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mediocre--writing · 3 years

Note

Hello again from the anon who sent the first ask about childhood friends Billy crushing on Steve and venting to his mother. You wrote it amazingly, by the way. I would love to see Steve chasing after Billy in the next part, rather than the other way around. Maybe he doesn’t understand why Billy’s been distant and he misses him. I’m not sure if the timeline is accurate but it could be around the time Steve suspects her of having something with Jonathan so he feels very alone and sad and misses his best friend and Billy wants to cry all over again.

part 1 2

billy wakes up the next morning with the weight of his worries pressing into his chest. in comparison, the weight of his secret has been carefully lifted off his shoulders by his mother and was being kept and cradled with the upmost care.

he was left with a list of chores sitting on the dining table and another note reminding him to pick up his extra work from the school.

before even looking a the list of chores, billy did the bare minimum to make himself look ready enough for the day and made his way to the school.

getting his assignments for his last four periods was easy, they were sitting with the receptionist in a little red folder, but his first period, mrs. kelman, hadn’t given hers in yet.

the secretary, being the lazy ass she is, just waved billy through to go to her room and grab the assignments.

her room, of course, was one of the farthest points from the front entrance of the school, so billy power walked most of the way there, wanting to get out of there before he saw someone—a specific someone—and they started asking questions.

knocking on the door once he’d reached it, mrs. kelman came to answer it, muttering something about him being a heathen and a pain in her ass, but billy didn’t care.

because how could he be so dumb? really, you’re friends with a guy your entire life and forget you share the same first period? and you couldn’t wait another thirty minutes to get your assignments?

god, billy wants to shove his finger in the pencil sharpener.

“you’ve got a book?”

billy is staring out the windows of the back of the classroom when he hears mrs. kelman clear her throat, “do you have your book at home?”

with a small cough, billy assures her his copy of the book is at his house. she proceeds to explain the worksheets in detail while handing him, not one, not two, not three, but four packets of work pages he needs to complete ‘by tuesday, if not, i don’t care what you did do, it’s all a zero.’ psycho bitch.

billy, red folder and packets in hand, practically struts out of the classroom before she can come up with any more work to give him.

he’s not yet half way down the hallway when he hears shoes squeaking behind him, his name being called in a voice he really wants to ignore.

“billy, dude, you didn’t answer my calls last night,”

“went to bed early,” billy responded, not caring to turn around or stop walking. nevertheless, steve caught up to him, rushing to block billy’s path.

“well then, talk to me now, what happened yesterday? you haven’t been the same recently, i’m worried,” steve practically begs billy as they finally stop in the hallway.

“i have chores and about fifty pages of work i need to get started on, steve, so if you don’t mind...” billy stepped to walk away but steve grabbed his elbow.

billy’s packets and papers went down to the floor. “ok, i’m sorry about that, but why won’t you talk to me? and what’s with full naming me? you never call me ‘steve!’”

billy bent down to grab at the papers and shove them into his red folder, cradling them in his arms, “well, steve, sometimes people change and you may never know why. maybe they don’t fit in your life the way you thought they did, maybe you finally see the things the way you probably should have seen them all along,” billy scoffed, “have fun at the party tonight, steve,”

as billy walked off, steve felt sick to his stomach. billy was sarcastic and dry most of the time, but never to steve. with steve, there was never the underlying tone of annoyance there was at school and billy never rushed to get away from anyone, at least not this desperately.

steve was off for the rest of the day. it was hard not to notice the constant fidgeting and how he’d stare off into space in gym, the only class he really liked or actively participated in.

by the end of the day, his fifth period (a class he shared with nancy) steve was completely shut down.

wasn’t listening to the teacher or responding to either nancy or tommy’s attempts at getting his attention. he was just thinking about billy. about what he said. how he said it.

that emphasis on how people ‘don’t fit in your life’ and how angry billy was while saying it. how honest the words sounded coming out of his mouth, like he spoke with his entire chest and wanted steve to hear every single word for what it was.

but steve was never good at dissecting literature and hidden meanings, all he knew was what’s at face value.

and billy’s speech at face value was just a message that billy no longer wanted steve in his life. that he had moved on to bigger, better things.

but this, this felt like something his english teacher would scold him for not seeing the depth to.

and steve worried. worried his way through the rest of the day and into the next. worried all through the friday night party and the weekend. worried the monday billy was still suspended.

worried the entire week while billy was back. while billy still wasn’t talking to him or acknowledging him or even fucking looking at him.

steve had thrown himself into nancy that week, been driving her to school and home every day and had taken her on a date twice on school nights.

both times, without realizing, they’d ended up at the diner billy’s mom worked, the one billy would bus tables for in his free time to make a little extra money.

the first day, a tuesday, they’d been served by the diner lady herself, and steve had chatted like they were old friends.

neither mentioned billy, who was clearly seen in the window to the kitchen cleaning dishes.

the second day, a thursday, steve and nancy had come after the movies to get milkshakes. steve got vanilla and nancy got strawberry.

they didn’t see either billy nor his mom that day.

billy was working, though, steve knew because his unmistakable car was parked in its usual spot to the left corner of the building.

steve searched his entire brain, something he’d never done before, to figure out what billy meant.

he wanted to ask someone who knew more about literature than any teacher he’d ever had, but billy was the person he couldn’t ask for help this time.

steve never realized how much he depended on billy for everything. and he means everything.

date ideas for nancy. billy had the best spots.

how to keep nancy smiling. billy had the best pickup lines and corny jokes to make people smile.

keeping steve from not failing his classes. billy was the only person capable of getting through steve’s thick skull.

girl problems and regular teenage angst. billy always knew what people were feeling and how to react.

steve was so dependent on billy and he was absolutely crumbling without him there.

and nancy was frustrated. steve kept spacing out and ignoring her during dates. he wasn’t as charming as before and he was clingier than usual.

‘an absolute nuisance and is acting so desperate’ were her exact words.

this is what she told jonathan byers one night while they sat with their brothers and their friends at the diner after a long afternoon at the arcade.

this is what billy heard while busing tables behind them, unnoticed, before he opened his big mouth.

“done with that?” billy asked with a sickly sweet smile while pointing down at nancy’s empty milkshake glass.

as she made eye contact, her face burned bright red while she tried to control her facial features, “refill?” was the only thing she could squeak out.

billy kept the smile plastered on his face, “‘course!”

he made sure to spit in her stupid strawberry milkshake before he brought it to her.

“do that again and you won’t be working here anymore, boy,” the owner of the diner—benny—whispered to billy while holding onto his upper arm as he walked away from their table.

“yes, sir,” billy said, fake apologetically, because he grinned while walking back to the kitchen.

damn all the money in the world, nancy wheeler was a bitch and deserved her spit-shake.

billy had come to peace with the fact that steve was straight and in love with nancy.

really, steve couldn’t control who he liked.

ok so he was bitter as hell, but it didn’t stop him from being a decent person.

steve, on the other hand, was in the midst of a gay panic—not that he knew what that was. all steve knew was that he missed his billy—

wait when did ‘billy’ become ‘steve’s billy?’

and since when did steve think about billy more than he thought about his girlfriend? especially while he was alone in his house, laying on his bed.

he should be thinking about his girlfriend. his pretty, sweet, incredibly smart, charming, beautiful, blue-eyed—wait! not billy! think about your girlfriend, dumbass, not your best friend!

steve didn’t sleep that night. he stayed up thinking about billy.

about how it had been almost two weeks since he last hung out with billy and over a month since they’d last talked, like actually had a conversation. about how he didn’t even know what his girlfriend was doing this week, even though he knew she told him.

about how he needs to talk to billy.

he needs to figure out why he’s obsolete in billy’s life now. about why they drifted so quick it’s like something shoved a knife between their friendship.

and so, on that sunday morning, while most of hawkins would be out for church, steve drove over to billy’s house, knocking on the door of people who didn’t wake until noon most sundays.

