#of the mother in third class telling her children a bedtime story one last time so they can sleep peacefully instead of being afraid

[fireworkss-exe]

call me a stereotypical annoying teenage girl all you want but titanic (1997) had me absolutely transfixed when I first watched it

#shockingly enough I didn't cry when jack died but I DID tear up at the scene #of the mother in third class telling her children a bedtime story one last time so they can sleep peacefully instead of being afraid #god. and the orchestra??? it's been a pleasure playing with you tonight gentlemen or whatever the line was #fuck. that hit me way too hard #also the set and costume design are BRILLIANT and cathy bates as molly brown SERVED #tbh if I was having a love affair with young twinky leo dicaprio and he died in front of me it'd take WAY more than 84 years #for me to get over it #I'll quit yapping now

[goldenshoyo]

Taste like Strawberries - DILF Daichi

Warnings: Fem!Reader, age gap (Reader is 22 and Daichi is mid to late 30s), daddy kink (obv), brat taming, finger sucking, spit kink sorta, dumbification, degradation, thigh riding, oral (m. receiving), rough sex, a little praise, alcohol consumption. (as always, let me know if you want something else tagged)

Word Count: 4.9k (honestly idk how it got so long hahaha sorry)

Author’s note: This is my contribution to @kaijime's dilf collab! Make sure you go check out the masterlist and read all the wonderful works on there as well! Also, I edited this at 2am; so sorry if it is a mess.

--

Can you pick Mei up for me? I have to work late.

You sigh looking down at the text from your sister, this is the third time in the last few weeks she’s sprung this on you. Despite knowing there’s nothing she can do about it, it’s irritating with her husband traveling and needing to work. The one good thing is the quality time you get funny spoiling your niece after school, getting her whatever junk food she wants that your sister never lets her have.

Texting her back that you will, you go back to studying. Your final year of college has been more stressful than you expected, work always piling up with your motivation lacking. No wonder so many students take an extra year. However, you were determined to finish now and not extend your torment any longer.

Glancing at your phone you see it’s nearing pick-up time at Mei’s school. You clean up the library table, shoving your laptop and notes into your bag, and leave. The drive isn’t long, her school is close to your apartment and sister’s house so you would have needed to take this route anyways. Pulling into a free spot near the school, you leave your bags in the car going out to meet her by the school’s front gate.

“Big sis!” Your niece squeals and you look up from your phone. She’s dragging another little girl behind her, pulling her your way. “This is Kaiya! She’s my best friend. She said it's okay I use her first name, so don’t scold me like momma does! I let her call me Mei too!”

You laugh listening to her babble on about her new friend. She’s coming up on her 6th birthday, and every day she is growing more and more into her own personality. “I wouldn’t scold you like your mother. You know that,” you bend at the knees, getting at their height.

“Hi Kaiya, I’m ----. It’s nice to meet you.” You shake her little hand and she smiles.

“You’re very pretty, like Mei.” She pulls her hand away and then her lip pouts. “I wish I had a big sister.”

“I can be your big sister too if you want. Mei, you don’t mind sharing me do you?”

“Only if you promise to get me ice cream.” Her eyes and nose squint and she laughs, her mischievous face has stayed the same since she was a toddler. It’s impossible to resist.

You stand up, rubbing her head and laughing. “Fine, we can stop by a shop on the way home.”

“Sorry,” a deep male voice comes from a few feet behind you. “I had a work thing... I’m sorry I’m a little late baby.”

You watch as a tall, broad man picks up Kaiya while she giggles and wraps her arms around his neck while squealing ‘daddy’. You smile politely when he looks at you. His face is handsome, features not too sharp or round; everything about it warm and inviting. He’s still dressed in his uniform, well besides the jacket. You assume he’s a part of the police force from the pants and belt he wears matched with a dark blue shirt that clings to his form.

“I hope she wasn’t bothering you,” he says while setting her down.

“Oh of course not. She was very polite and well behaved. You’ve raised a great daughter.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thank you. I’m Sawamura Daichi, and you are?” His smile is so cute, you think. It’s not forced or out of politeness, but instead genuine happiness.

“---- -----,” you tell him and shake his hand. He squeezes it once, and your stomach turns. What was that?

“Is Mei yours?” He tilts his head, eyes going between you and your niece. “I’ve never met her mother, only your husband. Kaiya talks non-stop about Mei when she’s home with me.”

“Oh, no-no. I’m her aunt. My sister works a lot, so I pick her up from time to time.” You laugh. “I go to the local college, so it’s close by. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Sawamura.” Trying to keep yourself from becoming too flustered, you look away. Watching as your niece digs through her backpack for some reason.

“Please, call me Daichi. It’s nice to-”

“Daddy, big sis is taking Mei to get ice cream!” Kaiya cuts him off. “Can we go too? Pretty please!” She kisses her father’s cheek, smiling brightly as he sets her back down. She holds tight to his hand, begging some more.

“If it’s okay with your dad, we don’t mind. Do we, Mei?”

She nods with a big smile. “Kaiya they have the BEST strawberry flavor.”

“Do you mind? I don’t want to impose on your time with Mei.” Daichi asks while still keeping an eye on the girls, who have wandered a few feet away while blabbering about ice cream flavors.

“Of course not. It’s good for young girls to spend time together.” He nods and thanks you. “There’s a spot close by. We could walk if you don’t mind.”

“Better wrangle the girls then,” he laughs, walking towards them both and getting their attention.

Taking a deep breath and letting out a sigh, you try and relax. It’s just ice cream for the girls… even if Kaiya’s hot dad is coming along. You’re sure he’s just trying to be nice and let his daughter have a nice time. However, it’s hard not to feel something when a man this hot and good with children is around.

The ice cream shop has a pretty outdoor area off the back of the shop, fenced in with a swing set and other children’s toys and playsets. No one else is visiting currently, so the girls have the playground to themselves, running around with ice cream dripping all over the ground when they forget they should be holding the cones up. Sitting quietly, spooning ice cream into your mouth, you try not to stare at Daichi too often.

“What are you studying?” He asks, breaking the silence that was threatening to become awkward.

“Oh, uh,” you swallow the cold cream. “Literature and classics.”

“Interesting. I bet you enjoy reading to your niece then,” he smiles at you before taking another spoonful of ice cream. You can’t help but watch his tongue dart around the spoon.

“Yeah.” You say quickly looking away. “Mei enjoys it, well, when she pays attention. Does Kaiya like stories?”

“Her mother says she always listens to her when she reads, but for me, it’s hard enough to get her to go to bed. I don’t think she’d ever stay still to let me read her a book.” He continues to talk about the weekends he gets with her, and you listen closely.

It’s stupid, you think. You shouldn’t feel this excited that he’s either divorced or at least no longer together with Kaiya’s mom. It’s selfish, but lucky in some ways. You don’t have to worry about a jealous wife coming after you because her husband paid for your ice cream.

“I’m not around for bedtime, so I can’t really relate.” You say softly and stick your tongue out lick the spoon clean. Stopping yourself from licking the ice cream off, deciding to explain more, “Mei never really stays the night anyway. She gets too worked up without her-”

The spoon is plucked from your hands and you frown looking at Daichi, who has a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “What do you like to do at bedtime?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you stutter out something incoherent. Daichi’s tongue swipes up your spoon, and you watch carefully, longing to be that spoon as his tongue drags across it.

“Well?” He continues, then hands you back the spoon.

“I, uh, I don’t know.” You manage to stutter some words, even if it's not a real answer. “I uh-”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t need to answer now. Let me see your phone,” he asks holding out his hand and you hurry to hand it to him. He puts in his number then hands it back to you. “I’m not free on weekends unless I get a sitter. But, I’ll see you around.”

You sit, stunned by how quickly that turned from a polite playdate for your niece to potentially a playdate with Daichi. You bring your hands to your face, trying to compose yourself before waving at both Daichi and Kaiya as they leave.

“Big sis,” your niece wines. “Wanna go home.” She pulls you from the park bench and through the shop while you continue trying to collect your thoughts.

Did you really just pull a dad? There’s no way he was serious, right?

--

You texted him the night after you got ice cream, but he hadn’t responded. It wasn’t until late Sunday evening he sent back a short ‘you’re welcome’ after you thanked him for the ice cream. Your face burned and your stomach twisted with every flashback to watching his tongue slide across your spoon.

It was so unnecessary.

It was so hot.

Gathering up the courage to ask when you could see him again took another day and liquid encouragement. Maybe texting him while you were drunk wasn’t the best idea, but it did make sending him photos of yourself a lot easier. The ones you got in return nearly made you drool. Joining the police force ensured he never lost his perfect physique. Every inch of him looked like it had been handcrafted by the gods themself.

Slipping your fingers into your panties and toying with your desperate clit was all too fun when he called you late that night, not caring about his early morning shift or the classes you may have. His voice breathy and deep, yours whiny and high pitched when you came around your fingers begging him to come over and fuck you.

He only laughed, telling you to wait until he had a day off.

--

Sitting across from him at dinner should be fun. He keeps the conversation going and you always paid attention and politely answered. However, it becomes increasingly obvious that the burning between your thighs is becoming unbearable.

“Check please,” he tells the waiter, and you nearly squeal with excitement.

“Mind if I go get some fresh air while you settle the bill?” You ask, placing your hand over his; thumb drawing circles on the back of his hand.

“Of course, sweetheart.” He smiles at you and you walk out of the door, ignoring the way his eyes make you feel as you walk out the door.

Cool evening air hits you hard. Letting out another sigh, you laugh at yourself for acting this desperate in public. He must know. It’s not like you’ve been good at hiding it. You’re worse than a cat in heat, mewling for attention and a quick fix.

“Ready?” His voice startles you and you turn to face him. You nod and he extends his hand out for you. The walk to his car is short, and you’re grateful for the dim lighting in the parking garage once you slide into the passenger seat.

Unable to can’t wait any longer, you straddle his lap in his seat and he tilts his head, looking up at you in amusement. Kissing his neck, you run your hands down his chest and slowly grind against him. His firm hands hold your hips and you whimper, trying to convince him to give your body more attention.

“Daichi,” you whine against his neck. “Please, I need-”

You’re stopped as his hand takes control of your jaw, cheeks squished in his hand while he admires you above him. His gaze is intense, not a hint of a smile or enjoyment on his face, but the bulge in his pants hints otherwise. You frown looking down on him, irritated this is the most he’s touched you all night.

“I don’t like brats.” He says simply. “Impatient ones are even more annoying. Tell me, are you going to be an annoying brat?”

You try and shake your head no, barely getting it to move from side to side in his grip.

“Good,” he releases your face and you sigh. Rubbing your cheeks with your fingers you relent from trying the aggressive approach with him; seeing now he’s much less patient than you had expected. “Now can you wait until Daddy takes you home?”

You nod, a smile brimming on your lips while your stomach turns.

“I want to hear you say it.” His eyes somehow focus on you more, making your stomach twist once more.

“Yes, daddy.”

“Good girl.”

The rest of the drive is silent, his hand resting on your exposed thigh a little too close to the hem for comfort. It keeps your mind buzzing, every nerve lit aflame at the slightest bump in the road or motion of his fingers. His thumb occasionally draws circles on your sensitive skin, and the whimper that always leaves your lips feels embarrassing.

Are you really a whimpering mess already?

Everything about being with Daichi made you feel more intense like your body knew just how to react to everything he does and says. Was it the age difference and excitement? Or was it simply because he knew how to touch and speak to you?

“Sweetheart?” Daichi’s voice draws your attention and you look over to him. “We’re home now. Be a good girl for me, and go unlock the door.” He dangles the keys in front of you and you take them nodding.

“Yes sir,” you slip out of the car. Did you call him sir? At the moment it felt right, but now with your face burning and palms sweating you wonder if he thinks it’s ridiculous.

You unlock the door, pushing it open and standing awkwardly waiting for him to walk up the stairs to the front door. Why is he prolonging this? There was no reason for him to stay behind. Turning your head to look where he parked the car, you see he’s talking to a neighbor, laughing, and paying you no mind.

What’s his game here?

You huff, frustrated, and embarrassed with how desperate you’ve been acting and he seems to not have a care in the world. Stepping inside, you close the door and take your shoes off. He doesn’t mind you having access to his house with you unsupervised. After all, he did give you the keys to unlock the door.

His home looks comfortable and lived in, not overly clean but not messy per se. You sit on the couch, crossing your legs and laying your head back. While you know it’s rude to begin feeling this irritated, if something didn’t happen soon you were going to have to call for a ride and get home to a toy or even indulge in one of the sleazy dating apps you’re all too familiar with.

Pulling out your phone, you respond to a few notifications you garnered over dinner, nothing of real substance, but better than sitting in silence. A few friends have invited you to a bar not too far from your location, and you consider it, but the front door opening grabs your attention.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, sweetheart.” He smiles at you and you lay your phone down on the cushion beside you, feeling like you’ve been caught texting in class. “I see you made yourself at home.”

“Oh, I-” you stand up, even more embarrassed.

Does he take pleasure in making you uncomfortable or are you just too on edge?

“Sit back down,” he laughs walking into the kitchen. “Would you like a drink?”

“No thank you,” you answer quickly, sitting back down and laying your hands in your lap to fiddle with your fingers.

He comes back into the living room with his shirt unbuttoned a few, his chest peeking out, and a beer in his left hand. Sitting on the recliner adjacent to the couch, he motions for you with his pointer finger then pats his lap. Your body moves without thinking, straddling him with your knees sinking into the soft cushion of the recliner on either side of his hips. He grins watching your dress ride up your thighs before he takes a drink from his beer.

“Why are you acting so shy now? What happened to that confident little attitude?” He sets the beer down on the table between the couch and chair.

“Why are you toying with me?” You ask, furrowing your brow and tilting your head. “Just fuck me already.”

“There it is,” he chuckles. “You’re not as good of a girl as you think. You’re nothing more than a spoiled brat who needs put in her place. Lucky for you, I know just how to handle bratty girls like you.”

His thumb pulls on your bottom lip and you part them, letting his middle and index finger slip in and press against your tongue. You moan at first, grinding your cunt against his thigh before his fingers slip further in and make you gag. Closing your eyes you grind on him harder, the gagging only intensifying and your body lighting on fire.

“Pathetic,” he laughs while resting his cheek against his hand. Opening your eyes more you see he looks unamused, even as he shoves his fingers down your throat more. “Moaning like this over what? I’m barely touching you.”

You moan again, pressing your core harder on his thigh and whining. Your fingers dig into the arm of the recliner, steadying yourself while you ride his thigh. It feels too good to stop, the minute amount of pleasure intensified by Daichi’s fingers in your mouth.

“Maybe I was wrong,” his voice making you whine again. “Maybe you’re not a brat, just a dumb little slut desperate to cum.” Removing his fingers from your mouth, you take deep breaths, coughing and leaning your head on his shoulder.

“P-please,” you beg. “Please fuck me, daddy. Wanna feel you in me. I’ll be good, I swear.” You sound desperate, you know it and so does he.

“Do you think you deserve it?” He rubs the spit from his fingers onto your cheek while holding your jaw. He shakes your head back and forth slowly as a no for you. “That’s right. You don’t deserve daddy’s cock.”

“B-but-” you whine and grind against him. “Please!”

“Hmm,” he hums, releasing your jaw and licking his fingers clean before taking another sip from his beer. “Maybe if you earn it. I’m not in the mood to fuck an ungrateful whore.”

“Anything!” You nearly shout, eager to please him.

How you’re feeling is different than usual, the need to do whatever Daichi wants completely takes over your own desires. While the feeling is new, it’s something you want to continue to chase. Your head feeling lighter and body burning is all too good to give up now.

“Do I need to tell you what to do?” You nod. “Of course,” he chuckles, “silly of me to forget you’re nothing but a dumb brat. Get on your knees in front of me. Put that mouth to good use for once, won’t ya?”

“Yes daddy,” you say quietly, sliding onto the floor and tugging at his pants.

His belt is a struggle, and he makes no attempt to help you until you’re sliding his pants and boxers off and he lifts his body up just enough to get them down his thighs. Gripping his cock, your mind races wondering if you’ll even be able to fit his girth in your mouth as your fingers barely manage to wrap around him.

