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pickalilywrites · 3 years

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it’s my first fic since i started my job ❤ i hope you enjoy ^^

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You and Me at the End of the World

Falbi. SF8 AU.

11194 words.

Read on Ao3!

»»————- April 3, 2026 ————-««

Falco wakes, a sigh escaping his lips. He feels an incredible weariness in his bones as if he had run a marathon yesterday even though he hasn’t really had PE in a month. He hasn’t had PE since his teacher had run off just like everyone else did when they heard that an asteroid was hurtling towards the earth and set to destroy life as everyone knew it. Everyone Falco knew just up and left their jobs and homes to pursue their dreams: his classmates dropped out of school to become idols or viral TikTokers, the mailman stopped delivering mail to Falco’s house and decided to fly to every place in the world he had always wanted to visit, and even the principal of Falco’s school had resigned but not before advising all of the students to drop out of school because it was useless now that they were all about to die.

Many people had taken the principal’s advice, but not Falco. He still goes to school on the weekdays and spends the weekend completing homework assignments that will never be graded. A few students had visited the school even after the principal had closed the school down, but they had stopped coming after they saw how many of their peers had dropped out and saw how even the teachers didn’t bother coming back.

It doesn’t bother Falco that he goes to school every morning and studies in an empty classroom all day or that he has to fish out study plans from the notebooks his teachers left behind just to give himself something to do. His parents have asked him why he bothers going to school when all of his classmates have pretty much given up, but Falco really doesn’t have an answer. If he had to say anything, it’s probably that he doesn’t have anything in particular that he wants to do.

Falco acknowledges that he’s never been incredibly ambitious like some of his classmates have been. His talents are unspectacular. He knows that he’s neither athletic nor smart. He’s always been average. He never studied too hard because he knew he’d never get the highest score in the class and he never exerted himself too much in PE because there was always someone stronger or faster than him. It isn’t something that ever bothered him, and he’s grown to accept that part of himself.

He doesn’t have any special interests either. Sure, Falco enjoys playing video games and playing sports like any kid his age, but he can’t see himself wasting the rest of his days on them. Some of his classmates even asked him to join them. Falco has had multiple offers: join a band as a bassist even though he’s never touched a bass guitar in his life, become a part of a dance crew despite his coordination being awful at best, start a video channel pulling off different stunts and tricks to gain a little bit of spotlight before they all died, among others. He declined all of them in the end, preferring to be alone, and even now Falco doesn’t regret his decision. He’s content being a normal kid living out the rest of his tedious life as monotonously as he always did.

His parents live quite normally too except for the fact that they quit their jobs like everybody else did when news of the asteroid came out. Rather than return to their jobs every morning, his parents go out on long walks together, often visiting places from their younger days. They usually leave long before Falco wakes, but his mother is always sure to leave out a freshly made breakfast for Falco and his older brother Colt.

Colt hasn’t made any drastic changes to his lifestyle, not like some other people his age. He, too, dropped out of school like many of his peers and Falco’s classmates, but he usually spends his time visiting internet cafés or playing baseball with his friends. The elder brother once curiously asked Falco why he bothered going to school and the younger just simply shrugged. Colt never bothered to ask again, and Falco was fine with that.

Falco rolls out of bed and heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth as he normally does. His hair looks like a mess. Since news of the upcoming apocalypse, people either care excessively about their appearance or they don’t care about it at all. Considering his circumstances, Falco should probably fall in the latter category, but he fixes his bed head all the same, patting down the cowlicks and running a comb through his hair to get rid of all the tangles.

After washing his face and getting dressed in his school uniform, Falco wanders into the kitchen where his breakfast is waiting for him. On the stove sits a pan with fluffy scrambled eggs mixed with little bits of crispy, dark spinach leaves, and sweet gruyère. Falco twists the knob on the stove with a sharp click before popping bread into the toaster. As he waits for the eggs to warm up, he fixes himself a glass of orange juice.

Falco ends up splitting the eggs in half, leaving a portion for Colt whenever he decides to roll out of bed. He sits at the kitchen island by himself, munching on some generously buttered toast in between bites of egg. It’s a much fancier breakfast than his mother used to make. Scrambled eggs were usually plain except for a dash of salt and pepper, but his mother has become more experimental with her cooking now that the end of the world is evident. It’s a good change, Falco thinks as the blend of savory bacon and salted eggs melt onto his tongue. It probably would have been nice if his mother had decided to be more adventurous with her cooking beforehand, but it’s not as if having regrets about this can change the past so Falco just eats the rest of his breakfast before dumping his plate in the sink and calling out to his brother that he’ll be heading to school. He doesn’t even wait for a response from Colt before heading out the door.

Ever since news of the asteroid, Falco has begun seeing very interesting people on his way to school. Some of them are familiar to him. Others he’s never seen before in his life. They’re not all strange, of course. Sometimes there are just kids running up and down the road kicking a soccer ball or couples holding hands as they take a morning stroll. But there are more than a few eccentrics on Falco’s way to school.

Lately, there have been people claiming to be superheroes. They have superpowers, they insist. Some will rush up to strangers on the street and show off their powers, but Falco has never seen any proof of their alleged superhuman talents.

Some people post videos online demonstrating their special gifts. Falco has seen a handful of them, mostly because his friend Zofia keeps sending them to him every few days when she finds them particularly funny. He finds them mildly intriguing, although he’s fairly certain that most (if not all) of the videos are either staged or edited to look real. He’s never been fully convinced by any of them.

On this particular walk to school, Falco passes by a person who claims to be able to create seismic shifts and another person who she can talk to animals. Neither person is particularly believable. Falco only gives a passing glance when the first person begins to demonstrate their powers by spinning in a circle and letting out a low groan that begins to grow into a loud shriek. The earth, Falco notices, does not shake. He’s even less interested when the animal girl starts shouting post-apocalyptic prophecies about how giant bugs will inherit the earth once the dust has settled on the earth after the asteroid impact.

Falco reaches the school gate and pulls it open himself because there isn’t a teacher there to welcome him like there used to be. He leaves it open to save trouble for anyone who ends up coming after him, although he highly doubts anyone will be joining him. He walks across the courtyard where some of his former schoolmates play soccer, looking at them briefly but not bothering to bid them good morning. When he gets to the building, he pulls open the door and steps inside. The sound of his shoes against the speckled tile echo across the empty hallways as he makes his way to his classroom.

As usual, it’s empty. Falco could probably sit anywhere he wants, but he ends up at his old desk, the second seat in the third row from the right. He sits down with a thud and lets his backpack fall off his shoulder. He pulls out his notebook and looks at today’s lesson that he copied from his homeroom teacher’s planner earlier last month: geometry, English, social studies, art, and science.

Falco dutifully completes his assignments for the day. He even double-checks his answers once he’s done. Maybe he’ll look over the answer key after school if he feels like it. He spends his break staring at the window at the kids playing ball in the field or playing pranks on each other in the quad. He doesn’t make any attempt to join them.

At 2:15, Falco packs his things. He puts away his pens and pencils neatly in his case, zips up his backpack, and slings his bag over his shoulder. As he walks to the door of the classroom, he thinks he imagines footsteps running down the hall. It makes him wonder if the impending apocalypse is making him go mad because he can’t imagine why anyone would be here when the world is going to end in a week. When he pulls open the door, he sees his friend Zofia about to reach for the door.

“Oh, good,” Zofia pants. She bends over, hands on her knees as she tries to catch her breath. Ashy blonde locks are falling out of her ponytail. “I was afraid I missed you. You weren’t replying to any of my texts.”

“We’re not allowed to use our phones in school,” Falco says as he looks down at her.

Zofia looks up, an expression of mild disbelief on her face. “Geez, I can’t believe you’re still doing this.” She straightens up and sighs. “Our teachers probably appreciated what a goody-two-shoes you were back when they actually cared about their jobs, but I assure you that they don’t care at all now that the world is about to end.”

Falco rolls his eyes and walks past Zofia. He can hear her following him from the extra footsteps that accompany his. “What do you need? I thought you were busy trying to pet ‘every dog in the world’ or whatever before the asteroid strikes.”

Zofia’s arm links with Falco’s and she flashes a cheesy smile at him. “I realized it was impossible so I settled for petting ‘as many dogs as possible.’ I’m pretty satisfied with my work, so I’ve decided on pursuing something else.” She doesn’t immediately follow up with what it is she’s working on, and Falco knows she’s absolutely itching for him to ask.

“... What is it?” Falco asks.

“I’m glad you asked!” Zofia says, tugging him closer to her. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and flips through it for a bit before finding what she wants to show Falco. On her screen is a long post on one of the message boards their classmates post on. “There’s this girl. She’s totally crazy.”

A glance at the phone screen confirms Zofia’s words. It’s a post that looks like it’s been circulating through message boards of different middle schools in their area. The original poster is someone named Gabi Braun, aged 14, and she attends Liberio Middle School across the city. Her post is a call for all people with superpowers to contact her so that they can save the world together.

Falco looks at Zofia and wrinkles his nose. “And you’re showing me this because …?”

“Because she’s absolutely crazy, but she’s interesting,” Zofia replies as she pockets her phone. She smiles at Falco. “Let’s go visit her.”

“What? No!” Falco says. He yanks his arm away from Zofia. “You said she was nuts! Why would we look for her?”

“Because the world is ending in a few days, so we might as well do something stupid,” Zofia replies. She links her arm around Falco’s again and pouts, batting her eyelashes up at him. “Come on, aren’t you the least bit curious? There’s a girl our age who thinks she can save the world if she gathers enough nutjobs who think they have superpowers.”

Falco isn’t curious at all. “I have homework,” he says to Zofia, which he knows is the wrong answer. Although Zofia hasn’t tried to convince Falco to stop going to school like the rest of their peers, she has been pretty vocal about how stupid she thinks Falco is for living the end of his life so mundanely.

“You also have a friend,” Zofia says. She begins to tug at him after every other word, trying to get him to follow her. “A friend you care about deeply and don’t want to see hurt if she ends up walking into some creep’s trap.”

“Then why are you going at all if you know it might be dangerous?” Falco mutters, but he knows Zofia’s right. His normal school life consists of him going straight home after classes and doing his homework, but it occasionally includes him reluctantly following Zofia sometimes to make sure she doesn’t get into too much trouble. He’s not too surprised when he ends up walking with Zofia to the meeting place the poster mentioned in their message.

Normally, Falco and Zofia would have taken the bus into the city, but it’s difficult to flag down a bus. The schedules are erratic at best and oftentimes buses don’t show up on schedule at all. It is the end of the world, after all.

It’s a curious thing, seeing the city at the end of the world. It’s a little bit like how the movies portray it, but not at all like the movies at the same time. Cars fill the street while drivers honk their horns and shout at each other to hurry up because they don’t want to spend their last days on earth stuck in traffic. The doors and windows of so many shops and buildings are smashed in and their contents gone. If people aren’t running around and screaming at each other on the street, they’re walking around like it’s a normal day save for the fact that they’re all looking for the next thing they want to do before they die.

“I’d suggest going to the mall downtown or something later, but it’s probably ransacked like everywhere else,” Zofia says with a wistful sigh.

“We could have just gone to the arcade in our town,” Falco mutters. The internet café and the arcade in their town is a mess because none of the gamers there bother to clean up their trash anymore, but at least there are still computers there and nobody has hauled off the arcade machines.

The two wander about the city and linger near the subway station entrance the message board poster had mentioned. There are people going up and down the stairs to the subways and some kids skating around and doing tricks on their skateboards. Adults pass by hurriedly with their phone stuck to one ear, rushing to make plans with someone on the other end because they have limited time left. It feels like Zofia and Falco are just standing frozen in time while the world rushes around them.

“Who do you think it is?” Zofia whispers in Falco’s ear.

Falco scans the scene, his eyes quickly flitting over anyone that didn’t look like a middle schooler. He doesn’t think it would be any of the skateboarders, so he glances over them too. Whoever this Gabi Braun is, she doesn’t have any interest in anything aside from saving the world with her impossible idea. She must be looking for people just like he and Zofia are looking for her.

Finally, his eyes land on a girl their age with a stern expression on her face. Her dark eyebrows are knitted together and she turns her head from side to side every few seconds as she scans the subway station, her brown hair whipping from side to side. She leans against the railing near the subway entrance, her arms folded across her chest. Somehow, she looks familiar, but Falco doesn’t know why.

“Her,” Falco says. He raises his hand and points to her only to realize it’s rude and quickly lets his hand fall to his side. He’s about to jerk his head over in the girl’s direction, but Zofia has already seen who he was pointing to and starts dragging him over.

“Excuse me,” Zofia says, catching the girl’s attention. The girl’s gaze is intense, her brown eyes scrutinizing the two of them, but Zofia doesn’t shrink away from the girl like Falco does. Instead, Zofia holds out a hand cordially and gives the girl a friendly smile. “You’re Gabi Braun, right? I’m Zofia, and this is my friend Falco. We saw your message reposted on our school forum and wanted to help you.”

The girl looks at them suspiciously but takes Zofia’s hand, shaking it reluctantly. “You really want to help?” Her eyes flit towards Falco, who looks down immediately. “Why do you want to help me?”

“Hmm,” Zofia hums and tilts her head to the side. “Because the end of the world isn’t something I’m particularly looking forward to.” She looks over at Falco and, with a grin, elbows him playfully in the ribs. “And this guy doesn’t have anything better to do, so I had him come along.”

“What were you doing before?” Gabi asks curiously.

Falco purses his lips. It’s not that he’s ashamed about how he’s spending his last days. Living plainly is a far better choice than some people have made. Apparently, some people decided that murder was something they needed to check off their bucket list. If you ask Falco, he thinks being a normal student is far better than being a last-minute murderer. Still, it’s not something he wants to say out loud to a stranger.

He kicks at the sidewalk and mumbles, “Just … homework and stuff.”

To his surprise, Gabi doesn’t ridicule him or ask why. She simply nods as if this is a perfectly normal way for someone to spend their last days. She doesn’t ask them any more questions, somehow satisfied with Falco’s answer. She’s already digging around in her back for something and pulls a laptop out of her bag.

“I’m still waiting for people to show up, but I wouldn’t be surprised if nobody ends up showing,” Gabi says, gesturing for the two of them to sit beside her. Her tone doesn’t sound disappointed at all. In fact, she sounds rather like she expected this to happen.

Zofia sits on one side of Gabi, peering curiously over the brunette’s shoulder as she types away. Falco wants to sit beside Zofia. It would be more comfortable than sitting next to a stranger, but he would have difficulty seeing the screen. Reluctantly, he takes a seat next to Gabi.

“I’ve been looking at videos,” Gabi tells them. “People have been submitting them after seeing my message on the school forums.”

“Is there anyone particularly interesting to you?” Zofia asks.

“Not really,” Gabi says. She opens up a folder on her screen and a video file pops up. She presses Play. “Technology lets you edit anything into videos now. Some of these powers look super fake, but I still have to take a chance in case they do have powers and are interested in saving the world, right?”

The three watch the video play out. There’s a man on the screen claiming to have pyrokinesis. He’s wide-eyed and staring at the camera, holding out his hands with his palms to the ceiling. His explanation of his powers is similar to everyone else who has posted these kinds of videos on social media: he was just born with them and never bothered to reveal them until now for fear of being ostracized.

The flame doesn’t ignite right away. It’s a flicker — a spark, really — that grows into the smallest flame. The fire is hardly the size of the man’s fingertip, but he looks delighted just the same. The three children watching are not as thrilled.

“You really think this guy can save the world?” Zofia asks, raising her eyebrow.

“I don’t think this guy can save anyone,” Gabi replies. She’s so brutally honest that it would be funny if they weren’t discussing the fate of the world. “But I’m taking whatever help I can get at this point.”

They spend the rest of that afternoon looking through applications. Most of them are just internet trolls and Gabi has to roll her eyes more than once before closing out the applicant’s video. There are a few promising candidates Gabi moves to a separate folder but only when Falco and Zofia also agree that the person might be worth looking into. They go through written applications too, often filtering out any CVs that aren’t descriptive enough and sometimes those that are too descriptive and more fitted to some sci-fi character description than an actual person. Gabi calls a few numbers from the short list of people that the three all agreed on, but nobody ever picks up. Nobody shows up either. Still, Gabi doesn’t seem to be discouraged.

“Why are you doing this?” Falco asks at one point while they’re watching a video of a man who claims he can read people’s thoughts.

“Hm?” Gabi says, looking away from the video.

“Just … this whole thing,” Falco says and vaguely waves at the screen. “You know it too. This might not work, so why even bother trying to save the world?”

Gabi frowns and her eyebrows knit together like she doesn’t quite understand Falco’s question. “Well, what else would I be doing?”

Falco doesn’t respond because, well, he doesn’t have an answer. It’s not like he knows what to do with the rest of his life either. If Zofia hadn’t convinced him to come here, he’d just be at home with his head stuck in a textbook. Even if it’s useless, whatever Gabi is doing is far more interesting.

»»————- April 4, 2026 ————-««

Falco’s parents drop him off at the edge of the city. His mother had wanted to drop him off closer to his destination point, but Falco assured her that it wasn’t necessary. Besides, there were a lot of weirdos in the city, he reasoned, especially now that the apocalypse was coming. She reluctantly allowed him to be dropped off at the edge of the city, but not before giving him a can of pepper spray and a baseball bat in case he ran into anybody cruel enough to mug a middle schooler.

He doesn’t have any trouble meeting Gabi at the library they agreed to meet at. Zofia isn’t there with him after deciding this morning that saving the world wasn’t what she wanted to spend her last moments doing. She did, however, request that Falco send Gabi her best wishes, which Falco promised to pass along.

The two of them sit on the tenth floor of the library at a table by the window. The library isn’t exactly empty, but it’s not exactly filled up either. There are a few other visitors in the library with them. Some are seated at tables or couches, but others choose to sit between bookshelves, folding up their legs so that people can walk around if they need to get through. Hardly anyone pays attention to Falco and Gabi. They’re too busy flipping furiously through their books, eyes scanning the pages in seconds, as they try to finish their reading list before the world ends.

While Gabi watches more videos of superpowered applicants while Falco gathers books on powers that interest them: pyrokinesis, psychokinesis, time travel, to name a few. As he gathers research articles, he also stumbles across the section of the library dedicated to outer space and celestial bodies and decides to grab a few books on asteroids and meteors as well. There’s a slim chance that they might help, but Falco might as well try.

Gabi doesn’t talk much to Falco, too engrossed in her research to hold a conversation with him. He doesn’t talk much to her either. He does, on occasion, glance up at her to observe her progress, but she always seems to be staring at the screen with the same dissatisfied frown on her face. Every once in a while Gabi will lean over and ask Falco about whether or not a certain candidate looks promising, but his answer is almost always no and she goes back to staring at her screen.

At noon, the two take their lunch break. Gabi hadn’t brought anything. She tells Falco she was planning on just grabbing something from the snack machine near the elevators. The library remains one of the few places that was relatively untouched by thieves and vandals because not many people think “let’s rob the library” when they hear that the world is ending. Because Falco’s mother has a tendency to overpack his lunches, Falco decides to split his meal with Gabi. He figures that a sandwich is far better than whatever half-filled bag of chips Gabi would end up grabbing from the vending machine.

Falco munches on his katsu sandwich. It’s a favorite of his: two slices of pillowy milk bread with a thick cut of juicy pork cutlet covered in crispy bread crumbs wedged in between. A little butter and mustard give the sandwich a little bitterness that makes the tip of his tongue tingle and savory tonkatsu sauce drizzled over the thinly sliced cabbage underneath the katsu complete the simple but scrumptious sandwich.

He looks over to see if Gabi is enjoying her food as much as he is, but she’s scarfing it down so quickly that he isn’t sure she’s even taking the time to taste it. In between bites, she’s scrolling through her laptop with greasy fingers, frowning. A glance at the notebook beside her tells Falco that Gabi hasn’t found many promising candidates.

“Do you really think this is going to work?” Falco asks. He’s halfway done with his lunch but Gabi is a bite away from finishing hers.

Gabi shrugs. She doesn’t look up as she answers. “I don’t know. It’s worth a shot, right?” She scrolls a bit more before she pauses, her fingers hovering above the touchpad. Her eyes flicker over to Falco so suddenly that he nearly drops his sandwich. Gabi narrows her eyes at him suspiciously, her attention entirely on the boy. Her gaze is intense and she scoots to the edge of her seat, leaning in towards Falco. “You’re awfully skeptical about this plan for someone who’s trying to save the world.”

Falco gulps, trying not to shy away from her intense gaze. If he were a turtle, he’d be curled back in his shell right now. “I just want to make sure we’re not wasting our time,” he mumbles.

“Falco, do you not believe that people can have superpowers?” Gabi asks.

Falco is about to shake his head and say that that’s not the case but before he can Gabi settles back into her seat, arms folded across her chest, and announces, “I have a superpower.” She says it quite loudly, loudly enough for her voice to be heard across the entire floor, but people are too preoccupied with their reading to pay much attention to her although a few readers do shoot her a dirty look for being so loud.

Falco is not quite sure what he expected Gabi to say, but it wasn’t that. He sits there awkwardly, sandwich still half-finished in his hands. After a moment, he asks, “Er, what is it?”

Gabi pops the last bit of her sandwich in her mouth and wipes her fingers on her jeans. After she chews and swallows, she leans towards Falco once more and gives him an impish grin. “I can read people’s minds. Telepathy,” she tells him. She doesn’t wait for him to ask for a demonstration.

Gabi puts one hand on Falco’s chest and stares deeply into his eyes. Falco’s heart is beating wildly in his chest. If by some miracle Gabi doesn’t hear it, Falco’s certain that she’ll be able to feel it underneath her fingertips. She doesn’t say anything about it, though, just continues to stare at him with those intense brown eyes of hers as she reads every single thought racing through his mind right now, like how he’s never been quite this close to anyone, how he’s never had his heart beat quite this fast, or how he thinks he might just die right here right now before the asteroid even hits.

Suddenly, Gabi’s face breaks into a smile and she pulls her hand away, Falco’s chest feeling achingly empty now. Gabi is laughing now, but Falco doesn’t have any idea why.

“God, I didn’t think you’d believe me,” she laughs. She’s laughing so hard that it’s difficult to make out what she’s saying. “I didn’t think you’d believe me, but you really did. You’re really gullible, aren’t you?”

Falco blinks, confused for a minute as he tries to process what just happened. “You … can’t read minds?” he says a beat too late.

“No, god, but you thought I did,” Gabi laughs.

“Then what’s your power?”

Gabi’s still giggling as she answers. “Something else. It’s not important. I’ll tell you if it ends up being useful.”

She’s laughing. She’s still laughing. It’s a laugh that comes from her stomach and has her clutching her sides. People are glaring because it’s disrupting the peace, and Falco feels like he should tell her to stop but he finds that he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t even mind that she’s laughing at him. He just likes the sound of it.

»»————- April 5, 2026 ————-««

They sit with a pack of chocolate-covered biscuits shaped like little bamboo shoots between them. While Falco eats them one at a time, usually popping one in his mouth after he’s read a few pages of whatever book he’s reading, Gabi shovels them into her mouth by the handful without even looking. They’ve gone through their fifth pack of the little chocolate biscuits and it’s not even noon yet.

“Do you think you can do it?” Falco asks at some point.

“Save the world?” Gabi asks. She sucks her thumb, trying to get the chocolate off. Falco nods and Gabi says, “Well, who else if not me?”

“Literally anyone else,” Falco replies because, well, they’re only kids.

“Right, and just die young, dumb, and stupid like every other kid our age,” Gabi says with a roll of her eyes. “No thanks. I’d rather have died trying to do something. Besides, it’s not as if the adults are having that much luck either.”

Gabi slides her laptop over so that Falco can see the screen. On it, a video plays of a rocket shooting into space. The caption on the bottom reads “NASA Space Missile Failure.” Falco vaguely recalls hearing about the missile launch earlier this morning. The scientists were excited about it, hoping that the missile would collide with the oncoming asteroid and shatter it into smaller pieces that would burn up in the atmosphere, but it seems like they had been excited for nothing. Apparently, they had miscalculated the trajectory of the missile and it would miss the asteroid completely.

“That sucks,” Falco says finally. He’s not exactly sure how he feels about the news. He should probably feel disappointed, but he feels the same way he did a month ago when he heard the world was ending: perfectly indifferent.

Gabi shrugs. “Armin said it wouldn’t work. He said their calculations were off,” she says. She glances at Falco and adds, “Armin’s a genius. He’s my mentor’s husband.”

“A genius? Is that his superpower?” Falco asks. If Gabi knows someone who’s a literal genius, he doesn’t see why they’re doing all this work. Shouldn’t this genius, whoever he is, have all the answers?

Gabi thinks for a minute, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not sure. My mentor just says Armin’s a genius, but he’s way too humble to admit it,” Gabi finally answers. She frowns, leaning forward with her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. “He can’t help us though. He’s busy tending to his fish.”

Falco isn’t certain he’s heard her right. “His fish?” he repeats.

“Yeah. He’s a marine biologist. He likes to have some fish at home,” Gabi explains like it’s the most normal thing in the world to take care of your fish when the world is about to end. “He says it calms him down to see them swim around.”

Falco is still trying to wrap his head around all of this — Gabi and her willingness to save the world, the genius she just spoke of who just wants to take care of his fish, and the asteroid hurtling towards the earth. He doesn’t understand any of it. “So it’s okay for you, a kid, to try and save the world while a literal genius is taking care of fish at his house instead of trying to prevent the apocalypse?”

Gabi blinks. “Yes,” she replies as if there could be no other answer. “Because it’s what I want to do. And it’s what he wants to do. Why should we be doing anything different?”

“But shouldn’t you be doing, I don’t know, kid things?” Falco asks. He’s starting to feel a little frustrated talking to her. This isn’t what she should be doing at all. This isn’t what they should be doing. They should be enjoying the last few days they have together. They should be playing games at the arcade, or wandering around the empty mall, or eating snacks at the park, not … whatever this is.

“Maybe. Probably. But I don’t want to,” Gabi says. She turns the laptop back and starts typing away. “I don’t like the idea of doing something just because the world is ending. I’ve always done what I wanted, so I don’t have any regrets. This is the only thing I want to do now.”

It’s more than Falco can say. Like Gabi, he doesn’t have anything he wants to do, but then he’s never really ever wanted to do anything. All his life he’s been floating from place to place and participating in whatever was expected of kids his age: attending school, joining a sports team, learning an instrument. He didn’t care about any of it. He doesn’t have any regrets about it, but he does feel a sudden wave of admiration for Gabi. She’s saving the world now because she feels like it, but she could just as easily leave this task for another if something else strikes her fancy. Falco wants to know what it feels like to pursue something so impulsively.

He wants to want things. He wants to be with Gabi. He wants to help her save the world.

“Is there something you want to do before the world ends?” Gabi asks. She’s just asking to be polite. Her eyes are already glued to the screen of her laptop, her face turned away from him. “You don’t seem to be as into the whole ‘save the world’ thing as I am.”