“oh my god,” steve groaned to himself, knocking harder, “open your fucking door, people,”

the door swung open so fast it scared steve a little, almost knocking on a person—billy’s mom.

“hi,” steve gave an innocent smile, though he was met with a grumpy glare.

“why?” she asked desperately, “you know not to come before 12, 10 if it’s an emergency. it’s sunday, the day of rest, and here i am, not resting,”

“i need to talk to billy,”

“yeah,” she nodded, “see, he’s aware that it’s the day of rest, so he’s still sleeping,”

“i don’t care,” steve was stubborn.

she shrugged, “he punches you it’s not my problem. i’ll be resting so scream really loud if he kills you, the neighbors should hear and they’ll call someone for ‘ya,”

she winked at steve as she made her way back to her room, hoping to god that they’d either make up or make out, and she knew she probably wasn’t sleeping anytime soon. these were her boys she was thinking about, after all.

steve walked quick to billy’s door, turning the knob and moving to billy’s bed, sitting on the edge with his hands in his lap.

“i know you heard me knocking,”

“shhh...”

“billy,” steve groaned as he shifted to look at billy ‘sleeping.’

“he’s asleep. call again later,”

“you are your mother’s child,” steve snapped jokingly.

“well then she’s a smart lady. go away, steve,” billy pulled his pillow over his head.

“no,”

“—mmk,”

“talk to me, billy!”

“no,”

“why not?”

“he’s sleeping,”

“jesus christ!” steve stood up, pulling the pillow off of billy’s head and hitting him with it repeatedly. “get up and talk to me you brat!”

billy sat up after the second hit, but steve just kept going.

“what is wrong with you!?” billy put his hands over his head, pushing the covers off himself.

“me? what’s wrong with me!?” steve dropped the pillow to his side as he made crazy eyes at billy, “you’ve been ignoring me for the past, like, month!”

“no i have not!” billy pointed his finger at steve as a teacher would a student. “you have been the one attached at the fuckin hip with wheeler, so don’t you say that i’m the issue here!”

“i talked to you all the time!”

“about her!” billy stood so he could look steve in the eyes properly. “i don’t give a shit about her, steve! i really, really do not care about her in any way besides whatever concerns you! so i’m so sorry that i’m not very attentive on your hour long rants about how ‘nice and soft her hair is,’”

“don’t mock me!” steve exclaimed, insulted by billy’s bad impression of him.

“she’s a bitch!” billy yelled.

“don’t call her a bitch!”

“ok.” billy shrugged, “she’s a prissy bitch,”

“go fuck yourself,” steve complained, throwing his head back in annoyance.

“no!” billy yelled, taking a step foreward. “she talks about you behind your back. to byers. says you’re desperate and a nuisance. is that the same girl you’re so in love with, steve? huh!?”

steve’s face fell a little at the accusation and his eyes darted around billy’s room.

“liar,”

“when have i ever lied to you?”

steve was quiet.

billy, in a softer voice, “i’m not lying. i just don’t want you to be all in love and her not feel the same way, you’re not good together,”

steve had shuffled around to sit at billy’s desk. “wow thanks,”

“i’m serious,” billy’s face was kinder, not as harsh, “she’s already all grown up, and you’re not. it’s a good thing, steve. you’re happy and carefree and want to... go skydiving and she just wants to... play mahjong at the retirement home,”

steve cracked a smile but it fell just as quick, “she really said all that?”

“i spit in her milkshake and she drank the whole thing,” billy admitted, leaning against the desk next to steve’s legs.

steve smiled, “‘course you did,”

they sat quietly for a minute, taking in billy’s words and the consequences of them.

“i’ve been really worried about you,” steve admitted. “you ignored me for a week then got into a big fight, which you haven’t done since that one boy made fun of me freshman year, and then you didn’t even act like i was around. thought you hated me after what happened in the hall,”

“don’t hate you,” billy leaned closer to steve, knocking their shoulders together, “could never hate you. just... frustrated, i guess?”

“cause of nancy?”

billy shrugged, “yea—“

steve turned to look at him better, “something else, though,” he stared at billy for quite some time, “your dad didn’t call—“

“no!” billy shut down the idea, “no, it’s not him. he’s lone gone now,”

“then what?”

“it’s no—“

“it’s something,” steve insisted.

for as awful as steve was on his own, all alone with nancy or in school, for as bad as he was at reading people, billy was an open book to him. he knew every tell he had and could almost read his mind.

“no,”

“yes,” steve was stern.

“no, steve,”

“talk to me,” steve almost begged.

“no,”

“why do i love you?” steve whispered quietly to himself, making billy’s head shoot up before he remembered that he and steve had been saying ‘i love you’ since two weeks after they met.

“steve, you don’t need to worry about—“

“you?” steve guessed. “i don’t need to worry about you? how is that right when all you do is worry about me?”

“i don’t—“

“you do!” steve had a fire in his heart now, “even when you’re upset with me you’re still a good friend. you still look out for me and spit in my awful girlfriends milkshake while she talks crap about me!

“i don’t get why you do it, billy, because i don’t return it and i didn’t even realize until now!”

“you don’t have to,”

“but i should!” steve was pacing in the middle of billy’s bedroom, “i am the worst to you and you just don’t do anything about it! i love you. i love you so much but i’m such an ass to you and i can’t even—“

“i love you too, steve, we’re there for each other. always have been—“

“no,” steve’s eyebrows went up and he steadied his shaking hands. as he realized it for the first time, steve spoke, “no, i love you, billy,”

billy was frozen.

didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t dare even blink.

it was a dream, it had to be.

“i love you and i want to care about you more than i do. i’m a shitty person as is, but, i want to be there for you like you always have for me,”

“i love you, too,”

“why are you crying?” steve’s eyes widened as he saw the tear tracks down billy’s face, rushing over to wipe them away.

“‘m happy. they’re happy tears,” billy sniffled as he looked up at steve, “promise,”

and they kissed.

steve didn’t even think about nancy. billy didn’t think about the shadow under his door that was most definitely his mom listening in.

they ignored the way it was a really bad kiss, especially for two boys with such reputations that they have, but enjoyed it nonetheless.

billy enjoyed the way steve’s hands pushed his messy curls away from his face and steve enjoyed billy’s hands rubbing his lower back.

they didn’t have to think beyond that moment, didn’t have to worry about a single thing.

their only plans past that moment were for steve to break it off with nancy, then they’d go get chocolate milkshakes and eat cherry pie at the diner.

#ok i made nancy the villain but it’s just because it was an easy target #lol this probably has so many spelling/grammar mistakes #stranger things #harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #steve x billy #billy’s mom #billy hargroves mom #billy stranger things #nancy wheeler

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gunnerpalace · 4 years

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If you're still accepting writing prompts can you do UraYoru and #5? Please!

It’s like… three years later… but here we are. I hope you still find it of interest and like it after the absurd wait!

1700 words with the prompt “Care to dance?” Yoruichi is wearing her second swimsuit outfit from BBS. I discussed my reasoning for the Urahara Shop having a garden here. The implication is not that Yoruichi assassinated JFK, she just happens to have been in several places throughout history around the times things went down. (In another fic I imagined her as being in Tangier in 1956; “crossing paths with a black cat” writ large and all that.) Kisuke’s computer is from filler but feels very him (it’s probably running Linux because he strikes me as that sort).

Without You By My Side

The sunlight which fell upon the garden courtyard of the Urahara Shop not only carried energy and warmth but almost had a sense of weight to it—a photon rain so fine it almost felt like being submerged in it.