“If I finish this beer before you make me cum, I might not fuck you at all.” He says tapping your forehead with the cold glass bottle. “Do you understand?”

You nod again and he leans back into the recliner. Precum leaks from the tip and you wipe it up with your tongue, enjoying the taste as it floods your senses. As your tongue swirls around the head and your warm mouth takes him in, he moans.

It’s quiet and short-lived, but enough to encourage you to take more of him. He fills your mouth so quickly, but you’re determined to make him cum; unsure if it's because you’re desperate to be fucked or if you just really want to please him. Either way, you’re going to have him cumming in your mouth in minutes, you know you can.

You gag loudly when you force him into your throat, nearly taking him to the hilt. This time his moan is louder and longer, making you buzz with pride. Managing to keep him deep in your mouth you rub his balls with your shaky fingers while setting a steady pace bobbing your head up and down.

“Fuck,” he groans. “I guess that mouth is useful for something…” another moan breaks his last word but you don’t care.

The condescending praise just enough to make you hum against him with glee. He bucks his hips when you do, his fingers tangling in your hair and forcing you to choke on him again. You claw at his thighs, desperate to come up for air while you fight against him. He releases the tight hold and you take him out coughing as you stroke him with your hand.

You watch with a frown while he drinks on his beer again, watching carefully as the faint line of liquid lowers nearing the bottom of the bottle. You can do this, you tell yourself before taking a deep breath and taking him back in your mouth. Humming against him lightly while massaging his balls in your palm earns the same reaction, except you’re better at keeping a steady pace now.

“Shit,” he groans.

His cock twitches against your tongue and warm spurts of cum coat your mouth before you can swallow fast enough. He pulls you off his cock by your hair.

“Tongue,” he says and you stick it out timidly.

He spits on your tongue before pulling you to his face and kissing you, his tongue invading your mouth and making you gag at the taste of his beer. His kiss takes your breath away, literally struggling for air as he continues. You’re coughing and pulling away from him while a mix of spit and cum runs down your chin.

“I didn’t think you could do it,” he admits. “I’m surprised someone as desperate and stupid as you could make me cum that fast. I suppose I should reward you then, hmm?”

“Please daddy, please,” you beg. “Want your cock in me so bad.”

His hand slips under your dress and rubs against your soaking panties. “You really do want me, don't you baby?”

You nod.

His free hand gropes your breast, pinching your nipple through the thin material of your dress. You close your eyes biting your lip as you enjoy the not so soft touches he gives you. You moan when his fingers slip into your panties, sliding against your puffy clit.

“Daddy!” You squeal when his middle finger slides inside of you and curls. “Fuck, more please.”

He laughs, pulling his finger out and standing up. He sheds his clothes while you remain on your knees in front of him. You can’t help but admire how good he looks above you like this. Honestly, you think you’d do anything to remain in this moment even if the anticipation of him splitting you open is forcing you to clench around nothing.

Daichi offers you his hand and he assists you in standing to your feet, but it doesn’t last long. He bends you over the arm of his recliner in seconds, pulling your dress down and allowing your bare breasts to fall from it.

“Tell daddy what you want,” he teases while rubbing his cock between your folds.

“Want your cock!” You turn your head back to look at him. “Please, I need it.”

“Good fucking girl,” he groans while sliding inside of you.

Even with your intense arousal and the spit on his cock, it stings. Your body goes limp against the arm of the recliner as you try and relax your body to let him in. Crying into the cushion, you try to not be too loud while getting used to his size.

“If I’d known you’d be this tight, I would have fucked you sooner,” he says after fully sheathing himself inside of you.

He isn’t nice enough to give you more time, too overwhelmed with the way you squeeze him so nicely to not start thrusting immediately. You cry out when his cockhead hits deep inside of you, pulling against your walls as he pulls back out only to do it all over again.

It hurts. It feels ethereal.

“Daddy!” You whine as his fingers twirl your nipple between them and he holds you back against him while relentlessly pounding into you. “Too much!”

“Be a good girl,” he hisses. “I know you can take it.”

You whimper in response, his thrusts forcing your breasts into his hands while he continues to assault them. Your thighs begin to shake and your core feels like it’s a tightwire about to break.

“Wanna cum!” You tell him, some part of you knows it's better to warn him or ask instead of letting yourself go. “Please, daddy! Let me cum.”

“Aw, my little slut is learning,” he chuckles, thrusting deep into you and letting you fall back onto the recliner. “Go ahead, cum for daddy. Cream all over my cock sweetheart.”

He hits the sweet spot inside of you once more and you come undone, cumming around his cock and crying out a mixture of daddy and curses. He grunts as you clench around him, body pliable for him to hold you closer while rapidly fucking you.

He cums, and you feel it drip out of you around his cock before you comprehend what’s happened. You’re too fucked out to even care if you’re honest. He pulls your panties back to the side as he pulls out of you.

“You’re going to keep it all in, aren’t you?” He pulls his pants back on, leaving his shirt on the floor and sitting on the couch.

You nod, pulling your dress back over your breasts and adjusting the thin straps back to a comfortable position on your shoulders. He pats his lap again, and you sit across him, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your cheek against his shoulder.

A knock at the door startles you and you look at Daichi with a concerned face.

“Oh,” he laughs. “I lost track of time. Can you get that?”

You sheepishly nod. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I need to go grab something from my room. I’m sure you can handle it.” He disappears down the hall.

Running your hands through your hair to make sure you don’t look crazy, you open the door.

“Oh,” a sharp tone greets you.

“Big sis!!” Kaiya screams, jumping up and down and running inside.

Shit.

“Uh,” who you assume to be her mother says shaking her head. “Is Daichi here?” She’s irritated, and reasonably so. “I need to speak with him immediately.”

“Yeah, he’s right-”

“What do you want?” He appears back into the living room, pulling a loose shirt over his head as he comes in.

He easily could have done that before. Is he doing this on purpose?

Oh god, he is.

You look quickly between the two of them as he steps in the doorway with you, wrapping his arm around your waist.

“I think we need to speak in private.” His ex tells him, eyeing you up and down.

“Sweetheart, do you care to take Kaiya to her room to play for a few minutes?” He kisses your forehead and you look away from the intense glare you receive from Kaiya’s mother.

“Daichi! Why are you-”

“Stop,” he says loudly. “---- can watch her for a moment.” He lets go of you.

“Can you show me your room Kaiya?” You ask sweetly and she takes your hand and guides you down the hall.

You’re not sure if you’re grateful Daichi got you away from his ex or if you’re happy Kaiya won’t have to see her parents bicker. Either way, it’s a win for you. Your heart is beating against your chest, making you nauseous. There’s no way he just forgot he was getting his daughter tonight.

You’re flattered that he used you to make her angry, but the more spiteful part of you wishes he had let you in on it a little more. Having you answer the door was good, but you could have left your hair a mess or something more…

“Big sis, why are you here? Did you and daddy have a playdate?” She asks, handing you a stuffed rabbit while you sit on the floor of her room with her.

“Uh,” you giggle. “Yeah, we had a playdate.”

#dilf collab!! #daichi sawamura #sawamura daichi x reader #sawamura daichi smut #daichi smut #dilf daichi #daddy daichi #hq smut #haikyu smut #haikyuu smut

[bondsmagii]

Regarding beloved toys becoming real a la the velveteen rabbit

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Matthew Calhoun, regarding a living childhood toy. Original statement given January 23, 1998. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

I didn’t have any friends as a kid. I’m not exaggerating – I didn’t have any. There’s always that one kid in every class who’s just… well, a reject, really. It sounds harsh to say, but I don’t really blame them for it. Of course, I would have preferred it if they’d just left me alone; ignored me rather than tormenting me, but that’s how it goes. I can’t excuse their cruelty, but I can excuse their dislike of me. I really, really can’t blame them. Now I’m an adult, looking back on it all, I really… well, is it bad to say it? I suppose I should just be honest. I’m about to admit to much worse. Alright – I hate my child self. I’m embarrassed by him. If I had a kid like that, I—I don’t know if I could say I wouldn’t love him, but let’s just say my sympathy would be limited if he was getting teased. I was unbearable as a child. I was a swotty little know-it-all; I snitched on my classmates; I always had a smart answer for everything. I’d try and get people to talk to me or hang out with me and when they didn’t want to, I’d stick my hand up and tell the teachers they were being mean. I was a grubby little kid, too, which wasn’t really my fault at all because my parents didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, but I had other gross habits I could have probably avoided. I didn’t like to brush my teeth, so my breath always stank. I picked my nose in class with absolutely no shame, wiping it underneath the desk. God, when I think about it now I could just throttle myself. Like I said, I don’t excuse the cruelty that my classmates – and sometimes my teachers – inflicted on me, but I do think back and wonder why I managed to feel so victimised over the fact nobody wanted to hang out with me. I mean, who the hell would? This, along with the fact I didn’t have much to do at home thanks to my parents’ low income, combined to make me both very bored and very lonely, and that’s what led to the reason I’m here today. It’s a confession, as much as anything else – the only reason I don’t want to go to the police is because I know they won’t believe me at all, whereas at least I stand a little chance of being believed here. Maybe then you can judge me accordingly. It’s what I deserve.

When I was eleven years old, I murdered one of my classmates. Her name was Vanessa Smith, and the newspapers reported that she had been attacked and mauled by dogs while walking home one late afternoon. Her injuries were so severe they couldn’t think of what else could do it. Of course, no dog was ever found. They tested so many of them, inspecting them for traces of blood, for pieces of human remains in their waste. Nothing showed up, because no dog killed Vanessa Smith. It was me. Alright, not by my own hand, but I was the cause of it. Let me try to explain.

When I was four or five, my grandmother read me a story called The Velveteen Rabbit. It’s a children’s story about a toy rabbit who comes to life because the little boy it belongs to loves it so much. I was fascinated by the idea, and for years believed that such a thing was possible. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t have any toy animals, or really any toys to begin with, because my parents really had no money at all. We lived in a tiny house where all of the furniture was on loan; we had one sofa, a wooden chair, a bare mattress to sleep on each, and really not much more. My parents were on a steady upward trajectory as I grew up, so by the time I made it to high school we were at least managing to present as normal, but when I was a kid my toys were whatever I could find in the garden. My parents would send me out the moment I got up and I’d come back in as it was getting dark; in the winter they let me stay out until bedtime, because it was warmer for me to be running around outside than sitting still in our heatless home. Those were cold, lonely hours, and as I grew I found myself thinking back time and time again to that story – about the power to give something life because it was so loved. I thought this was fully possible. I was only a kid, and kids will believe anything; that was also my general understanding of how babies were made – that two people loved one another so much that they created a third. Well, I didn’t have another person to help me, and I didn’t want a little brother or sister. I wanted a friend. The thought that I could bring a toy to life myself, just out of love, utterly consumed me.

First, though, I needed a toy. Even second-hand toys were out of the question, money-wise, and I had no friends to ask for cast-offs. In the end I improvised. I found a scrap of fabric from one of the old sheets my mother had fashioned into curtains, and I lay it flat on the ground and filled the centre with a few rocks for weight, and as many dry leaves as I could find. Then I pulled all four of the corners up, twisted the fabric down to meet the filling, and tied it off with an elastic band. The end result looked kind of like a radish, I guess, or a strangely shaped ghost. Still, a felt-tip pen gave it eyes and a friendly smile, and I even drew a couple of fangs at the corners of its mouth, just to make it a little more boyish. I called him Sammy, and he became my best friend. He went everywhere with me aside from school, because I knew damn well what the other kids would do to him. Outside of school, though? We were inseparable. We ate breakfast and dinner together, we went roaming around together, he watched me as I dug around in the back garden or on the trails behind the house. He sat on the toilet seat as I had my cold baths; he slept next to me in bed. When he got a little crushed and out of shape, or the leaves disintegrated beyond anything I could shape them back into, I would play at putting him to sleep so I could “operate” on him and fill him back up again. I still remember the glorious day that one of my parents’ pillows split beyond repair, and my mother, meaning well, I’m sure, gave me some of the stuffing for Sammy’s head. After that he was almost a proper stuffed toy, soft instead of jagged, but I think it was that improvement that doomed me. He got stronger after that. I started to dream about him.

I was eight when I first made Sammy. I was ten when the dreams started. At first he would just be there, normal as ever. I would be carrying him around, we’d be doing our thing. Then one day the dream was different. The two of us were sitting at the breakfast table and it was dark outside, but the sky was a strange, beating red. Sammy was sad; I knew this somehow. I asked him what was wrong, and he said to me, “I’ll never be a real boy without a heart”. Then he lay his head on the table and began to sob. I woke up, feeling utterly wretched; I wasn’t even scared. I pulled Sammy to me and cried myself. I was utterly despondent. I knew I had to do something, but what? That was when I realised I could make him a heart. It might not be great, but it would be something, right? That very morning I drew a heart on a piece of paper, coloured it in my most vibrant red, and tucked it into Sammy’s fabric, securely tied underneath the elastic band. I thought he seemed much happier after that, and increasingly I was certain that he wasn’t in the same place as I’d left him when I got back from school. This excited me, because I was sure it would work somehow. I loved Sammy more than anything. He was my only friend in the world. I knew that some day soon, Sammy would have to come to life.

The hearts kept getting crushed out of shape, or fraying, or otherwise getting worn. Every time they did, Sammy would whisper to me – no longer in dreams now. In my head, in my ear. His breath tickling my cheek, smelling of mulch. Always the same things. “I’ll never be a real boy without a heart.” I kept making new ones but he started getting angrier; they never lasted. “I’ll never be a real boy without a heart! I’ll never be a real boy without a heart!” I wanted to do my best for him but he was starting to scare me. I didn’t know what to do. I told him this. For the first time, I got the impression he was mad at me for being sad, when he never had been before. But what could I do?

I got my answer the summer I turned eleven. The rabbit had been left right out on the trail I always walked to get from my parents’ house and into the woods behind it. It had been mauled by something – a fox, I thought – but not eaten. Its chest was open, and its small little heart was right there for the taking. I don’t know why I did it. It was disgusting, and what’s more I knew that if I put a real heart in Sammy it was going to rot, and stink, and Mum would make me throw him out. I knew all this, but I still couldn’t stop myself. I walked quite calmly to the rabbit, carefully pinched its heart between my fingers, and pulled it free. It came so easily. Nothing needed to be cut or wrenched; it just slid out, and within moments it was tucked inside Sammy. I heard it begin to beat.

Sammy wasn’t mine after that. I still tried to love him, but I was scared of him. I couldn’t understand what had happened. I thought love was supposed to be a good thing, you know? That’s what I’d been told. I wondered what it meant, that my love had created this. Everyone else’s love created nice things, fun things, safe things, warm things. My love had created this… this monster, this wretched little thing… I loved it out of fear. I was too afraid to let it know of my contempt, because I didn’t know what it would do to me. I think it knew anyway, of course. I think it knew I feared it; I think it realised, on some level, that I still had some of the power. I could throw it into the fireplace, for example. I thought about that a few times; even thought about asking my mum or dad to do it for me, act like I grew out of Sammy and was embarrassed of him. Sammy could sense it. I could have done it, I think, when it had the rabbit heart. Only a small heart, a rabbit heart. Not good for too much exertion. But I hesitated, because I was scared, and I thought if I ignored it and just left the heart to finally fail – because it had to eventually, right? – Sammy would be back to begging me in dreams and I could get rid of him – of it – once and for all.

That’s not what happened. I was out playing in the woods, must have been August. It was near to school starting back, and I was stressed about it because for me that was a line in the sand. I’d tried to tell myself I’d get rid of Sammy before I started Big School, high school, you know, but I hadn’t done anything and I was really wigging out about it. Sammy was with me, of course, sitting propped up against a rock while I dug around in the mud by a small stream. I guess it was the running of the water that muffled the footsteps, because when I finally heard them and turned, it was too late. Vanessa was stepping out from between the bushes, and her eyes had locked on Sammy. She wasn’t ever overly cruel to me at school, but she laughed with the rest of them whenever I was being put through the torment of the day, and like all kids that age she had it in her to be cruel. I was frightened of her, in the same way I was frightened of all my classmates, and the look on her face as she looked between me and Sammy told me this was going to be wholly unpleasant. I just adopted the stance, you know: feet together, eyes down. Waiting for abuse. She asked me if this was my toy, and then she went on to tell me how stupid and ugly it was, and then she went on about me getting some real toys, oh, wait, you can’t afford that… normal stuff, and at least she wasn’t going to hit me, because the girls never beat me up. She did go to pick up Sammy, though, and I yelled at her not to. Not out of any protectiveness towards Sammy, but because I was scared. Vanessa didn’t know Sammy like I did. She hadn’t noticed Sammy’s beady little drawn-on eyes somehow managing to swivel, to follow her, to lock onto her. The way his smile widened slightly, and I finally noticed how many teeth he had.