Falco shrugs even though she’s not watching. “I don’t mind it.” Falco could leave it at that. He doesn’t have to say anything else, but he does. “There isn’t really else I want to do anyway,” he tells her, but it’s a lie.

He wants to hold her hand.

»»————- April 6, 2026 ————-««

Falco has never looked forward to anything as much as the researching sessions he has with Gabi. He’s never really looked forward to anything before, actually, and he’s not sure why being surrounded by books and looking at (mostly) fake superhero videos with Gabi appeals to him so much.

He likes a lot of things about the way Gabi works. She’s quiet and focused, eyebrows knitted as she decides whether or not to call another applicant that probably won’t pick up. She never gets discouraged even though things don’t look promising. They’ve probably called dozens of people and only a third have actually responded. Most of them turned out to be trolls, which isn’t surprising considering they were taking submissions from strangers on the internet, but Gabi still carries on. Maybe it’s Gabi’s passion and stubbornness that has drawn Falco to her, but it feels like it’s more than that too.

He feels, in a way, like Gabi completes him. Before he met her, he was wandering aimlessly. Now he doesn’t know what he’d do without her. Staying at home and studying seems unbearable when the option of being with Gabi exists.

Falco isn’t sure how Gabi feels about him. He doesn’t even know if she has any feelings towards him — if she likes him, hates him, or just feels completely indifferent. At any rate, she doesn’t seem to mind spending her last few days on earth with him, and that makes him feel a little better about the world ending. Occasionally, he thinks about how Gabi probably wouldn’t notice if he stopped coming to help her. Well, she might notice, but Falco doesn’t think Gabi would change her routine. She’d just continue saving the world with or without his help.

“Don’t you think it’s weird?” Falco asks at one point. Gabi looks at him with a raised eyebrow and he elaborates “We hardly know each other and we’re just here … saving the world together.”

Gabi frowns, a thoughtful look on her face. “I don’t think it’s weird,” she says to Falco, and he feels his heart flutter in his chest. “A lot of weird stuff has happened because it’s the end of the world and we just happened to meet each other. If a total weirdo had showed up instead of you, then maybe I would be saving the world with them and we never would have met.” She doesn’t seem to mind the thought of working with a total weirdo in place of Falco.

Falco slumps in his seat, deflated, but Gabi doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’m glad it was you though,” Gabi continues.

Falco lifts his head. “Really?” He scoots closer in his seat, curious. “Why?”

Gabi twirls her pen between her fingers, looking upward as she thinks. After a moment, she shrugs. “I don’t know,” she answers. “It just feels better knowing I’m working with someone. It’s better than working alone, I guess. I might feel the same way even if it were someone else, but I also might not. Still, I’m glad it’s you.”

It doesn’t really mean anything. Like she said, it could have been some other kid who ended up answering Gabi’s post and helping her with her impossible quest to save the world. It could have been some other person sitting with her and looking up useless articles on asteroids and meteorites. It could have been someone else having this conversation with her. But, Falco reminds himself, it wasn’t. It’s him sitting beside her, eating snacks and discussing the end of the world. It probably isn’t fate that they met, but it kind of feels like it is.

»»————- April 7, 2026 ————-««

Tired of the same snacks from his pantry, Falco decides to try the café on the first-floor of the library for some new things to eat. He had asked Gabi what she wanted and she told him to just get her anything.

The first floor café is relatively well-stocked for the end of the world, but maybe it’s because bookworms prefer literature to satiate their appetites rather than food.

The display case, usually filled with dessert sandwiches with slices of strawberries and kiwi and slathered with whipped cream, is cleaned out, but the shelves behind the cash register are still stocked with different kinds of chips and candies. Falco scans the shelves, looking for his favorites: baked potato chips covered in rich butter, little rice crackers flavored with soy sauce and red pepper flakes, and chocolate cookies in the shape of tiny hamburgers.

Falco stares, for the longest time, at the other snacks and wonders what Gabi would like, if she has a preference for anything. Maybe he should have paid more attention when they were eating together to see if she ever seemed to gravitate to certain foods he brought or commented on any of the snacks they ate together, but he can’t recall anything. He feels stupid for not noticing, but he also doesn’t want to keep Gabi waiting and ends up grabbing whatever grabs his attention.

He arrives at their designated research table, huffing from the flights of stairs he had to climb. Falco deposits the snacks rather ungracefully in front of Gabi, letting them fall out of his hands and onto the table. Gabi looks up from the noise, her eyebrows raised, but she smiles when she sees that it’s him and Falco’s heart flutters almost painfully in his chest.

“These are yours,” Falco says, shoving Gabi’s share of the snacks towards her.

“Thanks.” Gabi picks up a snack with a gray cartoon cat on the wrapper. It’s a puffed corn stick. Pizza-flavored, the wrapper says. She opens it with a grin. “How did you know these were my favorite?” she asks.

“I … I don’t know,” Falco says. “Must have been a lucky guess.”

But it doesn’t feel like it.

It feels like he knew, from the beginning, what she had wanted. It’s like he had let his instincts take over when he had randomly chosen snacks for Gabi and somehow selected her favorite ones. It was as easy as picking food for someone he had known for his whole life, which is impossible because he hadn’t even known Gabi a week ago. Maybe, then, he had known Gabi in a past life and that’s how he happened to pick her favorites. Or maybe they really are fated to be together and knowing things like her favorite food are just second nature to him. The latter two explanations are almost impossible and yet so much more likely than the first explanation. He doesn’t know how to explain it though, not without seeming crazy, so he doesn’t say anything.

»»————- April 8, 2026 ————-««

Tomorrow is the end of the world and they are no closer to saving everyone from the asteroid hurtling towards the earth than they were yesterday. In fact, they are no closer to saving the world than they were a week ago when this effort began or even a month ago when they had first found out the world was going to be destroyed. Their attempt to prevent the world’s end was futile and their effort today will probably be equally useless. Still, here they are on the tenth floor of the library doing the same thing they did yesterday.

The sun is about to set and it’s almost time for them to head home. Falco wonders if they’ll be here tomorrow spending their last moments at the library when the world ends or if Gabi will call it quits and suggest they spend their last day without each other. He’s too afraid to ask.

They pack up silently, Gabi slipping her notebooks and laptop into her bag as Falco arranges the books into neat stacks on the slim chance that they’ll return tomorrow. Falco notices that Gabi packs the same way she always does — quickly, dumping everything into her backpack as if she doesn’t care if they get damaged — and it stings a little bit that she doesn’t pack a little slower this time like he does just so that he can spend a few seconds more with her. Maybe he shouldn’t be so disappointed because it’s obvious she doesn’t care for him more than she would care for a coworker or a classmate she was randomly paired with to complete an assignment.

Falco is silently pining when Gabi speaks, startling him.

“So, the world ends tomorrow,” she says easily. It’s like she’s talking about the weather. “Are you satisfied with how you spent your last days? No regrets?”

They’re two questions that seem related, but Falco’s answers for them are very different.

He is satisfied with how he spent his last days. The past week perhaps isn’t as spectacular by other people’s standards. Falco didn’t go bungee jumping or skydiving or deepsea divings like some of his peers. Some people would argue that the way he spent his last few days was as boring as the way he spent the past month, although Falco would argue that it was infinitely better because he had Gabi. He’s convinced that however he chose to spend his last days, as long as they were with Gabi, he would be happy. He could even watch the grass grow with Gabi and he’d be completely content. So, yes, he’s completely satisfied with how he spent his last few days, but he has many regrets.

He regrets not meeting Gabi earlier. He regrets not being able to spend more than a week with her. He regrets not doing things with her that kids their age should be doing: playing soccer in the field, catching butterflies by the river and letting them go, and hanging out at the arcade and beating their high scores. But most of all, he regrets feeling this way about Gabi and not being able to tell her.

Falco doesn’t answer her question. Instead, he asks, “Do you?”

“No,” Gabi replies with a smile and it makes Falco feel a little better about the ache in his chest.

»»————- April 9, 2026 ————-««

Falco doesn’t expect Gabi to call him the next day. Before bidding each other goodbye yesterday, Gabi suggested they not see each other again.

“You should spend the day with your family or something,” Gabi said to him. “Your parents probably want to spend their last day with their kids. I’ll just do this by myself. And, you know, thanks for everything.”

He had wanted to tell her that it was fine if they spent their last day together. He spent his whole life with his parents. He should at least spend one more day with Gabi if this is his last one, but he bit his tongue and said goodbye to her with the fakest smile before turning on his heel and walking as quickly as he could to where his mom would pick him up.

Falco was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling when Gabi called and told him to meet him at the bottom of the hill near the outskirts of his town. She said her mentor was coming back today and that they could visit her to see if there was still a possibility of saving the world. Falco didn’t even question her or ask if they really have any hope after their days of research lead to nothing. He just leapt out of bed, told his parents he would be out and that he loved them, and biked up to the hills where Gabi asked to meet him.

When he gets there, Gabi is already waiting for him, bundled in a navy peacoat and a gray scarf tied loosely around her neck. Her face breaks out in a grin when she sees him and she waves a gloved hand to greet him.

“How did you get here so fast?” Falco huffs once he finally reaches her. The hill gets too steep for him to bike, so he gets off his bicycle and walks with Gabi beside him.

“My uncle Reiner drove me here,” Gabi replies, shoving her hands in her pockets. She rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches with a smile. “He says he wanted to spend a little more time with his favorite niece before she becomes famous for saving the world.”

“You really think we’re gonna do it?” Falco asks.

Gabi shrugs. “I think if my mentor thinks so, we probably have a good chance.”

They arrive at the mentor’s house at the top of the hill. It’s small, more like a tiny cabin than an actual house. When Gabi knocks, they’re greeted by a blond man with big blue eyes. The man smiles when he sees Gabi, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Hello, Gabi. I guess Mikasa told you she’d be coming back today,” the man says. He looks over Falco. “Hello. You must be Gabi’s friend Falco. I’m Armin.” The man offers a hand for Falco to shake.

Falco nods, wondering why the man’s name sounds so familiar. It’s only when he’s shaken the man’s hand that he remembers Gabi had mentioned Armin a few days ago when they were researching in the library. He’s the genius that likes to spend his days taking care of fish.

Falco follows Gabi when the man invites them into the cabin. Falco’s a little taken aback at how simple the interior is. The living room is small and the kitchen is smaller with only the essentials. There isn’t even a microwave.

“Sit down,” Armin says, gesturing at the dining table in the middle of the room. He heads towards the kitchen cabinets where he takes out three mugs. “I’ll make tea for us while we wait for Mikasa.”

“Can we see your fish later, Armin?” Gabi asks. She’s already settled down in a chair, kicking her legs back and forth. It’s clear that she feels at home here. When she notices that Falco hasn’t taken a seat yet, she gestures for him to sit down at the seat closest to her. To Armin, she continues, “I was telling Falco about you and he was curious about what a genius would be up to at the end of the world if he wasn’t trying to prevent the apocalypse.”

Armin chuckles. “Do you like fish, Falco?” he asks. He smiles when Falco makes a surprised noise, an answer stuck in his throat. “Sure, we can take a look a little later.”

Over apple tarts and tea, Gabi and Armin fill Falco in on Mikasa. She’s Armin’s wife, Gabi’s mentor, and the key to saving the world. Mikasa has a superpower, Gabi explains, that allows her to identify other people with superpowers and what those powers are. She helps people utilize their powers, but she took off for a month when the end of the world was announced to gather people with powers that might prevent the asteroid from crashing into the earth.

“Did Mikasa tell you if she met any promising people?” Gabi asks. She’s licked her plate clean and cinnamon sticks to her lips.

Armin shakes his head, a resigned smile on his face. “Unfortunately, no. She said all the candidates she met didn’t have any sort of useful power, but who knows? Maybe she’ll meet someone on the way here that can stop the meteor.”

“Ah, it’s a meteor now?” Falco asks, sitting up in his seat.

“It’s been one for a while,” Armin says. He glances out the window for a second. It’s not blue like it was when Falco woke up this morning. It’s orange now., not like a sunrise but more like someone has set the sky on fire. “We should be able to see it soon. The estimated time of impact is soon if I recall correctly. Hopefully, we get to see Mikasa soon.” His eyebrows are knitted together in concern, but Gabi looks just as unbothered as ever.

“I’m sure she’ll be back soon,” Gabi says. She collects her empty plate as well as Falco and Armin’s before depositing them in the sink. It’s an awfully normal thing to do considering the fact that the dirty dishes won’t matter when the earth is destroyed. She lets them soak in the sink and then turns to Armin. “Can we go see your fish now? Falco hasn’t seen them yet.”

“Sure,” Armin says with a smile. He gets up from the table and gestures for Falco to follow him. “Let’s go see the fish.”

Armin leads the children to a side room. Inside is a large glass fish tank with so many plants, shells, and rocks that Falco doesn’t see the fish at first. He and Gabi crouch beside the tank, their faces not quite touching the glass. Falco can see neon fish the size of his pinky darting back and forth between plants. He spots a miniature catfish the size of his thumb hiding behind a rock while a school of ten or so black and white striped fish zips around the 50-gallon tank. There are many more fish that Falco spots, lots of which he doesn’t know the name of but Armin patiently points them all out and tells Falco both the scientific and the common names of each fish and their habits. It’s clear that he loves it, taking care of the fish and looking after them, and Falco thinks he understands a little bit why Armin has chosen to spend the rest of the world like this. Occasionally, Gabi pipes in with whatever she remembers about each fish, usually their behavioral patterns she’s noticed when she’s visited, and Armin always grins whenever she speaks.

The three don’t notice when Mikasa arrives. They’re too busy staring at the fish swimming back and forth in the tank without a care in the world. The fish can’t grasp the fact that the world is ending. After all, their world only consists of the four glass walls that encase them and anything outside doesn’t concern them. It’s only when the door to the room opens and Mikasa steps in that the three realize that she’s returned. The fish, however, just keep swimming.

“That’s a nice way to spend the end of the world,” Mikasa comments. She has a tired smile on her face. She wears a soft cream-colored turtleneck, a long black coat hanging over her arm. “I see Gabi has joined us. As has her friend.” The woman nods at Falco.

“H-hello,” Falco stammers. He’s not sure what he was expecting Mikasa to look like. Perhaps like a woman with all the answers, someone who looked like she had seen the world, but she doesn’t. She just looks like any other woman, maybe a little more tired than other women, but still just a normal person. She doesn’t look like she has an amazing superpower, but then again neither does Gabi nor any of the potential candidates that claimed to have powers. “I’m Falco.”

“Ah, yes,” Mikasa says with a nod. “Gabi mentioned you before. I’m Mikasa, her mentor.” She drapes her coat over a nearby chair and walks over to join the three of them beside the fish tank.

“Did you find anyone?” Gabi asks. She looks out towards the living room, craning her neck to see if Mikasa had brought someone they didn’t notice.

“No, nobody that could save the world, if that’s what you’re asking,” Mikasa sighs, shoulder slumped. “Although, I did run into a guy who was convinced that the only way to save the world was to destroy it. I got away from him as quickly as possible.”

“Probably a smart decision,” Armin says with a nod, and Mikasa smiles in reply.

“Well, shall we go watch the end of the world together?” Mikasa asks, putting an arm around Gabi. She looks around at the others. “I heard it was going to be quite spectacular. Like a meteor show in the middle of the day.” Her eyes settle on Falco and her smile begins to falter. Her brows knit together and she opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something.

Armin notices the change in her demeanor and looks back and forth between Falco and Mikasa. “What’s wrong? Are you …?” It seems like something clicks in his head and he quickly turns to Falco. With a hand on the boy’s shoulder, Armin asks quickly, “Falco, do you have a power you haven’t told us about?”

The question startles Falco and he jerks away from Armin’s hand in surprise. “I … I don’t know,” he says, stumbling over his words. He’s never felt like he had any kind of superpower. He’s never shown any sign of being special. He’s always just been … normal.

“You … do you not know?” Mikasa asks, her eyebrows raised. She looks at Gabi. “Falco can save the world.”

It’s too much for Falco to take in when the world is about to end so soon. He has too many questions like: What power is he supposed to have? How come he didn’t know about it before? Is there still time to save everyone or is it too late? He opens his mouth to ask, not knowing which one will come out of his mouth first, when he feels a comforting hand on his elbow. Falco looks over to see Gabi standing beside him, somehow calm despite this revelation.

“What’s his power, Mikasa?”

“He can travel back in time,” Mikasa says, still staring at Falco with her intense gaze. “Under the event of an unexpected death like, say, getting hit by an asteroid, he can go back in time and prevent it from happening. But only if he remembers that it will happen in the first place.” Her eyes flicker towards Gabi for some reason.

“What … what does that mean ‘only if I remember’?” Falco asks Gabi.

Gabi’s biting down on her lip, expression contemplative. Finally, she tells Falco, “My power is that I’m unforgettable. If you reset your time after the meteor hits, usually you won't remember what happened, but you will if I use my power. You’d be able to remember me and everything we’ve done together. If you go back in time, maybe you can find a way to save the world because you’ll know what to expect.”

“Then … then that’s good news!” He doesn’t know why everyone around him isn’t jumping up and down in excitement right now. They’ve found a way to save the world. If not this time, then the next time or the time after that. “Isn’t this good news?”

“I mean, it is,” Gabi says. She doesn’t sound as confident as she usually does. Instead, she’s hesitant, almost shy. Falco doesn’t think he’s ever seen Gabi shy before. She’s looking at the floor now, kicking at the hardwood floor with her sock-clad feet. “It’s just that … I have to make you fall in love with me to make you remember me.”

Falco’s mouth falls open and no words come out.

“It’s not like it’s hard,” Gabi says almost hurriedly, more because she’s embarrassed than in a rush to save the world. She’s shed off her embarrassment and assumed her usual confident demeanor. “I’m very lovable, you know. It’s just …” Her voice trails off again.

“She has to seal it with a kiss,” Mikasa finishes, and Falco can see why Gabi was so embarrassed. His cheeks redden just from the thought of kissing Gabi. Mikasa adds rather apologetically, “It’s just the way it works, her power. She needs to kiss you.”

“Only if you’re okay with it, of course,” Gabi adds. She’s still avoiding his gaze, her eyes on the floor. “I’m fine if you’d rather not. You might just be stuck in the loop all by yourself. It’d be a little less painful since you won’t remember each time but still -”

“I’m okay with it,” Falco says.

Gabi looks up, surprised. “You are?”

“Yeah,” Falco says. “I’m … I’m fine with it. Let’s save the world. Together. That’s what our entire plan was, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Gabi repeats and she smiles. It’s different from how she’s smiled at him before. It’s a little bit bashful, a little bit excited. It looks nice on her, Falco thinks, and he’s so distracted that he’s surprised when he realizes she’s holding his hand.

Mikasa tugs at the elbow of Armin’s cardigan and the blond man nods. Taking Mikasa’s hand, he turns to the kids and says, “We’ll be out there just to give you two some privacy. Hopefully, we’ll see each other again soon.”

The door shuts softly behind the two adults. Falco doesn’t know if they wait in the living room or if they’ve gone outside to admire the sky. From the window, Falco can see that the sky has changed from a burnt orange to an explosion of different colors: shades of violet, pink, blue, and yellow all together almost like a watercolor painting. There are streaks of white in the sky. It’s like a meteor shower in the middle of the day just as Mikasa had said.

When he turns to Gabi, she’s looking at him with her hand still holding his. She’s chewing on the inside of her cheek, but she smiles when she sees he’s looking at her.

“Are you still up for it?” Gabi asks.

“Y-yeah,” Falco says, his voice cracking. He feels his face flush, but he likes the sound of Gabi’s giggle even if he’s the one she’s laughing at. He licks his lips nervously and leans in just the tiniest bit. “Is … is it okay if I kiss you?”

Gabi bites her lip and nods. She leans in too and Falco takes it as his cue to close his eyes and close the gap.

He doesn’t know what to expect from this kiss. Maybe warm lips pressing against his while his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. Maybe Gabi’s hands gripping his arms while his hands hover awkwardly around his waist. Maybe the world ending and, when his eyes open, Falco waking to thoughts of Gabi and how to find her next. But none of this happens. Instead, Gabi puts her hands on his shoulder and pushes him gently but firmly away.

“I can’t do it,” Gabi says.

“Wha-?”

“I can’t do it,” Gabi repeats with a shake of her head. She looks upset, but Falco doesn’t know why. He wonders what it is he did to offend her. Maybe she doesn’t want to kiss him. Maybe she finds him repulsive and doesn’t want to kiss him even if it means saving the world. Falco thinks this would be the case if Gabi didn’t look so apologetic. “I can’t kiss you. Not like this.”

“What do you mean?” Falco asks, panicked. He takes a glance at the window. Outside, the meteors in the sky look brighter. It’s like a million stars are falling to the earth. It’s only a matter of time before the world ends. He doesn’t know why Gabi is doing this.

“I don’t want to kiss you just to save the world and I don’t want you to kiss me for the same reason,” Gabi says, taking a step away from him. She shakes her head, tears pricking her eyes. “I want you to kiss me because you like me, not because you have some responsibility to save the earth so … so find me again and kiss me. Find me again and tell me you like me and kiss me hard. And then … and then we can save the world.”

But he wants to kiss her now. He wants to kiss her because he likes her. He wants to kiss her because the world is ending. He wants to kiss her even if the world isn’t ending. He wants to tell her that, but he doesn’t have the words.

Ever since Mikasa had revealed Falco’s power, everything has suddenly made sense to him. Falco understands now why his life felt so empty before he met Gabi and why he never felt the desire to do anything. He knows why he was so drawn to her when they first met that day in the city and why he felt like she completed him. It’s because they were meant to meet each other, meant to be together, meant to save the world.

Falco wants to kiss her so badly. He wants to hold Gabi’s face in his hands and put his lips on hers and kiss her until the world ends and when he wakes up again he’ll find her and kiss her again and again and again. He wants to tell her he likes her now and that he’ll like her again. He wants to tell her that he’d like her even if the world weren’t about to end, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t get to tell her anything.

A bright light flashes from the window. All Falco sees is Gabi and then white, and then nothing.

»»————- March 9, 2026 ————-««

Falco wakes up and rolls out of bed. He brushes his teeth in the bathroom and brushes out his hair before blearily heading down the stairs where his mom is making breakfast. His father hasn’t left for work yet, he notices, which is rather strange. His mother hasn’t finished making breakfast yet and his brother isn’t dressed for school. He stares at them, wondering why they’re acting so odd. It takes them a moment to realize he’s there.

“The world is ending next month,” his mother tells him. She points at the TV screen that Falco’s father is staring at. On it flashes a picture of an asteroid hurtling towards the earth. The little banner underneath the picture says it’s far too big to burn up in the atmosphere. Scientists have no hope of human survival.

“If I knew, I would have slept in,” Colt mumbles.

His family looks shocked by the news, but Falco doesn’t feel anything. He grabs a banana from the fruit bowl in the kitchen and starts to head out the door.

“Wait, where are you going?” Colt asks him.

Falco pauses by the door. “I don’t know,” he says after a moment. He’s not sure what to do now that the world is ending. There isn’t anything in particular that he wants to do. “I’ll go to school, I guess.”

He leaves after assuring his parents that it’s fine, that he really doesn’t mind going to school because he isn’t sure what else to do. He stops by his mailbox and looks up at the sky. It’s clear and blue, no asteroid in sight.

He takes a deep breath and then releases it. It sounds like a sigh.

#falbi #snk #sf8 au #falco grice #gabi braun

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epinosicc · 3 years

Text

This is going to be quite chaotic, but this is something I wrote late one stormy July night about my life this far and how I’ve realized my problems

Okay it’s around midnight where I’m at so it’s time to rant instead of sleeping because I’m a minor and I have ✨issues✨

I tend to think more than what’s probably considered healthy, mostly because I do t have people to talk to. Don’t get me wrong, I have friends, but I don’t know what they’re doing and I don’t want to burden them with my stupid problems. So like any sane person I write my problems on the internet.

I usually think about the weird things when it’s raining. It’s something about the sound and feeling of rain that makes me more content, which makes me think. Now, I don’t have any big problems by any means. I’m simply figuring myself and my life out.

First of all, my previously mentioned friends. I trust them, of course, but at the same time I don’t. And like many who think to much and have a strange amount of self-awareness, I think I know why that is. When I first started going to school, I was confident. I’d already had friends before and thought I knew how to make new ones. The problem with that is that said friends did not go to my school, so I was alone. Until I met my first two friends. They were very nice to me, we played together and got along. The thing that I started noticing though was that if me and one of them arrived at school around the same time and out third friend wasn’t there yet we’d get along great, but as soon as that third friend arrived I’d get ditched in favour of them. And that would obviously hurt me. But we resolved it (not really) and things were going fine. But that experience stuck with me. It was my first taste of loneliness and abandonment (dramatic much?) and it made me doubt myself. I thought that maybe, just maybe, there was something about me that they didn’t like.

Now jump ahead about two years and I was alone Every. Single. Recess. (Oh shit it storming outside right now and some thunder sounded like a bomb) Obviously this only made me feel worse about myself. I just remember being so desperate for some sort of connection with someone. And I got one. I started talking to this person, I’ll call them Bird, and we got along great. Pretty soon Bird was my best and we spent a lot of our time together. I was still sort of friends with the two other people, at least during lessons, and sometimes during recess, but not that much otherwise.

Jump ahead a bit more, another year or so, and my class changed. At my school my class and another (same age as us) we’re combined into one. In this class that we were combined with there were a few new people, one of whom stuck out. Mostly because they didn’t like me, and they weren’t exactly discreet in letting me know. They never said so to my face, but they made it quite clear in how they acted towards me. This also made me feel bad. Is there really something so wrong with me that others couldn’t help but dislike me for it? Can I fix it? What do it that makes me different? (At the current point in my life I’m fairly certain I know what it is so yeah. Fun)

Now, I’d always cared a fair bit about school. I was taught that education was important, and if I was going to spend hours at school I might as well use that time for something, be it academically of socially. So when those around me started caring less about their education and more about things such as appearance and social hierarchy and relationships, I was confused. Why would they just not care? HOW could they just not care? Now, I’m not saying that any of the previous things are necessarily bad things to care about. In fact, ist great! Being invested in your social life and how others view you can be nurturing and make you feel fulfilled. But too much of anything can be bad. Letting yourself care about only those things can be harmful in more ways than one. I’ve never particularly cared about those things; I don’t like dressing up or making myself look good for others. I don’t value others validation of my appearance. What I didn’t notice was that as I believed these thoughts, I started eating less.