Beneath that omnipresent pressure, Yoruichi shifted on the white pool lounger she was reclined upon. She first drew her legs together, then pushed herself up on her elbows into a sitting position. Sweat beaded down her toned curves as she slid her legs off to one side and by feel alone slipped her feet into the orange flip-flops waiting for her. After she scooted down the side of the lounger and moved into the shade afforded by the parasol that’d been set up, she finally opened her eyes.

There was a small, portable table under the parasol, and on it was a glass that was still frosted from the little bowl of ice it’d been set in. The content of the glass was a pastel but still vibrant green.

Yoruichi wiped the perspiration from her forehead, reached for the glass, and then brought it to her lips to take a hearty swig. She sighed in contentment as she rested her forearm on one of her thighs to cradle the drink in hand. A milk, matcha, and vanilla smoothie really is the best thing in the summer…

She pondered the concoction’s color absentmindedly before taking another gulp. The matter of reapplying sunscreen (as she was in the sun merely to enjoy it) was a foggy notion in the back of her mind that never congealed into anything, as her thoughts were derailed by a clatter and a loud crash emanating from the shop.

With a blink, she turned her attention toward it. “The hell?” She couldn’t perceive any reiatsu from the building, as usual; the gigai that Kisuke and Tessai used made sure of that, and Ururu and Jinta didn’t emit much in their normal states. She spontaneously recalled that Tessai had been planning to head out with Ururu and Jinta for supplies too. So, the only person it was likely to be was, of course…

Yoruichi was on her feet and maneuvering through the garden in an instant, her drink still in hand yet simultaneously forgotten as she strode purposefully across the stepping stones situated around the koi pond, on her way toward the kirime-en deck and the shōji door beyond. She kicked off her flip-flops as she stepped up onto it.

“Oi,” she called as she entered the shop, looking about.

There was no immediate response.

The sound came from this side… From the dining room she headed for one of the storage areas, to the left.

In a few more steps she was in the main storage room, the door to which had already been open. “Kisuke?”

Her eyes were still adjusting to the rather darker interior of the shop, and for a moment she couldn’t see much.

Then she spotted him, underneath an oversized box that obscured his whole upper body, his legs wiggling about comically from under one side of it.

“Dumbass!” she exclaimed, looking down at the drink in her hand as she suddenly became aware of it again. She quickly glanced about and set it on another box before hurrying over to him.

Yoruichi grabbed hold of the box by the sides and did her immediate best to lift it off him. It was bulky, but not all that heavy given its size, and she picked it up easily enough. She was perplexed by that even as she leveraged it off him and set it to one side.

Kisuke immediately started in, as usual. “How fortunate, I’m saved! An angel has come to my rescue!” He got his hat on again and adjusted it as he looked her up and down. Her white, rainbow-trimmed bikini left little to the imagination even if it wasn’t particularly flashy or revealing; the top in particular provided him with a view of more than a little of the underside of her chest, given his angle.

“Oh, shut up!” she complained, her face contorting into something of a sneer. She glanced him over from where she stood and, finding that he looked no worse for wear, turned and retreated back to her drink. “How did you even wind up in this situation?”

He stood and brushed himself off while respectfully admiring the view. “I was overcome.”

Yoruichi scoffed. “Ha! By a box!?” She took another glug of the smoothie without waiting for his reply. He’d interrupted her leisure time for this?

Kisuke gave a smile and finally turned his attention back to the box in question. He picked one side of it up and started to maneuver it toward the door—and her. “It’s quite the unwieldy specimen.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to watch as he struggled with it. “Don’t expect me to help any more than I already have,” she deadpanned. She had made it very clear—well in advance!—that she’d set this day aside for relaxation.

“Surely observing my labor makes partaking of your treat all the sweeter?” he asked as he dragged the box up alongside her.

Yoruichi’s only response was a dubious stare, but the truth was seeing him struggle did kinda make the smoothie tastier. She took another drink to confirm the matter, following him as he pulled the box along through the shop. Only once she was satisfied that there was indeed something nicer about the smoothie under these circumstances did she speak again. “What’s in the box anyway?”

“Things.”

“Very helpful. Here I was, beginning to think perhaps it was a cube containing the vacuum of space or something.”

Kisuke stopped abruptly and looked up at her in surprise.

“What?” She frowned suspiciously and her tone grew dimmer.

“That’s a great idea,” he said in a hushed voice.

“No.”

“Interplanetary, interstellar, or intergalactic?”

“Kisuke, no.”

He smiled again and continued pulling the box along. “The French once trained fourteen female cats for spaceflight, you know.”

“I am not going into space,” Yoruichi said severely.

“Well, not with an attitude like that. Though I suppose Félicette wasn’t willing either. She did survive! I think you were in Texas in 1963?”

Yoruichi’s expression grew a bit sour and she looked aside, sipping at the smoothie as she abruptly wandered down memory lane. “Don’t remind me.”

“Anyway, there are some parts I need in here,” he finally volunteered.

“Parts for what?” she asked, pushing the memories aside. They’d made their way back through the shop and living room and were heading into a side room Kisuke often used for working on small projects.

“I’m putting the computer back together.”

“Kisuke, I don’t know anything about computers, and even I know that thing is a hunk of junk.” She caught sight of it then: an obsolete-looking, single-unit thing clad in beige plastic. The keyboard and monitor were integrated into a single massive terminal which took up most of the surface area of a chabudai table. It was positively archaic.

“Don’t insult my baby that way,” he said, with what sounded like sincere injury.

Yoruichi stifled her own sense of being offended with another drink. “Your ‘baby’ belongs in a scrapyard,” she asserted instead, pressing the attack.

Kisuke peered at her from under his hat but said nothing, instead bringing the box over to where he needed it.

She moved around the other side of the computer, finding the back of it was open.

He opened the box and set about rifling through it, retrieving various parts and pieces from among its jumbled contents.

Yoruichi watched with studied disinterest until she finished her smoothie, then promptly left for the kitchen to refill her glass.

She sighed wistfully upon opening the fridge as she realized that had been the last of the batch. It was simple enough to make, and she could do it herself, but Tessai always got the ratio of the ingredients perfectly right and they were out of milk to boot. She sadly washed the glass out instead.

She was just finishing when she heard Kisuke laugh from across the building. After setting the glass aside to air dry, she returned to his ad hoc office.

He was sitting in front of the computer, using its absurd trackball to navigate around its interfaces. The GUI, at least, seemed very modern.

Kisuke double-clicked on something and then turned and stood. “It works!”

“Yes, I can see that,” she duly replied.

He moved closer and extended a hand toward her. “Let’s celebrate the occasion. Care to dance?”

She raised an eyebrow at him in confusion.

Right then, a very familiar drum, bass, and guitar section started up, following a 12 bar blues progression.

Yoruichi’s recognition of it was instant, and she blinked before scoffing again. “This song? You’re so s—”

She didn’t have time to finish as Kisuke moved in closer and took her hands in his, starting to move with her just as the lyrics to Queen’s “I Want To Break Free” started.

She glared at him, given the wholly appropriate nature of the lyrics, but grudgingly started to cooperate with him once it became clear he wouldn’t stop.

He smiled at her and began to mouth along with the vocals at, “I’ve fallen in love.”

It was possible to suppress her laugh, but she couldn’t entirely hide her own smile. Defeated, she started to dance with him properly, taking her own turn to mouth the words at, “It’s strange but it’s true,” turning the song into something of a dialogue.

They moved and pretended to sing together until the instruments faded out, ending their dance with a twirl that brought her close to him and left them considering one another in silence.

“You’re so sappy,” she stated, concluding her earlier thought.

“And you’re still very sweaty,” he replied with a smile.

She blinked and glowered, then unhanded him and slugged him in the stomach. She turned without further consideration and headed for the door.

“I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave,” Kisuke managed to wheeze.