“I’ll never be a real boy without a heart.”

She reached down to snatch Sammy up. She was saying she was going to throw him into the stream. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even call out a final warning. She reached down and he was on her. I still didn’t see him move. He was just… there, and there was blood, and I could hear something tearing, and Vanessa was screaming so loudly. I should have helped. I should have tried to do something, but I was too scared. When I finally managed to move it was to run away. I fled through the woods, not bothering to keep to the trails. I ran blindly, crashing through the undergrowth, falling, dragging myself up. When I got home my parents were both at work. I scrubbed myself, scrubbed the worst of the mud from my clothing, tried to breathe. Tried to convince myself that I had seen it wrong. Vanessa would be fine, right? I even managed to tell myself Sammy was scaring her for me, sticking up for me. I waited in terror for Sammy to come home, but he never did. I was glad, but I also… I mean, it’s always better when you can see the danger, right? The thought that Sammy was out there, of what he might do… but I never saw Sammy again.

Vanessa – or what was left of her – was found the following morning. The woods aren’t big. Pretty much as soon as it was light, search parties found her. I don’t think anyone was happy with the dog story. I’ve avoided looking it up over the years, but I’ve heard things here and there. I know they say that the injuries inflicted on her were severe, even for a large dog. It’s more like something you would expect from a bear, or a big cat. Plus none of her was eaten, I don’t think. I mean, I’ve never heard it. Nobody suspected me, because why would they? My parents didn’t even ask about where Sammy had gone. I guess they figured I’d finally grown out of it.

I don’t know if there’s anything you can do with this statement, or if you’ll even believe it. I doubt there’s much room for research. I just wanted to tell somebody. Maybe if I was religious this is the point where I might go to confession, ask to be absolved. I’m not religious, though, and I’m not sure I can be absolved of this. That’s it.

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends.

Mr Calhoun is right. Not much can be done in regards to looking into this further. Attempts to reach Mr Calhoun for a follow-up statement were thoroughly unsuccessful thanks to the fact that he committed suicide shortly after making this statement. The records show that eleven-year-old Vanessa Smith was indeed mauled to death by a large dog or dogs in August 1971, though the story never really gained traction in national newspapers and further information is scarce. Martin spent an afternoon looking through online newspaper archives for the area and managed to find only one piece of new information; something that could easily be dramatization considering the fact it stopped being reported within twenty-four hours. I include it here only because it seems significant regarding Mr Calhoun’s story. Apparently young Miss Smith’s body was badly mauled but mostly uneaten – there was only one missing body part, believed eaten, and that was her heart.

Aside from that, there is nothing new to say about this one.

End recording.

#tma #statement prompts #my writing #fakements #long post #anon #asks

[calligraphist-artemisia]

Of Family and Unexpected Friendship (Part 2)

Story Summary:  It’s Christmas break and Harry is having a difficult time sleeping in the silence of the boy’s dorm, so he goes down to the Common Room where he can better relax. There he finds a third year student named Leona Black, who surprises him with the knowledge that their parents were best friends when they attended Hogwarts. He latches on to the chance to learn more about his mom and dad, and the foundation of a new friendship is born.

Chapter Summary: Hermione returns from Christmas break and learns that something has changed since she last saw Harry. It’s a welcome change, which opens the door for her to learn something new.

Also posted on AO3 under the username Kishirokitsune.

A/N: I had the idea to write a chapter from Hermione’s POV, so now I guess it’s a three-part fic. The next (and last) part will be from Ron’s POV, once I get around to finishing it. If you like this fic and want me to continue, please let me know either here or on AO3.

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Part 2: Hermione

Spending Christmas with her family had been wonderful, even if they didn't fully understand all of the things she told them about learning at Hogwarts. Her parents still sat and listened, asking questions in an attempt to follow along a little better, but there was a distance beginning to grow.

Hermione knew without a doubt that her parents loved her and were trying their absolute best to support her, but it wasn't easy. It was so new for all of them and it would take time for them to adjust.

Still, returning to Hogwarts brought a rush of relief for her. She was back with people who understood and could answer all of her questions if she could find the right way to ask. She was back to her new friends. And most importantly, she was back to a place with a library with more books than she could ever read, though she was determined to try.

Dinner was arranged in an odd buffet-style, as she was among the first students to return from break. The others would return over the next two days and after that, classes would resume. Hermione grabbed a few easy things to eat and then set off for the library for a little last-minute research.

She hadn't found a thing on Nicholas Flamel during her time at home – not that she expected to – and there were a few more books she wanted to look into before she saw Harry and Ron again.

At the library, she found something unexpected.

Sitting at a table near the window, with a pile of books within arms reach, was Harry. He was bent over a piece of parchment, scribbling furiously as he referenced an open book in front of him.

The sight was so odd that Hermione froze in her steps, her lips slightly parted in surprise. She quickly collected herself and walked over to join him, rapping her knuckles against the table to get his attention.

“Hermione!” He sounded surprised but also pleased to see her, and it left Hermione's heart feeling warm and fluttery. (She had a friend. She really had a friend who liked her and was happy to see her.)

“Did you have a good Christmas?” she asked as she sat down, glancing curiously at the title of the nearest book. She wasn't sure what she expected, but The Basics to Understanding Tradition of Pureblood Society was not one of them. As she took a closer look at the stack of books, she found them to have similar titles.

Introduction to the Wizarding World, Celebrating Magical Tradition, and The Four Elements and You – A Guide to Understanding the Magic Within were all books Hermione had glanced at in Flourish and Blotts, but had been advised against buying. 

“You'll have plenty of reading and studying to do once you reach Hogwarts, dear,” was the excuse her magical adviser gave when she asked about them. Hermione hadn't been terribly fond of the witch who guided her family around Diagon Alley, but seeing the books again refreshed her memory of how little she liked her. She'd all but blocked the encounter from her memory.

Harry had been speaking, likely telling her about his time over Christmas break, but stopped when it was apparent her attention was elsewhere. When she looked up, he was grinning at her without a trace of resentment or frustration.

Hermione flushed. “Sorry, Harry. What's all of this for, anyway?”

And so Harry told her about how he met a third year named Leona Black, whose parents had been friends with his during their Hogwarts years. She even had a photo album with pictures of all of them, which she let him look through whenever he wanted. He glossed over his letters to Leona's mother, who wrote back with stories about both of his parents, and then jumped into what Hermione was really asking about.

“Leona said something about etiquette lessons that she wasn't staying on top of and when I asked about what those were, she figured out that no one has mentioned any kind of lessons to me,” Harry said with a shrug. “I thought it would be nice to learn more about my family, so when she volunteered to help me, I agreed.”

He lifted his current book so she could see the title – Notable Magical Families of the Modern Era – and set it down once she nodded. “Did you know my grandfather was a famous potioneer?”

Hermione smiled at his enthusiasm. It was so rare to see him genuinely excited about something. She was pretty sure the happiest she ever saw him was when he was on a broomstick, soaring through the air, so it was especially nice that he found something she could relate to. “I didn't know that.”

“Fleamont Potter was the genius behind Sleekeazy's Hair Potion,” cut in a new voice.

Hermione looked up as a girl with brown hair added two new books to the pile before pulling out a chair and plopping down next to her.

The girl smiled at Hermione and held out her hand. “Leona Black.”

“Hermione Granger,” she replied, taking the offered hand for a shake. Her eyes were drawn to the new books, her curiosity winning out. Tales of Beedle the Bard and The Journey of Lady Birchwood sounded so out of place among all of the others that she couldn't help but remark on them. “What are those about?”

“Children's bedtime stories. Beedle the Bard is a classic for all wizarding children, and I thought Harry might like something a little lighter to read. It's still a pivotal part of magical education in my opinion,” Leona said with a smile. “Lady Birchwood is a newer series, but no less interesting. It's written by a muggle-born witch who wanted to give other muggle-borns a story of their own to relate to.” She picked up Lady Birchwood and handed it to Hermione so she could take a better look.

It had been a while since Hermione last held a work of fiction in her hands. Ever since she learned she was a witch, she'd thrown herself into studying all of the course material and hadn't thought of much else.

She cracked open the book to the first page and soon lost herself in a familiar magical world. It wasn't until she finished the first chapter that she realized it was designed with the intent to introduce new ideas and subjects to young muggle-borns; things she wouldn't have thought about on her own.

There was so much more Hermione wanted to learn.

Why weren't muggle-borns encouraged to read more about the world they were about to enter? Why were they expected to jump straight into lessons without any guidance on how to channel their magic? Had things always been that way and why hadn't anyone tried to make things better?

Hermione snapped the book shut harder than she meant to, her thoughts running rampant through her brain. She wrangled them into boxes, cataloging which ones were most important, and then addressed Leona.

“I'd like to learn too.”

“Sounds like you have a study partner now, Harry,” Leona said, sounding approving. “I'd recommend starting with Introduction to the Wizarding World. It's a bit dry but informative, and there should be a few more copies on the shelf. I'll help you look if you'd like.”

Harry stopped writing as Hermione nodded and stood up. “You should make a list for her, Leona. Hermione loves to read.”

It was teasing that she was most familiar with. Words she heard her entire life, usually spoken with disdain and a generous eye-roll from her peers. But from Harry, the words had a soft fondness to them. It was still teasing, but it came from a place of friendship.

“I will happily make a list, if that's what you want,” Leona told Hermione. “For now, we'll start with a few books and see what you think. Once I know what you want to learn more about, I can make a better reference list.”

As much as Hermione's gut impulse was to say she wanted to learn everything, there was a logic to picking a few to focus on at first. It was hard to say what her second semester of school would bring in terms of classwork, so limiting extra research was probably for the best. She nodded in agreement and then followed the older Gryffindor to a corner of the library she hadn't gotten around to exploring yet.

Leona had a thoughtful expression as she gazed at the rows of books.

“Thank you,” Hermione blurted out when she realized she had yet to express her gratitude for Leona's help.

The thoughtful look was replaced by a beaming smile as Leona redirected her attention to Hermione. “You're welcome! Actually, I'm really glad you're here. I know after talking to Harry that his introduction to our world was... a bit lacking, and I was wondering what yours was like?”

Hermione grimaced as she tried to recall the witch's name. “They sent a ministry witch to deliver my letter and explain things to my parents. I remember thinking that she sounded like she didn't want to be there and just wanted to get it over with, but I suppose I did learn a lot, even if she wouldn't let me buy the extra books I wanted to.”

“Did you know they sent Hagrid to fetch Harry?”

“I think he mentioned something about that,” Hermione said with a frown, not seeing what the problem was. But then she thought about what Leona was saying; They sent the Hogwarts groundskeeper to pick up someone who was raised by muggles and knew nothing of the magical world. His fondness for Harry aside, he was vastly unqualified for such a thing.

“It's been bothering me ever since I found out,” Leona admitted quietly. “It's why I offered to tutor Harry. There's so much he hasn't had a chance to learn and... and now I'm finally starting to understand what Ted was saying about muggle-borns not being welcomed into our world. Oh, Ted's my cousin. Well, he's married to my cousin Andy, so more like a cousin-in-law? It's complicated.”

There was a determined gleam in her gray eyes as she resumed her search for the right books.

“I didn't realize until the train ride just how different everything is,” Hermione admitted, speaking slowly so she could choose her words carefully. “But anyone born into magical families does have an advantage. It seems unfair to send us to school with limited knowledge.”

“Are you sure you weren't meant to be in Ravenclaw?” Leona teased.

Hermione felt her face flush. The Sorting Hat had suggested Ravenclaw, but it wasn't the House she wanted.

“It's not unusual for the Hat to suggest another House before settling on which one to sort you into. It wanted me for Ravenclaw as well, but I wanted to be in the same House as my parents, and here I am,” Leona said. She pulled out one book and handed it up to Hermione. “This version of The Witches Craft is a bit outdated, but it gives a good look at the role of witches throughout history and how it's changed. I've been told that it is a bit of a culture shock for anyone raised in the muggle world, but I think you can handle it.”

Hermione eyed it with curiosity, itching to open it up and take a better look, but Leona had found what she was looking for and handed her one book after another, giving a brief explanation for each.

“Wizarding Culture – oh, it's the newest addition! It's a good beginner's book and it's written by a half-blood who grew up around muggles.”

“And this is Introduction to Magical Society. Callaway isn't a name I'm familiar with, so I believe she's a muggle-born. This one's different from Introduction to the Wizarding World which is... here. Pureblood author, lots of big words. I told Harry he should use it as a reference for anything he doesn't understand because I get the feeling he won't read a word of it otherwise. It has one of the best indexes I've come across.”

“There's a few others I gave Harry that you might be interested in reading, so the only other one I'd recommend to start with would be Understanding Tradition. It's a book written specifically for muggle-borns by muggle-borns. I read it out of curiosity one day but found the comparisons they make hard to follow. There's also an entire section near the end with their personal recommendations on what else to read. You may not even need me to make a list if you go through that.”

They returned to the table after that, and Hermione dove into the book on top of her own pile, which was Understanding Tradition. She was aware of Leona and Harry quietly talking and the scritch of a quill against parchment but was otherwise immersed in her reading.

All too soon, they had to pack up in order to make it back to their common room before curfew. Harry and Hermione both checked out their books under Madam Pince's watchful eyes and Leona cast her a winning smile as she checked out her own – A Study on Natural Runes.

It didn't take long for them to make the trek back to Gryffindor Tower, and once they were there, Leona parted from them with one final word: “Don't stay up too late.”

“No promises,” Harry called after her.

Leona laughed and disappeared up the side stairs leading to the dormitories.

Hermione stared at him, wondering at the changes she saw in her friend in such a short amount of time. She wasn't going to complain.

The lack of people in the common room was a novel experience, but it gave them more options for places to sit. Together they carried their stuff over to the sofa in the corner and set the books down on the two end tables.

“Sorry you got roped into all of this,” Harry apologized once they were settled.

Hermione blinked at him, unsure of what to say.

“Leona started to tell me about all of the wizarding families I'm related to and I just... I wanted to know more. No one else wanted to tell me, but she did,” he explained. “Her mum is cool too. She's been sending me stories about my parents and all of the things they did when they were in school. They were in the same year.”

“That's wonderful, Harry,” Hermione said, genuinely happy for him.

Harry smiled. “I think I'm starting to like reading. Don't tell Ron I said that.”

Laughing, Hermione promised she wouldn't.

Neither of them opened their books again that night, spending time chatting instead. When Hermione crawled into bed over an hour later, she felt warm and comfortable as she thought about how wonderful it was to find an interest in common with Harry.

#harry potter #canon divergeance #fanfiction #hogwarts first year #OC - Leona Black

[mwolf0epsilon]

ngl josh reading to kids in his spare time sounds really cute, i bet he'd be a good dad

I made this a little sad but yes, Josh would definitely be a good dad :')

Enjoy!!!

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[[MORE]]

When he first came across a child model Josh didn't know what to say. He knew there were androids meant to simulate human offsprings but he'd never actually thought he'd meet one himself, or any child for the matter...

As a norm PJ500s did not exist in spaces where humans bellow the age of 16 or 18 congregated. They weren't programmed to teach bellow college program levels and thusly had no social protocols for children. Even privately owned tutor PJ-Series were meant to help with advanced studies on topics like socioeconomics and physics.

Talking to a child wasn't rocket science so Josh had failed terribly at it, if the look Simon had given him was anything to go by.

He'd sounded robotic when he spoke to the poor girl, and frankly he had felt ashamed that he not only frightened her but also couldn't find it in him to be welcoming towards her.

Simon had definitely been very upset with him for upsetting the poor thing...