But things are still pretty chill. I still struggle with what’s wrong and what makes me different, but that’s fine. I’m pretty sure everyone goes through that at some point in our lives. But now I’m starting to find some answers. I don’t really care much for my appearance or style, I like academic things, I’m starting to fall behind in my social development, people are becoming more bold in stating their opinions, people are more hateful and spread misinformation etc etc (there’s a fucking mosquito who won’t leave me alone fuck off please). And at this point I’m more invested in the online world. But the international online world, not my national online world if that makes sense. English isn’t my first language but I learned it from the internet/YouTube and it’s basically my second language at this point. I learned English for English content creators, and I continued following them, not the ones relevant in my home/country. So I was and still am kind of out of the loop on current influencer events here in the North. This ties in with what I thought to be the answer to my questions: the LGBTQIA+ Community.

I started finding creators from the LGBT+ and I related to them and their stories. But I didn’t think I was one of them. People at school were not afraid to boldly proclaim that being LGBTQ+ was wrong and bad and strange. That there was something inherently rotten about such people. Now, did I agree with that? No. But I let it influence to the point were I thought that others being LBGTQ+ was fine, but me being that wasn’t. I wasn’t aloud to be one of them because there wasn’t supposed to be something wrong with me. But there was something, in the back of my mind, some part of me that knew. That knew who I am and that being me was fine. Too bad that voice wasn’t loud enough.

I still had Bird with me. Granted, they also had other friends, but they still stayed by my side. And they didn’t change like others did. My two first friends are people I also grew closer to at this time. I put our “situation” behind me and ignored it. It was a new chapter of my life, one where thing were changing in the right direction. Too bad I wasn’t too good at reading maps.

At this point I’m in sixth (6th) grade, the worst grade/period/time of my life thus far. After summer break people had changed a lot. Not just socially, but physically as well. We started to mature, we were lite tiny birds, looking out of the nest and thinking about how to take flight and reach above the branches of expectations and reach the clouds of ambition. But some of us didn’t. We didn’t want to start using our wings. At most we took a little peek out of our nest and divided that was enough for now. We began to grow frightened of others and their strange ideas of leaving what we knew was safe. I’m We for those wondering.

I started struggling with anxiety, I couldn’t stand in front of people without being scared and had a few panic attacks during presentations. People would look at me weirdly and I grew paranoid of what was wrong with me. At this point I started eating even less, resigning myself to one potion per meal, and no snacks, sometimes skipping lunch. Once again some of my friends that I had at this point started drifting away from me but now the rest, and I started trusting them even less. I can’t help but think that they’re only pitying me, that they’re going to leave and that they do thing behind my back. There was also someone else who had a big influence on me.

I, along with Bird started hanging around this person, we’ll call them Pen. They were sort of new, they’d always been in our class but had been living abroad for eight (8) months and had just come back. At first things were great. Bird, Pen and I were our own little trio of friends. But soon a change occurred. Pen started getting more clingy, staying uncomfortably close at times and never staying out of our personal space. Bird ended up taking the initiative with one of our other mutual friends and had long talk with Pen which sort of ended their friendship. At first they’d all handled it alone but then Pen involved their parents and thing went downhill. But I wasn’t part of it. Which made Pen hang on to me even more. I could never get away from them, it always felt like they were breathing down my neck. I didn’t tell them this though, they just lost two friends and they must be hurt from it, seeking comfort from someone they still considered a friend. I was uncomfortable, but I felt bad for them, so I continued being around them. Something my teachers had realized at this point was that I tend to take responsibility for other and their actions, and told me that I should try to relax and talk to them as I had seemingly started to become overwhelmed. But I don’t tell others my problems so I didn’t take their help. This kind of escalated a bit next grade.

Grade seven (7) was not my best year but also not my worst. I spent summer break reflecting and thinking, and started to value myself a bit more. I started hanging out with friends more often (usually Bird), and started unintentionally ignoring Pen. Though sometimes, I think it was intentional, as the very thought of Pen at this point made me anxious and uneasy. I thought I could simply let Pen hang around with me, and then let them get their own new friend group. I didn’t want them to only hang around me, it was honestly a bit scary how much I dreaded being around them. The feeling that something was off or wrong around them wouldn’t go away. They didn’t leave me though. No; I became their sole friend whom they refused to leave. In seventh (7th) grade our class was split, with me and Bird being in different classes. I had some friends in my new class though andere became a group. I thought I could nudge Pen to become part of this group. Except that Pen didn’t interact or contribute to the relationship. They weren’t social enough with the group to become part of it, standing in the group only to follow me. And my teachers noticed this and spoke to me. I told them how I was uncomfortable around Pen, and how I would like to not have to sit close to them next time we switched we seats (done every few weeks or so). Teachers agreed. But didn’t follow through. They sat me Right. Next. To. Pen. I confronted them about this. They lied to me. Their reasoning was that one of Pen’s parents had told the teachers how Pen only felt comfortable around me, and that they would like for us to be together at school as much as possible.

I was horrified at this - I couldn’t be held responsible for another students comfort, grades and social life! They basically put all the responsibilities of the teachers - making sure students felt comfortable, helping with schoolwork when needed, making sure the student had friends in the class - on me! I was basically supposed to play friend, teacher and class for Pen! I honestly couldn’t believe it, and told my friends. They told me they understood completely - they could see how emotionally and mentally exhausted I was from taking care of Pen, studying, after school activities and being around people that they were concerned about my well being. They, too, had tried to get Pen to become part of the group, but when only one person is taking care of the ship you can’t expect it to sail. They also felt uncomfortable around Pen. My anxiety only got worse because of this, and I started becoming paranoid that Pen was always watching me, either through my phone or my windows. I could not get myself to relax, not even when totally alone, something I’ve always enjoyed and felt comfortable with.

And at the end of grade seven (7), it happened. I found out that Pen was switching schools. I feel guilty admitting it, but I felt so relieved and free when I found out. Finally, I thought, finally I would get some privacy. All of my other friends are aware of my boundaries: don’t touch me unless I’m ready and aware of it, give me some space, don’t force me to talk when I’m anxious etc. They know, respect and treat me well, and in turn I treat them well and respect their boundaries, but Pen didn’t seem to understand that no, I don’t want you to stand so close to me that I can literally feel you body heat.

So grade eight (8) rolls around and I so does a certain unspecified virus. We therefore had to have school online. For me this was a blessing. I don’t enjoy being around people for too long and I don’t ever want to deal with my classmates bs. The teachers even commented on several occasions that I seemed much happier, which I was considering I didn’t have someone constantly breathing down my neck. And now I start to drift away from Bird. I always considered Bird my absolute closest friend. Almost like a sibling. And now we were drifting apart. We both started walking our own paths, still close together but different in so many ways. We’re still friends to this day, but I don’t think our friendship is going to last until we’re adults anymore. It’s sort of sad, but it is natural. We are both starting to forge our own paths in life, our own docks from which we will eventually set sail from to explore the limitless blue beyond that is life. And one day we might even meet again on some distant island, reconnecting and sharing stories of calm blue oceans to storming black waters. But that will happen with time. For now, I’m content finding materials for my dock with my group of friends, sharing ideas for designs and unfinished blueprints of a distant future. I’m content staring at that great far away horizon painted in the colors of pink, magenta and blue, watching the clouds of today’s events and feeling the winds of tomorrow’s surprises whilst thinking of what one day might be.

TL;DR: I rant about my life and somehow become a poet at the end.

End note - I still struggle with trust and anxiety. I don’t have problems with how my body looks anymore and I don’t confine myself to strict diets and eating schedules. Part of me feels guilty about my situation with Pen, and one part of me feels relieved and happy that I don’t have to deal with them anymore. I’m smart enough and self aware enough to realize my problems and their causes, and I have the tools to craft my solutions. I’m doing good, and know how to keep doing good, at least for a little while more.

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dailyrov · 3 years

Text

Well, life’s been stressful, et cetera and so on. Welcome to 2021, which will hopefully be better than 2020, but boy-oh-boy is the bar low.

I was minding my own business today when some kind person dropped a comment on one of my ‘fics (If It Takes a Lifetime). I replied to them and then read through my other replies, relived the story a bit...you know, Something Fanfic Authors Do. I was reminded of something I wanted to post here for a while, but struggled to put into concise wording: my relationship to the series.

My first foray into The Rose of Versailles was in 2008, all thanks to a certain @kippielovesyou who baited me into watching the anime because she claimed the main couple had some things in common with a pairing I was super into at the time. I got hooked. I marathoned the anime and went to work after episode 39 without having gotten any sleep at all. Shift start was at 6:30am. The assembly line started moving. One of my coworkers nudged me. “Hey,” they said. “Did something bad happen? You look miserable.”

I wasn’t miserable so much as emotionally drained. “Just tired,” I said, and focused on my work for the next 8.5 hours. I wasn’t about to tell them that my favorite characters in a television show just died.

I went home and watched the 40th episode. I felt weird afterward. Still drained. Almost...empty.

Not angry. Not betrayed. Just...this really strange sort of blankness that I had rarely felt upon reaching the ending of anything. I recalled a similar feeling at the end of the 1989 film Glory, but no other piece of media could come close to touching it. I would almost call it peace, though the unsettling kind. I’m not supposed to feel peaceful about a tragic ending, right?

But I was hooked.

I downloaded the entire series on a torrent, something I hadn’t done before OR SINCE. I burned it to discs and mailed them to Wisconsin so that my oldest internet friend (now husband) could watch it. He cried at the end. I forced my sister to sit down with me to watch the whole thing. She cried, too. I wrote fanfiction. I drew fanart (it was bad, don’t @ me). I screamed about it to countless friends on Livejournal. I recommended the series to everyone I knew and a lot of those people joined me in writing fanfiction.

What a time to be in fandom!! We flooded the fandom with regular English fanfic for the first time ever. The fandom was hopping. I met two amazing women (Kasia and Loulou) who spoiled me rotten for fanfiction reviews for the rest of my life. I bought the French manga and read the entire thing. I fell in love with one specific page (you get one guess as to which that is lol). I distinctly remember crying twice while reading the manga in a language I could only stumble through: first when Andre tried to count the stairs in the house, miscounted, and tripped, and secondly when Oscar threw herself onto her mother’s lap crying that she was a human being with feelings.

I still get emotional thinking about these scenes, particularly the latter one. The Rose of Versailles got me through so much. I honestly don’t know where I would be, or who I would be, without it. There is no way Kippie could have known that I would need RoV. For her, it was as simple as, “I enjoyed it, and I think you would, too. Because shipping.” And yeah, I’m a shipper who did enjoy it for that, but it became SO MUCH MORE THAN THAT TO ME.

I don’t want to spit the whole long tale out here, but shortly after I obsessed over RoV, I had my own identity crisis. It was a tough time for me, but it also cemented my future as an essayist who focuses primarily on the literary device known as Identity. When I went to college in 2012 that was my focus in literature, and nearly every essay I wrote I chose to explore it in some fashion. Identity. What makes a character, what shapes them, what changes or moves or motivates them. RoV motivated that love for Identity and my essays motivated the English Department chair to give me a selective scholarship (that they chose, it was never applied for). The reasoning they cited to me was that I had shown a rare passion for literature and the characters within. For the first time in my life I felt validated in my obsession with Identity.

I was in my early 20s when I first saw The Rose of Versailles, and something about the character of Oscar spoke to me, but I couldn’t quite name it. I felt that I understood her, and not just for being a woman working in a man’s field. There was something else. But what? I couldn’t figure it out.

A few years later I started seeing an uptick in romantic and sexual identities online. Demisexual. Asexual. Aromantic. Greyace. Something clicked—for me, personally, as well as my understanding of the characters. And years later, Tumblr flooded with information about ADHD presenting in women, and autism in ladies. And my brain went, OH!!!! OH!!! OH I SEE!!

I know a lot of people love Oscar for their own reason, and I think that’s probably one of my favorite things about the series: that the main character is almost universally loved by everyone, and that she receives this love no matter how the individual fans choose to view her.

Something specifically that bothered me many years ago was a certain persistent disdain for Oscar not returning André’s feelings earlier. She was blind, she was stupid, she was mean, and the worst of all: she was Bad for these reasons.

My God, when I tell you now that the scene of Oscar falling onto her mother’s lap in tears over being treated like a doll made me cry, I know why. I spent years of my life wondering why I was born the way I was. I agonized over it. I didn’t want to be “normal.” I was happy being me. But nobody else was. My sister once accused me of not having feelings. I think of that moment every time I see Oscar struggling in RoV. She’s a private person who struggles privately, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t feel things. And there Oscar was in the manga, having lived her life the best way she knew how, only to have her father pull the rug out from under her without deigning to even explain himself to her. Suddenly, she was not allowed to have an identity of her own. Suddenly, she was not good enough as she was.

Do you know what marriage would do to someone like Oscar, particularly at that point in her life? It would kill her. How terrifying a fate to face, no control over her own life, or feelings, or even her own body.

There’s an important scene in the manga and anime where André considers that Oscar appears “as cold as ice” to others, but personally recognizes the fire of her passionate heart and finds that endearing about her... I always felt that he liked that about her because it was a side of her only he understood, only he recognized for what it was. Like she trusted that part of her in his presence and knowing this helped that love grow. I still think that’s true.

But beyond that, I think André is on the ace spectrum himself, and understands better than anyone how Oscar’s feelings work. (There’s so much more to it than that, but I’ll leave it there for now...)

The part of the fandom that felt Oscar was selfish or uncaring for not loving André back sooner...miss the point, I think, of her character, and of the romance of the series. It’s not that Oscar is unfeeling. It’s not that she can’t love André. It’s not even that she’s choosing not to love him. In my opinion, it’s that she’s ace and the way she shows her love and care is not only different than a person might expect it to be, but also difficult to express—though whether this is due to her upbringing or her romantic identity (or both!) is up to interpretation.

More importantly, she does not owe him herself.

(And, I think beyond all this, usually people who feel this way really adore André, and while that’s great, I think they’re ignoring a key component of his character, which is: he loves Oscar and never even once so much as suggests that she owes him anything.)

Anyway, that was a long post to say: I view Oscar as ace and ADHD and I wish I could go back to 2008 me and tell myself about both of these things, because it would have saved me a lot of worry and heartache all those years ago. But it’s okay, anyway, because I still felt that connection to Oscar, even without the specific words, and I knew André loved Oscar anyway, even though he knew she was different.

If you’re reading this now, in 2021 or later, I hope you’ve been able to find a similar connection to one or several of the RoV characters. It’s not often we get to see slices of ourselves in the media, written in a sympathetic and loving way. Having that made all the difference to me when I needed it the most. ♥ And I hope it’s had a positive impact on your life, too.

#The Rose of Versailles #rov #essays from versailles #Oscar Francois de Jarjayes #tl;dr: oscar is such a good character

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aspiringhorrorauthor · 3 years

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hello, PLEASE tell me your aroace analysis of the black parade album, i would like to see it 👀👀

What up guys, I just passed a vet med practice exam and I’m aroace and emo as fuck so let’s do this

First off, I will preface that I know that this wasn’t quite MCR’s idea of the album, but art is interpretive and I will at every possible opportunity rub my grubby little aroace hands all over that shit. This is also gonna get long so here’s a read more

Okay so first off, let me just exclude the following songs from this interpretation simply because they are exactly as they appear: The End, Dead!, Welcome to the Black Parade, Sleep, Teenagers and Blood. I can’t find anything to really psychoanalyse in this regarding the aroace experience so much as they are about the emo experience. And also, as a heads up, I feel this may teter more into aromantic interpretation than asexual simply because that’s how I roll, baby.

Let’s start with ‘This Is How I Disappear’, there’s something in here that strikes me as ‘coming to terms with being aroace Very Badly’, that first onset of panic when you realise ‘oh crap, I’m not allo’. I didn’t have the ‘hell yeah no sexual/romantic attraction oh wait there’s a word for that?’ realisation often stated online, I was in a lot of denial, especially when I first started listening to this album.

The lines “And without you is how I disappear/and live my life alone forever now” really strikes this message to me. The gnawing sense of loneliness and isolation when you first realise that you’re not like everyone else, that ‘living a life alone’ is both what you want from life and dread, as an amatonormative society drills into every one of us that love and relationships is what makes us important in life, and without it we will simply disappear. The line hits home the pain of questioning, the horror of when you realise this is who you likely are before you can truly accept it. It’s not a pretty part of being aroace, it wasn’t for me, but it is an important one, and the lines always hit home to me in this era.

Added on to this is a sense of how we’re seen in media. Consider the line “Who walks among the famous living dead”. There’s a real push in amatonormativity that love and romance is what makes us human, what makes us alive, and without it, we’re not human. Therefore, by extension, the aromantic narrator is ‘not alive’ by these standards, nor is their community they’ve yet to find. This is also doubled down by the monster symbolism throughout the song; especially when I was younger, aromantic (and asexual) coded characters in media were always the bad guys, the monsters who could only be stopped by the unstoppable power of love; the narrator is lamenting how this part of themselves seems monstrous, evil to society, when really that isn’t true, and this evolves over the course of the album.

Let’s move on to The Sharpest Lives. This is less aroace specific, but it certainly seems like a downward spiral of the narrator, which carries on from the self-loathing of Disappear. There’s really only 1 line I want to talk about here: “Juliet loves the beat and the lust it commands/Drop the dagger and lather the blood on your hands, Romeo”. This is an obvious allusion to Romeo and Juliet, but it turns on its head the usual story of Romeo and Juliet being in love; Juliet doesn’t love Romeo, she just loves the beat, and Romeo is taking it too far. This speaks to another experience, not exclusive to aromantics, but definitely strongly felt in it, when someone misinterprets the relationship or your feelings and tries to push for romance when all you wanted was a good time. I had an awful experience of this myself, so I’m claiming this one for the aroaces.

(As an aside, I got into MCR around the same time we did Romeo and Juliet at school, so imagine little me, not knowing she’s aroace and sick to death of talking about romance at school and hearing this line. To say I lost my shit was an understatement. I ADORE that line.)

Next up is ‘I Don’t Love You’. I’ve talked about this one before on my blog, but this is the song that really gives it away to me that this album is very strongly catered towards aroaces. “But it’s a break up song!” No, it’s not, if you look at it from the correct angle. Also I’ve gone to further lengths with other break up songs so try me bitches (See: Love Drunk by Boys Like Girls being about disregarding amatonormativity rather than breaking up with someone. It’s so damn obvious too)

Here’s the short of it: I Don’t Love You is actually about falling out with a friend because you had entirely different ideas as to what it was you wanted from your relationship. The aro narrator wants it to remain friends; they’re happy with where they are, and doesn’t want it to change. The other ‘person’ in the song is alloromantic, and wants it to become a romantic relationship. The most important line for this is the most important line in the song: “When you go, would you even turn to say, I don’t love you like I did yesterday”. Let’s focus on the word choice here: ‘Like I did yesterday’. When allos talk about love, they talk about the amount; if this was about falling out of love, it would reflect that, that the other person in the song loves them less, not differently. The narrator is lamenting that their friend no longer loves them as a friend; the friend’s view of love has changed, they love them romantically, and less as a friend as a result, and the narrator’s insistence on remaining friends has highlighted this.

What’s more, I don’t think this is the first time the narrator has gone through this. Admittedly, I misheard one of the lines for years and I insist the line is “Another time was just another blow” but I’m not American so we don’t have dollars, and this is about me and my interpretation of the album so we’re in this ride together and I’m driving so lets do this. The song is very pained, you can hear it in Gerard’s voice, and there’s so little about the pain of losing a friend, especially when they wanted romance from you, that this song really speaks to.

What really gets me though is how the narrator is clearly still struggling with being aroace too. Let’s consider the line “Sometimes I cry so hard from pleading”. The narrator clearly isn’t at ease with their identity yet; maybe they wish they could keep their friend, but their placing their boundaries down, even though its costing a friend. These boundaries are important, and its important for our friends to respect them too. And listening to, and singing along to, this song really makes me proud for the narrator in a sort of self-love kind of way when you couldn’t love yourself.

Final matter on this song: the narrator still thinks of them as a friend, which is tearing the narrator apart. Yes, the line “Don’t ever think I’ll make you try to stay” might make you think differently, but I believe that’s the narrator setting their boundaries; they’re not going to become an item just to please their friend and make them stay. Instead lets look at “Better get out while you can”. The narrator sees that their different views on the relationship is incompatible, and suggests they ‘fall out’ before their friend gets too caught up, and the rejection pains them both even more.

Now for House of Wolves. Not a long to say on this one, but I see it as being about media and ace exclusionists. See, the song flips between another character seeing the narrator as an angel and as a sinner simultaneously; just as how the media depicts asexual/aromatic/aroace people as non-human, that our sexuality (or lack thereof) makes us incomplete (the sinner aspect), while exclusionists say that we must be loved by the same media (and by religion too) for being aspec (the angel aspect). The song flip flops between them very rapidly, a state of confusion that felt very poignant for me when I was questioning in the height of the ace discourse.

Okay Mama is just here not for interpretation but because my English teacher once told us to analyse songs for her to mark as revision for exams and she loves long songs and kept making us analyse them so I analysed Mama and handed that in and got an A*. So Mama said AroAce rights that day.

Disenchanted is another strange one, filled with lines that mean more to aroace interpretation than the song itself. It spoke to me most when I was on my year out, having failed to get into uni despite good grades, still struggling with coming to terms with being aromantic, and dealing with severe anxiety. All in all, it was a year of disenchantment. It’s a good song. So what about an aroace interpretation?

The main thing about the song seems to be pretending to be someone you’re not. And really, when talking with family who expect you to be allo, how can you be anything but? I was told in this time that ‘Girls only go to university to find a husband’, which is many levels of wrong, but that thought always sticks in my head with this song. Moreover, I always think of break up songs with the line “You’re just a sad song, with nothing to say”, because they ARE just sad songs with nothing to say; and yet we’re expected to love them, because it’s a universal experience. There’s never been nothing to them.

But really, the line “I spent my high school career spit on and shoved to agree, so I can watch all my heroes sell a car on TV” is what really spoke to me. You spend school years being told that these people are sexy, you’ll want romance one day, and you have to agree or we’ll bully you mercilessly for it. The kids at school knew who was aroace before they knew what aroace meant. And we grow up watching heroes we relate to on TV, the fantastic loners who don’t need a significant other, only for fandom and the shows themselves to pair them up, make them “sell cars on tv” and sell out what made them special to us. And it hurts. And this song reflects that so well. In this song, the narrator is reflecting back on the years lost by hating themselves, slowly coming to terms with being aroace.

And finally, Famous Last Words. This is the real tipping point where the narrator feels comfortable with themselves, and finally confronts the friend from ‘I Don’t Love You’. The song is sung by one person, yes, but it feels like a dialogue between the friend, who still wants to hold a romantic relationship with the narrator, and the narrator who’s finally had enough. The introduction is from the friend, their thoughts on the narrator and how they know that they’re not going to win, but maybe they can make them feel bad for it “But where’s your heart?”, the friend is accusing the narrator of being heartless for being aromantic. But here’s the thing:

The narrator’s accepted who they are. “Well is it hard understanding? I’m incomplete.” The narrator accepts that they’re aroace, that to the friend, they are different, they don’t experience romance. The pain that they felt in the first few songs, of being the living dead and disappearing, makes them feel incomplete still, but they’re finally secure with being aroace enough to declare that, while they aren’t fully there yet, “I am not afraid to walk this world alone.” The narrator knows who they are, and they’re no longer afraid of it. Even when the friend tries to backpedal “Honey if you stay I’ll be forgiving” the narrator knows that the friend isn’t worth the pain anymore “Nothing you can say can stop me going home.”

That’s also why the lines about ‘love’ in this song are so important too. “A love that’s so demanding I can’t speak” “A love that’s so demanding, I get weak”. The narrator is explaining that, for them, romance is demanding; it’s not easy, and it’s not worth it for them, it’ll tire them out. The first quote can also speak of their friendship now; it’s so demanding, the narrator feels that if they stay, they may not be able to speak up for themselves any more. They have to friend break up, for both of their wellbeings.

And finally, the last verses “Awake and unafraid, asleep or dead” is the final attempt at kicking the narrator, harking back to “the famous living dead”. But the narrator refutes it by insisting that they’re not afraid to be alone anymore. And the song ends with the narrator winning, leaving the friend for good, for a better life.

And that’s the aroace interpretation of Black Parade.

And it’s 2200 words long fuck

#my chemical romance #the black parade #aroace #aromantic #asexual #You should've asked me why I can headcannon every video game character as aroace instead its shorter #Well all except the sims 2

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grubbyduck · 4 years

Text

No Man’s Land - an essay on feminism and forgiveness

I have always proudly named myself a feminist, since I was a little girl and heard my mum proudly announcing herself as a feminist to anyone who would listen.

But I believe the word 'feminist' takes on a false identity in our collective imagination - it is seen as hard, as baked, severe, steadfast, stubborn and rooted. From a male perspective, it possibly means abrasive, or too loud, or intimidatingly intolerant of men. From a female perspective, though, these traits become revered by young feminists; the power of knowing what you think and never rolling over! My experience of being a feminist throughout my life has been anything but - it has been a strange and nebulous aspect of my identity; it has sparked the familiar fires of bravery, ambition, rage, sadness and choking inarticulacy at times, sure, but at other times it has inspired apathy, reactionary attitudes, bravado and dismissivness. And at other, transitive times, it caused me to rethink my entire outlook on the world. And then again. And then again.

In primary school, I read and re-read Sandi Toksvig’s book GIRLS ARE BEST, which takes the reader through the forgotten women of history. I didn’t feel angry - I felt awed that there were female pirates, women on the front line in the world wars, women at the forefront of invention, science and literature. I still remember one line, where it is revealed that NASA’s excuse for only hiring six women astronauts compared to hundreds of men was that they didn’t stock suits small enough.

When I was 13, I tried to start a girl's rugby team at my school. I got together 15 girls who also wanted to form a team. We asked the coaches if they would coach us - their responses varied from 'maybes' to straight up 'no's. The boys in our year laughed at us publicly. We would find an old ball, look up the rules online, and practise ourselves in free periods - but the boys would always come over, make fun of us and take over the game until we all felt too insecure to carry on. I shouted at a lot of boys during that time, and got a reputation among them as someone who was habitually angry and a bit of a buzzkill. Couldn't take a joke - that kind of thing.

When I was around 16, I got my first boyfriend. He was two years older (in his last year of sixth form) and seemed ever so clever to me. He laughed about angry feminists, and I laughed too. He knew I classified myself as a feminist, but, you know, a cool one - who doesn't get annoyed, and doesn't correct their boyfriends' bulging intellects. And in any case, whenever I did argue with him about anything political or philosophical, he would just chant books at me, list off articles he'd read, mention Kant and say 'they teach that wrong at GCSE level'. So I put more effort into researching my opinions (My opinions being things like - Trump is a terrible person who should not be elected as President - oh yeah, it was 2016), but every time I cited an article, he would tell me why that article was wrong or unreliable. I couldn't win. He was a Trump supporter (semi-ironically, but that made it even worse somehow) and he voted Leave in the Brexit referendum. He also wouldn't let me get an IUD even though I had terrible anxiety about getting pregnant, because of his parents' Catholicism. He sulked if he ever got aroused and then I didn’t feel like having sex, because apparently it ‘hurts’ men physically. One time I refused sex and he sulked the whole way through the night, refusing to sleep. I was incensed, and felt sure that my moral and political instincts were right, but I had been slowly worn down into doubting the validity of my own opinions, and into cushioning his ego at every turn - especially when he wasn't accepted into Oxford.