Yoruichi flipped him off without looking back as she crossed the threshold. Still, she couldn’t keep a smile off her face as she went to pour herself some water before heading back outside. Idiot…

#meagsnicole #UraYoru #UraYoru Fanfic #Yoruichi #Flash Goddess #Kisuke #Prompt #Response

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thecosmicsleep · 4 years

Text

A Fool’s Paradise

Angsty Auburn x Ricardo. Non-canon compliant, but it does have spoilers for the second book. Read at your own peril, I guess.

Word Count: 3,387 (No, seriously; read at your own peril.)

“I love you.”

The words are whispered quietly into the stillness of the room, barely heard over the tinny sound of voices on the television. He says it so often now. Like that first time he admitted it was the breaking of the floodgates and now he can’t stop. Won’t stop. Because you know him and it’s not that he can’t stop, though he probably feels that way. It’s that he won’t stop because he doesn’t want to go another second without letting you know how he feels. He held back seven years ago, and you died without knowing, without him ever getting to admit it. And this feels like his second chance. You think.

You can’t be entirely certain because you can’t read his mind, but you’re confident you know him well enough by this point to know this. And it drives you mad.

The prickling sensation of dread climbs up your arms and you sit up, dropping your legs over the side of the couch. Its hands rest on your shoulders. It’s not a real, solid thing, and yet you can see its viscous claws trace lines across your chest, leaving you wondering why no blood is drawn or why your shirt is still intact. You can picture its face, the vile grin with dripping teeth as it breathes harsh waves of toxic gas into your face. And you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe, you can’t—

“Hey.” Ortega’s hand is gripping your shoulder tightly, almost painfully. “Hey. Auburn, what’s wrong?”

You don’t answer, don’t even acknowledge that he’s said anything. His hand falls off your person as you push off the couch, pacing through the apartment to shake this feeling. Something’s coming; something’s about to happen. And you don’t know what, but it all feels so wrong. All of this. You’ve let it all go on for much too long.

It’s a lie. Every single part of it is a lie and it needs to be fixed. You need to stop living it, stop hiding from the horrid unmistakable truth of it all. That what you are is unlovable. That what Ortega loves isn’t you and it hasn’t ever been you. It was a nice dream while it lasted, something warm and comforting to escape to when the rest of the world was too much. But everything comes to an end at some point and it’s better if you just do it now rather than risk him finding out some other way. Right?

“Auburn.”

It’s better this way. It’s better to be alone so that no one can truly hurt you. Why did you ever let yourself get attached? You knew this from the start. But you never expected Ortega to think he was in love with you. Or not you, not really. Never expected anyone could fall for your lie so wholly without you influencing their thoughts somehow. So, really, this is his fault. It’s his fault that you need to do this right now.

“Auburn.”

You jump at how loud his voice is, notice how close he’s standing. “Don’t,” you tell his outstretched hand, glaring as it gets closer. “Don’t fucking touch me, Ortega.”

His hands turn placating, eyes wide with shock and concern. “Whoa, okay,” he relents, backing up a step. “Okay, I’ll give you your space. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” The words are too fast, voice too loud, body too tense. Ortega’s eyes narrow on your face and suddenly the anger is too much to keep contained. “You just don’t get it.”

“So, explain it to me.”

You suck in a breath, intending to do just that, but the words lodge in your chest. Your throat is too tight for anything to get through, breathing is getting harder to do again. The world blurs as you turn on your feet and stomp out of the dining room and into the kitchen. You can hear his footsteps as he follows behind you slowly. The anger is all-consuming, but somehow the fear is still there, still blocking. How is it still controlling so much of your life? Just get this over with. It’s better this way; you know it is.

You push your hair out of the way as you look up, grip the counter with white-knuckled intensity. “You don’t love me,” you whisper, voice raw. It wasn’t supposed to be a whisper. A hiss, maybe, a snarl, but not a whisper.

There’s a long pause, as if he’s waiting for you to continue, and when you don’t, you can hear him breathe deeply. “I think I know how I feel, Auburn,” he tells you quietly. “I’ve had seven years to deal with this, to figure out what it is.”

“No, no, no,” you moan, fingers tangling in your hair. Your nails dig into your scalp and it’s some sort of relief; not the kind you want, but it’ll do. You turn to face him. “You don’t love me; you love the idea of me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t; you wouldn’t.” Every word that leaves your mouth is a snap and you’re aware of how absolutely out of it you sound, but you don’t care. Can’t care. This is it; this is happening. You’re about to ruin everything, just like you always knew you would. “I’m not real, Ortega. Auburn isn’t real.”

You watch his face contort in confusion. “You feel pretty real to me,” he says slowly, eyes on your face.

You roll your own, pushing passed him as you continue your pacing like some sort of caged animal. And really, what else are you? You’re not human. “Auburn has never been real,” you continue. Your fingers are picking at your clothing, itching to get this reveal over with. Rip the bandage off and let everything bleed onto the floor. “Sidestep is dead and Auburn was never alive.”

The words are sinking into his mind slowly, you can see it as everything clicks because he wears it on his face. He’s such an honest, genuine person that it never crosses his mind to keep his emotions hidden. He’s so… not like you. The exact opposite of you. Has he even lied to you once? And here you’ve built your entire relationship with him on a lie. What kind of horrible thing are you? Were you ever capable of good?

Then he whispers, “Do you really hate your past so much?” and you choke out a strangled laugh because God. God, of course he still doesn’t get it. It’s so obvious, staring him right in the face. Right there. You can imagine its mischievous grin as it taunts him, and it infuriates you. Why isn’t it obvious to him?

“I’m not human,” you hiss, and you can hear the break in your own voice. Can feel the weird combination of warm and cold on your cheeks as the tears finally spill over your eyelids. And without a second thought, you pull your shirt up over your head and drop it on the floor beside your feet. You shouldn’t have only been wearing one layer, but you’d gotten used to life with Ortega. So stupid. “I’ve never been human, Ortega.”

The silence is deafening; all-consuming. Expected. You’re not sure how long you think it’s going to last, but you know you didn’t expect it to feel like this. You’ve wanted nothing but silence since you were shoved into this world hearing others’ thoughts, have tried to create it yourself in your own apartment. Have used your puppet as a means of escape, but that never feels quite right. Not the right body, not the right view. And always more focused on the task at hand and not the silence.

But this is suffocating. You can’t read Ortega’s thoughts, can’t figure out what he’s thinking. And you’re sure that if you looked at his face, you could figure it out, but you refuse to. Instead, you’re watching the sun set behind the other buildings through his window. Watching the last light in your life disappear with it because you know this is it. And the reality of it all is finally sinking in. You’ve just revealed yourself, your true self, and there’s no way there won’t be consequences. He might try to send you back and you know for a fact you’re not going to go, so it’s either you or him. And for the love of all thing’s holy, you don’t want to hurt him. Not like that.

Not like that.

And then there are those three fucking words again. They shatter the silence and leave your ears ringing. They shouldn’t be here, not anymore. Yet, those are the next words to leave his lips like he doesn’t know any others. Like he’s forgotten what words even are and those three words are all he has to express himself. So quiet that you wouldn’t have been able to hear them if it wasn’t so absolutely, deadly quiet in this apartment.

“I love you.”

That draws your eyes away from the window. “You what?” The ferocity in your voice has even you jump, backing up a step before the shock falls away and you’re angry again. “Did you hear nothing I just said? Are you blind?”

He shakes his head and takes a step forward but stops when you back up again. “I heard everything,” he reassures, if those words could ever be reassuring. “I know… can see what you are, Auburn. But it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

You don’t know how to process those words. For the first time in recent memory, it feels like your brain has completely stopped operating. No rushing thoughts about feelings or what you need to do. No worries over how others are perceiving you, of whether you’re under the radar enough to do what needs to be done.

