to feel it again. At least it was something.

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ignacio means fiery in portuguese. excommunicate me from this fandom im so Mean

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#my writing #yayeet #albert dasilva #its literally just him. how do you guys deal with me.#newsies #newsies fics #fizz freaks #newsies oc #fizz wants to write #i gaVE YALL A PITY MUSH #cause al needed SOME sort of support

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