When I was 17/18, I broke up with him, and got on with my A Levels. One of them was English Literature. I remember having essay questions drilled into us, all of which were fairly standard and uninspired, but there was one that I habitually avoided:

'Discuss the presentation of women in this extract'

It irritated me beyond belief to hear the way that our class were parroting phrases like 'commodification and dehumanisation of women' in order to get a good grade. It felt so phony, so oversimplified, and frankly quite insulting. I couldn't bear reading classic books with the intent of finding every instance that the author compares a woman to an animal. It made me so sad! I couldn't understand how the others could happily write about such things and be pleased with their A*. As a keen contributor to lessons, my teacher would often call on me to comment in class - and to her surprise, I think, my responses about 'women's issues' were always sullen and could be characterised by a shrug. I wanted to talk about macro psychology, about Machievellian villains, about Shakespreare's subversion of comic convention in the English Renaissance. I absolutely did not want to talk about womb imagery, about men’s fixation and sexualisation of their mothers or about docile wives. In my application for Cambridge, I wrote about landscape and the psyche in pastoral literature, and got an offer to study English there. I applied to a mixed college - me and my friends agreed that we’d rather not go if we got put into an all female college.

When I was 19, I got a job as an actor in a touring show in my year out before starting at Cambridge. I was the youngest by a few years. One company member - a tall, handsome and very talented man in his mid-twenties - had the exact same job title as me, only he was being paid £100 more than me PER WEEK. I was the only company member who didn’t have an agent, so I called the producers myself to complain. They told me they sympathised, that there just wasn’t enough money in the budget to pay me more - and in the end, I managed to negotiate myself an extra £75 per week by taking on the job of sewing up/fixing any broken costumes and puppets. So I had more work, and was still being paid 25% less. The man in question was a feminist, and complained to his agent (although he fell through on his promise to demand that he lose £50 a week and divide it evenly between us). He was a feminist - and yet he commented on how me and the other woman in the company dressed, and told us what to wear. He was a feminist, only he slept with both of us on tour, and lied to us both about it. He was a feminist, only he pitted me against and isolated me from the only other woman in the company, the only person who may have been a mentor or a confidante. He was a feminist, only he put me down daily about my skills as a performer and made me doubt my intelligence, my talent and my worth.

When I was 20, I started at Cambridge University, studying English Literature. Over the summer, I read Lundy Bancroft’s book ‘Why Does He Do That’ which is a study of abusers and ‘angry and controlling men’. It made me realise that I had not been given the tools to recognise coercive and controlling behaviour - I finally stopped blaming myself for attracting controlling men into my life. I also read ‘Equal’ by Carrie Gracie, about her fight to secure equal pay for equal work at the BBC in 2017-2019. It was reading that book that I fully appreciated that I had already experienced illegal pay discrimination in the workplace. Both made me cry in places, and it felt as though something had thawed in me. I realised that I was not the exception. That ‘women’s issues’ do apply to me. In my first term at Cambridge, I wrote some unorthodox essays. I wrote one on Virginia Woolf named ‘The Dogs Are Dancing’ which began with a page long ‘disclaimer for my womanly emotions’ that attempted to explain to my male supervisor how difficult it is for women to write dispassionately and objectively, as they start to see themselves as unfairly separate, excluded and outlined from the male literary consciousness. He didn’t really understand it, though he enjoyed the passion behind my prose.

The ‘woman questions’ at undergraduate level suddenly didn’t seem as easy, as boring or as depressing as those I had encountered at A Level. I had to reconcile with the fact that I had only been exposed to a whitewashed version of feminism throughout my life. At University, I learned the word Intersectionality - and it made immediate and ferocious sense to me. I wrote an essay on Aphra Behn’s novella ‘Oroonoko’, which is about a Black prince and his pursuit of Imoinda, a Black princess. I had to get to grips with how a feminist author from the Renaissance period tackled issues of race. I had to examine how she dehumanised and sexualised Imionda in the same way that white women were used to being treated by men. I had to really question to what extent Aphra Behn was on Imionda’s side - examine the violent punishment of Oroonoko for mistreating her. I found myself really wanting to believe that Behn had done this purposefully as social commentary. I mentioned in my essay that I was aware of my own white female critical ingenuity. For the first time, I was writing about something I didn’t have any personal authority over in my life - I had to educate myself meticulously in order to speak boldly about race.

As I found myself surrounded by more women who were actively and unashamedly feminist, I realised just how many opinions exist within that bracket. I realised that I didn’t agree with a lot of other feminists about aspects of the movement. I started to only turn up to lectures by women. I started to only read literary criticism written by women - not even consciously; I just realised that I trusted their voices more intrinsically. I started to wish I had applied to an all female college. I realised that all female spaces weren’t uncool - that is an image that I had learned from men, and from trying to impress men. The idea that Black people, trans people, that non binary people could be excluded from feminism seemed completely absurd to me. I ended up in a mindset that was constructed to instinctively mistrust men. Not hate - just mistrust. I started to get fatigued by explaining basic feminist principles to sceptical men.

I watched the TV show Mrs America. It made my heart speed up with longing, with awe, with nerves, sorrow, anger - again, it showed me how diverse the word Feminism is. The longing I felt was for a time where feminist issues seemed by comparison clear-cut, and unifying. A time where it was good to be angry, where anger got stuff done. I am definitely angry. The problem is, the times that feminism has benefitted me and others the most in my life is when I use it forgivingly and patiently. When I sit in my anger, meditate on it, control it, and talk to those I don’t agree with on subjects relating to feminism with the active intent to understand their point of view. Listening to opinions that seemed so clearly wrong to me was the most difficult thing in the world - but it changed my life, and once again, it changed my definition of feminism.

Feminism is listening to Black women berating white feminists, and rather than feeling defensive or exempt, asking questions about how I have contributed to a movement that excludes women of colour. Feminism is listening to my mother’s anxieties about trans women being included in all-female spaces, and asking her where those anxieties stem from. Feminism is understanding that listening to others who disagree with you doesn’t endanger your principles - you can walk away from that conversation and know what you know. Feminism is checking yourself when you undermine or universalise male emotion surrounding the subject. Feminism is allowing your mind to change, to evolve, to include those that you once didn’t consider - it is celebrating quotas, remembering important women, giving thanks for the fact that feminism is so complex, so diverse, so fraught and fought over.

Feminism is common ground. It is no man’s land. It is the space between a Christian housewife and a liberated single trans woman. It is understanding women of other races, other cultures, other religions. It is disabled women, it is autistic women, it is trans men who have biologically female medical needs that are being ignored. It is forgiveness for our selfishness. It feels impossible.

The road to feminism is the road to enlightenment. It is the road to Intersectional equity. It is hard. It is a journey. No one does it perfectly. It is like the female orgasm - culturally ignored, not seen as necessary, a mystery even to a lot of women, many-layered, multitudinous, taboo, comes in waves. It is pleasure, and it is disappointment.

All I know is that the hard-faced, warrior version of feminism that was my understanding only a few years ago reduced my allies and comrades in arms to a small group of people who were almost exaclty like me and so agreed with me on almost everything. Flexible, forgiving and inquisitive feminism has resulted in me loving all women, and fighting for all women consciously. And by fighting for all women, I also must fight for Black civil rights, for disabled rights, for Trans rights, for immigrant rights, for homeless rights, for gay rights, and for all human rights because women intersect every one of these minorities. My scoffing, know-it-all self doing my A Levels could never have felt this kind of love. My ironic jokes about feminists with my first boyfriend could never have made any woman feel loved. My frustration that my SPECIFIC experience of misogyny as a white, middle-class bisexual woman didn’t feel related to the other million female experiences could never have facilitated unity, common ground, or learning to understand women that existed completely out of my experience as a woman.

My feminism has lead me to becoming friends with some of those boys who mocked me for wanting to play rugby, and with the woman that was vying with me over that man in the acting company for 8 months. It is slowly melting my resentment towards all men - it is even allowing me to feel sorry for the men who have mistreated me in the past.

I guess I want to express in this mammoth essay post that so far my feminist journey has lead me to the realisation that if your feminism isn’t growing you, you aren’t doing it right. Perhaps it will morph again in the future. But for now, Feminism is a love of humanity, rather than a hatred of it. That is all.

#Feminism #yooo i have written a thesis lol #didn’t mean to do that it all kind of flowed out #intersectional feminism #forgiveness #carrie gracie #mrs america #why does he do that #lundy bancroft #equal pay #equal rights #literature #university #school #oroonoko #aphra behn

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cheri-translates · 3 years

Text

[CN] 100 Days - Kiro (Day 51 - 100)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for e-mails which have not been released in English servers! 🍒

What’s the 100 Days Companionship Event?

Day 1 - 3: here

Day 4 - 30: here

Day 31 - 50: here

Day 51

The game we played together has released new DLC. Want to come online tonight and play it?

Day 52

Each time I see delicacies in comics, I always find them especially enticing. Next time, let’s try making them together, okay?

Day 53

If I sleep one hour less and wake up one hour earlier, I would have two more hours to chat with you. The ancient people are right - sleeping and waking up early improves one’s quality of life.

Day 54

I heard that a new braised goose cafe opened recently. I’m using my gaze to hint to Miss Chips to hand over her resting time this evening.

[Note] I’m not sure if there’s a typo but I don’t think “撸鹅” (“lu e”) means anything? I’m guessing it’s supposed to be be 卤鹅 (which shares the same pronunciation), which means braised goose. Do correct me if I’m wrong!

Day 55

Today is an exercise “cheat day” - let’s have a sumptuous meal together? How about that hotpot stall from last time?

Day 56

Today, Apple Box and Cello each took one of my socks into their mouths and ran…. Only after scrambling for a while did I manage to leave the house…

Day 57

There’s a new movie to film, and I don’t know which role I’m getting this time. I hope I wouldn’t have to cut down on fat again…

Day 58

The days of eating salads are about to begin again… Next time, I’ll definitely ask Savin to pick a fatter role!

Day 59

The fruit flavoured milk I loved when I was young… as expected, it’s still just as delicious now!

Day 60

I helped Mango Ice’s owner design a perfect walk procedure. In the end, it didn’t follow the route and frolicked around! Technology doesn’t understand Corgis!

[Trivia] The last sentence probably doesn’t make sense in English, but it’s a play on words in Chinese because technology 科技 (’ke ji”) has the same pronunciation as corgis 柯基 (“ke ji”)!

Day 61

I swear - the reason why I snatched the last ice-cream from you is solely because I was afraid you’d catch a cold. It’s definitely not because I wanted to eat it myself!

Day 62

Guess where I’m sending you this e-mail from? The highest mountaintop of Loveland High!

Day 63

Why is your teddy bear plush wearing the same sweatshirt as I am! Could it be…

Day 64

The most amazing part of autumn is how it combines everyone’s happiness into eating hotpot and lying under quilts.

Day 65

Let’s watch a movie. I heard that the new superhero is modelled based on a stag. I wonder if he’d be awesome!

Day 66

I discovered that the most dangerous place is the safest place. Savin will never find the snacks I’ve hidden in his office, hahaha!

Day 67

Are you thinking of me? I can’t be the only one secretly thinking about you, right?

Day 68 (Halloween)

Title: Exclusive sweets

Ding dong ding dong, Miss Chips, open the door quickly! If you don’t receive the exclusive sweets, Troublemaker Kiro will definitely not leave!

Day 69

When one is hungry, everything looks like food. I even saw a sandwich walking over to say hello…

Day 70

I woke up early to play a game, but it was undergoing server maintenance. I’m so angry!

Day 71

The newly released sake flavoured soda is really strong. I’ve decided to use it to deceive Savin so he’d give me a day of rest to see you.

Day 72

Today, I reached out to touch a stray cat’s head and it didn’t dodge. I’m happy, and feel as though I’m the chosen one!

Day 73

I played baseball after such a long time. It’s a pity you didn’t see how incredibly dashing I looked.

Day 74

Perhaps it’s because of the season, but I’ve been feeling blue recently. The symptom is that I want to see you at every moment.

Day 75

One of my earpieces is broken. I suddenly feel so helpless without surround sound QAQ

Day 76

Miss Chips is truly my medicine. The moment I see you, I feel my entire world becoming sunny and cloudless!

Day 77

Your new hairstyle today is really cute. Looks like you flop around in your sleep too. I actually like that tuft of curled up hair!

Day 78

When will there be a legally recognised Eating Hotpot Day - the kind which lasts seven days a week?

Day 79 (Single’s Day)

Received a gift from a five-year old little fan. He used autumn plants to make a portrait of me, so today’s Kiro has a maple and blueberry scent!

Day 80

Today’s achievement: Anonymously posted a karaoke recording, and the comments reflected that “the singing seems to sound like Kiro!”

Day 81

I played a new game recently, and the main character is a hacker. In the end, he was fighting and killing all the way - we hackers are not like that!

Day 82

Do you still remember that pop-up donut shop from last year? This year, they announced that there will be a new theme. Looking forward to it!

Day 83

The script for the new movie is quite similar to the very first role I took up. Even though it’s a similar role, I’ll play it with a different feeling.

Day 84

Saw an old grandfather clipping an old grandmother’s nails. I also want to clip your nails once. Is that okay? I’ll definitely be very careful!

Day 85

Today, a stray cat was sleeping underneath the van. In order not to disturb its sweet dream, I decided to be fully equipped and ride a bicycle to meet you.

Day 86

Why can’t I remove the bitterness of black coffee even after adding so many sugar cubes, yet just one you can make my life so sweet?

Day 87

Everyone will experience a few meteor showers, a few solar eclipses, and a few red moons in their lifetime. I hope you’ll be by my side during these special moments.

Day 88

The sweatshirt you’re wearing today is really cute. I couldn’t help but place a toffee in your hood. You haven’t realised it, have you?

Day 89

I felt as though I sang incredibly well in the bathroom, so I recorded a section and sent it to you. Listen to it quickly!

Day 90

I really want to watch movies with you, the both of us shutting the curtains and burrowing in a small room together. Let’s make it a reality tonight!

Day 91

I’ve thought of an ultimate way to eat mangoes without dirtying our hands. Want to know what it is?

Day 92

You looked really cute when I caught you secretly listening to my song! Actually, there’s no need to do it secretively. You can express your favouritism to me unabashedly!

Day 93

Suddenly recalled those rocking cars which could sing in front of the supermarket entrance. Did you ride them when you were younger?

Day 94

Every time I cover your eyes, you’d call my name at the first try. Is it really that easy to guess?

Day 95

How does Savin always manage to find my hidden snacks? I suspect that he has installed a surveillance monitor on my body!

Day 96

Let’s go to the KTV. I want to hold a concert with you as my only audience.

Day 97

Out of curiosity last night, I bought a large pack of strange flavoured chips. I tried one bag today, and now I feel as though I can see little green men from Mars flying in the sky.

Day 98

In the future, let’s frequently flip through these sign-in records. Even though it’s a little shameful, I really want to recollect this period of time often!

Day 99

There’s a kind of liberating feeling when it’s after work and I’m in the car on the way to you!

Day 100

I wish to tell Miss Chips, who’s persevered in signing in over this period of time, that she has worked hard! Looking forward to the next game with you!

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evie568 · 3 years

Text

Work in progress

♫ ♪ Spotify playlist : Ella changed the Name — Previously named : Cut ; by eviewivi

Date of creation : December 2017 — 3h6m

Let’s start from the beginning.

— —

· Who am I?

My name is Evie.

It was not my given name. I chose it myself. I always wanted a long name, like “Isabella” or “Elisabeth”, but I was given Eve. So I decided to add another letter to it to make it longer (age 4/5).

Some of my diplomas say “Evie”, and others say “Eve”. My passport says “Eve” whereas my social insurance card says “Evie”.

It’s a bit of a mess.

— —

I was born in 1995, in London and moved to the South of France with my family (age 8).

My parents are both English (although they enjoy saying they’re French since they have duel nationality now). I have 2 older sisters and 1 older brother.

At the age of 8, I remember that I could count up to 30 in French and say “Bonjour”. That was about it. I was put in a French school straight away and it was scary at first.

— —

Learning to speak French came naturally as I was young. The grammar was a little harder, and I still have difficulty with it today.

I actually have difficulty in English too. I often make mistakes.

Being born in one country and moving to another can sometimes be confusing.

“Are you French?” Not really…

“English?” Neither…

“So what are you?” Good question.

You often get asked the same questions.

“Do you think in English or French?”

“Do you dream in English or French?”

“Do you prefer England or France?”

I don’t mind it though, they find it interesting.

— —

· What happed?

This is a difficult question. I’m not too sure as I am still discovering things everyday.

I am not writing this, cured from my mental illness. I am writing this, still going through tough times, trying to get better everyday.

I am writing this as a sort of therapy, to help myself and maybe others.

To understand myself better, for family and friends to understand me better and maybe for people to relate to.

Writing has never been my strong point but whether you are good at it or not, I do find it helps. You get to express yourself freely, like dancing, or painting or creating music… any form of art really.

— —

So back to the question : what happened?

In 2018, I was diagnosed with a mental illness I had never heard of before in my life : Borderline Personality Disorder.

— —

· How did this all start?

After finishing a Sound Engineering course back in 2015 (Montpellier, FR), I went back home to my parents house to look for a job in the music industry.

It was very hard to find a job with no work experience at all. It was a catch 22 situation : I needed a job to gain experience but couldn’t get a job without any prior experience.

I would end up playing The Sims everyday in my one piece pajamas. Drinking Desperados in the evening while dreaming of moving to Sydney.

My parents quickly noticed I was not being very productive, and gave me a speech.

I would often check Facebook and see my best friend at the time, having the time of her life as an Au Pair in London.

I was jealous.

— —

In October 2015, I took a plane to London to become an Au Pair.

I was an Au Pair for about 2 years in London, and it was so much fun.

I made friends with other Au Pairs from all over the world that were so lovely. We would go out to bars, concerts, parks, museums, festivals and so much more.

— —

Then I met Julien.

This part is difficult to write about as it is still very painful and I have forgotten a lot.

My therapist told me it’s hard to remember what hurt you so much. I find that to be true in this situation, but I’ll try my best.

— —

I’ve never had a boyfriend in my life. And I was 22 years old.

My brother created an online profile for me on a website called OKCupid. He told me that it wasn’t just for dating, but you could also make friends.

I met Julien on OKCupid. His username was “JulienB26” (his last name started with a B and he was 26… I know, very creative…). Mine was “BurnTogether” (the name of a music album I was OBSESSED with at the time)

He was not my type at all, but sent me the sweetest, most personal message I had ever received, so I thought “why not?”

We met in a rock bar in Camden Town called The Worlds End, and it was fun. We got on straight away and it was my best first date ever.

Long story short we ended up dating.

After only about a month, I left my Au Pair family and moved in with him in Notting Hill. He met my family and I met his.

My parents adored him! He seemed so perfect. He was cultured, dressed nicely, polite, had a good job, a nice and tidy apartment…

He wasn’t that perfect though.

— —

He smoked a lot of weed, was addicted to online video games and extremely jealous.

I remember one time when I was typing to my friend at the time, he snatched my phone out of my hands to see what I was writing. It was quite aggressive and I did not like it at all.

— —

My Au Pair friend Pri invited me one day to spend time with her and our new Au Pair friend to go out to pubs near London Bridge.

I refused, as Julien didn’t want me to go. He didn’t like Pri.

We (Julien and I) went to the rock bar we first met at instead. It was not fun. We didn’t have much left in common.

I felt the relationship slowly dying and there was a lot about him I did not like anymore. But breaking up with him was not an option.

I got drunk. I often drank. I liked it so much and would drink too much, too often.

The following day I saw about 5 to 10 messages from my friend Pri.

There was a terrorist attack that very same night at London Bridge.

She managed to escape but unfortunately our Au Pair friend, did not.

— —

Pri asked me to spend the day with her, the day we found out that our friend had passed away and, of course, I went.

We drank wine together and cried.

She didn’t want to spend the night alone and asked me if I could stay with her.

I agreed and asked Julien if it was okay with him. But it was not.

It was a problem for him and he refused.

I left.

— —

Julien had been acting strange for a couple of days.

I didn’t really know what to do and didn’t want to be egocentric and assume it was because of me, but I did.

Maybe he was thinking about his father who passed away?

I didn’t know, and he wasn’t telling me anything.

— —

One day, as I came home from babysitting, and had enough. I needed to know what was wrong.

He put down his joint, told his online friends on Discord that he needed to leave and turned around from his computer to face me.

— —

This part is very hard to remember.

He told me I didn’t deserve his love as he couldn’t love me to the fullest.

He wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to end things and needed some time to think.

Our age difference was a problem for him. He thought we were in two different phases of our life.

— —

I didn’t sleep that night.

I watched Netflix and cried until I saw the sun rise.

The next following days were difficult. It was the same pattern everyday.

I woke up sad, left for work angry, came back confused and went to sleep sad.

I didn’t deserve this.

No one deserves being with someone who isn’t sure they love them and needs time to think.

So I decided to leave.

I took a train to Paris and never came back.

— —

My brother who studied art in Paris, decided to spend a year of his education in Bergen, Norway. So he had an un-used flat in Paris for a year.

I asked my parents if I could stay in the flat while looking for a job in Paris.

They agreed.

— —

I felt fresh, like a new chapter of my life was starting. I didn’t know anyone (besides my brothers friends, Julie and Yolo).

I bought healthy, organic, vegan food and bought a membership to a gym that I would go to everyday for an hour.

Things were looking good. I felt positive.

— —

I quickly found a part-time job as a receptionist for a company involved in cryptocurrency.

It was so much fun.

I loved saying hello to all the staff that walked passed my desk in the morning.

My life was good, and it got even better.

— —

I went to the company’s seminar in a grand chateau outside of Paris.

One evening, we had special places to sit for dinner. It was a way of mixing all different employees from different services to connect.

I was sat at a table with one of the Vice Presidents of the company.

He was very kind and asked me what I do outside of work and what I would like to do in the future.

I had a couple of Desperados and told him that I originally wanted to join a company in the music industry and work my way up, but since working for the company, I had fallen in love with the it and would actually like to work my way up in this company.

This was not a sneaky plan or anything. I’m not that smart.

Fortunately though, the President of the company heard my tipsy conversation and called me over.

He asked me if what I said was true. I was astonished he knew my name!

— —

About two weeks after the seminar, the Vice President of Sales approached me asking if we could have a chat.

He had heard from the President that I wanted to join the company and offered me a position in the Sales department.

I had no experience whatsoever in sales, but accepted with great pleasure.

— —

My personal life on the other hand was not going so well.

I was drinking a lot and started cutting myself with broken glass as a punishment for drinking.

But I didn’t tell anyone or do anything about it as I felt in control of the situation.

I was on OKCupid again but comparing every profile to Julien.

In the spring of whatever year it was (2018 maybe?), I went back to London to see Julien as he had some of my belongings to give back to me.

We talked and walked in Hyde Park for about two hours. I wore his favorite dress.

I told him about my amazing new job and friends I had made. I was subtly bragging about my life. I wanted him to regret letting me go. And he did. He cried so much and felt very regretful. I felt happy even though I was suffering inside.

Towards the end of the walk he told me he was seeing someone new.

I did not expect that. I was shocked.

— —

I remember taking the underground back, and crying like I have never cried before while listening to Taylor Swift.

I felt that something inside of me had changed. Something bad.

— —

After returning back to Paris things got worse. I was drinking more and cutting deeper and more often.

Julien was still texting me at the time and I was not responding as I wanted to cut the cord with him.

He didn’t understand why and I remember telling him that I had never felt this bad in my life. I had never hated myself so much and needed space.

He told me that I needed to seek professional help.

I said goodbye and blocked him.

— —

On the day of Gay Pride 2018 in Paris.

I was drinking alone.

I didn’t eat anything that day and drank a bottle of white wine alone in my flat.

I remember grabbing a glass and smashing it on the floor, collecting the sharpest piece of glass I could find and cutting and cutting and cutting.

My friend Yolo came over and saw the pieces if glass all over the kitchen floor and saw me on the floor crying and bleeding.

She called an Uber and took me to a psychiatric hospital.

I was so desperate for help that I would have gone anywhere she took me.

We had to stop the Uber half way there so I could throw up and then continue on our route.

— —

Once there I remember talking to a professional, crying, about suicidal thoughts I had.

I remember doing a lot of research at the time and discovered a website.

It had all the information I was looking for on it.

I spent a night at the hospital Saint Anne to sober up.

The following day, they let me go.

— —

Even though things were bad, I still felt 100% in control of the situation.

I would self harm and drink almost daily.

I continued doing research about suicide and the sharpest object known to man.

One day I decided to order a pack of scalpels off of Amazon. They arrived quickly.

I was so eager to try them but had to go to work that day. So I just did a small cut on my arm and wow.

I didn’t press hard at all but bled. It was so satisfying at the time.

— —

On my friend Julie’s birthday I remember coming home from work, going to the closest shop to my flat and buying two 50cl cans of Desperados. I could tell the cashier was judging me, but I did not care much.

I put on a stand up comedy show on Netflix and proceeded to drink the beer.

Then I remembered the scalpels in my bedside draw.

I had promised myself not to self-harm anymore before the summer holidays as I would be around my family in t-shirts and shorts.

But I wanted to so badly. So I did.

I said to myself that it would be just one cut on my thigh. But it had to be satisfying enough.

So I cut my thigh.

— —

I forgot that it was a scalpel and in my mind it was just a piece of broken glass.

Big mistake.

I cut too deep.

I remember seeing the white fat through the cut in my thigh.

It didn’t hurt though.

Then the blood started to flow. There was so much.

I tried to close the cut with my hands, but blood got everywhere.

I panicked.

I didn’t want to disturbed Julie on her birthday so I phoned her boyfriend (who was also my work colleague).

He calmed me down and phoned the emergencies who arrived very quickly.

— —

I went to the hospital and had to have ten stitches in my thigh.

They also made me speak to a therapist there who told me I could go home.

So I went home.

— —

I was seeing a psychiatrist for a while (since the Gay Pride event)

That told me after the 10 stitches incident that I was depressed.

I still remember the feeling of her telling me I was depressed. I was shocked and didn’t want to believe her.

I had everything under control!

She suggested I take antidepressants and I accepted. Paroxetine 10mg

— —

I worked for the company for about a year.

It was amazing.

I traveled to Berlin and London. I also attended a “Blockchain Cruise” from Barcelona to Monaco to Ibiza.

I could bring whomever I wanted from the company.

I chose Jacques.

He seemed nice.

— —

On the cruise, there was a party going on and of course, we both attended it. I was a little bit tipsy and kissed a guy on the dance floor.