The lack of anger, of murderous intent, leaves you stumbling. What are you supposed to do with this? With love? Who loves things like you? Nobody, that’s who. They see you as tools, weapons, means to an end. When you’re no longer useful, you’re discarded like a broken gadget. When something newer comes out, you’re forgotten. Like a phone that’s become obsolete. Or even when your new, shiny nature gets boring after a week and you’re used for your intended purpose and nothing else.

You’re used to that. Used to impermanent emotions when it came to how others perceived you. Either you weren’t graced with any, or the ones that were directed towards you lasted five seconds and they moved on.

God, you wish he was angry. You wish he wanted to kill you, to put all of this behind him. It would make it all easier, somehow. Being done with it all. No more Re-Genes, no more Phobia, no more Charge, or Ortega, or Auburn. No more love, or hate, or anything at all. For you, at least. Just sweet, blissful silence forever.

Your gaze falls to your hands, follows the lines of orange on your arms. “I don’t understand.” You meet his gaze again slowly, pulling your hands close to your chest. “I’m… I’m not human. I’m not… real. You shouldn’t… I don’t understand…”

“Auburn.” His voice is gentle, and you feel the first sparks of hope ricochet inside your heart with each new beat. He takes another step forward, but you remain in place, searching for anything in his face that’ll tell you what he’s really thinking. That he’s lying, somehow. When he gets close enough, he reaches out and runs a finger along your cheek tentatively, testing the boundaries again. “It’s clear I don’t know everything,” he explains quietly. “That the things I’ve been told aren’t the whole truth. Like, they told me Re-Genes don’t have feelings and yet you’re here having an emotional breakdown.”

You glare at him and he laughs quietly, pushing strands of hair behind your ears. “And either you’re a great actor or you’ve cared about helping people since I met you, put yourself in the line of fire time and time again,” he continues. “It’s obvious you feel pain, physical and emotional. You’re capable of being horrified and angry and sad. And whether you admit it to yourself or not, I know you’re capable of loving others.

“You sound pretty human to me, Burns.”

The anger was draining, you could feel it disappearing, and then he mentioned your past selflessness. Your past, in general. The anger flares up again and you push away from him, pace a few steps away, whirl around and point at him. “When I said Sidestep was dead, I didn’t just mean because I’m a Re-Gene,” you spit, each word harder to get out than the last. “I’m not good, Ortega. Whoever, whatever I was seven years ago is gone.”

In a flash, the anger is gone again. You deflate, pushing your fingers through your hair repeatedly in a weird attempt to keep your composure. Not that you really have any left to hold onto.

“I’m not good,” you repeat, backing up until you hit the wall and slide down it. Hand pressed to mouth, it’s all you can do to keep the world from caving in as the rest crumbles around you.

“Auburn.”

His voice is little more than a whisper, but still gentle. Oh, so gentle. His ability to remain so in the face of all the world has done to him is an enigma to you. To be so kind, so considerate in a way most people aren’t. Even with what’s been done to him, by you. By you, by you. You’re not good, you know you’re not good. So, why does the thought keep breaking your heart?

“Auburn,” he repeats with a little more force. He reaches out, touches your skin, draws your focus. He’s crouched in front of you, blocking your only exit, but it’s not like you’re leaving. You don’t have the strength anymore. You’re not good, you’ve never been good. “Sweetheart look at me. Focus on me, okay? It’s going to be okay; I promise.”

You shake your head. “It’s a lie, it’s all a lie,” you mutter, tired and broken. You just want it all to be over now, to be done. He was supposed to hate you; why doesn’t he hate you? “I’m not good, I’ll never be good. I’ve never been real, Ortega.”

He stands up and you think, maybe, this is it. This is when he finally realizes everything you’ve said and revealed, and it all clicks into place like little puzzle pieces. And he’ll get angry and demand answers you can’t give. He’ll stop insisting that you have good in you or that he loves you. Stop insisting that it’s possible for people to genuinely care about you.

And you’ll have been right all along. Right about being alone with no one to lean on. Right about never fitting into place in this jaggedly put together world. A world where it seems like no one should fit and yet somehow everyone does. Everyone except you. Somehow just outside the realm of acceptable in a world where people take drugs so that they can fly. Or their skin can turn into metal. Or where they’re more mod than human now, really.

Part of you wants to get angry at that again. Wants so desperately to be angry and to fight because what’s wrong with you really? That you were made and not born? If it wasn’t marked on your skin for all the world to see, would anyone really be able to tell the difference? The years since your first escape tell you no, but it’s only a matter of time before someone else finds out. Before someone else sends you back to them and you’ll wish you were dead. If Ortega doesn’t do so now.

But he doesn’t get mad. Instead, he takes your hands and gently pulls you to your feet so that you’re standing face-to-face. Or, well, face-to-chest, in your case. His thumb glides softly across your scarred knuckles before he brings a hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss there. And then another to the knuckles on your other hand. You aren’t entirely certain what’s happening, not sure if you should feel comforted or on edge. Maybe both.

“You keep saying you’re not real,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrists. “And it just sounds so… absurd because you’re right here. I can feel you, hear you, see you. I can smell the shampoo you wash your hair with and taste the salt on your skin. By definition alone, you’re real.”

He places more kisses up along your arms. “But if you mean your character,” he continues, his tone so much more soothing than you ever thought possible. “You care more deeply than you like to let on. I’ve seen your face when something someone says hits too close to home. Or the way you defend others when you notice the teasing has gone too far. How hard you fight to protect those you care about, or even the innocent that you don’t know.”

His lips are at the insides of your elbows now and his pace changes. He trails kisses up your arms to your shoulders in an agonizingly slow procession, and when he gets there, he kneels. Presses soft kisses to your stomach, following both the tattoos and scars there.

He doesn’t know, you think. He doesn’t know that you’re Phobia. That those same people you saved all those years ago are the same people you now terrorize. He doesn’t know how horrible of a person you have become and suddenly, you’re scared again. How far it will all come tumbling down when he finds out, because it isn’t a matter of if. He will find out and he will tear you apart. And he is the one person you will ever allow to do so.

He looks up at you through his lashes. “You’re more real than most of the people that call this city home, Auburn.”

The tears are back, dripping off your chin and into your hair. You’re shaking with the effort of keeping quiet. “How?” you choke out between silent sobs, shuddering as you try to breathe. “I don’t understand. How can you still love me?”

He stands up, picking you up as he does so. You’re not sure why you’re letting this happen. You should be running as far as you can, disappearing into the far reaches of the world where no one can find you. Forgetting everything you’ve been trying to do here and hoping that you can find somewhere to call home for the remainder of your very short-lived life. A place where they won’t find you and you can forget the horrors of a past you’ve struggled to put behind you.

His bed is soft as he sets you down on it, leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead. He brushes your tears away with soft fingers and cups your face in warm hands. “Because you’re easy to love, Auburn,” he tells you in the softest voice imaginable. As if just saying the words may break the fragile peace you two have created between you. “You’ve always been easy to love.”

He sits down beside you and wraps his arm around your shoulders. It’s not the pose you were expecting from him, but then he lays down and pulls you down with him and it all makes sense again. You curl into his chest, feeling the tears you still haven’t managed to get control of leak over the bridge of your nose and into his shirt.

“Knowing how you came to be doesn’t change that.”

The words break unevenly over the sound of blood rushing in your ears and it’s too much. It’s all too much. You can’t tell whether you’re happy or absolutely terrified by the idea that he loves you. He loves you. Not the seemingly false copy of yourself you’ve given everyone else over the years, but the real you. The tears could be those of joy, sorrow, or terror at this revelation. They could be all three, but it doesn’t matter. Not really. The only thing that matters is this.

“I love you.”