The second time he met a child android was a little less awkward than the first. He'd practiced with Lucy's help. Loosened up a little on the whole teacher-student relationship protocols that tried to force their way into his general demeanor, and helped Simon settle in a pair of YK500s who had been on their way back to the shop after their mother (their owner) had perished on the ride back home from an evening at the bar. At the time he'd played it off cool, but something in the back of his mind had nagged at him that leaving two small children completely alone (even if they were androids), felt like negligent and reckless behaviour from someone who was trying to be a parent...

Josh had felt somewhat satisfied that he'd managed to work out how to talk to little kids. And some of them liked history, so it had fed them little tidbits of historical trivia he knew. The stuff that was age appropriate and non-violent of course. Simon would be furious if he divulged the need behind inventions like the guillotine or a trebuchet.

The third time he meets a child android isn't a moment he likes to remember. In fact, it's perhaps one of his most darkest moments...

He'd been roaming the streets in the late evening, marveling over the little privacy he got from sneaking out and hiding in plain sight. His model wasn't common and he rarely had left campus, so no one thought to look at the big tall guy with the baseball cap and the ratty jacket. He was just another figure walking through the crowd.

It felt like freedom, even if in the end he was just hiding behind a facade.

Josh had nearly missed it himself as he walked. The tiny figure laying in a heap of trash, completely ignored by those who walked right past him.

He looked like a child, but was met with no kindness or sympathy from the humans who'd grown apathetic towards android-kind. The moment they saw blue staining bellow the boy's nose they'd simply turned a blind eye and carried on marching, as if in an assembly line.

Josh had been revolted by this.

Had been so horrified and disgusted that he'd nearly let his anger boil over.

He'd taken the poor YK400 to Jericho, fueled by a gutteral seething rage that would have incinerated those around him if it had come off of him in waves like pure energy.

He'd taken care of the boy himself, the dark look in his eyes having deterred Simon and Lucy from advancing in his direction.

North hadn't bothered him that day either. Instead she curled up with him when he finally came out from behind the blinding veil of rage against humanity.

He cried like a baby that night, and he'd cry again for every single little boy and girl that came crawling into the derelight freighter that should have otherwise terrified any child.

Anything looked like sanctuary when the adults that promised to love and care for you suddenly decided you were not wanted anymore.

Josh starts teaching the YK-series not long after his third encounter. He does his damn hardest to not go onto the advanced topics right away, instead gradually evolving their classes so that the children can naturally adjust to the level changes.

They're eager learner's, especially Ezra who Josh has grown incredibly attached to since rescuing him. The poor boy attends his classes, but his thirium pump malfunctions cause him tremendous discomfort that require him to take short breaks.

That's all fine, because afterwards Josh will sit with him and tell him bedtime stories he's learned from Simon. He watches over Ezra as he sleeps and feels a comfortable warmth in his chest.

---

The day they leave Simon behind in Stratford is the same day Josh has to say goodbye to Ezra. It was a matter of time before his pump shorted out and Lucy had been watching out for the signs.

She finds him browsing through children's books he'd "borrowed" on his last secret excursion to the outside world, trying to forget that his friend is likely dead and gone by now, when the heavily damaged KL-series pulls him towards Ezra's corner.

The boy is terrified and in terrible pain, begging for his short little life. Josh doesn't cry. He holds the boy tightly and hums softly to him before he shuts down for good.

Lucy tries to comfort him but Josh doesn't look at her and doesn't speak. When North returns, crying over androids she hadn't known for more than a minute, he nearly loses his mind with anger.

He feels like she's betrayed him in some way, but he doesn't voice this. Instead he feeds into the growing argument between the both of them and gets out of dodge when Markus tells them to stop.

He only cries when Simon returns, blue blood splatters on his face and a slight limp to his tired geit.

He cries so hard his processor begins to stall.

Simon hums to him, just as Josh had done in Ezra's final moments.

It doesn't feel fair that children had to be in the crossfire of their fight against human oppression. Sadly life was rarely fair.

---

After the revolution Josh continues to teach the android children at the tower. They're all fond of classes, eager learners that they are, and they especially love the extra curricular activities Simon sets up for them, and Josh's bedtime reading sessions.

He wasn't meant to teach kids but he loves it so much he can't bring himself to give up on his teaching sessions with the YK-series. Even in the heat of political tensions.

The humans couldn't make him hate his profession before, and they certainly couldn't do it now either.

He reads to them as a form of healthy enrichment and childish indulgence, but also to honor the little one he'd lost back in Jericho's ruined carcass.

The one he likely would have adopted as soon as the law permitted, if it weren't for the circumstances that took him away from him.

"You're a big softy, you know that?" North chuckled as soon as she caught him at the end of a reading session. The children had all left to go to bed and he'd finished another chapter of 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone' with them.

"You'll find that I have no padding to allow for that." He joked, tapping on his chest and stomach to emphasize on the hardness of his chassis. "Simon's the better hugger."

"You say that because you've never genuinely hugged Markus. His tits are super soft." North grinned mischievously.

"I'm not exactly interested in gropping anyone's... Tits..." He let her drag him away by the arm, smiling as he waved goodbye at some of the stragglers. "The kids are doing good in classes... And they're really liking the book so far. We have a lot of little boys and girls who want to be like Hermione Granger."

"Ever consider adopting?" North suggested.

"If we ever get that far, yes. Cyberlife is fighting us every step of the way though, and some of those politicians are adamant that androids don't need familial units..." He glared angrily at the implications. "Because obviously the YK400s and YK500s don't need parents..."

"Assholes... Well between you and Simon, the kids are good on parents. They've got their big nerd dad and their mother hen."

"What would that make you and Markus?" Josh asked.

"... Cool mom and cool dad?"

"Wow, you suck at this."

"Shut up..." She punched him lightly on the arm.

Josh snorted and carried on walking towards the elevator. He considered North's words and couldn't help smile to himself, a hint of longing in his eyes.

He wouldn't mind a few sets of little tiny feet running around the house...

#eps writes: #fanfic #detroit: become human #detroit become human #dbh josh #dbh north #kids love josh sorry i dont make the rules

[nunonabun]

The Family Look [1/2]

Steaminess will return tomorrow or the day after (as this fic will have 2 parts), I promise (and thank you to those who sent prompts for that!), but today I thought I’d work on more of a family fic (partially because I saw an old pic of my aunt with the most fabulous 60s glasses and couldn’t let it go).

“Don’t you ever look like your Mummy!”

It was such a simple, commonplace phrase. Shelagh had heard it hundreds of times, and likely said it about as often, given her line of work. Yet now she heard in it a myriad of subtexts and assumptions that she never would have assumed before her marriage; before she and Patrick had adopted the little girl they were blessed to be able to call their daughter.

—[ 3 days earlier ]— 

How much allspice is the proper amount? Lucille had loaned her an old family recipe for a dish called ‘jerk chicken’ which her mother had mailed over and Lucille had made for luncheon at Nonnatus last week. Though Lucille had helpfully pointed out the difference between British allspice and Jamaican allspice, as with any family recipe, the measurements were vague, maintained by the current cook having cooked alongside the writer of said recipe. Shelagh supposed she could just add to her taste and then further adjust it based on her family’s reviews.

As though thinking of them had summoned them, Shelagh heard the click of the door that signalled that Patrick and Angela must be home.

“Hello dears!” She called out, correctly assuming they would come to her.

However, she hadn’t guessed the tears that would accompany her daughter’s greeting. Instead of her normal cheerful hello, Angela had simply run over and hugged her mother’s leg.

She immediately bent down to enfold her daughter in her arms. “Sweetheart, what ever is the matter?”

Angela simply shook her head and buried it in the crook of her mother’s neck.

Shelagh hear the crack of Patrick’s knees as he bent down to rub his daughter’s back and explain the situation.

“Apparently Miss Lang asked her to read from the board, and that was something of a tricky request.” He paused to see if Angela would elaborate further.

Comforted enough to have regained her vocabulary, she did. “The words were all fuzzy and I tried but…” the tears were starting to well up once more. “I guessed wrong and then everybody laughed.”

Shelagh met Patrick’s eyes over Angela’s head as she pressed her face back into her mother’s shoulder. To her surprise, he looked confused about the incident, though naturally also frustrated and sad about the reaction of the other children.

But of course he would be, he was looking at the situation through different eyes. Angela had been a wonderful reader, quickly progressing whenever her parents asked her to read the next bit of her bedtime story. Thinking back on that, Shelagh did remember Angela looking very closely at the pages, and kicked herself for not realizing the problem sooner.

Yet at the same time, Angela’s story rewound time for her, to almost thirty years beforehand when another little girl had cried over her inability to read the chalkboard.

She sat in the bricht licht i’ the humble East Window i’ St. Andrew’s, the queart of the kirk always a balm tae her hairt. Ma and Da had tried, but they didnae ken any better than the teacher why she warslt sair wi the reading. It wis anely in class; on Sundays she could read the hymns jis fine.

A saft vice interrupted her thoughts.

“I’m aye sorrowed tae hear greeting on sic a lovely afterneen.” Sister Catherine settled herself beside her.

Shelagh wiped her tears an keeked up at her douche, bespectacled face, an it aa cam pouring oot.

“Everyone’s lauchin at me an Mr Wilson’s getting feejee kis Ah cannea read in skail.”

Instead i’ the worrit look Ma and Da had gien her, Sister Catherine seemed tae un’erstn an she felt a wecht lift fae her hairt.

The auld nun took aff her glesses an placed tham on the bridge i’ her neb. Suddenly the Sister’s face became clear tae her. She luikit aroon an fand the kirk transformed.

Yon same afterneen, her mither teen her tae see the ee doctor. The neist day, naething cwid bring her doon, even fin the ithers caad her a wee owl. The wardle wis a newly magical placie tae her noo, an she wis fair-tricket wi it.

Mimicking Sister Catherine’s actions all those years ago, Shelagh took off her specs and gently pulled her daughter back from her so she could set them on Angela’s face. Alarmed by this development, Angela abruptly stopped crying, and Patrick’s confusion turned to comprehension.

“Darling, could you try reading what the tin on the counter says?” Shelagh knew her glasses were probably a lot stronger than the ones Angela would need, but if this was indeed her problem, they would at least be of some help.

Angela hopped in excitement as her world changed just as Shelagh’s had when she’d been of a similar age.

“All spice!” She exclaimed, “All spice all spice!”

She took off to the living room to further explore her newfound abilities, alarming her little brother out his concentration on what appeared to be a game somehow involving a doctor and a fire truck.

“Magnavox!” She shouted. “The… Lanket!”

“Lancet!” Tim corrected from upstairs, where he was sequestered with his books.

Shelagh and Patrick laughed and turned back to the neglected dinner preparations.

“Would you like to take her to the optometrist tomorrow or shall I?” He asked, wrapping his arms around her.

“Hmm let me write Miss Lang a note explaining why she ought to be excused from reading tomorrow and then I’ll take her after school. Choosing your own glasses is such a big moment…” Patrick placed a kiss over the temples of her own specs, and she knew he was remembering when she’d changed her old round frames for the new horn-rimmed ones he loved so much. “Indeed it is.”

—

“These!” Angela announced confidently as she tried on what must have been the fiftieth pair of glasses that day. Shelagh and Dr. Adams exchanged a look of amused relief.

“That’s a lovely choice, darling.” The pair in question sported a warm amber cat-eye frame with three little rhinestones in each upswept corner. Predictably, they looked absolutely darling on Angela.

“You look just like your Mummy!” Dr. Adams agreed, and Shelagh felt a warm glow of pride settle in her chest.

The rest of the transaction proceeded swiftly, and Angela practically dragged her mother home so she could show off her new glasses to Daddy and Tim, both of whom were suitably admiring.

Unfortunately, the next day did not go as smoothly. Once again, Patrick came home with a teary Angela, but this time his face was like a thunderclap. She didn’t have to ask.

“The other children must have said something truly cruel, and I’ll be having a word with their parents about it.” Patrick said angrily.

Shelagh nodded in assent, but bent down to speak to her little girl. “What did they say sweetheart?”

Angela shook her head, unable or unwilling to speak.

“I’ll make you some nice cocoa, and then you, Daddy and I can talk about it. How does that sound?”

Angela agreed, looking a smidge more at ease, and Shelagh set of to prepare hot beverages for the family, making extra cocoa in a spare cozy-clad teapot to set aside for Tim and Teddy when they eventually came in from Teddy’s makeshift cricket lesson in the back yard.

A sufficient quantity of hot cocoa ingested, Angela explained what had so upset her. “Claire said my glasses were pretty, and that I looked like you, Mummy, but Doris said that I was just pretending, that I couldn’t look like you because… because you’re not my real mummy.” Her tears were flowing freely once more. “And Charlotte and Anne agreed.” She concluded, before the floodgates opened in earnest.

Shelagh and Patrick both wrapped her in their arms, silently communicating sharing a look of knowing distress overtop of her small head. They had been open with her about her adoption for as long as she could understand it, both feeling it was important that it not be a shock to her, and knowing that if they didn’t tell hear early on, she was likely to hear it from a third party. Yet neither of them were naive enough to believed they had headed off all future challenges.

“Darling, it’s absolutely not pretend.” Shelagh spoke gently but firmly. “You’re my real daughter, so I’m your real mummy, and Daddy’s your real daddy.”

Patrick kissed the neat part in her hair to emphasize the point. “You remember how you grew in another lady’s tummy, like Teddy grew in Mummy’s?” He asked. Angela sniffled in acknowledgement, remembering this conversation. “Well some people don’t understand that even though you came from another lady and man, you’re our little girl.”

“But then why did Teddy come from you and Mummy?” Angela asked quietly, still shaken.

“Because sometimes different people in a family come from different places.” Shelagh explained. “But what truly makes them all a family - what makes us a family - is that we love each other, not whether or not we look like each other.”

“And if we do happen to look like each other,” Patrick added, Angela quickly interrupting to add detail, “like how my hair and glasses are like Mummy but my eyes are the same colour as yours and Timmy’s?”  

“Exactly,” Patrick agreed. “And that’s just chance. Your looks are a gift from the man and lady who made you, and even if you had turned out to look nothing like us, you know we would love you just as much, don’t you?”

“Mmhhm.” A small smile broke through Angela’s tears as she agreed.

Shelagh felt the need to add one further clarification. “There are ways you’re like me and Daddy that aren’t chance; that are because you’re our daughter.” Angela turned her big, curious eyes to her mother.

“Like right now,” Shelagh said. “That wee expression, and the way you tilt your head, it’s just like Daddy when he’s confused.”

Patrick grinned. “And when Teddy or Timmy are naughty, or when something needs to be done, your voice and posture - that’s the way you stand - is just like Mummy.”

Angela was practically beaming now, her worries assuaged for the day as pulled her parents closer for another hug.

My sincere apologies if the Doric is terrible. I used a site that had an extensive dictionary and translation tool, but it may be Google Translate quality. I wanted to get across my headcanon that Shelagh grew up speaking Doric, so her memories of her childhood could also be in Doric (as I find when I remember events that happened in French, my memory of the whole event, including descriptions is in French). If anyone speaks Doric and notes anything wrong with my translation, please tell me!

[English translation of the Doric part:

She sat in the bright light of the humble East Window of St. Andrew’s, the quiet of the church always a balm to her heart. 

Ma and Da had tried, but they didn’t know any better than the teacher why she struggled sorely with the reading. It was only in class; on Sundays she could read the hymns just fine.

A soft voice interrupted her thoughts.

“I’m always sorrowed to hear crying on such a lovely afternoon.” Sister Catherine settled herself beside her.

Shelagh wiped her tears and peeked up at her kind, bespectacled face, and it all came pouring out.“Everyone’s laughing at me and Mr Wilson’s getting angry because I can’t read in school.”

Instead of the worried look Ma and Da had given her, Sister Catherine seemed to understand, and she felt a weight lift from her heart. 

The old nun took off her glasses and placed them on the bridge of her nose. Suddenly the Sister’s face became clear to her. She looked around and found the church transformed.

That same afternoon, her mother took her to see the eye doctor. The next day, nothing could bring her down, even when the others called her a little owl. The world was a newly magical place to her now, and she was delighted with it.]