I remember seeing Jacques really angry and went over to talk to him.

We were talking near the main bar on the boat.

He seemed very drunk.

He tried to kiss me but I pushed him away.

He tried again and I had to push harder.

Someone felt the need to intervene and asked me if I needed help.

I told them that everything was okay and walked Jacques back to the room.

— —

After the trip I wanted to forget that side I saw of Jacques.

So I did.

I wanted to be his friend and he wanted to be mine.

— —

One evening we were having drinks with work colleagues in a whiskey bar.

I asked Jacques, as a friend, if he wanted to spend the night at my flat.

I felt very lonely and was a bit tipsy.

I didn’t want anything to happen between us, but I understand now how he thought differently.

— —

As we were going to bed, he tried again, like on the cruise to kiss me.

I pushed him away but he was stronger.

He then proceeded to take my pajama trousers off.

I pulled them back up. He pulled them back down.

I remember his fingers inside of me. I tried pushing him off of me but he grabbed my wrists.

He then, finally, saw that I was not happy.

So thankfully, he stopped.

I pulled my trousers back up and stayed in a foetus position until I fell asleep.

— —

The next morning we walked to work together.

I didn’t feel right. Something about that night felt wrong.

I phoned Julie and told her what had happened. She was in Greece at the time.

I sent an email to my boss telling him that I didn’t feel well and asking him if I could have the day off.

He accepted and I left with my friend Yolo who met me at work.

— —

We had a lovely day. We went to the cinema, went and got massages, and later on that evening, we were at a café and my friend Julie appeared out of nowhere!

She had taken an early plane back from Greece to come and see me.

I was so happy to see her!

— —

The next week, at the end of the day at work, round 7pm, my boss asked if he could talk to me.

He told me that the President of the company had heard that I slept with a married colleague.

This has never happened and I has shocked and embarrassed.

I told him this information was not true and he believed me.

He told me to tell him if anything ever happens between me and a colleague.

I felt the need to tell him that Jacques took advantage to me. And I did.

My voice was shacking. He was angry.

After our chat, I left and went home.

— —

I don’t remember this part very well but I remember going to see my therapist very drunk with a bottle in my hand to my appointment.

She called the emergencies and they took me to a psychiatric hospital, La Maison Blanche.

— —

It was very strange at first seeing all different kinds of patients, with all different mental illnesses.

(the person is drinking water from a puddle, not praying)

— —

I stayed for about 15 days there and made some friends.

It wasn’t as bad as it first seemed.

— —

My siblings were aware of what was going on with me. But once again, I still felt under control of what was happening.

They didn’t think so, and they were right to think that.

One day I ran away of the hospital and drank cans of beer in the side walk.

That is when my siblings decided to tell my parents what was going on.

After going back inside the hospital, one of the nurses told me that my mother was on her way to see me, she took a 4h train to come.

She had no idea what was going on before. It must have been a terrible shock for her.

I felt so scared and embarrassed for her to see me in this blue outfit they had given me but they refused to give me back my clothes.

— —

It was extremely difficult to balance my work and personal mental health.

I was coming to terms with my depression and accepting that I was, in fact, never in control of anything that was happening to me.

— —

After leaving the hospital, I went back to work.

It was very awkward at first.

The President of the company asked to speak with me about my long absence.

I didn’t want to go into details, so I just mentioned that I was at the hospital without saying why, or what kind of hospital…

Later that same day, someone from human resources also asked to speak to me.

She was asking is everything was okay and I told her what my therapist had told me to say, that I had a really sore throat.

Now looking back at it, I know that she knew exactly where I was. In a psychiatric hospital.

The papers the hospital were giving to my company to cover my absence, had the address on them.

So she knew…

— —

One day, my boss got fired out of the blue. He was such an amazing person and work colleague. He didn’t deserve this.

Later that month, my other Sales colleague, also got fired.

Cryptocurrency was not doing as well as it was before, and the company was slowly dying.

I was next to get fired.

It was the day before my birthday.

I remember my new, less cool boss, asked me to have a word with him and a person from HR.

I honestly thought at the time that I was getting a raise. Lol.

The conversation was very awkward, it lasted about 15 minutes. I don’t remember much of what was said.

They told me to leave straight away and not mention to anyone that I got fired.

I told my friend/colleague on Slack before leaving the building.

He was worried he was next to get fired.

So I sent him a brief message saying “turns out you were right about the Sales team getting fired. I have to leave now. Please don’t tell anyone.”

I left and went home.

— —

As I got home I lay on the sofa staring into oblivion.

I wanted to cry. I said to myself that this is a situation most people would cry.

But it was so hard to shed a tear.

I felt numb.

— —

I phoned my mother and told her what had happened. She was worried I would do something bad.

I invited my friend, Alienor, that I made from the hospital over, and we drank beer and took cocaine.

My father phoned me.

He could hear by my voice that I had drank.

My parents contacted Yolo to come pick me up and take me back to the hospital by Uber.

I felt obliged to go with her, so I went and Alienor left.

I only stayed one night or maybe two. I don’t really remember.

— —

I continued living in Paris for a couple of months, without a job.

I would drink everyday. Cans of Heineken beer.

I would wake up and drink straight away, while watching BoJack Horseman.

Then I would fall asleep around 6pm.

Everyday was the same pattern. Beer and BoJack.

— —

I had stopped self harming, as I had promised myself since the 10 stitches to never start again. But suicide was still a big subject in my mind.

The website I had discovered, has the most common methods of suicide in order of success rate. And hanging myself seemed like an okay technique.

I wanted to test it out without actually killing myself.

I know it sounds weird.

I wanted to try and see if it was doable without actually doing it all the way.

——

I took the cotton belt off from my work trousers. I thought to myself that I wouldn’t need it anymore, as I don’t have a job anymore.

I tied a knot around my clothes hanger in my wardrobe, and tied the other side around my neck.

Then, I very gently bent my legs (as I could touch the floor).

The next thing I remember is waking up with the belt around my neck, in my wardrobe.

Saliva was all over my mouth. Snot was dripping from my nose.

It scared me.

I couldn’t undo the tight knot around my neck so cut it off with a pair of kitchen scissors.

I threw the belt in the bin and laid in my bed in a state of shock.

I phoned a friend at the time, and told him what just happened to me.

He came over and we talked about it.

— —

I liked him, he promised not to tell anyone and let me drink.

Yolo and Julie where more worried and protective. They would judge how much I would drink, and I didn’t really like that.

— —

One day, a colleague/friend of mine was organizing a small party at his house with about 8 people.

Julie, her boyfriend, Yolo and I all went along with other ex-work colleagues.

I got drunk quickly. And when I drank, I would talk too much.

I told a friend/ex-work colleague that I tried to hang myself the other day just to try it out but ended up fainting.

— —

Later that evening, I went home to my flat and fell asleep.

Around 3 in the morning, my door bell rang.

I didn’t know who it was, but opened the door all tired.

It was Julie, Yolo and another friend.

They were really worried about me.

What I had said at that party has gotten out, and everyone knew about it.

They told me I needed to go back to the hospital.

So I did the very next morning.

— —

I went back to The Maison Blanche, and stayed there for 12 nights.

One of the male nurses saw me and asked why I was back, again.

I told him what had happened and he was very nice. He gave me advice and listened to me.

He mentioned that we should go out for drinks once I get out of the hospital. I agreed and gave him my number.

— —

We texted that night, while I was in my hospital bed.

Our text messages were very flirtatious.

The next following days we had sexual relations in my hospital room, and in the storage room.

— —

Once I left La Maison Blanche, I invited Alienor over to drink and take cocaine.

And I told her about my romantic affair I had at the hospital.

She didn’t seem surprised. She told me that another female patient had sexual relations with a nurse there too, and she wondered if it was the same nurse. So did I.

We sent a message to the girl in question and asked her to describe the male nurse she had relations with.

It was him. Paul. And she was 17.

— —

This suddenly felt wrong and I had to tell someone. So I told my mother about Paul and also Jacques.

She was really angry. More so about Paul the nurse than Jacques. But I felt the opposite.

I didn’t feel taken advantage of by Paul. But Jaques really hurt me.

My mother wanted me to report both of them to the police, so I did.

— —

My parents didn’t trust me living alone in such a big city so far away. I needed help.

In May 2019 I want to Rehab for alcohol and cocaine addiction.

I spent one month there. It was much nicer than the hospital. They had a ping-ping table, a chess set and many more activities.

I spent a month in Rehab and it was really nice to be away from alcohol.

Alcohol affected me in bad ways.

I would say so many things I regret. I would hurt myself and make bad decisions.

I drank so much that when I didn’t, I would uncontrollably shake and feel faintish.

Rehab made me want to stop forever.

— —

My mother would visit me often and it was lovely to see her. She was very supportive.

After leaving Rehab, it was time for me to leave Paris forever and move back in with my parents down South of France.

I needed to not be alone. I needed help.

— —

I moved back into my old bedroom with my vinyls and The White Stripes posters. It was comforting.

I was now taking more medication : Paroxetine (20mg) and Abilify (5mg).

And it was making me feel better.

My mother wanted me to see one of the best therapists in France.

So I started seeing a new psychiatrist in Bordeaux, FR (1h away by train) every two weeks.

At first we did not get along.

I wanted him to help me forget about my ex, but he explained that it was not possible to forget the past, you must accept it as part of you, like a scar.

He wanted me start writing about my feelings in a journal. I was not good at it and did not enjoy it. But I did it anyway.

— —

A few months later, I was starting to feel much better and stronger.

My therapist was really helping me, and so was my family.

I decided it was time to find a job near my parents house.

In October 2019, I found a job as an Exhibition Assistant for a company in events.

I was saving up to move to Sydney, Australia. To start a new life far away. To a place I’ve always wanted to go to.

I’ve never been to Australia but didn’t care.

— —

Working for this company was not fun, and a lot of pressure. They wanted to me make a minimum of 200 phone calls a day. And I hated being on the phone.

I told my therapist about my job being very pressurizing and he told me to quite and move to Sydney sooner.

That sounded like a great plan! I was so happy about this decision.

I went home and bought myself a Working Holiday Visa.

— —

My psychiatrist decided it was time to stop my medication as I was doing really well.

So I stopped them gradually.

The withdraw effects were a nightmare.

I was sweating, felt nauseous, had diarrhea, felt extremely emotional…

But that only lasted for about 2 weeks.

I was so happy that I wasn’t taking any medication anymore!

I felt on top of the world.

— —

For New Years Eve, I decided to go see my old friends from when I was doing my Sound Engineering course.

I told them about what had happened to me, and I could see it made them sad. They told me that I was such a happy person before. That I didn’t deserve this.

I told them I was fine now and that it was in the past.

I didn’t drink on NYE and they respected that. But I felt odd. I felt numb for some reason. They loved me so much and expressed it. But I didn’t seem to feel the same way. I used to. But not anymore. I didn’t feel love for anyone and that worried me. I felt like a ghost.

— —

My mother picked me up and could tell that I was different.

I went to work the following day and did not feel well at all.

I could feel it all coming back. I was so scared and ashamed of relapsing. But I knew I was.

I told my boss that I wasn’t feeling well and she let me go home.

I got back home and told my parents : I think I’m depressed again…

— —

I saw my therapist again and every session he would read what I wrote.

This was the last time I wrote in my diary.

He closed my black book and called my mother in.

He told me I needed to go back to a psychiatric hospital.

— —

My parents drove me back home from Bordeaux after that session and we packed a suitcase and went to the nearest psychiatric hospital. La Candelie in Agen.

I remember hearing my therapist on the phone to the hospital telling them I have Borderline Personality Disorder. I had no idea what that was.

— —

I arrived at La Candelie and spent 7 weeks there.

I was not in a good state of mind.

I tried hanging myself multiple times there in the shower but couldn’t let go of all of my weight by bending my legs. I just couldn’t.

I cut myself often and managed to bring in Vodka.

It was a mess.

— —

They put me in the isolation room for one night.

The isolation room was horrific.

They gave me paper pajamas that would rip with the slightest movement.

The door was locked and I had a bucket to pee in.

I was not allowed a pillow or a blanket. It was so cold and my pajamas were ripped everywhere.

The next morning, I saw a psychiatrist from the hospital and told him that I was fine and just being dramatic. I did not want to go back there.

— —

After 7 long weeks I was finally allowed out.

It was a long time.

I was now on even more medication : Paroxetine, Abilify, Tercian, Alprazolam and Mirtazapine.

I felt so numb. Better, but numb.

Australia was not an option anymore. Not for a while anyway.

— —

Once I left the hospital, I was obliged to have a nurse come to my parents house every morning and evening to make sure that I take all my medication properly.

I also had to go a psychological-medical center once a week.

I got tired of explaining what happened when, where and why. It was hard to remember. So I decided to write all the bullet points down on a piece of paper.

— —

· Where am I now?

Today is the 13th of May 2021. I still suffer from my mental illness even though I wish it was all in the past.

I’m currently taking Mirtazapine, Abilify and Alprazolam and only see a nurse once a week to restock on medication.

My therapist appointments have been elongated to once a month.

I haven’t self harmed in about a year.

I do however still have episodes with suicidal thoughts, but they are less severe.

My therapist from Paris once told me that you will have ups and downs, but with time the ups will be less up and the downs less down.

It’s starting to make sense now.

I currently live in a small city called Agen (30m drive from my parents house) with my boyfriend Yann. He’s the best.

We met through an old friend of mine that I reconnected with last year.

I still don’t have many friends where I live, as they are all over the place (Montpellier, London and Paris)

— —

My mother took an online course about Borderline Personality Disorder, which I really appreciate. I feel like maybe she understands a part of me more.

— —

Julie left Paris and moved to Montpellier to become a Yoga instructor. She and her boyfriend are still together, building their new life in the South of France.

— —

Yolo is still in Paris, she recently got a job as a video editor for a cool company. She’s doing great.

— —

Pri is still in London, not as an Au Pair anymore but as a chef by day, and an Art Salon organizer by night. She’s always been very productive and I admire that.

— —

Alienor unfortunately is back in the hospital in Paris, La Maison Blanche, as she tried to commit suicide by jumping off of a bridge above train rails. She lost both of her legs and one arm, but thankfully survived.

— —

The criminal cases concerning Jacques and Paul the nurse, are still going on. It’s been a very long process but I hope it ends soon.

— —

I don’t have any news at all regarding Julien and do not plan on having any.

— —

· Why am I writing this?

Like I wrote at the beginning of this, longer than expected text, about my mental health, I am writing this for me, my family and friends and hopefully others who may relate to it and seek help if they need it.

I often mentioned that I felt under control of the situation, but I was wrong. So maybe someone reading this might make the decision to seek help.

I have no words to describe how thankful I am to the people who helped me.

This is not a suicide note, it’s the opposite. It’s a “life” note.

A note to remind me that some days can be nice and happy, but others can be very, very hard. But you must go on. You must keep on fighting. It might seem like an endless battle but it gets better.

Sometimes that’s hard to see. But I see it now.

#borderline life #borderline personality traits #bpd #borderline personality disorder #mental health #mental illness #addiction #love #love story

2 notes · View notes

foolgobi65 · 4 years

Note

Ram/Sita + spy au+ friends to lovers + “you know i’ll do anything for you”

lol this...AGAIN....spun out of my control.....and is apparently 6020 words while still having massive massive holes in characterization and plot and ...general stuff..lol. anyways hope u like it? it ended up being way less Spy Spy and more ....arranged marriage au...... because everything i’ve written has basically been that now lol and raazi is the only spy movie i could think of that works bc rama and sita dont have mr and mrs smith vibes to me. love u!!!!!!

----

“Are you serious?”

The face on the screen is somehow almost as familiar as Sita’s own -- she’s never been one for the gossip rags, but at some point, it’s almost harder not to know the features of someone who’s been famous since his parents announced his conception.

“You know him, then.” Sita’s handler Kaikeyi seems remarkably even-tempered for a woman charging Sita, her top recruit, to attach herself to the arm of Kaikey’s stepson -- a boy that the papers seem to believe Kaikeyi prefers even to her own Bharata. Sita raises an incredulous eyebrow before realizing that Kaikeyi does actually expect Sita to recite what she knows about her newest target.

“Ramachandra Raghav,” Sita recites from memory, “but the papers call him Ram. Only son of Dasaratha and his first wife Kausalya, sole presumptive inheritor to the Kosala industries fortune. Dasaratha Raghav and his wife publicly struggled to conceive and adopted a daughter, Shanta, nine years before they had Ram whose birth coincided with the release of Dasartha’s final film and his entry into politics.” Sita purses her lips, unsure if she should continue, but Kaikeyi remains impassive. “Dasaratha and Kausalya divorced when Ram was five, and three months later Dasaratha married you.” Judiciously Sita chooses not to include the fact that Kaikeyi, who during her acting days had only been paired with the already greying movie star, reportedly delivered her eight-pound son Bharata three months early.

Kaikeyi rolls her eyes, still the same striking green that had made her first film such a hit. “Of course I was pregnant when we got married. What else.”

Sita racks her mind. “The custody case was unusual -- Kausalya shifted to America with her children, but Dasaratha petitioned for them to stay with him in India. Shanta was 16 and decided to finish school abroad with Kausalya, but the courts decided that Ram would spend alternate years with each parent until he reached his majority.” It was the oddity of the arrangement that kept the Indian public so desperate for news about what otherwise might have been just another star-turned-politician’s son: pictures of Bharata, who was constantly being presented at building openings, movie premiers and other assorted Party functions went for nearly a quarter of the price as those of Ram whose arrival at the Delhi airport became more and more of a national event in sync with his father’s increasing political power. The exoticism of his American English was viewed with as much pride as his unaccented Hindi which the Party often used to great effect, having him canvass his father’s constituents on camera the year Dasaratha was put forward as the party’s candidate for Chief Minister and releasing them online.

But it has been a few years since Ram was last in India for more than a month or so’s vacation -- at 16 he graduated from school and sent the Indian media into near paralytic shock when he decided to attend university in Delhi. Not even three years dimmed the public’s fascination, which quickly turned into genuine discontent when it was announced that Ram had accepted an offer to do his doctorate in California and had barely been seen in India since.

“You want me to investigate a Chief Minister’s son?” Again, Sita leaves unsaid the rumors that swirl even in headquarters -- that Dasaratha’s relative competency at state-wide management has made him a viable candidate for even higher office. That after the last election’s dismal results, it is apparent that Dasaratha might be the only remaining Party figure popular enough to lead a coalition that would bring them to power in the Centre after nearly a decade at the periphery.

Kaikeyi laughs. “Not quite,” she says, still perfect red lips twisting in a faint smile, “Ram is in New York now working for the UN, and it seems that he will have a long and illustrious career in diplomacy which will bring him into contact with all sorts of people of interest to our national security agencies. We need someone at his side to make sure that those contacts are being utilized to their full potential.”

Sita frowns. “He’s too young to need a trusted aide or a secretary.”

“Correct. That’s why we’re sending you to New York as his wife.”

When Sita is 18, a woman comes up to her on the street asking if she’d like to be a model. As a laugh Sita shows up at what the woman’s business card says is the head-hunting agency’s main office only to be quickly moved to a backroom, divested of her backpack, phone and shoes and investing her with a new lifelong wariness of strangers with offers too good to be true. Her father is the aging yet venerable University President -- they don’t have the money for ransom, but Sita just as quickly rules out potential trafficking since her father has one or two connections that would raise quite the fuss if he informed them that his daughter was missing. But before she can think of another reason behind her apparent kidnapping, the door opens, and Sita’s life changes with the incoming rush of bright light into the dark room.

“You’re..” she splutters, eyes raking up and down the perfect figure of the woman in front of her.

“Yes,” Kaikeyi Raghav says, sunglasses perched delicately at the top of her head as she adjusts the pallu of her elegant chiffon sari. “I’m sorry for all the confusion, but we really needed to get you alone before we could try and talk to you.”

“Talk,” Sita rasps, suddenly hyper aware of her own dry throat. Kaikeyi sighs, clapping her hands once before taking a bottle of water that appeared almost instantly at the door’s threshold, opening the cap and offering it to Sita who gulps it down. “Talk about what?” Sita asks.

“One of our associates brought you to our attention about a year ago thinking that with some work you could be turned into something quite extraordinary.” Kaikeyi brings up her right hand to pull down her hair from its updo, the cascades only making her more breathtaking to Sita, whose father always had a soft spot for the old Dasaratha-Kaikeyi films. “I’ve been observing you ever since, and recently came to the same conclusion.”

Sita can’t help but glow at the praise, even as she tries to keep her sense of rationality -- she’s been kidnapped after all, even if by one of the nation’s most illustrious figures. First: “Are you trying to traffick me into sex work?”

Kaikeyi laughs, and the sound is clear and captivating like a bell. The more Sita watches, the smaller details begin to stand out -- a mole just slightly to the right of Kaikeyi’s collarbone, the green of the embroidery that brings out those colors in her eyes, the red fingernails that perfectly match Kaikeyi’s lips.

“Do I look like a pimp?” Kaikeyi’s tone is one that does not truly seek a response, though Sita is not sure she even has one. The proclivities of the rich and powerful are rumored to skew to the truly scandalous, and there is no reason that an elegant woman could not be the front for the procurement of such services.

“Then is this supposed to be recruitment for politics?” Sita has never thought herself particularly gifted at deception, which seems to be the first requirement for a fruitful career of public service.

“No,” Kaikeyi laughs again, “but I find it interesting that you didn’t consider that I might be signing you on as a heroine.”

“I don’t have a face for film,” Sita says, “and I have no intention of leaving Delhi.”

“You have exactly the face for film,” Kaikeyi counters, “but I agree -- your mind would be as wasted as mine in Bombay.”

“Then politics?” Sita, who was born and brought up in Calcutta before her father was given a position in Delhi had never given much thought to the Raghav’s stronghold Ayodhya -- she can’t imagine what Kaikeyi could possibly see in her.

Kaikeyi shakes her head. “What do you know about this country’s intelligence services?”

Sita blinks. “You want me to be a spy?”

Five years after their first meeting, Sita has learned how to handle all sorts of weapons including her own body, how to speak a dozen languages, how to scope out a room. In some strange way, Kaikeyi seems to have filled the gaping hole left behind by Sita’s long-dead mother Sunaina, who Sita is not entirely sure would approve of what her daughter decided to make of her life. There isn’t quite a bond of affection, but there is loyalty beyond even what Sita would have given her own mother -- no better proof than the fact that here Sita is agreeing to marry Kaikeyi’s stepson entirely because Kaikeyi demanded it, where Sunaina would have had quite the shock if she had tried to suggest a man for Sita to wed. Sita had dreamed of marrying for love, but loyalty she reasons is close enough.

Ostensibly, Sita has finished her MA with high honors and works at an NGO that enjoys Kaikeyi’s patronage -- this, they decide, is how the papers will be told Kaikeyi knows Sita. There are a few strategically leaked photos of Kaikeyi first paying the NGO a visit, then taking Sita out for a series of lunches. Sita finally travels to the ancestral Raghav mansion in Ayodhya for Diwali, bringing along her father to meet and pay his respects to his favorite screen star.

“You must be Sita’s father,” Dasaratha booms when they approach, somehow brimming with the same vitality and presence that drew such crowds to the theater in his youth. He grins, left arm wound around Kaikeyi’s waist at his side as he turns to speak to Sita. “My wife has grown old and taken up matchmaking to pass the time, but from what I have seen you would be a fine choice for my Ram.”

Janaka stiffens at Sita’s side, hearing about such an arrangement for the first time, but Dasaratha’s charisma pulls him into its orbit as Dasaratha reaches out his hands. “I confess that I was never well educated myself, but I believe it would only bring me and my family honor to be able to call someone as learned as yourself ‘Brother.’”

Janaka is sold. Sita, who has never been quite sure about the real dynamic between Kaikeyi and her husband, realizes with some relief that there is genuine fondness, even love, in the smile she flashes her husband. Perhaps there might be hope for Sita herself.

Dasaratha insists that the informal engagement is enough to justify Sita and her father’s extended stay at the mansion. After one day, he calls Ram himself informing his son that Dasaratha has found him a wife. Within a week, the news reports that Dasaratha’s eldest son has found himself back on Indian soil.

Sita finally leaves the mansion two weeks after Diwali with the instruction that she must treat the property as her own home whenever she returns to India -- after all, Dasaratha booms, she is his beloved Ram’s wife now, and Dasaratha’s daughter now as much as Janaka’s.

“So,” Sita says on their first night, sitting on what's supposed to be their marital bed, “what name should I call you?”

Her husband raises an eyebrow, silent just as he has been for almost the entire week since he was called home. Kaikeyi, when Sita asked for details, had not elaborated on the character of her stepson nor had she offered details about how Sita might best seduce him.

“Follow your instincts,” Kaikeyi had said, smiling at Sita’s frustration. “You’ll know what I mean when you spend time with him.”

Well, Sita thinks perversely, her instincts are telling her to confess everything to the man she has promised herself to in front of her father, and God almighty. Somehow, she is meant to maintain a lifelong relationship with a man she is only now speaking to, and to mine his contacts for information to send back to her handler, his stepmother.

“The papers call you Ram,” Sita says, only a little sullen at the thought of the task ahead of her, “as does your family. Is that what you prefer to go by?”

“My father’s family,” he corrects mildly, and Sita immediately flushes at the mistake. Kaushalya and Shanta had of course come, but arrived only the night before the wedding -- Sita had met them both the morning of, but only enough to touch their feet and have Kaushalya cluck, teary-eyed, over the beauty of Sita in her wedding sari.

“Of course,” Kaushalya had said off-handedly to Shanta standing at her side, “Kaikeyi has always had excellent taste.” Sita had not trusted herself to answer.

“Will we live with your mother in America?” Sita has been provided with what she considers shockingly little information regarding her future living situation -- Kaikeyi insists that, largely, this assignment requires Sita to effectively live her own life and as such being more information than provided a new wife would only detract from her performance.

He shakes his head. “My mother and Shanta live in New York too, but Shanta needed to be closer to Columbia and...” he looks away, suddenly just slightly awkward. “Things changed so much for Mother throughout my life that I think she was finally able to find some type of stability when I was away at university. When it turned out that I was moving back, I didn’t want to be the one to throw her life back into flux.”

Sita nods. “Are you close?”

Her husband hums, fingers of one hand slightly worrying at the hem of a blanket. “As much as I can be, having spent every other year away.”

Sita can’t imagine -- for years, the story of the boy caught so explicitly between two worlds has always been interesting or amusing, but now that she’s confronted with him in the flesh she knows that it must have been sad, too. She tries to imagine a mother committing to the notion that the child she waves off at the airport gate would not be the one who returned, and finds that it’s impossible.

“It must have been difficult,” she offers, not elaborating on whether she is speaking of her husband’s family, or himself.

He nods. “Father and Mother Kaikeyi always had Bharata, and the Party. I was glad when Mother found Sumitra and the boys.”