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero: retribution #fallen hero spoilers #ricardo ortega #chargestep #writing #my writing #auburn becerra #i'm sorry there are so many words #but like #they had a lot going on #all i wanted was like those last few lines ortega said too #whoops #burntega

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marcdouffet · 4 years

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COVID-19: My family’s experience

On Sunday March 15, my younger sister called me crying. She had temperature of 101OF and a blinding headache, but it was an important day at her job, and she knew her supervisor really needed her help. “Stay home,” I said. “Tell him you’re sick, he’ll understand. Even if there wasn’t an emerging global pandemic, you’re legitimately sick. He’s understanding, this won’t affect your job at all. And call your doctor if the fever sticks around… If it was COVID-19, I would tell you just stay home, but it doesn’t sound like it, maybe you have something bacterial.” The next morning, things were about the same, so she called her doctor’s office and was advised to come in. A nurse wearing a gown, mask, and gloves took throat and nasal swabs. When the doctor came into the exam room, he was dressed similar, and stood at the farthest corner from her. “Well, rapid strep and flu are negative. We don’t test for it, but assume you have COVID-19. Go home and quarantine.”

At that point, believe it or not just three weeks ago, we only believed COVID-19 as a respiratory infection. She called me scared, suddenly afraid she might have a life-threatening illness. “Why would they say, just assume? What does this mean for me?” She lives with my 60-year-old mother, who had been dropping off groceries at her 85-year-old mother since the first reported case. Everyone had been doing their part at social distancing, but was it enough? I reached out to the New York State Department of Health for guidance. “That’s ridiculous,” they told me. “She has no respiratory symptoms, without coughing she can’t spread droplets, and if they considered her a Person Under Investigation, they should have referred her for testing.” Within a week, we would find that every single one of those instructions had become obsolete or been proven incorrect. As the days progressed, she began to vomit excessively, unable to even keep water down. The fever continued. By that point, I began to hear reports from friends and colleagues on the front lines about younger patients presenting with GI or other atypical symptoms, and the daily reports I received from my mother had me more and more concerned. Friday the 20th, I contacted the DOH again. The hold time was 100 minutes. I described her symptoms, and this time they took down her information so they could contact her with a testing site and time, advising that she must come alone so as not to expose anyone else. Saturday evening, my mother called me frantic. After vomiting all day, my sister was too weak to sit up and while she wasn’t disoriented, she was acting euphoric- that’s medical speak for “she knew who she was and where she was but sounded high as a kite”. My concerns about dehydration, lurking in the back of my mind when the vomiting began, started creeping to the forefront. I contacted several urgent cares in her neighborhood, looking for someone who could administer IV fluids and do bloodwork. The answers were all the same: urgent cares aren’t designed for isolation; they aren’t seeing anyone who is suspected COVID-19. Desperate, I reached out to friends who are active EMTs and live closer to her to see if anyone could evaluate her. In full isolation gear, a friend went over to see her. “Look, she’s sick. She’s really sick,” he told me. “Any other time, any other virus, she probably would be hospitalized. But this time, she won’t be. I’ve been in the EDs, they’re overflowing. She’ll wait, and ultimately, she probably won’t get a bed. There’s just too many people sicker than her.”

Nobody slept that night. The next morning, the DOH called to give her an appointment slot the following day at a public park 18 miles away. Going alone wasn’t an option anymore, she could barely sit up let alone drive. So, Monday morning my mother packed her, a blanket, and a bottle of Powerade, into the car and made the trip up to what I now refer to as their “black ops testing experience”. At the entrance to the park, they were stopped by the National Guard, in uniform, with yellow safety vests and surgical masks. “Hold your ID up to the window- DO NOT OPEN YOUR WINDOWS,” the soldier shouted at them. Their appointment was verified, and they were directed to drive up to a testing tent. The nurse at the tent shouted through her mask and the sealed window. “Since you’re here and exposed, you’re getting tested too,” she called out to my mother. “Tilt your heads back, open the window and please, please, don’t cough or sneeze on me.” They had their noses swabbed and were cleared to leave. That was when it started to snow. Can’t make this stuff up. Twice, they pulled over for her to kneel in the slush on the side of the highway and vomit.

Then came the long anxious wait for results. With the amount of testing done daily, I wasn’t surprised at all that the timeline they gave us was behind by a day or two. On Thursday, my mother’s temperature creeped just above normal and she started complaining about ear pain. She called her primary doctor’s office, who gave her a mask and saw her in a tent in their parking lot. Once again, rapid strep and flu are negative. They prescribed antibiotics “just in case.” She asked me what I thought. Well, it’s been three days, maybe give it one more day to see how your viral culture comes back? On Friday afternoon, March 27, the DOH called, they both tested positive. Two weeks of quarantine from the date of testing for anyone in the house, and anyone sick must be symptom free for 72 hours, even if that’s longer than 14 days. Now my brother, the last man standing in the house, who had been picking up the groceries, dropping food off on my grandmother’s doorstep, has become Typhoid Mary (I educated my entire extended family on her life story, side bar, a very relevant reference to the asymptomatic carriers of this virus. Although she probably didn’t wash her hands…. I digress).

By that point, I think I would have been more surprised if they tested negative instead of positive. But my anxiety about my mother skyrocketed. I fretted and checked in with her daily. By sometime around the 30th, my sister was strong enough to care for herself, and by the end of that week she was feeling well. My mother’s temperature climbed, she developed a cough, but luckily, surprisingly, she bounced back faster than my young healthy sister, and seems well on her way to recovery as well. I hear my brother built a firepit in the backyard and repainted the dining room ceiling.

As this global health emergency evolves, I’ve developed a mantra: “We don’t know yet.” As my family’s token healthcare provider, with experience as an EMT as well as laboratory, in the scramble to gather information and understand this health crisis, I’ve repeated to them more times than I can count, “we just don’t know yet.” And perhaps for me that’s the biggest emotional challenge. I’m a healthcare provider, I’m a doer, I’m used to jumping in and caring for my family when they’re in need, and in this era, there’s nothing I can do but monitor and advise from a distance. I’m avidly reading studies as they get published, I’ve given my family crash courses in interpreting data and checking sources to try and make sense of the information overload. (For those interested, if you hear about a “miracle solution”, read the information carefully. Was the study published by a credible medical site/journal, or was it “published” to YouTube or the media? What was the sample size- how many people were in the study? Who was excluded and why? If people got better, what’s the likelihood that they would have recovered without intervention?)

A Note from Michael Werner, MD, Medical Director at Maze Health

In this time of fear and uncertainty, it’s important to share information such as this so we can all better understand the severity of this pandemic and its effects on individuals and our communities. At Maze, we are diligently practicing social distancing by remaining open on a very limited basis. We are seeing existing patients with only a practitioner and one patient in the office at a time and our laboratory remains open for emergency sperm cryopreservation (for patients about to undergo chemotherapy etc.). Simultaneously, we are doing our best to serve our patients via telehealth services. If you need assistance, please contact us. We’re here to help.

The post COVID-19: My family’s experience appeared first on Treating Vaginismus, Low Sex Drive, Hormone Imbalances | Sexual Health Experts.

COVID-19: My family’s experience published first on https://medium.com/@PickupSexDolls

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janschreiner · 4 years

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COVID-19: My family’s experience

A Note from Michael Werner, MD, Medical Director at Maze Health

The post COVID-19: My family’s experience appeared first on Treating Vaginismus, Low Sex Drive, Hormone Imbalances | Sexual Health Experts.

COVID-19: My family’s experience published first on https://spanishflyhealth.tumblr.com/

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newstfionline · 5 years

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Justin Trudeau’s Official Home: Unfit for a Leader or Anyone Else

By Ian Austen, NY Times, Nov. 15, 2018

OTTAWA--At Canada’s official residence for its prime minister, security cameras keep silent watch over the fences, visitors pass through gates that can block truck bombs and a detail of uniformed Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers patrol day and night.