#turnadette #Shelagh Turner #Patrick Turner #Angela Turner #my fic #otp: we're like an officer and a sergeant

[easyhairstylesbest]

Dylan Farrow Would Like to Reintroduce Herself

Coat, Max Mara.

PHOTOGRAPHED BY VALERIE CHIANG

Scouring the fantasy section of her favorite bookstore near the Connecticut farm where she grew up, Dylan Farrow would pick out anything that “promised me dragons,” she says. She loved the fire and destruction of mythical beasts; conspiracy theories involving families plotting against their own kin; and the way women, children, and other small creatures wielded magical powers that made them stronger in those make-believe worlds than they were in our own. “I think it started out as an escape route,” she says. “For any fans of fantasy, whether they’re in my position or not, it’s fun escapism, a way to step outside of yourself and your problems, and, I don’t know, think about dragons for a while.” She pauses to clarify: “I’m not trying to escape who I am—I’m fine with who I am. I mean, it’s taken me a while to get here, but I can say with [some] degree of certainty that I’m okay.”

Still, the first time we talked, late last year, it hadn’t quite sunk in for her that she had her own debut young adult fantasy fiction novel, Hush, on bookshelves like the ones she’d perused as a teenager. In a lot of ways, the release of Hush has served as a debut for the 35-year-old author as well, in her new life as a full-time writer and working mother, defined by no one but herself. After all, for most of her life, Dylan has been known mostly in relation to the salacious scandals that have swirled around her famous family. She became a public figure not by choice, but rather because she was Mia Farrow’s daughter, or Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Ronan Farrow’s sister. “I don’t feel like I have a father,” she says, but at one point her father was Woody Allen, Mia’s boyfriend of about a decade, who’d adopted Dylan as a child. Later, of course, Allen would go on to have an affair with, and then marry, her sister, Soon-Yi Previn. “There’s no support group for people whose sisters marry their fathers,” she says. “Or is he my brother-in-law? And is she my stepmom? I’ve got to joke about it!”

Dylan playing dress-up with Mia in the early 1990s.

Courtesy of Dylan Farrow

Then there’s the other scandal that she’ll likely never fully escape, now the subject of an HBO investigative documentary series, Allen v. Farrow. In 1992, when Dylan was seven—the same year the Soon-Yi affair blew up—she told her mother that Allen had taken her into an attic crawl space and sexually molested her, as Mia would testify in the ensuing custody battle. It was part of a pattern that Dylan later said went on for as long as she could remember, of Allen getting into bed with her wearing only his underwear, or putting his head in her naked lap. The custody fight was vicious and tore their family apart, estranged Allen from most of his children permanently, and became such a public tabloid spectacle that Dylan remembers having to be sneaked out of the back of her New York City apartment building with a blanket over her head so she could get to school without being snapped by the paparazzi. She still has PTSD from the ordeal.

A report by the Yale-New Haven Hospital Child Sexual Abuse Clinic, whose methods the judge in the custody case questioned as unreliable, concluded that Dylan was not sexually abused and that Dylan was either disturbed and made it up or had been manipulated by her mother. The judge gave Mia full custody, finding that the testimony proved “that Mr. Allen’s behavior toward Dylan was grossly inappropriate and that measures must be taken to protect her.” Allen appealed, but the appellate court agreed with the trial judge’s custody ruling. Although it gave more weight to the Yale-New Haven report, the appeals court found that the overall evidence, while “inconclusive,” “suggest[ed] that the abuse did occur.” New York State child welfare investigators later announced that they’d found no credible evidence of abuse. Several months after the custody decision was announced, a Connecticut state’s attorney announced that he had probable cause to criminally charge Allen but was declining to file charges to spare Dylan the trauma of a court appearance. Criminal charges have never been filed against Allen in the matter, and he continues to maintain his innocence. (Allen declined a request to comment for this article, but he has vociferously and repeatedly denied having molested her, and has pointed to investigations that cleared him of wrongdoing.)

“Believe it or not, the stuff that I wrote about in that essay does not encompass the entirety of my existence.”

If you know Dylan’s name now, though, it’s probably because in 2014, well before the #MeToo movement, she wrote a New York Times essay about that abuse, calling out Hollywood actors and asking whether they’d be so quick to celebrate Allen’s work had their own daughter been “led into an attic” by him. It wasn’t until her brother Ronan helped expose the misdeeds of Harvey Weinstein that Dylan’s accusations were given much credence. Dylan had emerged from obscurity to become a staunch advocate for survivors of sexual assault. But now she’s ready to emerge from that as simply a writer. “Believe it or not, the stuff that I wrote about in that essay does not encompass the entirety of my existence,” she says. “It’s a small part of 35 years of living.”

In fact, Dylan isn’t even Dylan Farrow’s name anymore. When she was eight, she changed it to a name she prefers to keep private, in order to psychologically distance herself from the events of those tumultuous years. But she’s been using Dylan as a sort of pen name, starting with the 2014 essay, to avoid confusion given that Dylan is the name in all the court documents. Among close friends and family, though, she says, “No one’s called me Dylan since I was 10.”

“I’m not trying to escape who I am. I’m fine with who I am”, says Dylan. “I mean, it’s taken me a while to get here, but I can say with some degree of certainty that I’m okay.”

VALERIE CHIANG

Reading Hush, it’s impossible not to see Dylan’s story in its themes. The book centers on Shae, a girl who is dealing with a lot and doesn’t really have time for boys. She’s “short but strong,” Dylan says, and she’s also doggedly determined to ferret out the truth—even as adults tell her it’s all in her head. The world she’s living in is falling apart, stricken by drought and a pandemic that Dylan swears she dreamed up well before 2020. A despotic leadership class wields magic to spread fake news, earn tithes, and control the populace. The written word, the people are told, will kill them; the pandemic spreads through ink. And it is only in trying to solve the murder of someone she loves that Shae finds out that she, too, can wield magic. But can she learn how to use it fast enough, when the truth is slipping away and she’s being gaslighted by powerful forces, causing her to question what she knows? Dylan says that of course the themes are partially based on her life, but readers shouldn’t try to draw too many direct parallels. “As I keep having to assert,” she says, “I do know the difference between fiction and reality.”

Fantasy writers like “Ursula K. Le Guin, Madeleine L’Engle, and Susan Cooper were all a big deal in our house,” Ronan says, adding that his older sister also “had an abiding love of anime.”

COURTESY OF DYLAN FARROW

After being awarded custody in 1993, Mia moved her large family, filled with biological and adopted children, many of them with disabilities, from Manhattan to their country house in Connecticut. Mia was determined to give the kids “the real farm experience,” Dylan says. They had horses, chickens, goats, and a cow who got lonely and tried having sex with everything, including one of the Farrow siblings’ wheelchairs. “It was a busy, noisy life full of children and animals,” Mia says.

Dylan now maintains a happy pandemic pod with her own family on that same farm, 88 acres with hiking and horse trails and a lake. She’s calling via Zoom from a home office with nothing but greenery and sunlight outside her window. Dylan, her husband (she asked that his name not be published), her four-year-old daughter Evangeline (whose name is already all over Mia’s Instagram), their pug Luna, and their English bulldog Nova stay in one house. Her brother Fletcher, who works in tech, and his wife and two daughters live in another. Their mother has a third. When we talked, Ronan and his fiancé, Jon Lovett of Pod Save America, had recently joined them from the West Coast and were staying with Mia.

Dylan’s earliest exposure to fantasy, she says, was a bedtime ritual of her mom reading The Hobbit to the kids. “My mom, I sometimes forget, is actually a really talented actress,” she says. “So she would read the bejesus out of this book, and it was the most epic thing I had ever heard. My mom would narrate and do all the voices. To this day, her rendition of Gollum is like canon tome.” At around age 11, Dylan wrote stories to read aloud to her younger siblings. “She kept them so enthralled,” Mia says. Ronan, two years her junior, says they both read a lot growing up. “Great women writers of fantasy loomed large for both of us—Ursula K. Le Guin, Madeleine L’Engle, and Susan Cooper were all a big deal in our house,” he says. “Dylan had an abiding love of anime, which I only dabbled in.” (Dylan says she also had an abiding love of Lance Bass of *NSync.)

Dylan casts a spell on her brother Ronan, whom she calls “one of the most important people in my life.”

Courtesy of Dylan Farrow

“I loved to play make-believe with Ronan,”Dylan says. “We’d play dress-up, and I’d sometimes let him play Barbies with me, if I was feeling charitable.” They collected pewter Dungeons & Dragons figurines and created a civilization for them. “We developed some pretty elaborate lore,” Ronan says. In her teenage years, Dylan wrote and illustrated a Game of Thrones–style novel, clocking in at “530-something” pages, that she says “was not fit for human consumption.” Its audience of one was her little sister, Quincy. There were dragons. The main character was an elf. There was a war. Some of it took place in space. “Every concept and every crazy notion I needed to express got chucked into the pot, and it went in a million directions and it was garbage,” she says. “I mean, my sister loves it to this day. She still talks about it.” Back then, as an author, Dylan felt supremely confident. “If I thought it was bad, I wouldn’t have written 500 pages,” she says, laughing.

The court hearings of Dylan’s childhood were, in many ways, a prosecution of her so-called “overactive” imagination. She’d described being in the attic with the “dead heads”—“which was literally because I didn’t know the word for mannequin,” she says. “I knew that people thought that I was using my imagination to tell lies,” she continues, but somehow that never affected her desire to write. Nor did Allen being a famous writer influence her in any way, “although it’s probably the reason I never wrote about New York and jazz and May–December romances,” she says.

In her senior year at Bard College, where she was majoring in art and Asian studies, Dylan decided to sign up for an online dating site associated with The Onion. This was in 2007, well before Tinder, “when dinosaurs roamed the Earth,” she says. At first, she wasn’t having much luck. “I signed up and there was, like, an influx of fifty-somethings being like, ‘Age ain’t nothing but a number, right?’ ” she says. “I’m like, ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree.’ ” Then she came across this “adorable” recent graduate living in New York City who described himself as a geek. “So I did the thing I’ve never done before or since, and I sent him a message and flirted with the guy,” she says. “I said, ‘You didn’t mention you were a cute geek.’ Winky-face emoji. I’m turning bright red telling you this.”

They met up at Grand Central Terminal and got pie and coffee, and the conversation never stopped flowing. After graduation, she moved in with him in New York. “He tried to kick me out,”she says. “He told me, ‘You’re finally independent. You should have the experience of having your own place, paying your own rent.’ I’m like,‘That’s really responsible of you, but that sounds like a lot of work.’ ” Dylan got a job as a production assistant at CNN, working the phones and the copy machine at the Nancy Grace show, mainly so she could continue to crash with her boyfriend. She was eventually laid off. “Journalism, it turns out, wasn’t for me. Wrong member of my family,” she says. When her boyfriend got a job offer he couldn’t turn down in South Florida and asked her to join him, she agreed. “In the back of my head, I’m thinking, ‘Well, I’d better get an engagement ring out of this,’ ” she says. And she did. They’ve been together for 14 years, married for 10.

Dylan has been writing stories to entertain her younger siblings since age 11. “She kept them so enthralled,” Mia says.

VALERIE CHIANG

Dylan spent the following six years in Broward County, living a relatively normal life. She worked for a weight-loss center, and later found a job as a graphic designer. Back at home, she’d write fantasy stories well into the early hours. “That was where I was finding my happy place,” she says. “I sat down with my husband at one point and I said, ‘Look, I spend every morning sitting in my car giving myself this pep talk, like, Today is going to be over at some point. And I can’t live like this.’ ” She did some soul-searching and realized she wanted to become a full-time writer. “My husband was like, ‘Okay, this is important to you. We’ll make it work.’ He’s a champ.”

So she sat down and wrote a novel. Not Hush, but a “casserole” of ideas. “It was about necromancers, set in a Spanish Inquisition–like setting,” she says. “It was maybe a little anti-religion; they were heretics.” Her protagonist was too old for YA, but the story didn’t exactly work for a broader fantasy audience either. “I wound up learning a lot about, you know, what sort of book gets picked up by publishers,” she says, laughing.

Around 2014, Dylan and her husband decided to move back northeast to Connecticut. Woody Allen’s Blue Jasmine had come out to critical praise the previous year, garnering two Golden Globe and three Academy Award nominations, including Best Original Screenplay for Allen. The sexual assault allegation, the custody battle, and leaving Manhattan had all happened in 1992 and 1993. Dylan had started fourth grade in Connecticut, thinking she’d never have to worry about any of it again, except for the rare occasions when her mom went to court. “I sort of treated it as out of sight, out of mind, and I did that for about 20 years,” she says. “But then he was up for an Academy Award, and no one cared.

We were in the process of relocating, and I snapped and went crazy and the essay happened.” When she told someone close to her that she was thinking about speaking out, he said, “Well, why? Nobody cares.” When she told her therapist that “maybe this is something, someday, you know, nebulously, abstractly I’m considering,” he told her that it was a terrible idea and she’d undo all the progress she’d made.“Obviously, I didn’t listen to those people,” she says. “The thing is, in a lot of ways, they were wrong. But in a lot of [other] ways, they were right. In 2014, nobody really did give a crap. And I did undo all the progress I’d made.”

The essay caused a stir, but Allen kept his Academy Award nomination, and the star of Blue Jasmine, Cate Blanchett, won the Oscar for Best Actress. Meanwhile, Dylan had opened Pandora’s box. “I had to develop an entirely new skill set with different coping mechanisms based around having spoken out and the aftermath of that,” she says. “The difference was, I was doing this on my own terms.” She still struggles at times, “but on the whole, it does feel healthier to cope with it on that level rather than just ignore it. I think it’s also more helpful to the people in my life: my husband, my family, my friends. They know what’s going on now. I’m not just freaking out because I saw some random movie poster. There’s a method to the madness.”

Mia, Ronan, and Dylan in Connecticut, in 2016.

Courtesy of Dylan Farrow

Mia can see a huge difference. “She’s evolved from being a shy child to being much more assertive. And a lot of it has to do with coming out with her personal story and feeling less like a victim,” she says. “I do know that as a mother, my job, among other jobs, is and always has been to support her in whatever she needs. I’ve stood by her all these years, and I will continue to do so.”

Dylan has only seen three of Allen’s movies: 1973’s Sleeper (“As a kid, I think it was framed as, ‘Do you want to see Daddy eat a rubber glove?’ and I was like, ‘Oh yeah!’ ”) and two others, Alice and The Purple Rose of Cairo, neither of which Allen appears in onscreen. According to IMDb, Dylan appears in Alice, Crimes and Misdemeanors, and New York Stories, “which is really trippy,” she says, “because I don’t remember being in them.” For her Alice appearance, she visited her mom on set, ran up to hug her and say “hi,” and then ran off. She remembers the moment, but not being filmed. She also remembers being at the circus with two kids who kept putting their Cracker Jack in her popcorn. Years later, when she saw the movie, she realized she was watching herself. “It was weird, like seeing my memory, but with different people,” she says.

Triggers are all around her, and whether they’ll set her off depends on how she is doing emotionally that day. She’ll freeze up if she’s scrolling through a news feed and sees a face with thick glasses, or if she overhears jazz music. In the past, such things could leave her curled up in a fetal position. During a 2018 TV interview with Gayle King, Dylan burst out crying after being shown a recording of Allen denying the allegation. It hasn’t gotten better overnight—“It’s a process,” she says—but Dylan has been steadily improving since speaking out. “I try to take the mindset that I have a 100 percent success rate of getting through every single one of the panic attacks I’ve ever had; none of them have killed me.” In some ways, she says, it’s been a blessing to be Evangeline’s mother in this fraught time, to have to care for a small child and to know she has to hold it together for her. “My top priority is obviously making sure that my daughter is always safe, healthy, and loved,” she says. Asked what she says when others assert that Allen was just acting as a doting father, Dylan replies: “Let him watch your kid.”

It still baffles her when Allen’s fans come after her on Twitter, saying she’s lying. “This is something that I’m literally telling you happened to me. Who are you to say, ‘No, it didn’t’? I was there, you weren’t. Go away.” Still, it’s amazing to her that some people peddle the idea that her mother brainwashed her to believe she was molested and also to have PTSD from it—something she says Mia would have needed “military-grade torture equipment” to pull off. “It’s crazy that for some people, the idea that I was brainwashed is somehow easier to swallow than child sexual abuse,” she says.