Sita’s eyes widen. “A friend?”

He turns his body to look at her for the first time head-on. “No,” he says, eyes boring into Sita’s, exuding the same gravitational force as his father. “Her wife. The boys are my Father’s during a...period of disagreement with Mother Kaikeyi, and when Sumitra decided to keep them Mother brought her to New York to have the children. They fell in love.”

This is a test, Sita realizes, and for the first time, she realizes the wisdom of Kaikeyi’s lack of preparatory material even as she curses Kaikeyi in equal measure. She would have liked to have not been blindsided, but there is a truth to her reaction she could never have mimicked so effectively. Her mind roils with the amount of information relayed in such few sentences -- Dasaratha, already so old, still fathering sons. Kaikeyi and her husband having a disagreement so strident it sent him into another’s arms. Kausalya, raising more of Dasaratha’s children as her own. Kausalya, in love with a woman.

Her silence has drawn on too long during her contemplation, and her husband’s eyes have gone cold as he leans away from her.

“You call her Sumitra,” she decides on, “but if she’s your mother’s wife, should I call her mother in law as well?”

Her husband is wide-eyed himself for a moment, but then his face cracks into a smile just dripping with sudden, unexpected delight. Sita’s heart skips a beat at the sight.

“It would make her very happy if you did,” he says. “And as for me, my mother has always insisted on calling me Ramachandra and none of my siblings use my name at all. You can call me whatever you’d like.”

---

“Rama!” Sita exclaims, trying to rise from the chair behind her desk and managing to trip on the hanging sleeve of the sweater she had been sitting on. She laughs, picking herself up off the ground. “Oh, and you brought the boys too!”

It’s been a year since Sita moved to New York, a year in which she’s found fulfilling work at a South Asian women’s shelter, learned how to navigate herself via subway to find the best of ten different cuisines in New York, read three books related to Shanta’s new area of interest, featured in the boys’ Instagram Lives over 20 different times, and found herself a best friend in the form of her husband.

Ram, she had decided, was how the public knew him even if his father’s family chose the same. Ramachandra was much too long. Rama was short, sweet, vowels easy in Sita’s mouth.

“No one calls me that,” he’d said when she’d first used the name, his tone again one of unexpected delight. “I’ve always thought it was strange that they never did.”

Sita’s due a lunch break, but she’s always been prone to eating at her desk unless she’s eating out -- a budgeted, once weekly expense she keeps track of after the humiliating exorbitancy of her first month’s bill.

“We have money,” Rama had said, bemused at Sita’s profuse apologies. “I’ve got a trust fund, but my salary certainly pays well enough for this.” He’d glanced at the bill Sita had handed him as she had wrung her hands in front of him, so unsure of how she’d managed to spend so much. “It looks like this is mostly just restaurant charges anyway, and,” he’d looked up at Sita with a smile, rising to hold her hands before she could twist them again, “you live in New York now. I’m glad that you’ve spent the last month trying all sorts of the things the city has to offer. It’s exactly what I did when I moved back, except I probably spent twice as much.”

Sita had felt the first of many twin pangs at his kindness -- one pang of joy, at being with someone so well suited to herself, and another of sorrow when she thought of how their relationship was founded on a lie. Kaikeyi had told Sita that there was no need to actively seek out contacts for at least the first year, and so the extent of her real work was having regular conversations with Kaikeyi that easily blurred the line between professional and personal relationships.

“Is he any good at sex,” Kaikeyi had asked one day after asking for a report about Rama’s “family situation” which Sita found distressingly similar to the inquiries of a second wife wondering about her husband’s former paramours. Sita had hung up.

“Sita?” Sita starts, bringing herself out of her reverie and smiling.

“Sorry,” she says, grabbing her coat. “I was just thinking about something.”

“Something interesting?” He takes the coat and holds it out for Sita to slip her arms into, smoothing down the lapels when she turns around. “I spent the whole morning stuck in the single least productive set of meetings, and knowing them they’re probably arguing about what appetizers to get for lunch. I’ve never felt as lucky as I did when I told them all that, unfortunately, I’d already logged that I was taking a half-day to take care of my brothers.”

The boys scowl. “We’re thirteen years old,” Lakshmana says. Shatrughana nods in agreement. “We could have gone home by ourselves!”

Sita flashes Rama a smile, leaning down with an expression as if in deep thought. “That’s true enough -- if you’d like we can send you home and just join you after I finish work, but aren’t your moms on a health kick right now?”

Lakshmana, always the more suspicious of the pair, crosses his arms. “And?”

“Well,” Sita drawls, hearing Rama snort softly next to her, “your brother and I were thinking of taking you to the greasiest joint we can find in walking distance, and then to 7/11 after to find you both snacks for when you spend the weekend at our apartment. But if you’d rather not, that’s totally ok too!”

The boys fall for the line, hook and sinker.

“Oh,” Lakshmana says, voice suddenly a pitch lower than usual as he squares his shoulders in what Sita doesn’t think any of the three recognize is his best imitation of Rama, “that’s ok.” He looks over at Shatrughana, who nods. “Family is important. Let’s go eat!”

“Thank you,” Rama says softly after they’ve finally decided where to eat and are walking in the correct direction. Sita raises an eyebrow. “You’re good with the boys,” he explains, shrugging his shoulders. “I was expecting to have to take them out on my own, and stay at my mother’s when I wanted to spend time with them but --”

Sita interrupts him before he says something truly embarrassing about what she only sees as a pleasure. “It’s easy when they’re such good kids,” she says, “and I would have done it even if it was harder. It’s the least I could have done for you, after everything.”

Everything being the credit cards he’d given her when they landed, his insistence that he wouldn’t monitor her spending and would set up a bank account for her that he would periodically transfer money into but not be able to access. Everything being the books he shared with her and the books he read on her recommendation, in turn, the concerts they’d attended together, the plays and musicals and movies and street festivals. Everything being the conversations they’d had on the couch until late at night, the meals he learned to cook because they reminded her of home.

The one similarity underlying all others between them, Sita realized one day, was that they had both grown up lonely, without anyone person, they could claim truly, entirely understood them. Neither of them had had a best friend until they met the other. By unspoken agreement, they had not consummated their marriage that first night, nor during the first few hectic months of Sita’s acclimation to New York. Eventually, it became easier to simply maintain things as they were and to enjoy the novelty of a companion before things became ... complicated.

If a part of Sita insisted that she hold off from sex so as to not build even more on an inherently unstable foundation -- if that same part screamed that her husband had given her trust beyond all else and she squandered the gift every day she didn’t tell him who she really was -- then that was something for Sita, and only Sita, to think about.

---

“Oh,” Sita hears from the bathroom threshold, glancing through the mirror at the figure Rama cuts in his tailored tuxedo. It’s been nearly a year and six months since their marriage, and what Sita thought of as friendship has since bloomed into a wild, uncontrollable love. Yet, she keeps her love to herself, knowing that it would be cruel to offer him fruit with a rotted core.

He cares too, she knows -- only a fool could willingly ignore the little signs of it he offers so freely, long and lingering looks, kisses to her cheek, forehead, the corner of her lips and the edges of her knuckles. She knows that her resistance to further intimacy must confuse him, perhaps even hurt him, but still, she can’t help but think that things would be worse if she gave in only for him to find out later. Sometimes, she wonders if Dasaratha knows about Kaikeyi -- if Lakshmana and Shatrughana owe their existence to a revelation of the truth which so discomfited their sire that he sought another woman to drown in.

Sita is selfish, far too much so, to allow the truth to poison what she now has, half-life as it is. So she smiles over meals Rama cooks for her, meets the contacts Kaikeyi has started sending her way during lunch breaks she takes less frequently at her desk and begins preparing her heart for when things will inevitably fall apart. Today, she and Rama will attend a gala meant to raise funds for refugees which will double as a drop-point for some dissident’s data collection from the last five years on the inside of their regime’s surveillance operation.

“You look beautiful,” Rama says, walking in. Sita’s hands, haphazardly smoothing down the last wisps of hair that refuse to curve to her skull in their updo, pause when he places his own over them. “Is that my mother’s sari?”

Sita nods. “The style has come back,” she says, reaching out to the counter for the strand of jasmine Sumitra had sent to their apartment to be paired with Kausalya’s sari. “Even Kaikeyi approved, which means that this outfit technically has the approval of all three of your mothers, and your sister as well.”

Rama smiles softly, taking the jasmine and pinning it up with a deft hand that speaks of experience. “I’ve never been one to keep up with fashion trends, but I think you wear it very well.”

“Kaikeyi says it makes me look like a movie star.” In order for the drop to be successful, Kaikeyi had demanded Sita pull out all the stops possible within the relatively demure confines of charity-wear. Sita’s blouse plunges at the back, skin unobstructed by a pallu or bra, and she shivers slightly when Rama’s left-hand traces lines.

“I suppose she would know,” he says absently, eyes raking up and down at Sita’s reflection in the mirror they both face, passing over her eyes rimmed with kohl and her dark red lips. His right-hand falls to his pocket, searching for a moment before he finds what he needs, pulling out a pair of beautiful earrings Sita hadn’t known he had.

“Mother Kaikeyi had me get these from storage a few weeks ago, but I wasn’t sure if they would suit what you were planning on wearing.” They look at the pieces in his hands, realizing together how well the earrings will look with Sita’s sari.

“Will you put them on me,” Sita asks, voice thin and breathy despite herself. His hands are gentle, just slightly cool to the touch as they gently thread the earrings into her lobes, tightening the screws and caressing her ear before moving to ghost over Sita’s hips. If Sita moved into his touch, allowed him to grasp her body so hard that she bruised if she turned her face just slightly and brushed her lips against his -- her entire body is one flame, but even now she is attending this gala with her own motive, even has a small gun she plans on holstering to her left leg as insurance. She can’t.

She can’t. Sita takes one step forward, Rama’s hands falling back to his own sides.

“We’ll be late,” Sita says, moving them back into purgatory instead of choosing heaven or hell.

Rama shakes his head slightly, taking a breath. “Yes,” he replies, tone never betraying a sense of the frustration he must feel. He smiles again, holding out a hand. Sita will tell him one day, she tells herself. He deserves that much.

“Let’s go.”

One day, it seems, will be sooner rather than later. Sita’s very first drop of this assignment, after nearly two years of prep, and it seems like she’s going to end up just another statistic, shot in the head for all her efforts.

Worse, she thinks, she’s going to break Rama’s heart. The dissident was less careful than they’d thought, trusted someone they shouldn’t have, and now they’re both being held up against a wall and being told to recite any final prayers for their souls. Sita’s single measly gun at her hip wouldn’t change the odds of 10 against 2, especially since no amount of physical training will significantly change the realities of her smaller physique going up against larger numbers of even better-trained muscle.

She only wishes that she’d thrown caution to the wind once, had told Rama the truth and let the cards fall where they may. She wishes she could see him one more time and apologize, reassure him that her love was true even if her initial motives weren’t.

“Hey,” she hears from somewhere in the distance, away from their cluster of a firing squad. Her heart simultaneously sinks and soars to realize that the voice is Rama. “That’s my wife!”

The leader laughs, just as the dissident sobs. Sita clutches their hand tighter. “Then I’m sorry to say that she hasn’t been much of a wife,” the leader sneers, “just another one of Kaikeyi’s little rats meddling where they’re unwanted.”

“Run!” Sita screams, deciding that she’d rather Rama be alive than hear her confessions before he too is killed. “For my sake run, before they decide to kill you too!” In the back of her mind, she knows that it’s already too late -- people are executed for far less than what Rama is doing, which is continuing to walk forward.

He sighs audibly, not even pausing his forward momentum. “I’m sorry,” he says, and for some reason, Sita genuinely believes that he is. “You know I’d do anything for you, but there’s something I haven’t told you yet about me.”

Shouldn’t that be Sita’s line? “What,” she croaks, captivated by how he’s somehow holding the group hostage, each of them curiously watching as he walks right up to wear Sita and her companion stand against the wall. “Please,” she sobs, breaking her own vow to face death with dignity, “if you’ve ever cared about me, you would leave.”

Rama’s fingers come up to trace Sita’s bruised eye, her puffy lip, the cut at her cheekbone. “Concussion?” he asks, completely ignoring Sita’s plea.

“It hardly matters,” she says, “when I’m going to die in about five minutes. Just like you will if you don’t leave right now.”

Rama hums, right hand shifting down to her thigh, where her gun is strapped. Sita’s eyes widen as though the fabric he seems to be easing the gun out and up to where the fabric wraps around her waist. Left hand still caressing her cheek as the right holds the gun in place against her stomach, he leans in to gently kiss Sita’s forehead.

“All three of us are going to live tonight,” he says, so confident that it seems as if it would be absurd for Sita to think anything else as if even three against 10 the odds are stacked firmly in their favor. “Hold this for me?”

Sita’s hand shifts down to the gun still hidden in the fabric as Rama steps away and turns, his hands now busy divesting himself of his tuxedo jacket and the bowtie Sita had so painstakingly learned how to tie for him earlier.

“Now,” he says casually, as everyone watches him worry at his cufflinks, dropping them in the pile now at Sita’s feet, later followed by his wedding ring. “Unfortunately for you all this means that you will not be surviving this encounter. Do you have any last words?”

The leader laughs. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Rama’s left-hand reaches out behind him. Sita, as if in a trance, dutifully fishes out the gun and places it in his hand before realizing that she has something she needs to say before it's too late. His own confidence gives her some of her own, but still how could he possibly win? How will they possibly survive -- and if, against all odds they do, what on earth is she going to say? So: “I love you,” she blurts out, smiling slightly when Rama’s head twists to look at her, incredulous, but before he can respond the first bullet fires and he explodes into action.

For the first two minutes, the fight is 10 against 1 and still, Rama makes it look like child play. Weaving in and out, every shot he fires taking down at least one if not more of the men against him. At some point, he grabs another gun and tosses it in Sita’s direction, whose entrance into the melee serves to turn the tide even further. At least she’s always been a good shot, she thinks to herself, taking a man out even when her head rings with what she knows her husband accurately diagnosed as the beginning of a concussion. Part of her can’t do anything but watch as her studious, gentle husband breaks someone’s nose before shooting them through the heart.

Within five minutes, it’s over. Just like Rama said, all ten men are dead at their feet. The gun drops out of his hand, slippery now with other people’s blood. Sita’s kill count is 2. He’s just killed eight men.

“I...” Sita starts, realizing she doesn’t know what to say. She swallows, looking at the carnage around her and tries again to reconcile the sight with Rama’s soft sweaters, old fashioned glasses, and aversion of horror films. “How?”

Rama purses his lips. “Same as you,” he says, wiping his hands on his pants with a grimace. “Mother Kaikeyi trained me, and while I was in India I was sent on assignment.”

Sita pauses. “You’re a spy?” Even as she says it, she knows that she’s in no position to speak with such scandal in her voice -- yet, she thinks, she had thought she knew him, that he had trusted her.

Rama laughs as he never has: short, hollow, bitter. “No,” he says, “not anymore. And even when I was, I was more of a hitman than anything else. I quit and moved away, and I assume that’s why Mother Kaikeyi sent someone to make sure I didn’t step too far out of line as a rogue element.”

Somehow, Sita thinks, this is worse than she imagined. “No,” she says, rushing forward, hands wringing as if he’s looking again at her first credit card bill. “I asked at the beginning. It was never about you.”

Rama is silent for a moment that seems to stretch endlessly as the adrenaline wears off for Sita, and her aches start to make themselves known. Her face throbs, her head spins, and there’s something in the vicinity of her ribs that twinges while she stands still -- not broken, she doesn’t think, but maybe bruised? Rama’s hands, almost as if it were against his mind’s will, come to stop her hands and tangle his fingers in his own as they do nothing but stare into the darkness over the other’s shoulder. “I’m glad that that’s what you were told,” he says eventually, and Sita suddenly realizes that there is an entire lifetime’s worth of complication she hadn’t known existed.

“I wasn’t told anything,” she says, sure now that Dasaratha knows at least part of Kaikeyi’s truth, because why else would Kaikeyi have made sure that Sita walked into her relationship as transparent as possible. “Everything we shared was real.” She pauses, uncertain. “At least from my end.”

Rama’s hands are like vices, clutching Sita’s fingers so hard it feels like he’s cut her circulation. “From mine as well. So when you just said--”

“Yes,” Sita says, unable to say now what fear of imminent death had so successfully inspired. “Before, I was afraid of you finding out about me, but yes of course.”

Rama exhales. “I’d hoped that’s what was stopping you, but I was never entirely sure that you really were one of Mother Kaikeyi’s recruits,” he smiles with a hint of self-deprecation. “You’re a good actor, you know.”

“No,” Sita says, bringing her hands up to cup his face, finally deciding to be brave. “I’m really not.” She leans in.

Their first kiss is gentle, tastes just slightly like blood, and ends quickly when Sita’s lip is irritated and makes itself known. It’s perfect.

“I love you,” Rama breathes into the sliver of space when they part, one hand drifting to hold her at the waist, another rubbing small circles into the nape of her neck. Sita’s head spins, and not only from the concussion.

“Hey,” she hears from somewhere behind. “I’m glad you two seem to have made up...and also .... that we’re all alive. But can we go now?”

Sita laughs, and then immediately regrets doing so. “Yes,” she says as Rama holds her still, “let's go.”

#ramayana #maya writes #avani008

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dcrbyalbright · 4 years

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Ok pinterest is here I missed my little Scam queen sm....

(SYDNEY SWEENEY, CIS FEMALE) - Have you seen INGRID RADLEY? INGRID is in HER JUNIOR year. The ENGLISH/PSYCHOLOGY MAJOR is 21 years old & is a GEMINI. People say SHE is RESOURCEFUL, CHARMING, DISINGENOUS and NARCISSISTIC. Rumors say they’re a member of CALLOWAY. I heard from the gossip blog that SHE TELLS EVERYONE SHE’S FROM A WEALTHY FAMILY BUT SHE’S REALLY FROM A TRAILER PARK IN FLORIDA. (oleeve.)

Ingrid Radley! Real name Georgia Radley but we’ll get to that later. A self-proclaimed Francophile who’s always walking around with one of those dramatic long cigarette holders like eva green in the dreamers

Born in the Florida panhandle. Her parents liked to brag growin up about how she was conceived in a pickup truck during a fourth of july fireworks display sdgf

She grew up in a trailer park and her parents were… really abusive, physically and emotionally. They were both alcoholics, and Frank Gallagher style con artists who would always take what other people had

Just to demonstrate how bad her childhood was her dad once drunkenly ran over her dog and then laughed at her for cryin about it :/

Soundtrack to her youth was the buzz of cicadas and the crack of a freshly opened bud light

Ingrid learned how to con people from her parents as well. Change her drawling accent to a posh one, twirl her hair at the gas station attendant while her dad siphoned fuel

Was a Really Rebellious Girl in school and didn’t do well in any classes except for English. Was always ditching to do drink beer out in the woods with boys

Was a bit of a… mess in high school tbh. Basically just slept around with anyone trying to Feel Something. She had a lot of really nasty nicknames but tbh she didn’t like anybody and she didn’t want them to like her. Florida was not her scene at all. She read constantly and fantasized about some other type of life for herself where gourmet did not equal Bud Light

She always dreamed of getting out of florida and becoming someone else, like making reinventing herself into the greatest long con

Her senior year she cheated on every exam she had, more out of pure laziness than lack of intelligence. BUT by doing this she managed to get a scholarship to Yates University and packed like one suitcase to get out of town and head to Vermont, changing her first name so that no one could look her up online

Hasn’t seen her parents since and hasn’t been back to Florida at all

When she got to Yates she started telling people that both of her parents are dead, from a car accident. Often borrows book and movie plots to fill in the gaps of the elaborate lie of a life she created for herself. She had a wealthy friend her freshman year named Katherine who basically treated Ingrid like a pet project. She bought Ingrid whatever she wanted, designer clothes, meals, anything, as long as Ingrid was Katherine’s only friend and vice versa

It was kind of an abusive relationship?? Katherine always had a crush on Ingrid and threatened to out her real background whenever Ingrid started to get too independent

Katherine eventually dropped out due to mental health issues but the thing is... Ingrid still has one of her credit cards. And they look remarkably alike. And there was that time last year when Katherine had the hit and run accident and Ingrid never told anyone. So she uses Katherine’s credit now to keep up appearances of her rich lifestyle

Also tells people that she’s an heiress to the fortune of some obscure real estate company based in France. Speaks with a strange accent sometimes, like someone who grew up in Paris but hasn’t been back there in years

Especially loves to use this lie on the men she meets through like SeekingArrangment and shit. Is currently juggling like 5 older guys who buy her shit and think her name is Jasmine from Paris.

Okay she sounds odd but is really fun at parties? Like she’s the girl to take care of the drunk people even though she’s wasted herself

Always has a supply of coke and is always willing to share it

Will sleep with just about anyone but she will not do relationships. Or when she does do them she’s really bad at it

Keeps everyone at a Distance but is really funny and kind when you get to know her

Ummm but doesn’t want you to really know her? Knowing her = someone finds out she’s lying about every aspect of her life.

She’s addicted to pixi sticks and is constantly pouring them into her mouth in class

Kleptomaniac. If something goes missing from your room she’s probably stolen it. She has a box in her closet full of other people’s trinkets like a dragon’s hoard

Is a compulsive liar. like of you like to bike ride? suddenly she’s a competitive racer. always has to one up everyone

She diys most of her clothes. Picture like, floor-length vintage nightgowns hacked off at the knees to make a babydoll dress, white boots with abstract faces drawn on, Vivienne Westwood corsets, Lego figures glued to hair barettes. Her style is a bit bizarre but most of it’s expensive.

Lol she also runs a popular Depop shop where she sells her own designer stuff at wayyyyy more than she bought it for like I said she hustles

ABUSE TW: She only smokes menthol cigarettes bc any other kind reminds her of the Marlboros her dad would press into her skin

Is studying english and honestly… is probably on of the people that will Make It in a creative career. Queen of hustling

OKAY WANTED PLOTS TIME: an ex that she cheated on, maybe an unrequited crush, maybe a friend who’s started to catch inrid in all her lies?? Ummm hook ups of course, a drug dealer, maybe some rich friends that she’s using for their money?? Girl friends, party friends, like give me a wild Skins type gang

#abuse tw #manipulation tw #car accident tw #yatesintro #animal abuse tw

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itsafanficthing · 5 years

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The Paper Boy

Note: This came out of a picture of Sam Heughan filming/ recording (??) for his podcast Clanlands. @balfeheughlywed posted about it and about a paperboy au, and somehow this came out. If I get inspired I will write more. But for now there is this. Un-beta'ed and barely spellchecked.

You can also read it on A03 Here

Jamie Fraser had been running his paper route for nearly six months. He was good at it. He knew the streets, knew the shortcuts to take on his second-hand bike and thanks to all the peddling, his calves were coming along quite nicely thank you very much.

He’d grown up in the area, and knew it like the back of his hand. So when he’d asked for a job from Murtagh Fitzgibbons, the grumpy old man that ran the newsagency, he knew he’d get the job. It probably helped that Murtagh was also his godfather but who was counting nepotism on a simple paper route.

It wasn’t a busy route. Only a few older residents of Broch Mordha liked their paper delivered by hand rather than reading the news online like the rest of the modern world. Things always did move slower in this village. “Tradition” they called it. “Because if they didn’t follow the towns traditions, then who would?” That’s what they always said. Jamie figured it was about time for some new traditions but he didn’t dare say that out loud to anyone. He was only 16. He wasn’t meant to have an opinion yet. Not one that would be listened to anyway.

Everyone always knew each other’s business in his village. He often wondered if that was part of the tradition of the town- knowing everyone else’s news. It seemed like the adults only told each other everyone else’s news, nobody ever had news of their own.

“Did you hear that McNully’ tractor broke last week?”

“I heard that Daniel Abels’ was selling the back half of his lot. Canna keep up with the maintenance.”

“Sally Finley got into a bit of strife last week, word is she’s been seeing Arnold Erwin and Johnathon Lackie on the side. Old Arnold was’na to pleased when he got home that night, I can tell ye.”

It was a wonder they even needed the newspaper with the amount of gossip that went on in the town.

Though, it gave Jamie a job and “some responsibility, which was sorely needed” as his older sister Jenny told him, not to mention it was nice to have a little change in his pocket at the end of the day.

“Ye shorted me a paper this morning,” Jamie said as he entered the rundown newsagents to see his godfather reading the paper behind the counter. “I did’na have Walter Stuart’s paper. Now I have to go all the way back out.”

“Ye dinna need to be delivering the paper to Walter’s house anymore,” Murtagh replied gruffly as Jamie picked up a fresh copy ready to deliver.

“Did he cancel?” He asked as he dropped it back onto the pile.

“Somethin’ like that. He died yesterday morn.”

Murtagh didn’t meant to be brusque, it was just how everything came out. Murtagh’s general opinion on life was “if it can be said in five words, say it in one”. Jamie found it endearing, other people called it rude.

“He died?” Jamie repeated in surprise

“Aye. Heart attack.”

“Jesus,” Jamie said under his breath before clearing his throat at the look at he his godfather was giving him. “Well, that’s a shame. He lived alone didn’t he?”

“Aye,” Murtagh grunted- never one to get involved in anyone else’s business.

“Wonder what will happen to his place now.”

“Probably go on the market.” Murtagh shrugged before raising the paper and continuing to read, a clear indication that the conversation was closed.

Jamie bid his godfather farewell picked up his bike and rode home, his mind firmly set on what would become of Walter Stuart’s house.

—

It wasn’t on his route anymore but Jamie couldn’t help riding past Walter Stuart’s house, just to see what would become of it.

The town has been abuzz with the news of his death and a funeral was promptly organised. The older women of the village, like squawking hens, immediately came together to theorise about old Walters death.

“Heard he died in the bath, imagine that, paramedics coming to rescue ye in the altogether.”

“I heard he choked on a chicken bone, was blue in the face when they finally got to him.”

“He had a heart attack,” the wise voice of Douglas McKenzie said over all the chatter, “he was nearing 90, it’s no’ a surprise.”

One day a “For Sale” sign went up as Jamie rode past the house. Who would ever choose to move to his small town, Jamie couldn’t think, but a little over a week later a bright red “SOLD” sign was pasted across the front.

Probably another old hen coming for retirement, or an old man looking for a peaceful village in which he could live out his remaining years in solitude- like Walter.

Two weeks after the “SOLD” sign appeared, so did two large moving vans. Jamie stayed to watch a while as the removalists carried in various pieces of furniture. Eventually one of them yelled at Jamie to either “help out or scram” and he peddled away quickly.

Jamie didn’t see any movement in Walter Stuart’s house for another month after the removalists has left. He thought it was strange that someone would move all their possessions into a house, and then not turn up to live there.

Of course, the village gossip’s were having a field day guessing what it could mean.

“Who moves all their furniture but does’na live there?”