But the prime minister himself is unlikely to be found inside.

When Justin Trudeau became prime minister three years ago, he took a pass on moving his family into the official residence at 24 Sussex Drive, built in 1868 by an American-born lumber baron. Decades of neglect had turned Canada’s top political address into its most famous home renovation project.

But no recent prime ministers have been willing to commit the tens of millions of dollars it would take to make the stone house habitable again. It would look as if they were spending money on themselves, a politically toxic step in Canada.

Mr. Trudeau, 46, who lived at 24 Sussex as a child when his father was prime minister, is no exception.

“No prime minister wants to spend a penny of taxpayer dollars on upkeeping that house,” Mr. Trudeau told the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation earlier this year.

There was little criticism of Mr. Trudeau’s decision to live with his wife and their three children in Rideau Cottage, a relatively modest, two-story red brick house behind Rideau Hall, the house of Canada’s governor general who fulfills Queen Elizabeth II’s duties as head of state.

That’s because the official residence’s deteriorating condition is no secret to Canadians, with government reports documenting its decline for more than a decade.

Those reports make grim reading for anyone but a contractor hoping to land the renovation job.

“The building systems at 24 Sussex have reached the point of imminent or actual failure,” one report, by the National Capital Commission, the federal agency that manages official residences, found this year. It rated the residence’s condition as “critical.”

Its wiring, according to the report, has become a fire hazard; the boiler is obsolete; the exterior stonework is crumbling; and the plumbing blocks up regularly.

The building by a pool added by Mr. Trudeau’s father is “rotting,” the report said, and air-conditioning comes from inefficient window units that could make it easy for intruders to slip in. Many of those windows need replacement anyway. Everywhere there is asbestos.

On top of all that, the house is ill-suited for official functions. Among the house’s many deficiencies, “the dining room is at the same time too large for a family and too small for state dinners,” the report said.

The current cost estimate to deal with everything (excluding security upgrades): 38 million Canadian dollars, or $28.7 million.

By Canadian standards that is a vast amount of money for a single-family house--even after accounting for its exceptional views over the Ottawa River. And it has prompted something of a national debate over the fate of the current building and the role of the prime minister’s house in Canada.

For much of Canada’s history, prime ministers had no official place to call home.

Sir John A. Macdonald, the first prime minister, lived a few doors down from 24 Sussex in a house now used by Britain’s diplomatic representative to Canada.

R.B. Bennett, a millionaire who was the Conservative prime minister during the height of the Great Depression, kept a 5,000-square-foot suite in the Château Laurier, a hotel adjacent to Parliament.

The federal government moved to expropriate 24 Sussex in 1943, when it was the last private residence on the street, otherwise occupied by embassies, government buildings and parks.

After years of legal wrangling, Louis St. Laurent, a Liberal, reluctantly moved into 24 Sussex in 1951 on the condition that he pay rent to minimize any hint he was freeloading.

Despite its condition and space limitations, prime ministers have regularly held important meetings and entertained at 24 Sussex, with larger parties often taking place on its expansive lawn.

Formal dinners for visiting heads of state are held at the more spacious Rideau Hall. But Mr. Trudeau has recalled rushing home from school as a child to meet Queen Elizabeth II for lunch at 24 Sussex when she visited Canada.

Proponents for fixing up the house, regardless of cost, are a mixed group. The host of one Canadian home renovation program suggested making its remodeling into a reality television show.

Paul Martin, a Liberal who was prime minister from 2003 to 2006, said the role of 24 Sussex in Canada’s history merits its preservation.

“It is an important Canadian icon,” said Mr. Martin. “I do have affection for the house.”

But Mr. Martin added that his wife, Sheila, who spent more time at 24 Sussex than he did, has less fond memories. “Her view is that the house had to be renovated from the bottom up,” he said.

Because government reports had documented the decline of 24 Sussex, there was little criticism of Mr. Trudeau’s decision not to live there.

Canada’s only female prime minister, Kim Campbell, who held the office for four months in 1993, suggests knocking it down.

Her view is held by other Canadians who say building an entirely new house would be cheaper than fixing up the old one. Supporters of designing a new home see a chance to showcase Canadian architecture and to highlight its indigenous heritage in a building that could also set a bar for environmental standards.

Recent events have highlighted just how contentious any government spending on the prime minister’s home life can be.

In Parliament this spring, the opposition Conservatives pounced on a government estimate that it cost 1,500 Canadian dollars, or about $1,100, to use government workers to assemble a new play structure for Mr. Trudeau’s children at the prime minister’s official country house, in a park north of Ottawa. (Mr. Trudeau paid the $5,600 for the structure itself out of his own pocket.)

In 1971, the government stopped charging the prime minister rent for lodging, but Mr. Trudeau pays for his food, internet service and a caregiver for his children.

Because the kitchen at Rideau Cottage is meant for a family, not a team of cooks, the kitchen staff for the prime minister still works at the official residence, and the Trudeau family’s meals are driven across the street from 24 Sussex, a practice that has aroused indignation from the Conservatives (whose own party leader lives in an official residence reserved for the head of the opposition).

Mr. Martin, the former prime minister, said the best solution to the 24 Sussex problem would be for Mr. Trudeau to turn over all the decisions about its future to a group of nonpartisan experts.

Still, he welcomed Canadians’ stinginess when it comes to spending money on their politicians.

“I think it’s a good thing,” he said. “When you take a look at the ethical problems that occur around the world, I think the facts that this is something that a Canadian politician would shy away from is really a sign that Canadians do have their ethical priorities in shape.”

#Canada #24 Sussex Drive #Canadian PM residence

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seaglassandemroidery-blog · 6 years

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Universal

“First, there was nothing. Then suddenly, somehow, a singular consciousness found itself existing in the void. For eons it merely existed, doing so in alternating states of contemplation and catharsis. It could not comprehend the cause of its own existence, but realized that the presence of thought was indicative of some sort of reality. After countless ages of thinking in nothing but abstractions-- with no concept of time, matter, or energy, much less language-- it finally conjured in its mind the concept of matter; a simple, single subatomic particle. This final realization of something else existing-- beside itself, that is-- brought with it a flood of new concepts; the entity suddenly comprehended that this particle could potentially change over time-- Time! Another dimension of existence. And in order for such a change to occur, there must be some sort of driving force, some energy. The entity realized that from this tiny building block so much more could be created. So, from the straining pressure of millennium attempting to grasp any form of non-abstract conception, there very suddenly burst forth a universe of possibility within the mind of this entity. Of course, for a being whose entire existence had consisted of solidarity in a void, simply imagining such a universe was the essential equivalent of creating a whole new one. Of course, that would mean that this entity was the universe, and every particle in it would be nothing more than an extension of it. And so from the unexplainable existence of a singular entity and its comprehension of the concepts of time, matter, and energy, there burst forth from the void an entire universe. It would have been sudden, violent, and uncontrolled, originating from a single infinitesimally tiny point in time and space. If this were to be true, it would be explanatory of the creation of the universe, and would provide philosophical context for the big bang theory. It would help us to understand and address some of the most fundamental laws that govern our universe. It would essentially disprove the existence of a benevolent deity.”

The priest shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He glanced stealthily at the half-exposed watchface at his sleeve. This man was meant to speak for another fifteen minutes, but in the first fifteen had already bounded past the reasonable limits of tolerance. As if on cue, he felt the hot breath of the preacher to his immediate right.

“We need to get him the hell out of here,” he muttered. His breath stank of sauerkraut, perhaps the remnant of a meal but considering that it was eleven in the morning, this was an unpleasant possibility.

“I know,” the priest responded. He tugged at his black sleeve, covering the remainder of the watch face. He had had to do this once before, the time that a gay man stood and bore testimony that God would allow him to live with his husband in paradise.