“I guess I’m just way more vindictive than anybody gave me credit for,” Dylan says. “And I say that because it’s not entirely a bad thing. Vindictive women can get stuff done.”

VALERIE CHIANG

Dylan didn’t tell her mother and Ronan that she was going to write the essay until she already knew she was going to publish it. “I kind of wanted to wait until there were no take-backsies before I really discussed it with them, because I wasn’t sure how they were going to react,” she says. It was the first time she’d told Ronan what had happened in detail. “And he started crying, which I didn’t really expect,” she says. “He’s not super sentimental.” Even for Ronan, #MeToo warrior that he is now, there was a period of adjustment, of separating the family desire to put the past behind them with his sister’s need to expose her wounds in order to heal them. They talked often and at length, and in 2016, when Allen’s film Café Society was opening the Cannes Film Festival, Ronan wrote his own essay supporting his sister’s claims for The Hollywood Reporter. It was loud and splashy, and dominated all the press for Allen’s film. And in its own way, it led to Ronan chasing down the stories of Harvey Weinstein’s sexual assaults. “Dylan was absolutely a voice of conscience on this issue,” Ronan said by email. “I learned a lot, watching her come forward with her story, and maintain it consistently, year after year—even when I and others around her weren’t sure it was worth the blowback.”

“Without Ronan’s support, I probably would’ve felt completely adrift,” Dylan says. “He’s one of the most important people in my life.” What she didn’t realize was just how important those conversations would be to her brother and others, through his work.

“I thought he was just, like, calling me. It wasn’t until I read his book that I realized I was actually having this huge impact on him.” It bothered her, though, that her essay from 2014 “was kind of brushed off and ignored or sidelined or outright stomped into the dust,” but when her brother said the exact same thing two years later, suddenly people’s ears perked up. “I got salty at Ronan, because I was like, ‘Do people really need a white man to say the exact same thing to get people to listen?’ ”

So in 2017, in the wake of #MeToo, she wrote a second incendiary essay, this time for the Los Angeles Times, which questioned how all these men could be taken to task, but Woody Allen was still making movies. “[At age seven,] I wasn’t, obviously, given a platform, and I was not in an emotional state to take advantage of a platform. I was literally a child,” she says. “And it’s easy when you are a white man with a considerable amount of clout, power, and wealth to silence a voice like that, pin the blame on my mom, and spin the story for 20-plus years.” The good thing, though, is that Dylan has begun to recognize her own power. “I guess I’m just way more vindictive than anybody gave me credit for,” she says. “And I say that because it’s not entirely a bad thing. Vindictive women can get stuff done.”

“I never thought I would be writing about a dystopia in a climate where that would feel relatable.”

In the end, Hush hasn’t been an escape route for Dylan, but rather a way forward out of the darkness that has clouded her existence for so long. After her first novel about the necromancers failed to find a publisher, she decided to start over, “drawing on the themes and ideas that I was seeing percolating in the world around me,” she says. In 2018, as now, fake news and propaganda were hot topics, as was a general distrust of the system. “I never thought I would be writing about a dystopia in a climate where that would feel relatable,” she says. When Mia read it, she saw her daughter in Shae. “I see Dylan’s courage against monstrous thoughts and monstrous people and powerful foes,” she says. “Being disbelieved is part of the assault.” While she says she can’t speak for her daughter, Mia thinks that in writing the book, Dylan was able to reckon with her past in a way that was “bearable,” by creating a story “which is and isn’t about her.”

Hush

Dylan Farrow bookshop.org

$17.47

As of mid-January, Dylan was nearly finished writing the sequel to Hush, with only half of the final chapter and the epilogue to go. She’s found that it’s progressing faster and is more enjoyable this time around, because she no longer has the terror of being a debut novelist who, before this, “was a known quantity for something very specific—and something with a lot of morbid curiosity around it.”

She knows that curiosity will always be there. “I can’t completely disentangle myself from it,” she says. And the publicity for this book has meant a lot of “talking about the thing that I like least in the world. It’s always going to be the elephant in the room.” But no amount of fear can take away the pleasure of holding her book in her hands, and knowing that someone else might happen across it at a bookstore and take it off the shelf. Her simple hope is that “somebody will read it and connect to it and enjoy it and maybe not take it so seriously.”

Jada Yuan Jada Yuan circumnavigated the globe in 2018 as the inaugural 52 Places Traveler for the New York Times. Before that, she spent over a decade at New York Magazine and its websites as a contributing editor and culture features writer, where she profiled Stevie Nicks, Ava Duvernay, and Bill Murray, among others.

Dylan Farrow Would Like to Reintroduce Herself

[thefandomimagine]

The Slipper and the Soldier: Prologue.

Summary: This is a fairy tale dear reader, where impossible things happen every day, such as a pumpkin becoming a golden carriage; or a plain honest country girl and a prince falling in love. A Cinderella AU where you dear reader take on the title role while the Avengers and other Marvel characters take on the other roles in the story; such as Bucky Barnes filling in for the role of Prince Charming.

Based on this imagine right here.

Prologue - A Day At The Market

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a small but mighty kingdom named S.H.I.E.L.D that has long since been forgotten by scholars and historians. And in this Kingdom, two remarkable children were born who, in most circumstances would never meet for their lives were much too different. But this is a fairy tale dear reader, where impossible things happen every day, such as a pumpkin becoming a golden carriage; or a plain honest country girl and a prince joining in marriage.

The eldest of these children was born the son of George and Winifred Barnes, a soldier and royal servant respectively and was given the name James Buchanan Barnes; although everyone in the palace simply called him Bucky. Though they didn't have much the family were happy living in the servant quarters of the palace, which Bucky spent most of his childhood exploring while his parents performed their duties, often finding himself in trouble with the many nobles who visited and worked within the walls of the large castle.  

The trio led a simple life filled with happiness that only grew with the birth of Bucky's younger sister Rebecca, whose birth brought the family closer than ever before. Bucky’s father ended up trading in his life as a soldier to instead become a palace guard, ensuring that he could continue to provide for his family without the risk of never seeing them again, afraid that he would eventually fall in battle miles away in the war and leave them behind forever. Bucky’s mother, on the other hand, became a member of the Royal Tailors, charged with repairing any and all fabrics in the palace that had been torn and damaged, allowing her to watch over her new-born babe as she worked sewing tears in curtains and sheets until they looked brand new. And Bucky, he had managed to make his first friend in the son of Lord Rogers, who cared little about their difference in social class and even offered to teach him the basics of swordsmanship.

For a long time, the Barnes family had a wonderful life however the happiness they felt like all things could not last forever. Two years after his sister was born a great plague created Hydra, a kingdom that S.H.I.E.L.D had been fighting against in a great war that had lasted nearly a 100 years, struck the kingdom of S.H.I.E.L.D taking many lives in its wake including Bucky’s parents and baby sister. At the age of 8, Bucky Barnes was left alone in the world, with his fate uncertain for he had no other family to call his own who could take him in. Many of the palace servants thought that the boy would eventually be brought on as an apprentice for he had touched the hearts of all those who inhabited the palace and the idea of him disappearing from their lives was unimaginable.

Bucky was indeed made an apprentice not long after his parents and sister departed from the world of the living however his apprenticeship was not in any profession the palace servants had ever imagined for the young boy. The servants had thought that the boy would become a blacksmith or perhaps a soldier in training like his father had once been but instead Bucky was taken in by none other than the King and declared his heir. The small boy who had grown up exploring the gardens looking for fairies and hunting for trolls to only come back and muddy the palace carpets would one day become their king.

King Nicholas 'Nick' Fury had never had plans to marry or produce an heir even though it was his royal duty to do so and his council had tried to shove the idea down his throat for years. In his youth he had spent years on the battlefront fighting in ‘The Long War’ against Hydra, striking down his enemies on the frontlines and commanding his soldiers from the tactician tent. But those days were long behind him, now a much older man scared from years of battle and torture and he was unwilling to ruin a young woman’s life with an unhappy marriage just so he could continue on his family line.   The royal family would not end with him after all, he had a number of cousins to inherit his throne after he finally croaked, what need did he have for an heir, for a son.

It wasn’t until the great plague hit that the King’s view on continuing the royal bloodline changed. Many of his subjects were lost during that dreadful time, at least a third of his kingdom gone in a matter of weeks from the sickness including the majority of his family, with only his youngest cousin Samuel surviving the ordeal. Samuel was the 9 year old son of Nicholas’s 5th cousin who he knew had always planned to allow Samuel to follow whatever path he set out to make for himself, whether he wished to give up his small title for the country life or spend his days fighting in what seemed to be a never-ending war, Samuel’s family were determined to support him and Nicholas couldn’t take away that freedom and choice from the boy.

The King had contemplated the option of marrying himself off until he heard about Bucky’s ordeal. He had run into the boy on more than one occasion over the years with the lad making a lasting impression on the King, especially after the time Bucky ended up kicking him in the shin. The boy was like him in many regards, all alone in the world now that the family he cared for had been taken from him yet he never allowed his sadness to control him, continuing about around the castle with a solemn look on his face as he did odd jobs so that he wasn’t cast onto the street by the head of the household. It was because of this, Bucky’s determination to continue on with his life and make his own way in the world that swayed Nicholas to take the boy in as his heir, not caring one bit about the reaction he would receive from his counsel nor the neighbouring kingdoms.

And so, James Buchanan Barnes born the son of a soldier and a servant became a Prince in the blink of an eye and gained along with the title a new family who ended up caring for his just as much as his birth family had, and who he in return cared for just as deeply.

On the outskirts of the kingdom’s capital there lay a quaint manor house that had been passed down from generation to generation for centuries. A large meadow and a seemingly endless forest surrounded the house providing the residence flowers and firewood throughout the many seasons of the year while sweet lambs grazed beside content cows in a field only a stone’s throw away. It was in this house filled with cheer and joy that the youngest of these remarkable children was born and raised.

Y/N L/N was born the daughter of a merchant and his wife, who both thought their daughter to be a princess. True young Y/N had no titles to inherit asides from her parent’s nickname of ‘Darling Girl’, nor a real crown though she did make more than one out of the flowers she found in the meadow and she certainly didn’t own her own castle though she thought of her house as one. And yet Y/N was still a princess at least in the small little kingdom she called home, whose borders stretched into the forest and meadow she and her parents often spent their days in, while the birds in the air and the animals in the fields made up her loyal subjects.

Because Y/N’s father was a merchant he was often way abroad for long stretches of time conducting business and finding new wonders to export into the kingdom, the house feeling less happy and bright whenever he was gone. Y/N would miss him dearly whenever he was away but knew that whenever he left he would always return eventually just as he promised, bringing with him the smell of dust and the road as well as gifts of toys and new clothes that Y/N would treasure dearly.

During those lonely weeks while her father was away exploring the neighbouring kingdoms and even some of those over the sea Y/N’s mother would tell her stories that sparked the girl’s imagination, tales of princesses in faraway lands, of knights battling dragons and pirates searching for treasure on the high seas. And just like the gifts that her father brought back for her Y/N treasured her mother’s stories as if they were some of her most precious possessions, memorising the words and the sound of her mother’s voice as she spun the tales over breakfast or before bedtime.

When she wasn’t listening to her mother’s stories or studying with her tutors Y/N could often be found talking to the many different animals that lived on the estate. It was as if the young girl could understand their squeaks and quacks as though they were words and they in return could understand her as well, the evidence of that fact was clear as day after the child had managed to stop the mice from getting into the food in the kitchen pantry by promising to feed them in the morning with the rest of the animals. And so, every morning before her lessons began the young lady of the house would walk around the field, most of the time still dressed in her nightgown trailing off the long list of names that she had given to all of the animals that she personally fed.

There were eight animals in total that Y/N took care of herself that she had befriended over the years. First, there were the four mice, the brother Thor and Loki who always seemed to be fighting with each other, Bruce who the young lady had taken to calling him Hulk whenever he was angry and Vision who liked to bring Y/N herbs from the garden that he believed would help with the cooking. Then there were the two lizards, Tony and Clint, who appeared to like nothing more than to play tricks and pranks on Y/n, moving her shoes from wherever she had left them last or flicking her books to a new page while she wasn’t looking. And finally, there were the two small ducklings Peter and Ned, a pair of best friends who the young lady had been rising ever since she had found them both abandoned by the lake near the manor. The animals were like a second family to young Y/N, telling her stories from the forest and bringing her small gifts of lost buttons and shiny pebbles like her parents did, and they loved her just as much.

And so, for the first few years of her life Y/N was brought up in her own small kingdom filled to the brim with love and happiness, her days surrounded with stories of magic and adventure while her nights were spent listening to her mother’s lullabies while cuddling with the many stuffed toys that her father had brought back for her.

However, sorrow can come to any kingdom and no amount of happiness or love can ward off a plague. It was Y/N mother who sadly became infected, one of many throughout the capital who suffered at the hands of the man-made plague. The doctors had warned both Y/N and her father to stay as far away as possible so that they too wouldn’t suffer from the disease but neither listened to the advice not caring about the consequences. As the household staff had been sent home to not risk infection Y/N father had been forced to take on the role of cook and farmer while Y/N spend every hour of her days curled up by her mother’s side, listening to her voice as she told Y/N the stories she had grown up with knowing in her mind that they would be the last time they were ever told.

In her mother’s final hours a great secret that would see her through all the trails that life had to offer was passed down onto Y/N, who promised her mother through sad sobs that she would always remember for the rest of her life.

Have courage and be kind.

Time passed, and the pain and loss soon turned to memory. With neither Y/N or her father having been infected by the plague that had taken her mother from them the pair grew closer than they ever had before, with her father deciding to leave the travelling side of his business to his associate Thanos while he remained at the family manor to raise and care for his daughter. This arrangement worked for many years until one day when Y/n was 17, a day that she would eventually wish had never come about. Her father had been trying to create a new trade deal with a foreign merchant for some time however the merchant in question only wished to discuss the terms of the deal in person, not moving from his stance no matter how much her father tried to make him budge.

And so, for the first time since her mother’s death, Y/N’s father planned to travel across the great blue sea, leaving his daughter behind in the care of his old friend and business associate Thanos and the company of his daughters Gamora and Nebula. If only Y/N farther knew back than the company and safety that Thanos would come to provide for his daughter, if he had known he would never have left Y/N alone with only her mother’s words for comfort.

Have courage and be kind.

Tag List: imanunbrokenfangirl, cutepanda123417, honeybournehippy, narniandreams, thecutestlittlepiggyismefunkysora, dark-angel4745, hellafiction, pandalandalopalis, janaespecter14, fandom-imagines-forever, writing-sloth,  jackbarakms, bunnysneverdie, highway2hell-24-7, hawaiipeople-blog, random-fandom-boredom, superwholockgeekgirl4life, welcomethefears, fangeekkk,  downforgayships, its-so-hard-to-find-a-good-name,  book-loving--anime-chick, jmbhorses, funkysora,  themazearegames,  way-obsessed5,  book-loving--anime-chick, lynnamin-bun

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #imagine #Avengers #reader insert #captain america #bucky barns x reader #Winter Soldier #james bucannan barnes #captain america winter soldier #captain america civil war #captain america the first avenger #imagines #fandoms #fandom imagine #thefandomimagine #cinderella #cinderella au #reader

[ecotone99]

[HR] Benjamin

It was born: seven-and-a-half pounds of pure delight. Some babies have scrunched up faces and they're ugly until they reach early toddlerhood, but not this baby. It was absolutely pristine. Its head was an aesthetically pleasing, moderately-sized oval, with no sharp arches or corners. Its cheeks were rosy and plump, and it had the most adorable, intelligent pale-blue eyes. Its skin was blemish-free and as smooth as ice. Its hands and feet, fingers and toes, from its heels to its nose, proportional. The perfect child. They called him Benjamin.

​

He spent his first waking years in a loving middle-class family household, with a loving mother and father who gave him everything he could ever want. The house was cosy but spacious, filled with beautiful modern things. The garden was luscious green with an immaculate picket fence which bordered into a safe, quiet, well-off suburban neighbourhood. Daddy was a writer and mummy was a doctor, so, during the days, he was cared for by a respected nanny, who was paid more than her fair share for doing a good job and making sure he felt loved. At bedtimes, he was read the sweetest, well-authored stories, hand-chosen fresh from the bookstore by daddy and mummy, with love and affection, thought and care.