“I heard it was some rich philanthropist that wanted a house in the country. He’ll probably only be here once a week.”

“Where did you hear that Dottie? Why would someone buy a house out here? A house that someone died in no less?”

“That’s just what I heard,” Dottie replied defensively.

—

Four months after Walters funeral, the moving trucks had arrived and left and the house sat vacant with no sign of life coming or going, a light was turned on in the hallway, followed by one in the kitchen and then what everyone assumed was the lounge room. It seemed that Walter Stuart’s house had at last received its tenants.

Nobody saw them arrive, there were no new cars on the street, it was as if they had suddenly appeared.

—

Jamie was well into his job as the paperboy now. A few more houses had been added to his route and the village gossip’s (mostly older women) loved to stall him when he delivered his papers to find out any information about their neighbours, especially about those that had moved into Walter Stuart’s house.

No one had seen hide nor hair of them since they had moved in. The lights went on and off and there was the sound of laughter occasionally through an open window, but still nobody in Broch Mordha knew what the new tenants looked like.

—

Jamie had been just as curious as everyone else and stopping by the house on his morning drop off has become second nature to him. It wasn’t that he was trying to see through the curtains, or spy on them for the benefit of the villagers; it was simply curiosity.

He was sure that he had heard a young girls laughter at some point as he rode past and he was curious to know who it belonged to.

—

“Laoghaire, get back inside and make yer bed.” The shrill voice of Mrs MacKenzie sounded from inside the house as Jamie stopped to dig the paper from his satchel.

“Hi Jamie,” the shy high-pitched voice of Laoghaire made him look up in surprise as she bobbed up from behind her fence.

“Alright Laoghaire.”

He saw her blush a deep red as he said hello and he handed her a newspaper. Girls were confusing, she was two years his junior and seemed to be out front every morning ready to take the paper from him.

“Have ye had a busy mornin’?” She asked eagerly.

“I suppose. As busy as any other,” he replied as he steadied his bike again. “See ye later then.”

“Bye Jamie,” she called sweetly as he rode off, he turned to look to see that she was blushing again as she waved him off.

Girls were weird, Jamie thought as he heard Laoghaire’s mother call out her name again, with more impatience.

—-

Once again Jamie stopped by Walter Stuart’s house. His paper route now completed. His satchel empty. It was a habit now; to park across the street, under the shade of a huge tree and watch the house for a minute or two. Jamie dismounted from his bike and took the time to stretch out his arms and legs. It wasn’t backbreaking work but it’s wasn’t exactly a walk in the park either. His body had become accustomed to the ride, and even with the new routes he’d picked up it wasn’t difficult so much as slightly tiring. Some days more than others.

As he bent to try and (unsuccessfully) touch his toes he heard the front door open of Walter Stuart’s house and a young feminine voice call out to someone inside.

“I’ll be back soon, Lamb, I just need to get out of the house for a while.”

Jamie jolted upright so quickly in his surprise that someone was coming out of the house that he lost his balance and fell backward onto his bike with an almighty crash.

The air was forced from Jamie’s lungs as he fell and his shin was throbbing something fierce as he tried to disentangle himself from his bike and bag.

“Are you alright?” A voice from somewhere beside him asked, it was soft, gentle and oh so very, very English.

“I’m...” Jamie turned to look at whoever had asked the question and felt his words catch in his throat.

She was gorgeous, stunning, like the sun had come out from behind the clouds on a rainy day and everything was brighter than before.

“You’ve cut your leg. Hold on a moment.” The girl turned away from him and pulled something out of a bag Jamie didn’t realise she was holding.

Jamie couldn’t look away from her. He still was lying awkwardly on the body of his bike, the pedal digging painfully into his lower back, his satchel somehow twisted around his feet but he couldn’t move. He’d never really thought of any girl as beautiful before.

Sure they were hot and there were a few that did funny things to his insides and one particular part of his anatomy. (A lesson his father had given him at the age of twelve that they had both blushed furiously through and then promptly never spoken of again.)

But this girl was something else. Jamie didn’t even know her name but he was convinced he was in love with her.

“This is it lad. You’ll marry this lass one day.” It was a stupid thought but it was the only clear thing that was running through his head at that moment.

That was of course until she applied pressure to his shin and he yelped in pain.

“Sorry,” she said sounding not even remotely sorry at all. “It’s bleeding quite a lot. Though, shins have a tendency to do that. Much like head wounds. Always bleed much worse than the actual injury. Stay still. I need to check how bad it is.”

She spoke rapidly and Jamie found it was all he could to listen to her talk, study the way that her mouth sounded out the words and the way her curly hair fluttered in the breeze.

“Not nearly as bad as I thought. No stitches needed but you did give yourself a bloody good scrape. Any other injuries, or is it just the leg?”

She looked up at him then and Jamie felt like he’d received another punch to his gut as he looked into her eyes. The colour of whiskey; intelligence of a hawk, and the cunningness of a panther, her eyes were the windows to her mind and he could see that hers were moving quickly over his face.

“Just the leg I think, though the longer I lie on my bike like this, the more I think my ars- my back may need tending to,” Jamie replied, thrilled that he had managed to string together a full sentence and annoyed at himself that he’d nearly asked her to inspect his arse.

“Right yes, of course. I’m Claire by the way,” she said nimbly stepping backwards from him, giving him room to extract himself from his bike and bag.

“Jamie,” he answered as he righted himself. His shin was still bleeding fairly profusely and he could feel the trickle of liquid make its way down into his socks.

“You’d better come inside. Get a plaster on that.” Claire didn’t wait for his response and turned on her heel and headed back towards Walter Stuart’s house.

—

“I’m back,” Claire called out to the seemingly empty house as Jamie followed her through nervously.

Walter Stuart’s house. He’d never been in Walter Stuart’s house. He looked into the living room and felt a shudder as it ran through him, wondering if that was where the old man had died.

“That was quick, Bumblebee.” An older man appeared from the kitchen, a pink flowery apron tied around his waist. “And you’ve brought back someone.”

“Lamb this is Jamie. Jamie this is Lamb,” Claire introduced quickly. “Are there plasters in the bathroom?” Without waiting for an answer Claire bounded off leaving Jamie standing somewhat awkwardly in front of the man Claire had just introduced.

“Jamie is it?” Lamb clarified as Jamie nodded shyly. “Well come in and have a seat. Nasty gash you’ve given yourself there.” Lamb looked down at his leg briefly and without waiting for Jamie to respond, he turned and went back to the kitchen assuming Jamie would follow- which he did.

—

“So Jamie. You’re a local then?” Lamb asked as he went back to whatever he was stirring, which seemed to be a rather large vessel of concrete.

“Ay- Yes sir I am,” Jamie replied politely, now holding the handkerchief that Claire had given him against his leg, trying to staunch the bleeding from his shin as he sat in a chair near a very small dining table.

“No need to call me sir, son. Professor Beauchamp will be just fine.”

“Oh,” Jamie mumbled awkwardly, “so-sorry I didn’t know.”

“I’m joking lad, Lamb is fine. So Jamie, how did you sustain such a ghastly injury?” Lamb said all this very quickly with an odd chuckle that make Jamie question how much of what he had said was actually a joke and what was so funny about it.

“Oh,” Jamie shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. He couldn’t very well say that it was the shock of someone actually exiting Walter Stuart’s house that made him fall over in surprise. More-so he then couldn’t say that it was Lamb’s very attractive daughter that had made him lose all sense of rational thought as she sat by him and helped him with his leg.

“I run the paper route in the town and I’d just stopped to take a break and... fell over,” he finished somewhat lamely as Lamb looked over and studied him carefully.

“A paper route? Fascinating.” Lamb looked back to whatever he was stirring and Jamie swallowed heavily. Fascinating wasn’t exactly something that Jamie would use to describe his paper route... or anything in the village for that matter.

“I...err, suppose so,” Jamie replied awkwardly. If any of the old women in town heard that Jamie had met the mysterious residents of Walter Stuart’s house, and furthermore been inside and heaven-forbid have a conversation with them, well Jamie would be the talk of the town.

Lamb seemed to lose himself in whatever he was creating in his kitchen and Jamie couldn’t think of anything further to say to engage the man in conversation, so he sat quietly waiting for Claire, the girl that he had just met (and promptly fallen in love with) to return.

“Well I think that this is just about ready,” Lamb announced in triumph, turning away from the concrete looking substance and donning two industrial strength gloves from the bench beside him. “Be a lad and open that door for me?” Lamb indicated the door leading to the back garden and Jamie jumped up (wincing at the pressure on his shin as he moved) and opened the door as Lamb carried the mysterious concoction outside.

Jamie stood watching as Lamb poured, what he was now sure was concrete, into a perfectly squared off area of the garden with a heaving grunt.

“Found them!” Claire’s voice from behind Jamie made him swing around in surprise. She had tied her hair back now, though there were some loose curls already springing forth around her face.

“Honestly, he leaves things in the oddest places sometimes. You’d think that they would be a bathroom cupboard. But no. They were in his sock drawer. Because where else would you look for a plaster but your sock drawer?” Claire spoke quickly and Jamie found himself nodding dumbly at her.

Christ. She was gorgeous. Jamie felt his cock twitch as she turned away from him and beckoned him to sit down in the chair he had just vacated to help Lamb with the door.

Jamie followed obediently and sat where she indicated.

“I also brought some disinfectant, not bleach, medical stuff. Just to clean it out. It might sting,” Claire explained as she swiped the gash with some brown antiseptic liquid. It stung but Jamie made sure to school his features so that he didn’t flinch.

Claire gave a knowing smile as she cleaned the gash, as if she had seen his thigh clench with the sting but she didn’t say anything.

“Hmm,” She hummed as she applied pressure to his still bleeding shin.

“What’s wrong?” Jamie asked, purposefully avoiding looking where her nimble fingers were touching his calf.

“Well I have a plaster here, which is fine, it’s just that... well, your leg is quite hairy isn’t it?”

Jamie glanced down to see the blonde hairs on his legs, some coated and pasted down with his blood.

“Aye, I suppose,” he tried to shrug nonchalantly.

“It’s just that the adhesive will hurt quite a bit when you have to take the plaster off again. A waxing of sorts,” Claire explained, before biting her bottom lip as she thought.

“Ye want to shave my leg?” Jamie asked in surprise. “Chris- we’ve just met and ye want to shave ma leg?”

“I was just thinking about when you have to pull the plaster off. It will hurt a hell of a lot more,” Claire said patiently.

“Ye are not shavin’ my leg, Sassenach,” Jamie replied stubbornly.

“Sassenach?” Claire quirked an eyebrow at him, “never been called that before.”

“There’s a first for everything,” Jamie grimaced as Claire lifted the cotton ball with the stinging antiseptic from his leg. “And tha’ does’na include shaving ma leg. Just put the plaster on and be done with it. I’ll deal with ripping it off later”

“Stubborn, aren’t you?” Claire snorted with laughter as she applied the large bandage to his shin. Jamie could feel the adhesive already pulling at the hair but he nodded anyway, as if wasn’t a bother.

“Aye- Yes. My sister says my head is harder than rocks; either stubborn or being hit over the head, I’m the same.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Claire smiled as she cleaned up the rubbish.

“Thank ye for yer help. I appreciate it.”

“It’s not a bother. I’ve seen you riding around the streets a few times. You deliver the papers?” Claire asked as she washed her hands and moved to the open door where they could hear Lamb humming to himself.

“I’m going out again,” she called out the door, and without waiting for a response led Jamie back out of the house.

“So the paper. You deliver it?” She asked again as they walked back to Jamie abandoned bike.

“Aye, I mean yes. Just a small route, mind, few of the elderly folk that dinna like to go out too much.”

“Do you have anyone on our street?” Claire asked with her hands on her hips as Jamie picked up his bike and slung his bag across his body.

“Not here, no, but Mrs Duncan round the corner, the Mackenzie’s back a street, the Wakefield’s and Mohr’s,” Jamie pointed back the way he’d come. “Oh and the Randall’s, but they’re a few streets away from here I suppose.”

“But none on this street?” She clarified as Jamie started to wheel his bike in the direction of his own house, Claire keeping pace with him.

“No, not on this street.”

“Hmmph.” Claire made an unimpressed sound and crossed her arms across her chest.

“What?” Jamie asked in confusion.

“So why do you come onto our street, stop under that tree and stare at my house?” Claire asked forcefully.

Jamie felt himself blush as he shook his head. “I just stop to take a break after peddling round all morning. The tree’s got good shade and I canna help it if yer house is across from it.”

Claire didn’t say anything further and Jamie found himself babbling to her to fill the silence.

“It gets hot most mornings. It’s a good place to stop a’fore I have to ride back home and start my chores. I did’na even realise that someone lived in the house till ye came out of it.”

“Is that so?” Claire asked, clearly disbelieving him.

“Aye, why? What did ye think? That I was stalking ye?” Jamie’s voice sounded rough and he knew it was because it was a half truth. He wasn’t stalking perhaps. He was just curious about the residents of Walter Stuart’s house.

“Not exactly no. But you do stop there an awful lot and stare at the house,” Claire said somewhat sheepishly.

“Maybe I should be worried about you stalking me, watching me come and go like that,” Jamie said sarcastically, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Well there’s only so much you can do from within the house without going insane, so you start looking out,” Claire answered quietly, almost in embarrassment.

“Why did’na ye go out before?”

“Reasons.” Claire answered shortly, promptly shutting down Jamie’s line of questions.

“Fair enough,” he conceded. “So where were ye headed to before ye came to patch me up?”

“Nowhere really. Just wanted to get out of the house. Explore the area that I’m supposed to be living in,” Claire said with a shrug.

“Do ye want a tour?” Jamie asked a little too enthusiastically. Anything to spend more time with Claire- he would do it. They would probably attend the same school when the break was over, but the more he could get to know her now, the better.

“Is there even enough to look at for a tour?” Claire asked skeptically.

“When ye ken where to go,” Jamie answered smugly and turned left down the next street without waiting to see if she followed- which she did.

#outlander fanfic #outlander #jamie x claire #fanfic #outlander fanfiction #paperboy au #jamie fraser #claire beauchamp #fluff #fluff fanfic #alternate universe

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lesbeet · 5 years

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this might be a strange question but what goes into becoming a teacher? i've been thinking about becoming a teacher and i'm nervous even though it's something i really think i want to do and i'm curious as to how you go about becoming one like what courses/requirements do you need to take and how do you come up with a lesson plan and everything? and how did you know teaching was something you wanted to do or realize it was something you would be good at?

hm well i can only tell you about my own experience, which i would say is probably pretty unorthodox, but it’s been working really well for me!

so i’ve been working on a masters in teaching for english/language arts grades 5-12 from western governors university, which is an (accredited) online program for aspiring teachers who need to be licensed as teachers in general as well as certified/endorsed in their particular subject areas. depending on what you want to teach, there are a couple of undergrad teaching degrees they offer (i believe it’s elementary ed, special ed, and a couple of different math and science programs), but to do like language arts or social studies etc, you’d need to have a bachelors degree to qualify -- though i also did my bachelors at wgu (in business management sdklfdjskdflsjd i hated it) so it doesnt need to be education-related or anything

if you wanna know more about my particular program let me know, bc it works fairly unusually but is a legitimate post-secondary educational institution and is also incredibly affordable, and idk what i’d be doing if i hadnt found out that it existed lmao

but so yeah idk what an education undergrad would consist of, but for my program in particular there were a lot of english content classes, obviously, like secondary disciplinary literacy, english pedagogy, secondary reading instruction and interventions, stuff like that

and then there were a lot of more generalized pedagogical courses, like educational assessment, foundational perspectives of education, classroom management, fundamentals of diversity and inclusion, principles of psychology: child and adolescent development, and stuff like that

again, this is just based on my own experience, but re: lesson plans, i actually just had some assignments for my courses where i had to write them and justify the thought process behind the decisions i made! like in my english pedagogy course, i had to write 3 essays (one for a literature-based lesson, one for a grammar-based lesson, and one for a writing-based lesson), and in each essay there was a section where i had to plan an entire lesson using their lesson plan format, and then explain and justify why i made each choice that i made.

i’m starting student-teaching next semester, as soon as we get back from winter break, and i assume i’ll get more practice with lesson-planning through that, but basically it kind of comes down to like...figuring out the standards your students are supposed to reach, then figuring out how you’re going to break them down into a curriculum, and then for each lesson you figure out what objectives/goals you want your students to reach by the end, and you figure out how to present the material and then assess in some way whether or not the students understand it. once you know what the purpose of a lesson plan is (whether re: the idea of lesson plans in general, or a specific lesson plan you’re working on), the rest is just figuring out how to achieve that purpose. and it comes with practice! and trial and error, and figuring out what works and doesnt work with your own teaching style and in your classroom, etc. ik that’s super vague but so much of it depends of the parameters you’re given—like while i’m student-teaching i won’t be picking the books we read, so i’ll already have that requirement figured out for me, yknow?

as for your last question, my mom has been teaching my whole life, and my dad started teaching when i was about 10. my aunt is also a teacher, and my other aunt is a speech-language pathologist, so. i grew up around teachers kfjsldkfjs

i’ve just always liked explaining things to people and helping them understand them! i think really what it comes down to is that i just have a lot of passion and a lot of things to say sldfksjdkflj like i really do believe that english/language arts in particular is applicable in all parts of life, because all people communicate. i can’t speak for like. calculus or biology or whatever, but 99.9999% of people will need to do some sort of reading, and some sort of writing and/or speaking and/or communication of some type or another, and for all of the “the curtains are just blue!!!” whiners out there, it’s crucial to know how to communicate with others, and to understand what others are attempting to communicate to you, and i can’t think of a single scenario in which that isn’t the case.

plus like, idk a single person who doesn’t like some form of story, whether through tv shows or movies or books or plays or podcasts or video games etc etc etc, and imo those can all be enhanced and made even better by having some sort of background knowledge of storytelling as an art, or as a process, or as an established medium with its own structures and intertextual lexicon etc! like the more i read about the art and history of storytelling, the more i enjoy movies and tv shows (which i already love and watch frequently), bc storytelling isn’t just a textual medium!

tbh part of the reason i think i’m good at explaining things is because i grew up in an emotionally abusive household, and i learned very early on how to anticipate the way another person (usually my dad lol) would interpret something i said to him, regardless of what i actually meant by it. so i subconsciously learned to apply that skill to other people, and now i’ve got sort of a knack for being able to cater my explanations to different people based on how i think they’ll best understand the information, and not just in a classroom setting—like i sometimes serve as a mediator/”interpreter” when my sister and my dad are having difficult conversations, because i know them both well enough, and the way they think well enough, that when one of them says something, i can usually understand both their intention AND how the other person is going to interpret it, and i can rephrase or explain things so miscommunication doesn’t end up making the problem worse

so in a classroom, i can explain things in several different ways, and if i’m working one-on-one with different kids i can usually figure out what isn’t clicking and can try another way to explain it. also bc my adhd brain processes information by making connections to other things i already know, i’m particularly good at coming up with (often unusual) metaphors or analogies for things, and people are like “oh wow ok that’s a weird way to explain it but i definitely get it now” and stuff

so basically i’ve learned bc of necessity how to communicate more effectively with others, and because i want everyone else to get the enjoyment out of language arts that i do, i’m drawn to teaching because i hope to help the students find at least some area of it that they’re interested in, and to show them that literature/storytelling/communication aren’t just about reading old boring books written by racist white dudes who hated women, but about learning to represent and interpret and take part in the human experience, because the foundation of any sort of society is communication, and that very basic desire to be understood by others

so even when i didnt actively Want To Be A Teacher it was always kinda in the back of my mind like “well if i dont find anything else i wanna do, i can always be an english teacher” bc most of my favorite teachers growing up were english teachers, and even at my absolute worst i did just fine in those classes, even when i hadnt read the books we were discussing (which was most of the time jsdklfsjd which is now kind of a problem for me as a teacher so i do think i shot myself in the foot there but oh well, i was 14)

anyway, as usual that got super long, but i hope it was helpful! lemme know if you have any other questions :)

#anonymous #answered

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scripttorture · 5 years

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Your National Styles post is very helpful! I was wondering though if you could talk about what kinds of torture were common in pre-modern India? I don't have a specific time period in mind, I'm just after inspiration for a fantasy setting that's loosely inspired by India. Thanks.

This made me smile. Thank you Anon, any excuse to read more Indian history is a gift.

I don’t have good sources for the entire sub-continent. Most of what I have focuses on the north. I’m also not 100% sure what you mean by pre-modern so I’m going to try to describe as much as I can, adding rough areas and time periods. That way you can pick and choose things that suit what you’re going for in your story. :)

I’m not going to try with the Harappans. Partly because their writing system still hasn’t been deciphered but mostly because I intend to continue imagining they created an egalitarian utopia. Until such a time as some one finds proof of kingship or other crimes. We all have our stories we like to cling to.

I actually started out with Keay’s India: A History (imaginative title isn’t it?) because the local library had it. It actually turned out to be a pretty good sign post for other sources.

India has an incredibly rich history, but much of that history wasn’t written down until hundreds of years after the events took place. Which is something it has in common with most northern European countries, although most European countries have less thorough oral histories.

India is quite interesting as a case study in the depth and accuracy of oral history. The presence of separate oral records for the same events and separate strands of written records- well it builds up an interesting picture. Apart from pure historical interest it’s also interesting to see what people remember, attempts to change records and how (with the right systems in place) oral history can be remarkably resistant to change.

I digress.

The point is Arthashastra is available in full online here. It’s a kind of guide to the organisation of a state. We don’t have exact dates for it (it was probably written by several people complied over quite a long period) but it’s probably mostly from roughly 200 AD. It is focused on the Mauryan empire dated as beginning in roughly 320 BC.

It was pretty damned big. Conservative estimates have the empire stretching across the north of the Indian peninsula from ocean to ocean, from Pakistan, Punjab and Nepal all the way across into Bangladesh and south into Orissa and Maharashtra. Just looking at a global map, we’re talking conservatively of an area the size of France, Germany, Poland and Italy.

The translation I’ve linked to has some issues that I can see from a casual read. For instance the references to ‘eunuchs’ were probably rendered in the original as a domination of tritiya-prakriti; literally ‘third kind’. The closest English translation is probably ‘queer’ as the term encompasses homosexual, bisexual, transgender, gender nonconforming and intersex people as well as people who can’t naturally conceive. Some of the subtleties in the original are probably lost in translation and there may well be references I’m missing.

Now like most historical cultures the Mauryans tortured and tried to impose legal limits on torture. We know from modern analysis that legal restrictions on torture don’t work: torturers will always ignore them.

So it’s highly unlikely that the tortures the Mauryans allowed by law were the only tortures that happened in the Mauryan empire. But we can be pretty confident that the tortures they listed as legal were used through their empire.

Arthashastra describes torture as a punishment and torture as an attempt to force a suspect to confess. At the same time the text acknowledges that torture can force false confessions and appears to cite a named legal case where this happened.

I feel it’s also worth stressing that the vast majority of punishments the text suggests are fines. Apparently in ancient India you could get fined for almost anything.

Arthashastra’s description of tortures starts with a list of people who can not legally be tortured. Now torturers will generally ignore this but I feel it’s worth including for some cultural context:

‘Ignoramuses, youngsters, the aged, the afflicted, persons under intoxication, lunatics, persons suffering from hunger, thirst, or fatigue from journey, persons who have just taken more than enough of meal, persons who have confessed of their own accord (átmakásitam), and persons who are very weak,--none of these shall be subjected to torture.’

‘Those whose guilt is believed to be true shall be subjected to torture (áptadosham karma kárayet). But not women who are carrying or who have not passed a month after delivery.

Torture of women shall be half of the prescribed standard. Or women with no exception may be subjected to the trial of cross-examination (vákyanuyogo vá).

Those of Bráhman caste and learned in the Vedas as well as asceties shall only be subjected to espionage.

Those who violate or cause to violate the above rules shall be punished with the first amercement. The same punishment shall be imposed in case of causing death to any one by torture.’

Now I know this is a little dense so in case that’s not clear the second passage is saying that women should be tortured less then men and pregnant women or women who recently gave birth shouldn’t be tortured at all.

The last paragraph states that the punishment for a torturer for violating the rules, or for killing someone while torturing them is a fine. And not a particularly steep one. (Based on modern research I’d say it’s unlikely these limits were enforced, consistently or at all).

The text describes whipping, beating with canes, suspension and ‘water-tube’.

It particularly talks about beating the thighs, palms of the hands, soles of the feet (I refer to this as falaka) and the knuckles.

It states there are two kinds of suspension but doesn’t describe them. Most suspension tortures involve hanging a person by their arms in some manner, but not all. I honestly can’t tell from the text what sort of suspensions were used.

‘Water tube’ could mean- well a lot of things. It could mean pumping, which is forcing someone to swallow liquid until their internal organs are painfully swollen (often causing vomiting and diarrhoea). It could mean waterboarding. It could mean the ‘Chinese water torture’ (incredibly misleading name), continual dripping of water on to someone’s eyes, which is actually a form of sleep deprivation.

There’s also this ‘the hands being joined so as to appear like a scorpion’ which sounds like a form of finger milking. That’s bindings around the hands or arms restricting circulation and causing the hands to swell painfully.

The last three things acknowledged as torture in the text are these ‘burning one of the joints of a finger after the accused has been made to drink rice gruel; heating his body for a day after be has been made to drink oil; causing him to lie on coarse green grass for a night in winter.’

I honestly haven’t a clue what the significance of the rice gruel might be in this context.

The combination of drinking oil and heat sounds like a strange combination of tortures. Drinking oils can uh- basically give someone diarrhoea. Oil can also be flammable but I don’t think this is implying immolation. I think it might be indicating a combination of pumping, dehydration, starvation and a temperature torture.

Because forcing a prisoner to drink something that would make them sick would quickly make them dehydrated. Subjecting them to extremely hot temperatures would then be even more painful and dangerous.

The final description seems to a straightforward form of exposure. It’s exposing a victim to cold winter temperatures. The implication is that this also involves sleep deprivation. The ‘grass’ may or may not be significant. There are plenty of plants you wouldn’t want to lie down on for a night but I’m unsure whether the ‘coarse’ description indicates something that could cause pain.

The text also describes beatings, branding the face (of Brahmans specifically) and amputation as punishments. It describes death by ‘torture’ but the particular torture is not specified. It describes capital punishment in general terms ie ‘those who commit this offence shall be put to death’. A few offences called for beheading specifically. It also describes the use of jails.

The amputations I could find listed were: a finger, a hand, a nose, a leg, ears, male genitalia. There’s also a description of blinding by the application of chemicals.

As a final note before we move on there’s an interesting passage on sudden death and signs to look for on a corpse that could indicate the cause of death. It’s pretty interesting as an example of how people conducted investigations into murders before we had forensic labs.

You can probably assume Ashoka is broadly covered by what I’ve described. His ethical pronouncements including prohibits on torture but nothing suggests a complete and enforced ban on the practice so it’s likely to have continued under his rule.