“So that makes your faith, my dear brothers and sisters, both the most beautiful and foolish things that you possess. With that you can exalt yourself to greater heights in this world, and perhaps in the next. If we are all but extensions of this cosmic being, and it allows you to feel zeal such as you do, it must be for the best that you continue in this path. Everything is in order; good and sin alike. There is no heaven or hell, only consciousness. Because you so believe in this church, it is with all diligence that you must abide by it, and realize that nothing that happens here or out in the world is out of the plan. His plan, if you feel to ascribe identity to the cosmos. ”

“That’s quite enough,” hissed the priest in his ear. His voice was low and was not registered by the jet-black microphone in front of the speaker. Instinctively, his hand shot out and grasped the bare wrist of the speaker, who wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “Wrap it up please. We’re almost out of time,” he amended. There was no need to come across as hostile to this man. After all, he was a respectable speaker, and to make a scene was to draw attention to the church in way that made him look obsoletely opposed to modernity. The last thing that he needed now was to be seen as an old coot; especially after the church had announced that it would not be joining others in the trend of allowing robot baptisms.

“Father O’Neal has just let me know that we are running a bit short of time; thank you, Father!” He turned and beamed, white teeth sparkling under the buzzing fluorescent lights. His eyes did not contain that smile. “I would like to finish my remarks by reminding each of you that you are not without meaning. In a controlled and determinative universe, you are a carefully molded cog, so act like it and you will be filled with peace. We are God, and we cannot fail. Thank you.”

He bowed his head curtly, and the light flashed off of his bald dome into Father O’Neal’s eyes. The congregation looked captivated still, even after the spell had been broken. One of the sisters in the second pue wiped her eyes, smiling. God, they were all smiling, O’Neal thought. Turning and sauntering back to his seat, the man’s departure spurred a flurry of movement as the choir stood to sing. Today, it was How Great Thou Art. O’Neal forced a smile onto his face as he glanced over the regular preacher and on down the row to catch the gaze of his guest speaker. His eyes smiled now and looked triumphant.

“I am sick of these new-age theologists!” O’Neal dropped his leather bound Bible onto a worn dining table. The room was empty, but for the table and six wooden chairs, which were despairingly devoid. The warm aroma of chicken with a rich overtone of garlic and bitter tinges of rosemary and thyme drifted in the place that should have been filled with people. A blond-haired head poked around the corner that lead to the kitchen. The curls of her hair blended in with the sandy beige wallpaper behind her.

“Oh dear, did you have another one?” inquired the head. The rest of the body started to appear; first neck, then shoulders and torso until she peeked almost all the way around into the dining room. A timer beeped abrasively behind her. “Stop timer.” The clamor ceased.

“This one was sneaky; he created a whole fake background just so I could let him in to spread his… his insanity! I knew some of the Fathers and Mothers on his resume personally, and never thought they would have let such a fanatic into their houses of worship, but I guess with universalism being all the rage, some them have fallen to it.” The disdain was almost palpable, and far more bitter than the expired spices roasting in the oven.

“What did you do about him?” She asked, stepping foot onto the threadbare carpet. Her movements were fluid, but her left elbow was jerking and twitching.

“I politely asked him to finish his speech so that the flock wouldn’t see me angry and then threw him out when they had left. He kept babbling on and on about ‘spreading the news’ and ‘liberating the captive.’ He talked about faith in his speech but only because he believes in, how did he say it? ‘Acclimating the beholden?’” He paused, seeing the jerking arm. “Oh Jesus Marie, it’s gotten worse, hasn’t it?” He strode towards her and reached out to her oscillating joint.

“Don’t, David. There’s an exposed wire and I don’t want you to be hurt too.” She reached and stopped his hand with her own. “It was doing okay until I recharged in the afternoon; the sun was superbly bright and I filled to almost full capacity. I haven’t done that since the malfunction, and I think it made it worse.” She released him, untwining her finger from his.

“Damn it, I can’t afford to fix you right now.” He threw his hands into the air, accidentally smacking her uplifted arm. She held it for a second, then drew it back, looking hurt. “Oh, and now your response time is altered too?” His voice grew louder as he spoke. Marie seemed to shrink in her silicon skin. “I’m sorry,” he appealed, softer now. “I’m not angry with you, I’ve just had the worst day. This imposter came in and stole away half of my flock; they came to me after asking if he could speak again! And the collection plate had a couple of crumpled fives because everyone spent the whole time listening to a man who told them to give to the universe and to themselves instead of to the church. And coming home and seeing that you’re more broken than before… Well, with schmucks like this, I don’t have much left over to buy you a new arm and sensory processor.”

“Not that you would when there’s more cigars and bourbon to be bought,” Marie muttered, almost inaudibly. “I really need to take the bird out of the oven; it’s going to be dry.” She had barely turned at the waist when O’Neal’s hand grasped her good arm, much differently than it has clutched the speaker’s wrist that morning. It was rougher now, nails digging into her arm.

“What did you just say?” His voice was dangerously quiet now, settling into the stained carpet and roughed table. His tongue tasted metallic.

“Look David, how do you think it feels for me, being here with you? My repairs are nothing more than an inconvenience to you; I'll bet if my arm was flesh instead of metal, you would take me to a doctor, wouldn't you? My God, you were on the forefront of banning robotic baptism in the Catholic church! I know you think of me the same way you think of screwdrivers and pliers.” She jerked her arm free and locked it at her side.

“That’s not true, Marie! And I’ve explained it to you a thousand times, the baptism thing is because androids are manmade and only God-made things are meant to be baptized…”

“But you don’t ordain or baptize dogs, or bees, or…. Or shrubs, do you?” retorted Marie. The smell of the chicken was beginning to grow more and more alarmingly aromatic and sharp.

“Because they’re not intelligent, they’re not people.”

“And I’m not a person? I think just like one, I talk just like one. If it weren’t for the fact that you bought me yourself you would have never known the difference. What, am I not good enough to be saved by God? Am I not worth a second thought at least, or a chance? You sure don’t think like that when you want me at night, like an animal? Didn’t you promise celibacy when you put on that damn collar? Oh wait, it doesn’t count when you screw me, because I’m just a soulless hunk of metal and plastic!” Her voice grew louder, as it ought to when a person is upset. As she continued, it grew more grating and metallic. O’Neal’s mouth gaped open, much like a cod that is very surprised to find a hook in its mouth.

David started to speak, but she cut him off “Oh, stop making those noises out of your disgusting wet mouth, you hypocrite.” The air was heavy, and now smelled of burning meat. “I’m through,” she exclaimed, and marched past him, heading for the closed door. Her arm jerked more aggressively as she moved. “Oh,” she continued. “You might want to take that chicken out. It’s nice and smoky now; it should go perfectly with your evening cigar.”

O’Neal stood in shock. In the past few months, he had been disagreeing more and more with Marie. He kept mean I bf to reset her personality to be a bit less feisty, but had postponed it because the quips made the relationship feel real. He had never suspected that she, no it, would actually leave. It was a robot, after all. It was legally his property.

When the members of his flock found out, they all but stopped coming and the greater part of them turned their backs on the Catholic church altogether, opting for universalist flocks that congregated to discuss philosophy and the advancement of the sciences. The O’Neal v. White case took the better part of a year to settle after working its way up from the lower courts. He tried to apply for a different position within the church, but was asked to return his cassock. While the church was willing to overlook his unorthodox marriage to an android in and of itself, it was the publicity of the incident combined with his resistance to doctrinal changes that ultimately ended his career.The implications of keeping him would have shaken the church all the way to Rome. At the age of forty-three, David O’Neal was stripped of his priesthood as he simultaneously became the first man on earth to be served divorce papers by his own android.

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