​

By the time Benjamin had started nursery, he was already walking and talking like a pro. He was a funny, intelligent, "switched on" little shy boy who charmed everyone. He was fairly shy, but nonetheless clearly enjoyed interacting with other like-minded children. Benjamin's favourite thing to do was build forts out of alphabet blocks, so daddy bought him a whole box full and gave it to the nursery for him and the other children to play with.

​

Benjamin's parents sent him to the best primary school in the local area, well-regarded among the middle-class as being one of the most academically-encouraging and friendliest educational institutions in the country, and it was full of mannered and good-humoured boys and girls which Benjamin could befriend.

​

In the first two years, his budding talents and interests were explored and nurtured in an encouraging environment, with helpful teachers at hand if he needed to raise his arm and ask questions, which he did frequently, the inquisitive soul that he was. Parents organised play dates and sleepovers for him and the other kids, after school and at weekends, so he wasn't bored or alone. Neither was he pestered or mollycoddled or over-encumbered with attention. It was just the right amount of quality interaction he needed, from parents, teachers and friends. Benjamin had the perfect social environment in which to flourish.

​

He continued to receive good support into his third and fourth years, and he was learning a lot. He particularly enjoyed English, and he'd bring home short stories for mummy and daddy to read; friends of his parents said he took after his father. He also liked Science and was pretty good at it. It was clear from the language in his school reports that the teachers were fond of him. He wasn't too obedient, but he wasn't naughty. The point is, he wasn't afraid to stand up for himself if he felt something was wrong about a situation. He'd come out of his shell somewhat since his nursery days. He was less bashful and more confident.

​

In his fifth year of primary school, Benjamin got into a fight outside the school playground, and a boy got badly hurt. When his parents found out over the phone, they set off immediately in their four by four, arriving in the school car park ten minutes later to a distraught Benjamin, sitting on a bench in the main reception office with his head down. Benjamin told them that a boy insulted his best friend Tom, and that the boy punched him in the arm, and that he didn't see the stairs behind them. It was an accident, he said. I'm sorry, he said. He showed them the bruise on his arm and a cut on his knee to prove he was telling the truth.

​

Benjamin's parents decided to suspend his pocket money for a month, and they had a stern talk with him about the consequences of his actions. It took a while, but after a good few talks with the other parents, and an offering to help pay any bills associated with the injury, the situation was eventually considered reconciled, and he was forgiven. It was an accident, after all. He didn't mean for it to happen. He was just doing what he thought was right at the time. It's not as if he started it. He was brave, in a way, for trying to stand up for his friend. In the end, they took Benjamin to see the kid in the hospital, and they both apologised to each other and made up. From that point onward, it wasn't a problem.

​

His last year of primary school was his best academically. He excelled in all his subjects, far more than was expected of him, and much more than anyone could predict. He got top grades on everything from Science to Art, and even Maths, a subject he was previously weak at. Sometimes he would spend whole breaktimes in the library, reading, with his head bent forward like an ostrich. And he wrote more stories than ever. Mummy and daddy got him a laptop, so he'd stay up in his bedroom and write and write and write. He never stopped. Sometimes he got really angry with himself if he couldn't get the wording right, or he couldn't come up with a good ending. His face would blush crimson red and his nose would pulsate, and sometimes he'd bang on his desk really hard, and mummy could hear him when she made the dinner.

​

Benjamin's hard work paid off, and he left primary school with high praise. He spent most of the summer up in his room, writing stories. Come late August, his parents got concerned he wasn't going out enough. He didn't seem to want to enjoy the sunny weather or get any exercise. He also hadn't spoken to any of his friends since he left primary school. When mummy and daddy asked him about this, he said he was too busy writing to have friends. In an effort to bond and get him out of the house, daddy suggested a camping trip with his old best friend, Tom. He said it would give Benjamin different kinds of skills unattainable from the confines of his bedroom walls, and he might enjoy it. Benjamin reluctantly agreed, but he wanted to take his laptop with him and charge it in the car.

​

They all arrived home in the four by four, two days later. Benjamin immediately got out of the car, leaving Tom and dad behind, and went straight up to his room and shut the door. "Is he upset?" Mummy asked. Daddy shrugged.

"He seemed fine on the way back." He closed the car doors and called to Tom, then turned back to mum. "Maybe he's tired, or excited about being back?" She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but something felt wrong, as if the passing months of Benjamin's reclusive behaviour might have been more than just a phase he was going through. She was worried about him.

​

That night, Benjamin refused to come down for dinner. Mummy tried and failed to reason with him on two separate accounts, climbing and then descending the stairs three minutes later with a bewildered expression on her face. He wasn't just refusing to come down; he refused to talk to her. Tom was supposed to be having a sleepover, but Ben had been upstairs the whole time, on his laptop. Later that evening, Tom was driven home, and mummy suggested that Ben see a psychologist. In the meantime, they confiscated his laptop.

​

Despite going to weekly appointments with Doctor Brandly, things only got worse as time passed. When it came time for Benjamin to start secondary school, he expressed no feelings or thoughts about the new chapter of his life. He was slowly but surely shutting his parents out from everything. Having no laptop, he'd taken to buying stacks of notebooks, which he filled with countless stories too fast for his pocket money to keep up, so mum and dad increased his allowance, hoping to get through to him and receive an acknowledgement of gratitude, but nothing came. He ignored them as much as he could, and he kept refusing to eat at dinner time.

​

Sometime after his twelfth birthday, Benjamin's face started receiving tiny pinprick red spots. Probably puberty, his parents thought. But more and more spots appeared. They proliferated like bacteria, completely swallowing his face and the whole of his body within just a few weeks. His mum thought it may have been some kind of rash or awful reaction to something, so she drove him down to the hospital. But they were right. It was acne, albeit a rare and extreme case. He was prescribed antibiotics and skin cream to help with the soreness. By the time he was thirteen, his body was so covered in them, that statistically more of him was red than any other colour.

​

Around the same time as the red spots, Benjamin stopped talking to his mum and dad completely. He was still refusing to eat dinner every night, and he was staying up later than ever, scribbling down stories on his notebooks non-stop. Mum and dad tried to get him to sleep, but they couldn't. On one desperate night, they even tried holding him down on the bed, but he struggled violently, kicking and shrieking, and they eventually gave up and left him to it. Later in the evening, mummy checked his temperature and he was scorching, almost inhumanly hot, so she immediately called a doctor out to examine him. Benjamin hissed at him the whole time. The doctor politely explained that this wasn't his area of expertise, told them to contact a specialist and walked out the door. The next day, they received a phone call from Doctor Brandly's office. Ben had bitten him during one of their sessions. The gash was so deep it needed stitches. He said he was sorry; he couldn't work with Ben anymore. That was the last they heard of him.

​

What the hell had gotten into him? Why was he behaving so strangely? Why was he suddenly so antisocial? Was he autistic? Was it just a teenage phase? Was there something difficult going on in his life that he felt he couldn't talk to them about? Was he in some kind of danger? Time and time again, Ben refused his parents' inquiries with silence.

​

By this point, Benjamin's academic performance had wilted. His precocious beginnings and the promise of a bright future was waning. Art and English were the only subjects that hadn't suffered. In those two subjects, he was the top of his year. This made Ben's parents somewhat hopeful, but his behaviour continued to grow stranger.

​

In his tenth year at secondary school, Benjamin suffered some kind of severe mental breakdown. According to witnesses who saw him in the lunch hall, he was on his back, shouting and screaming and pulling weird faces. The noises he made were heard throughout the whole school. Teachers suspected Ben might have had a seizure, so they checked the footage on the security camera after it happened. The images were very unpleasant to watch.

​

The footage showed Ben walking down the lunch hall, then stopping dead in his tracks. He stood rigidly still for about a minute. Kids brushed and barged past him, but he stayed on the spot. Suddenly his body twisted backward towards the camera, his mouth opened wide and his eyes rolled upward into his head. Then he flung himself violently onto the table next to him. Children scattered in fear. His hands and arms contorted like a willow tree, and his back spasmed into a crooked arch. His head shook frantically from side to side so fast that the low-frame-rate recording couldn't pick it up fully. Then his right leg kicked him off the table like a ragdoll, and he landed face-down onto the hard floor and lay still until teachers came to his aid.

​

He visited the nurse and was sent home. Apart from a nose bleed, he was okay, but they advised to keep a close eye on him and to call the doctor if it happens again. The school asked if anything was happening at home and if he was seeing a psychologist, but his mother was too exhausted to tell them anything. Much to his parents' relief, Ben slept that night.

​

Ever since that day, Ben stopped talking at school. Instead, he developed his own perverse form of communication. He started using "clicks" of various pitches, which he produced by flicking his tongue over the roof of his mouth. He pointed to things by twitching his head to the left or to the right. His arms jerked in weird, spasmodic patterns. He stuck his tongue out and back in again, like a frog. "There's something unnatural about him," the teachers complained, "I don't want him in my classroom... The children are frightened of him."

​

The principal still wanted to accommodate Benjamin if he could, but something had to be done. Perhaps they could get him to graduate into the final year, but they'd have to transfer him to a special department, away from the other children. It was that or suspend him indefinitely. They sent out a letter to his parents with the ultimatum. After trying and failing to get a response from Benjamin, his parents opted to withdraw him from the school. It was clear he had some kind of mental impairment.

​

Ben spent the first two weeks out of school in the back of the four by four, visiting clinics and having MRI scans. It was during these sessions that they noticed just how grotesquely skinny he'd become. They hadn't seen Ben naked for a long time, for obvious reasons. It appeared the shirts and jumpers he wore were disguising an emaciated, anorexic husk. Years of refusing to eat dinner and avoiding exercise had turned him into a ghoulish skeleton, with his red skin and sunken blood-shot eyes, twig-like arms and legs, protruding ribs, and a collarbone that jutted out from his chest like a fossil on excavation grounds. His mother reassured staff that they were doing everything in their power to get him to eat, and on many occasions she broke down in tears while trying to explain. "He just won't eat."

​

Much to everyone's astonishment, the MRI scans revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Ben's brain was normal: no clots, no tumours, no lesions, no aneurysms. Nothing. It didn't make sense. Was all this crazy behaviour really only psychosomatic? What kind of messed-up, traumatic experience had he gone through that they weren't aware of?

​

Doctors checked his blood pressure, took some samples, recorded his heart beat and listened to his chest, but all the physical analyses produced fairly standard outcomes. Other than advising that Benjamin eat more, the only other thing they could do was suggest a specialised psychologist that deals with abnormal cases. In the meantime, they would continue to analyse the MRI scans and contact them promptly with the last of the results. They said that was all they could do for the time being.

​

Now that Benjamin was out of school, he was spending all of his time in his bedroom. His parents didn't know what he was doing in there. He always kept the door shut, and he hissed every single time it was opened by anyone but him. His parents just hoped he was still writing his stories. At least that would be something proactive and fairly "normal". They weren't optimistic out of choice. They were desperate. If they or Doctor Brandly or MRI scans couldn't help him, what in God's name could they do?

​

On November 23rd, the tail-end of a major tropical storm hit Britain's shoreline. They called it Hurricane Samara, though Mexicans, who had been ravaged the worse by it, called it, "Huracán Satanás". It was a one-hundred-and-forty-mile-per-hour monster, and by the time it had rolled across the Atlantic, it had already done near a billion dollars’ worth of damage and slaughtered an estimated four thousand people.

​

The Met Office issued a weather warning on television and through the radio, the likes of which the UK had never seen before. Families were advised to stay indoors for the time being, as the roads and the streets were deemed hazardous, and the emergency services cautioned significant wait times. It rained for days, and gale-force winds blew tiles off roofs and howled through trees and across windows.

​

During this time, Benjamin's mum rediscovered her passion for making cheesecakes. A long time ago, back when Ben was young and normal, he and his dad used to love mummy's raspberry cheesecakes; they used to accompany them in their man-to-man chats at the dining table. She thought maybe Ben might have a slice or two if she offered him some. She thought maybe it would make him remember. It was worth a shot.

​

She walked upstairs to his room. She opened the door slowly and gently, expecting to receive a prompt hiss in her direction. But there was no noise. As the door opened wider, she noticed Benjamin wasn't in his usual spot. His desk was empty, and so was his bed. When the door was fully open, she saw Benjamin.

​

He was sat on the carpet, cross-legged in front of his wardrobe mirror, and he was... pulling faces. But these weren't just any faces. He was stretching his mouth wide open and sticking his tongue out and gnashing his teeth and grimacing malevolently. What was he doing? He was completely unphased by her presence, almost like he didn't know she was there. Maybe he didn't know? She stood in the doorway as still as she could, releasing her breath even quieter than those times she played hide and seek as a girl. Something primal tugged at the back of her legs, willing her to sprint out of the house as fast as she could and not look back. After witnessing twenty wide, full-toothed grins, she decided she'd had enough, and gently pulled the door shut. Then she tiptoed silently downstairs.

​

She didn't know what to do with herself for about half an hour after that. For the first time in her life, she didn't feel safe in her own home. She busied herself with chores for the rest of the afternoon, vacuuming and laundering and dusting and cleaning. She organised her work computer and prepared dinner. But between the gaps of the jobs she tried so hard to focus on, she couldn't shake off a growing sense of unease and dread in relation to her child. She ruminated about it in the background until she confessed to herself at last: she was scared of her own son.

​

After eating dinner and doing the dishes, she walked into the living room where Ben's dad was sitting on the sofa, doing a crossword (their house was open-plan, with living room, kitchen and front-door hallway all adjoined). She sat down next to him and immediately burst into tears. Relentless floods streamed down her face. Ben's dad put his crossword on the table and positioned her head on his chest, letting her cry there for ten minutes.

​

"He's evil. Peter, he's evil. He's fucking evil, Peter. I know it." She sobbed further out of guilt at what she had just said.

"He's not evil." He reassured her whilst stroking her head.

"No, Peter." She held back tears and swallowed some snot. "My sister was right." She looked up towards his bedroom. "He's... unnatural."

"Don't be silly. Humans develop weird illnesses and physical ailments. You of all people should know that. Ben's not evil, he's just disturbed. There's something wrong with him that the doctors haven't encountered before: it's a new 'thing' that hasn't been documented, but they're still looking into his condition. We need to hold tight and wait for the final MRI results. How many times do we have to have this conversation?" Ben's mother sniffed and snuffled herself back into composure: "When the storm dies down, I want to take him to see a priest." Ben's dad looked skeptical.

"A priest?"

"We've tried everything, Peter," she snapped, "No, no, and I don't care what you say. I'm taking him to see a priest. When the weather dies down, I'm taking him to see a priest."

"You think he needs an exorcism?" He said condescendingly. She let a few more tears slide silently down her face before she spoke again: "Maybe. Yes." She whimpered, tearing up again because of guilt.

"Elaine, come to your senses. What priest? Who? Exorcisms don't exist except in books and films. They're fictional. No priest who is in the least bit concerned with his reputation is going to perform a-"

"I've found one," she interrupted, "Online. And before you ask, yes; it's a proper priest. He works for the St. Pauls Church about forty miles away. I asked him, and he said he could do it. He's only asking for fifty pounds in cash, which I said is fine." They sat without speaking for a minute.

"What on Earth did you tell him to agree to this?" She looked at him dead in the eye with profound seriousness. "The truth." Ben's dad considered.

"What do you mean by the truth? You mean the truth that Ben has bad acne? You mean the truth that his brain is abnormal due to a medical condition that isn't fully understood yet? You mean the truth that he's a good kid who's had some bad luck? See, this is what I don't understand, Elaine. We're still waiting for the final results, and there are other things we can do. Why are you giving up on our son so quickly?"

"I mean the truth that I saw him on his own tonight, in his bedroom, making weird scary faces in the mirror."

"So?"

"ON HIS OWN, Peter! For God's sake what kid does that?"

"What kid is born with an extra leg or a hideously deformed face? It's the same thing. Ben has the equivalent, but the malfunction is psychological."