Now I tried to find some sources on the southern Indian empires, like the Chola but I couldn’t find anything I felt was a clear description of the criminal justice system. Similarly I didn’t find anything clear on the Sangam period.

I’m honestly not sure if this is because sources don’t exist or because there are less translations from Tamil.

There is a lot of Tamil poetry from the Sangam period that’s available in translation and touches on Tamil history and wars. These might well serve as a good source of inspiration but I don’t think they’re necessarily a good indication of common practice.

I am, admittedly, making assumptions based on epic poetry from other countries. My impression though is that these kinds of literary pieces tend to record unusual practices rather than common ones. When they mention common ones they don’t always give the full context of what terms mean. So for instance the Norse Eddas describe several unusual (for the culture) methods of execution and torture, but references to more common ones are usually a word or two without explanation. The Eddas mention blood eagles but don’t actually tell us what they were. This kind of description seems common in the epic poetry I’ve read and as a result I’m assuming the Tamil poetry will be similar.

The next thing I went to was a couple of Chinese sources recounting travels to India. These were from Buddhist pilgrims so remember that bias while readings their accounts.

Faxian (Fa Hian) wrote an account that’s available in translation here. I only had a quick flick through but from what I can see it’s more useful for establishing the wider historical context of the countries and the religious climate at the time then it is figuring out ideas about justice and torture.

The next thing that really stood out is the famous Record of Western Lands, the inspiration for The Journey West by a monk whose name is Romanised in about half a dozen different ways. Hsuan Tsang and Xuanzang seem to be the most popular renderings with the former used predominantly in Indian studies.

Now the first volume is relatively easy to find but I’ve had difficulty getting access to the other 11.

Hsuan Tsang periodically recounts stories of Indian history, some involving ideas of punishment, justice and torture. Now a lot of these probably don’t show common practice and some of them seem to have been misinterpreted by Hsuan Tsang (I think the account of voluntary castration is more likely to be describing a queer Indian identity then a punishment) but they’re useful nonetheless.

Generally Hsuan Tsang seems to be confirming that the practices described in the Arthashastra were still in use while he was travelling. As well as fines he describes imprisonment and social shunning of criminals which may amount to isolation/solitary confinement.

He describes amputations as punishment, of the nose, ear, hand or foot. He doesn’t describe castration as a punishment per say but it seems likely this continued even if it was rare.

Hsuan Tsang claims that torture wasn’t used to force confessions but then describes torture being used to force people to plead when they ‘refuse to admit their unlawful activities ashamed of their faults’. Which sounds to me like torture used to force confessions and/or something analogous to the historical English custom of being ‘pressed to plead’ (ie people who refused to plead guilty or innocent were tortured until they pleaded one way or the other).

The tortures described are a form of near (or likely actual) drowning by putting a person in a weighted sack and throwing them in a river. He also describes a burning torture using hot iron. The other descriptions in this section sound more like ways of divining a person’s alleged guilt and I’m going to ignore them.

He describes blinding as a punishment. And also a vampire story that I wasn’t expecting.

As we get into the 700s there’s increasing Arab contact, which at this point is mostly via traders and pirates. My initial notes include some questions about whether this is when falaka was introduced to India but going by the Arthashastra it seems likely falaka was in use long before the Arabs arrived. In fact the spread may have gone the other way.

It’s also possible that Ancient India and Ancient Egypt both hit upon similar practices separately due to the simple nature of torture. I digress-

Writings by Arab scholars and travellers about India start becoming more prominent from the 900s onwards. Most of these recount hostile encounters between Muslim forces and Hindu or Buddhist groups. The accounts are a lot less interested in the history and politics of the region then the Chinese travellers three or four hundred years earlier.

The most easily available one is probably Chach Nama which was written in the 1200s-1300s and claims to be a translation of an earlier work on Arab conquests of Pakistan and north western India during the 800s. However- it’s accuracy on several points is disputed. A lot of people don’t think it’s a translation but an original work combining and re-imagining earlier historical documents. Some of the older accounts, such as those of Al Baladhuri and Al Biruni, contradict it.

Personally I have slightly more faith in the accuracy of the Chinese accounts then the Chach Nama. I think it’s likely it was constructed to justify conflicts of the 1200s by creating a supposed historical basis for those conflicts. I think it also displays a vested interest in making conquered people appear uncivilised, a pattern that’s common in a lot of historical accounts of foreign countries by the people who conquered them.

In light of that- I think Al Biruni’s A Critical Study of What India Says, Whether Accepted by Reason or Refused, a better bet. Especially since he seems to have been more interested in Indian society then Indian rulers. (Though take into account my personal biases here; I think Al Biruni is a nice example of how Islamic scholars influenced scientific and historical thought. I think our modern philosophy of science owes a lot to the ideas of truthfulness (al-haqq) Al Biruni and people like him championed. I’m going to own my academic admiration.)

This looks like your best bet for an easily accessible copy.

I feel like I should stress, having recommended a bunch of foreign scholars as sources on Indian history, that throughout this period we’re pretty sure Indians were writing their own histories. However not many of them have survived. That’s thought to be because of a combination of the climate and the way things were commonly recorded. The theory I see repeated is that Indians were commonly recording things by carving on wood. This almost invariably rotted away. Similar things have occurred in other countries as well: much of England’s early history literally went up in flames during the Great Fire of London when one of the principal libraries burned and Alexandria’s destruction is generally cited as the reason we don’t have a lot of important classical Greek works, like first hand accounts of Alexander’s conquests or say more Sappho.

Aaaaand that was the point where my friends staged an intervention and the library demanded financial restitution for my kidnapping of their books.

Spoil sports. The rest of this is from my general knowledge.

European forces and settlements in India would probably have introduced more tortures. The Dutch regularly used waterboarding, but I can’t find any indication that this became common practice in India.

However the British army’s combination of stress positions and exposure did. A punishment the British called ‘crucifixion’ was used throughout India. It involved tying the victim standing with their arms outstretched in a T shape in full sun.

The stress position itself is incredibly painful, combined with the climate it was likely to cause dehydration and possibly heat stroke as well.

I couldn’t find any other instances where it seemed like part of a European National Style had been adopted by Indians.

I found historical references to murgha stress position in India, including an illustration from the early 1800s. I’m not sure how far back the usage goes but that could be because it was generally used against children. Punishments towards children are not generally recorded as torture historically and it can be difficult to trace their usage.

I couldn’t find any historical references to pepper (putting irritating substances such as pepper or chilli into mucous membranes, eyes, nose, genitals etc). That doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t practiced historically. Again, this is a form of torture that seems to have been associated with abuse of women and children in the home, rather than legislative punishments.

I think you could use both in a story set in historical India without it appearing out of place. It might not strictly be historically accurate but both would have been possible.

Judging by the Arthashastra falaka has been in India for a very long time indeed. I couldn’t find enough sources to confidently state it was in continuous from the late BC until today- but virtually every period I could find records of torture in India for included falaka. I think it’s likely that it was used continuously; I can’t prove it.

Blinding turns up continuously throughout India history as a punishment aimed at people of high social rank or power.

I’ve read some accounts of burning people alive as a punishment, but these are from later on in Indian history; the 1700s and 1800s. The particular account that springs to mind is Farzana’s ordering a group of arsonists to be burnt alive. The context for this is that they set fire to a group of buildings housing women who lived in purdah and that if the fire hadn’t been put out these women would have burnt alive rather then leave the building. Farzana’s punishment was interpreted as ‘an eye for an eye’.

I feel like I should probably also briefly mention ritual suicide. There are a lot of historical Indian accounts of people killing themselves rather then renouncing a particular principal. One of the things that shows up repeatedly is women killing themselves when their husbands die. Sometimes this appears to have been voluntary. In other cases it seems as though the women were given no reasonable choice.

I don’t think this fits the modern legal definition of torture, but it’s certainly an abuse of human rights aimed particularly at women. Starvation, burning on the husband’s funeral pyre and being thrown off tall buildings are the methods I see cited most commonly.

The position of women in India is- well it’s a couple of books worth of material in itself. And I’d like to stress going in to this that there are very few countries/cultures that treated women well historically. Keep in mind when I describe the position of women and Dalits that the position of women and slaves or ‘barbarians’ in Greece and Rome was not any better.

There’s a long history in India of confining women and limiting who they can interact with. The Arthashastra describes curfews inflicted on women and recommends barring women from leaving the home without an escort. It also legally limits the people women can invite to their homes.

In historical Indian society it seems as though- it looks to me as if it would have been very easy for family members to isolate individual women in conditions akin to solitary confinement. This would probably have been unusual but from what I can see of the law and custom it wouldn’t have been seen as illegal or immoral.

I’ve seen recent pieces claiming that the caste system is a recent invention. But I find this difficult to believe when the caste system is repeatedly cited in historical sources before European colonialism reached India. It’s cited by Al Biruni, Hsuan Tsang and in the Arthashastra.

Yes there are historical incidences of people taking up occupations that were associated with different castes. Indian farmers and merchants did become Kings. But showing there was some social mobility and that caste was more (or less) flexible at different periods of time isn’t the same as showing that people were in no way limited by their parentage.

Al Biruni describes the treatment of Dalits as ‘untouchable’ and describes different castes eating and washing separately as well as society relegating Dalits to work that was deemed dirty or unsafe.

The Arthashastra describes different punishments for different castes (analogous to Old English law ascribing different punishments to different social classes). Unsurprisingly the rulers and ‘pious’ men are usually let off with a fine, while the poorest and the Dalits are supposed to be maimed, tortured or killed for the same transgression.

It’s more then possible that living conditions and treatment of people at different levels of society was- perhaps not legally torture but certainly inhumane. I can’t find any clear indication that Dalits were made to live separately in the past. But if they were, judging by how the sources say they were treated by law, it seems likely their living conditions would have been worse. They may have had poor access to water, food and adequate shelter.

I feel it’s also worth noting that Rejali talks about law enforcement targeting these kinds of minority groups for torture as a punishment for social transgressions. Things like- homeless people daring to walk down the streets of a ‘good’ neighbourhood.

This sort of behaviour is typical of torturers, even when it’s not supported by the law. It occurs today, and I see no reason why it wouldn’t happen in a hierarchical historical society.

Slavery was present in India. I can’t say for certain that it was present throughout all of Indian history, and it certainly does not seem to be as prevalent as it was in Greece or Rome but it occurred. I’ve seen more accounts of it in the Mughal period then prior to that but this might be due to better record keeping.

Many of the Black Indian groups around today are descended from freed or escaped slaves brought to India by Arab traders. Beyond that I don’t know much about slavery in historical India. I’m unaware of any one particular industry slaves were funnelled into or of particular punishments (alla the bleeding Romans-).

If you’re thinking of using slavery in your story I’d suggest sticking to the most common global tortures used against enslaved people: starvation, exposure, lack of medical treatment, beatings, dehydration and over work.

From what I’ve read I’d say that India generally fits in with my pet theory about changing torture practices over time. I think that it’s only relatively recently that people have thought of torture as primarily a way to ‘get the truth’ (see here for why this idea is bullshit).

What I’m interpreting from these sources is that in India, like most of the world, torture was used as a punishment, people were sentenced to it. It was also used to force confessions. And although there was an idea that torture could be used to find the truth, this was not seen as it’s primary purpose.

And I think that’s probably where I’m going to have to leave this. At four thousand words it’s actually shorter/less detailed then I’d hoped. I blame my mates for insisting I have a social life.

I think it should be enough to get you started though. :)

Availableon Wordpress.

Disclaimer

#Anonymous #tw torture #tw sexism #tw caste violence #tw scars #tw castration #tw sectarianism #historical torture #historical fiction #India #National Styles #historical India

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starsmuserainbow · 5 years

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Starfire’s RP PLOTTING CHEAT-SHEET

Want new-and-exciting plots for your character? Long to reach out to more of your followers, but don’t know where to start? Fear not! Fill out this form and give your RP partners both present and future all the of juicy jumping off points they need to help you get your characters acquainted.

Be sure to tag the players whose characters YOU want more cues to interact with, and repost, don’t reblog! Feel free to add or remove sections as you see fit. Template here.

Mun name: I go by Star or Starfire online. If we’re close, I might give you my real name upon asking - but if I do, please don’t ‘openly’ call me by it for others to see on this site. I’m very hesistant about RL things like that. OOC Contact: IMs and Asks are always open (and IMs are always OOC, I don’t do IC IMs), I also have Discord. I’m not giving out my Discord to everyone though, so please forgive me if I decline when you ask for it. Again I don’t do IC on Discord. As for plotting purposes or things like that, I think IMs would work the best.

Who the heck is my muse anyway:

An alien from the planet of Tamaran, Starfire was a princess there but left the planet a while ago because she wanted to explore other worlds and meet other people. Overly friendly, always excited to meet new people, very gullible and also somewhat naive. But don’t let that fool you, she’s not stupid, and her alien abilities also make her a threat if you decide to use her friendliness for your own purposes.

Points of interest:

She has orange-ish skin as it is common for tamaraneans. Her eyes are green, the sclera as well as the pupil even though the pupil is a bit darker. She can fly, assimilate languages through lip-contact, has superhuman strength, can withstand many difficult circumstances (like the vastness of space, and she doesn’t feel hot or cold unless in that environment for very long or in certain emotional states), and she has a kind of energy that is commonly referred to as ‘starbolts’ which she can use in various ways to attack others. While she has learned english through language assimilation, she still has a strange way of speaking sometimes. Especially with sayings it can easily happen that she doesn’t quite understand them yet. Due to coming from a different planet, her tastes might seem very strange to some people (e.g. she has a big liking of mustard as a drink), and she also still tries to keep up some of her people’s traditions like festivals even when she lives on earth now. She’s very friendly, bubbly and cheerful, probably a bit too energetic for certain people’s tastes, and overall enjoying to be together with people as long as they aren’t (openly) ‘mean’ or ‘evil’.

What they’ve been up to recently:

I don’t really do much in likes of story lines on this blog (yet?), she still lives with her friends in Titans Tower and often spends her free days visiting other areas of the world to meet new people. Other activities in her free time are shopping, flying over the city, and spending time with anyone she calls friend or whom she might be able to call friend later. On the not-free days there’s a lot of crime-fighting involved.

Where to find them:

Titans Tower, Jump City, any kind of Shopping Mall. She also frequently flies to other areas of the earth, so she could be found basically everywhere on the planet.

Current plans:

As stated above, I don’t really do big story lines or such. I had an AU thing once that I had running basically as a sort-of ‘event’ (Blackfire’s Final Trial was how I called it, searching for it will probably show you more info - or you need to ask me), and while similar might happen again if I ever get that spark of an idea again, nothing is really planned at the moment.

Desired interactions:

I’d really like to have more enemies for her. I love my sweet little beam of sunshine and how she tries to see the good in everyone, but I feel like there’s not enough villain/enemy stuff going on. Also I would really love more interactions for my other verses too (most prominently I’d name my Evil!Star here and my “Bad Endings”-verse), see my verses page for more details for that please. I’m open to any kind of crossover, even if I don’t know about your fandom yet! (Which of course doesn’t mean that I’m not open for anything else, any kind of interaction is great!)

To also name some specific character/s I’d really like to interact with: Mar’i (kid of Robin and Starfire in some future timeline, originating from one comic-line I think)! I have a wishlist-post about that too. There’s never enough RobStar, of course, but at least I do know and am mutuals/interacting with some Robins at the moment, so I don’t really think that should even be listed here - but since there can never be enough, here it is. Cyborg. Has there ever been a Cyborg RPer that lasted longer than, idk, a week or so? Because I definitely haven’t found anyone like it, which is a shame. I’d like to list some more, but two others I could name are ones where I can add more explanation, or ideas, on my other blogs, so that’s where they’ll be listed instead.

Offered interactions:

Starfire sometimes takes her home-made food to offer it to others. Be aware that the tamaranean food often has very different tastes from what would be expected. She also loves to take people flying with her, or talk about her planet. She tries to help in basically any way she could for any problem you might have. She could also easily end up crashing somewhere - as she’s quick to be distracted for a few moments and not check where she’s flying. Or come and go on some other kind of adventure with her! Crime-fighting is naturally also one of the things she’d appreciate a partner (or enemy) in.

Current open post/s:

Open Starters here (and please feel free to reply to ones that already have replies, that doesn’t mean they aren’t still open!) and Memes here! Both are always open, and you’re free to answer or send in something older too! There’s no expiration date on my things!

Anything else?:

I live in germany which sadly causes me to miss out many great things when they happen on the dash. I tend to read all that is on my dash once I’m awake again, but I don’t feel brave enough for reacting to anything that might have happened hours ago. Oh, I’m also as shy as can be, or maybe even shy-er than that. I do try to change this and everyday tell myself to go and approach someone or send in things to others, but that’s hard and quite often it doesn’t happen. I do have Wire-accounts for my muses, and you can either search for them on my blog or ask me about them, but I don’t know if I could/will ever do any good on those.

Tagging: Anyone that took the time to read this!

#✫ Out of Clurblopf ✫ | OOC #✫ I believe this is important ✫ | PSA #✫ There was a young alien girl who lived in a T ✫ | About Starfire #idk I felt like adding the psa tag here is a good idea?

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potteresque-ire · 5 years

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My Hottest Literary Take is… (Or, Reading as a Caring Observer)

My hottest literary take is…

Long-form investigative journalism now needs / deserves a place in a well-balanced literature diet.

Yes, by that I mean, I think in-depth journalistic reporting—the kind that creates detailed, pages-long articles on specific issues, articles that are well-written and reasoned and balanced with impeccably portrayed personalities—should be collected and published, and found themselves on the library shelves for “literature” nation (world) wide. They should be on summer reading lists, be the tools of torture in English classes. I think its exclusion for being non-fictional and “news”, together with the drastic change in our reading habits over the last decade, is at least partly responsible for the ongoing debate on what makes “problematic” media content (and whether censoring is the proper treatment for them).

First of all, here’s the definition of “literature”:

Merriam Webster:

1a(1): writings in prose or verse

especially: writings having excellence of form or expression and expressing ideas of permanent or universal interest

Oxford (Lexico):

Written works, especially those considered of superior or lasting artistic merit.

These definitions suggest that literature doesn’t need to be fictional. It just has to be writing. Social issues, which investigative journalism dives into, are definitely of permanent and universal interest. Artistic merit is relative, judged against our day-to-day reading material…

Which, these days, it’s social media. We also ingest news briefings online, most of which are indeed brief if they’ve got words at all. The common characteristics of the two is that both encourages quantity over quality; companies have little incentive to encourage their users to stop and digest each article / post / tweet before moving to the next as clicks equate profit. Social media also makes autobiographical writing much more prevalent, in which the poster isn’t expected to maintain an emotional distance to what they are saying. They’re not expected to step away, judge the experience from a distance, find voices contrary to their own.

What this signifies to me is … we rarely come to contact with material written from the perspective of a “caring observer” anymore. I use the term “caring observer” rather than “passerby”, because the latter, to me at least, has much less (if any) emotional investment in the matter being observed. A caring observer is not directly affected by the investigated subject, but they want to know more; and they will know more, they’ll take away something from the experience, but they can still maintain sufficient distance from the subject matter, present the merits and fallacies of the arguments and counterarguments and the people behind them, and invite the readers to make their own conclusions without asserting their own views upon them.

It’s a very unique, precise thing to hold, this Distance — I shall put this word in capital letters — between the investigative journalist and their subject. Stand too far, the investigative power of the work suffers. Stand too close, the balance of the piece may be gone, the scope narrows and loses its universal appeal.

The investigative journalist is a caring observer.

The caring observer can also describe aptly, I think, the relationship between readers of a fictional work and the fictional work itself. And so I believe, too, that an optimal Distance exists between readers of the classically-defined (fictional, aesthetically outstanding) literature and literature itself. It’s the distance that allows us to immerse in the content without drowning in the world—something young children often lack the skills to do; it’s the distance that allows us to walk in the same shoes as the characters while we read and switch back to our own trainers afterward, the distance that allows us to shed tears for the characters and then to say, “even though I’d never be in that situation in the first place” or “even though I disagree with everything that they did”. As I review my beloved media content, my thoughts are, in many ways, much like an investigative news article: that was the situation, the conflict, the people involved, the dilemma they had, why each side failed or succeeded in getting what they wanted. Why it took them so long, why it was such a difficult journey despite this and that…

Oh dear, my heart.

(Do people get emotional over investigative reporting? I do.)

On “problematic” literature. My knee-jerk reaction too, is that no fiction can be problematic enough to justify censorship. The argument is this: characters in fictional world cannot be hurt, and we, as readers, exit the world when we close the book. But when I think harder, some parts of this argument does feel a little shaky. We keep on reading a story because we care. We say we exit the fictional world when we put down the book….but at the same time, many of us read because certain elements of its world stay with us.

And we *want* those elements of its world to stay with us.

This is particularly true for fandomers, who have a tendency, a … passion to keep a shorter distance between us as consumers of a piece of media and the media itself. For better or for worse, we aren’t very good at this Distance thing, at least in the eyes of convention. This also means that as a group, we are perhaps, indeed, more prone to the influence of literature because we tend to invite more of the fictional world into our own. And if we are more prone, then subtle lessons of misogyny, racism, etc would have more potential to invade our RL perspectives. After I considered this, I’ve come to some understanding as to why the “problematic” debate has appeared to be most heated in fandoms, when my intuition had told me otherwise—why would media lovers want to censor media? Or prevent someone else from enjoying whatever media they want to enjoy?

And I’ve started to wonder if the debate these days, on problematic media content and their deserved treatment, really stems from the two sides perceiving very different Distances between themselves and the media they consume, and this Distance is so abstract that neither side can relay it in words. This divide as I’ve observed is somewhat generational, but only because, I’d postulate here, that the older generations may be much more accustomed to reading as a caring observer. This isn’t a question of intelligence, or that one side “can’t read” or the other side “are all pedophiles”. These allegations are tearing fandom apart, taking the joy out of it. It saddens me to see that.

I think, the progress of our world and our experience in it has simply shaped the two sides differently. I’m definitely from an older generation, and “caring-observer” style writing used to be all around me. As a child, I was already in touch with investigative reporting every day from the stacks of newspapers delivered to my home. The internet was around by the time I was in uni, but laptops were still too expensive to own and being an ultimate introvert who enjoyed reading far more than people, I used to collect the newspapers strewn about in the cafeteria (the school always leave one free copy of the prominent ones out there) and read them over meals. I got used to reading long articles from writers who described an initial stranger, an initial strange thing that’d been in no way connected to themselves before, in increasingly vivid, if painful details while withholding judgment—the judgment would be the work I’d have to put in myself. And there was no answer key; there was no one, no social media to assure me if my conclusion was valid or call me out if it was stupid or prejudiced. I made my many questionable conclusions over as many questionable salads; often I turned out to be very wrong. They never hurt me though. I moved on. I got better.

I didn’t know then, but I was learning to read as a caring observer, from something an expert caring observer had written and published.

Turn the clock years later, and our current reading material, including (and perhaps especially) our news, is no longer fertile ground for nurturing caring observers both in reading and writing. As I mentioned before, it emphasizes on almost the opposite: quantity, efficiency, and self-expression. My hypothesis is also this, then: that the internet-era generations are reading in a more “self-realizing” than a "caring-observer” manner, which also renders them more aware of representation issues and moralistic concerns, has not happened by preference, but because that reading material available to them is different. They’re used to reading in first person; they’re used to viewing the written word as an extension of self and writing, in general, as a tool for self-portrayal rather than prying into someone or something that isn’t previously understood.

In other words: for one side, reading and writing is about diving into the unknown; for the other side, it’s about expanding and consolidating the knowledge on what is known, including righting the wrongs of the previously assumed (and there are so many wrongs). If the former is about creating a new language, then the latter is about creating a dictionary for a spoken tongue. Both are valid; both can be equally valuable. The question is: how to get the two sides to not trample on what the other side desires.

This is, however, where my bias lies: I still think learning to be a caring observer is a good thing, especially when it comes to appreciating and enjoying literature. Reasons: 1) this has been said many times before and better—horrible things and people do run this world, and often with a carefully constructed facade; literature not only allows us to engage in these terrors in the safety of our world but also helps us build immunity against these facades; 2) very importantly, it builds confidence. Every time I made a correct call on the true colours of a character, it helps me feel more confident when an actual, suspicious RL person comes along and I have to make a quick character judgment. A major perk of being a caring observer is this: I feel I can care enough to learn about a person, then decide that they’re, after all, not worth knowing. I feel I can walk away without outside validation; I don’t need people to agree with me (which I think is the heart of censoring efforts) because my confidence comes from practice and not the approval of others. This comes partly with age, but more because, I think, I’m not only used to making calls, I’m also used to making mistakes. And I’ve realised that it’s all right. Changing one’s mind when one knows better doesn’t break people. It is far less embarrassing than not changing one’s mind just for the sake of consistency.

Being a caring observer is quite freeing, really.

So what are good learning tools for caring observers in training? Literary works (as classically defined) are candidates, but I feel they’re not always efficient—good learning tools must, first of all, be engaging, otherwise that distance issue is a non-issue to begin with; the reader simply doesn’t care, or they don’t care enough to try to override a pre-formed bias. Many books taught in school are ineffective that way. On the other hand, the material cannot be too engaging because … learning shouldn’t be torture (yes, contrary to what I said before); people should feel free to throw all Distance out the proverbial window for certain Loves of Life.

The reason I propose investigative reporting as “practice material” for readers who’d like to find their Distance, the reason I propose investigative reporting to be included in literary discussions inside and outside classrooms, is because I think they’re particularly suited for this age. I also wish there’ll be some concerted efforts by educators to make them more freely and readily available, since quality ones tend to be behind a paywall (for good reasons) and they tend to be dispersed among different media outlets. These reading material can fill a certain void that the age of fast news and social media has created. The younger generations are much more aware of and engaged in social issues; I think they’ll find passion in these writings. They’re also brilliant at finding information that they need, and so no difficult topic is out of their reach as long as they care. Neither of these can (sadly) be said for my generation. The writing in long investigative reports also tends to be logically clear and precisely worded, which are things often lacking in social media writing as well. More importantly, in contrast to fiction, journalism is about real people, often real people with problematic behaviour. It would help bridge feelings towards these real, problematic people and fictional, problematic people, sort out the feelings for the latter. Can one learn about problematic personalities—real or fictional— while keeping the Distance? Can one draw an intimate portrait of who they are without endorsing their behaviour? Can one enter their psyche and emerge unscathed, and with just a little more knowledge of the complicated nature of human beings? I think the answer is yes.

So here’s my hottest literature take: include investigative journalism in literary discussions. And finally, this may be a good time to confess this: I have neither a literature nor a journalism background, so my hottest take can only be considered lukewarm at best. 😛 My need to write something aside—I’ve neglected writing for too long—I just think… maybe, just maybe, I can offer just a little something for people to think about...

#Pie speaks

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