"If it was to do with his brain, the MRI results would have shown it. Peter, I know this."

"No, you don't. You're tired and stressed out and not thinking rationally. Every single physical and mental ailment was once a mystery. Diseases we never knew existed are constantly being discovered and documented. Why are you so damn sure this is any different?"

"I know how this sounds, but... I just feel there's something deeply wrong."

"There we go." He said triumphantly.

"Don't you feel it?" She begged him to share her unease.

"I'm a disturbed by it. Of course I am. I hate seeing my son like this. I just want him to be back to normal. But at no point have I ever thought he was evil. It's ridiculous, Elaine. You think this is like The Exorcist."

"Okay, fine." She had stopped crying by this point.

"You see my point?" She took a deep breath before replying.

"Yes... I'm just..."

"Just?" She looked at him and welled up, becoming teary-eyed once more.

"Scared." Ben's dad hugged her.

"I'm scared too."

​

Later that night, Benjamin's mother awoke to the sound of rain crashing against the window. She widened her weary eyes and looked at her alarm clock: 2 AM. She sighed a tired sigh and yawned, got out of bed and went to the en-suite bathroom for a pee. Whilst she was on the toilet, she heard a loud bang coming from the wall which bordered the hallway. She flushed the toilet and exited the bathroom, opening her bedroom door and into the landing. She turned on as many lights as she could, then she opened Benjamin's door.

​

Her eyes were still adjusting to the light; objects appeared to her as blurry grey shapes. She noticed a horizontal thing that didn't belong in the middle of the room. It must be Benjamin, lying down on the floor for some reason, she thought. She switched his bedroom light on and gasped. Benjamin's forehead was covered in blood.

​

He was lying perfectly still, on his back, gazing up at the ceiling wide-eyed and vacant. Fresh blood clung to the shards of his now-broken wardrobe mirror. It was clear what he had done.

​

She sat him up so that his back was against the bed, then went downstairs to get some medical supplies. "Oh God, honey... Benjamin, why?" She sobbed, tending to his wounds. "What's wrong?... Are you okay?... How do you feel?" His face remained vacant, gazing into the shattered mirror opposite him. She checked him for concussion, carried him into bed and tucked him in, turned all the lights off and went back to her room. What the hell was wrong with him? She couldn't sleep that night.

​

The first part of the next day went along pretty standard: Benjamin spent the entire day in his room and barely ate a thing, passing his parents just once, in the kitchen, on his way to get some ham from the fridge. He didn't say a word, clicking and clucking as he walked back upstairs to his bedroom with several slices of ham in his bare hands. As odd as it sounds, this was the norm Ben's parents had become accustomed to.

​

Ben's dad occupied himself with his ongoing fiction writing project, occasionally pacing the living room or looking out the window in search for inspiration. Sometimes he wondered into the living room or the kitchen to watch TV or grab a bite to eat, and he checked in on Benjamin about once every two hours to see if he was okay. Meanwhile, Ben's mum used her personal laptop to further her communications with the priest.

​

Around lunchtime, Benjamin's mother realised they were out of bread. The local supermarket was closed weekends on account of the storm, so she called one of her friends who lived locally - the mother of Benjamin's best friend, Tom.

​

"I'm just popping out for about twenty minutes to go to Beth's. I want to get some bread to make sandwiches." Peter came walking out from the living room in his slippers and dressing gown with a serious countenance: "Be careful." She hugged him and left the house, running in her fluffy blue coat, across the road and down the street towards Beth's house, in the torrential rain.

​

She was greeted at Beth's doorstep with the warmest and friendliest of hugs, followed by a hasty shutting of the front door and a removal of her coat. Before bread was gotten from the freezer, the making of tea and the exchanging of stories took place for about ten minutes. "So, how is Ben?" Benjamin's mother fought back tears until they flooded out of her like a collapsing reservoir wall.

"Ben's not well, Beth." She wept, proceeding to confide in Tom's mother the stresses of the past few months.

​

Bread in hand, she said her goodbyes to Beth and Tom's dad. As she went to go out of the front door, a rather distraught-looking Tom emerged from the top of the stairs: "I had a bad dream about Ben." He spoke hesitantly with a deadpan face.

"What kind of bad dream, Tom?" Then, his mother calling from the kitchen:

"Tom, come and get your lunch sweetheart. Elaine's got to go now. She's very busy." Something didn't seem right. She grabbed Tom's arm before he could go into the kitchen and spoke quietly to him. "What bad dream? What happened?" Another call from his mother: "Tom. Lunch!"

"It was a nightmare. I dreamt that Ben..." Tom looked very uncomfortable.

"Yes, spit it out, Tom." She whispered impatiently.

"Tom killed his dad with a knife." He immediately turned away and ran into the kitchen.

​

Ben's mother was frozen on the spot for about ten seconds, ruminating in the lonely confines of the now-empty hall, the information which Tom had just reluctantly imparted. She suddenly felt sick. A new sense of paralysing dread befell her; it felt like the walls of her mind were tilting downward, casting longer and larger shadows the more they did, threatening to collapse and plunge her entire world into darkness. A reel of images in her head projected memories of Ben's demented behaviour from the last few months. Her own private doubts about Ben echoed and reverberated off every object. Then, gripped by utter dread at the thought of what Ben might be actually capable of, she darted out the entrance and down the street, loaf of bread flailing in the rain. Peter is in terrible danger! She panicked.

​

She started shouting his name before she even reached the door. "PETER! PETER GET OUT OF THE HOUSE! IT'S NOT SAFE!"

​

When she burst through the door, chest heavily puffing out exasperated gasps, Peter was puzzled and instantly got up from the sofa to offer her assistance. "I just wanted to get out of the rain." She lied. She embraced him whilst looking over his shoulder to the top of the stairwell, worried still that Ben might descend at any moment brandishing a kitchen knife and try and stab him in the back. Only after inspecting the knife drawer for missing cutlery did she feel somewhat relieved, but she no longer trusted her son; that's why she monitored the stairs closely for the rest of the day.

​

Ben's mother lay awake in bed that night, watching the bedroom door in anticipation, feeling her fight or flight response rise and fall like waves in the background, moving closer and then retreating from her deepest worries. She listened to him rattling around in his bedroom, opening and closing draws and doors and clicking and clucking to himself into the early morning hours. What the fuck was he doing? She thought with a frustrated sense of curiosity. But she was too scared to open his door and find out. Until she did.

​

"Benjamin, what are you doing?" She said, inflecting her tone with a hint of agitation to give herself authority, opening his bedroom door with exaggerated speed to compensate for her nervousness. A violent hiss responded in the darkness as she switched the light on.

​

Ben was standing up, totally naked. He was hissing at her aggressively, jerking his head forward every now and then with a countenance that seemed to possess unlimited anger and hatred. "Stop it!" She ordered. But Ben continued. And then he stopped.

​

At first, she thought he was going to be sick. His head lurched downward and he gagged several times before gasping for breath. Then his head started oscillating up and down and his eyes and mouth widened to an extreme degree. It was like he was choking on air, or something was forcing its way up through his throat. She thought about getting him a glass of water, or moving closer to help him, or calling an ambulance, but something stopped her. She could hear hissing despite Ben's mouth being agape. It was coming from inside his body.

​

Paralysed in horror, she witnessed a fully-grown python-sized snake slither its way out of Benjamin's mouth and wrap itself around his neck. Suddenly Ben buckled in agony, and from out of his arsehole came a second python-sized snake. This one wrapped itself around one of his arms and part of his torso. Ben coughed a pile of blood onto the floor and then stood up slowly, using his knee as support. That's when she noticed the diamond-shaped pupils in his eyes, which proceeded to glare at her malevolently along with the snakes. That's when she blacked out.

​

Shit. She'd fallen asleep. What was the time? 7 AM, Morning. Without even thinking, she rushed out of bed and burst into Ben's bedroom and switched the light on. He was asleep. No snakes. She lifted his eyelids: normal. She went back to bed and slept through until midday.

​

She awoke to Peter nudging her shoulder. "There's someone here to see you." He said, half annoyed and half sympathetic. He led her downstairs to the living room, where a middle-aged man with grey hair and spectacles, wearing a priest collar and damp black clothes sat with his fingers interlocked and resting on the table. "Hello, Elaine. It's nice to finally meet you in the flesh." She was overwhelmed with relief that he'd finally come, she couldn't help letting out a long-repressed sigh and then a joyous smile. "Nice to finally meet you, Reverend Daniels. Thank you so much for coming."

"Please, call me Jacob."

"How was the journey?"

"Very pleasant. No traffic." He smiled.

She offered him a cup of tea and Peter went about making it.

​

They all sat down together; the priest, Peter and Elaine, and discussed Benjamin's situation. "Just to be clear, this wasn't my idea." He looked at Elaine. "But..." Returning his eyes to Jacob, "I think it's worth a shot now that you're here."

"Elaine said you were sceptical. It goes without saying that this is a highly irregular procedure, and I would be lying to you if I said I didn't feel uncomfortable, but Elaine has persuaded me that there may be a demon inside Benjamin. In which case, I will do my best to heal your son in Jesus' name."

"Thank you."

​

Jacob produced a small bottle of holy water and a cross from a black satchel. They walked upstairs together and knocked on Benjamin's door. "Benjamin?" His dad called. After waiting a few seconds for a response, he spoke through the door again: "I'm opening up, okay?"

​

Benjamin was nowhere to be seen. He'd vanished.

​

They searched the whole house, but there was no sign of him or where he had gone. Peter was racing around, looking distressed, but Ben's mother was sitting down on the sofa, appearing to be in pensive thought. Peter came storming into the living room with wet clothes. "I've searched around the house outside and he's not there. Should we take the car and look for him?" Elaine was gazing out of the window. "Elaine!?"

She sighed. "Ben's gone."

"What are you talking about? We've got to go find him."

She waited to respond longer than Peter had the patience for. "Ben is gone." Her tone was flat and self-defeatist.

"Elaine, snap out of it!" He clapped his hands together aggressively, but it didn't seem to affect her at all. In the background, Jacob walked down the stairs and stood next to the kitchen. "I'm calling the police." Said Peter, dialling the emergency number and putting his mobile to his ear.

"Peter, sit down." Elaine's gaze remained focused on the rainy picture through the living room glass pane.

"No, I won't sit down. Our son is missing. Why are you acting like you don't care?" Jacob took his spectacles off and cleaned them using his shirt. "I think you should sit down, Peter."

Peter looked at him, confused. "Why? What's going on? Do you two know something I don't?"

"Yes." Said Elaine from the living room. For a moment, Peter stood immobile, holding a surprised expression on his face akin to being slapped and rejected.

"I'll make us a cup of tea." Said Jacob, walking into the kitchen. Peter shook the expression off his face and slowly pulled himself along to the living room where Elaine sat. Sitting down opposite her, he broke her eye contact with the window and she looked down straight away. "Elaine, what's going on?"

Continuing to avoid his eye contact, she looked down at the table and said, "I cheated on you." Peter squinted in bepuzzlement, not quite sure yet how to take the news given the extraordinary circumstances. He breathed through his nose and let out a chuckle. Then he started shaking his head in disbelief. Then he let out a large, outward breath. "Wow."

​

Outside, the rain lashed at the windows of houses once thought well-off and safe. Streams leached off giant puddles of water and flowed down the streets like tears. Tree branches whipped violently the spaces around them, howling angrily as their bodies creaked and swayed in the gales. Grey clouds loomed like stalking giants, gazing on unforgivingly upon the fleeting world below, like gods who had given up on their creation. Yet inside this chaos, there seemed to be a quiet place. An eye of the storm outside the eye of the storm. A place where truths were finally being revealed. Nature was listening to them. The universe was pointing its bountiful, precious attention solely on Peter and Elaine's home, almost like it didn't know what was about to happen, and it didn't.

​

"Ben isn't biologically yours." Her eyes closed for a few seconds in regret and pain, and she muttered to herself, "I never wanted to have to tell you this." Suddenly Peter was looking very serious. Jacob walked into the living room with two mugs of tea, pulling up a coaster and placing Peter's mug on the table next to him. Peter looked up at Jacob as if to say, 'Why are you here?' Jacob sipped his coffee. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."

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[brainsinmyheadfeetinmyshoes]

3y8m, 2y5m, 4m

I can’t even remember the last time I posted an update about the kids. Without daily, dedicated computer time, it’s hard to remember to set time aside for my blog. But we are in the last few days of 2017, and if this is my only thoughtful update in a six-month period, it’ll still be worth it.

Lucian has been in preschool since August. He has done so well--when a kid is ready, many concerns dissipate. I wasn’t a fan of the full-day schedule, but he does completely fine with a nap at school, and has never once seemed exhausted in the evening. He potty trained within two weeks of starting, and it was whole hog--he sleeps all night in underwear and hasn’t had a single accident. His speech is getting so articulate, and he’s actually talkative, whereas his toddler tendency was to silently observe. He is still seeing a speech therapist once a week at school, and he is still working toward the goals identified in his IEP this past February, but the gap is closing. We’ll meet with her in January so I’m curious to hear what she has to say. 

He continues to grow in Spanish too, though it is not as complex. I was super pleased a few weeks ago when he asked our neighbor for a “chupon,” which is a baby pacifier, but he was trying to ask for a straw because you use it to “chupar,” suck. So there was some serious language logic going on with his word choice and I love it.

His teacher says he’s one of the leaders in the class, and he has one or two shadows that follow his lead. Guess that’s his firstborn-ness coming through. School has unlocked singing and dancing within him now too, and he is no longer shy to participate in either activity, so long as everyone is doing it. He still gets goofy and nervous and doesn’t want the attention if we ask him to perform, which is his father’s genetics at play, but listening to him sing Jingle Bells to himself while he plays, or watching him do his awkward 3yo dance moves brings me such joy.

He had a couple prickly months, behavior-wise, with a lot of “No,” “I want to smack you,” “Go away,” etc., type language and deliberate disobedience. It started mid-summer, and I wondered if it had to do with my pregnancy, or with the dreaded mid-year threenager phase. But this past weekend, it’s like he had a breakthrough and was extremely docile and polite. It may have been because my parents were visiting so he felt stimulated and like he had plenty of attention, but the good behavior has lasted a full week now. He IS only four months away from turning 4, so maybe this is the natural exit. I’d be really happy about that. It’s been really hard to deal with his willful challenging, knowing that that isn’t really “him,” when he’s naturally easygoing and open to guidance, but having to discipline bad behavior earnestly anyway. He and Erik had an evening outing this week and Erik really enjoyed it, so I’ll have a mother-son date this holiday week with him too. We get the least amount of solo time with him, and he arguably needs the most, considering how loving and attached he is.

Lionel is also coming out of a rough patch. Or should I say, he’s growing up, haha. He’s not quite 2.5, but finnnnnnaaaaallllly has some reasoning abilities, and is finally open to our suggestions instead of just being headstrong. We’ve had sooooooo many nights in his life where he wakes up screaming and WILL NOT STOP for 2-3 hours. He gets himself into a loop and it doesn’t break. Nothing can break it. Not loving compassion, not threats, not yelling, not distraction, not water, not food, not ignoring. It just goes, and goes, and goes. But he’s to the point now where we can bargain him out of it--”If you want to cry, I have to leave. If you want me to stay, you have to stop crying.” And it’s actually WORKING. He can turn off the waterworks in a flash. During the day, if he gets worked into a fit, I’ll tell him, “Sometimes when we’re sad we need some alone time. Please go upstairs to cry and when you’re done you can come back down.” And he’ll go upstairs! He makes a point to sit on his bed for a dozen wails, then tells me from the top of the stairs, “I’m done crying, Mama,” and comes back down, totally fine. (Lucian is not as willing to be isolated, but he, too, will go upstairs to cry when it’s a crazy, overblown tantrum.) It’s one of the best tactics, born of desperation, I’ve ever used.

But Lionel has a different quality from his father’s genetics--the feeling that rules don’t apply to him. He gets out of his bed multiple times after we put him to sleep, even though we repeat the two rules of bedtime constantly--stay in your bed and be quiet. If Lucian is present, he turns into a clown, and gets into all kinds of mischief. We’ve started to have Lucian nap in our bed on weekends, expressly because Lionel will go right to sleep as long as he’s solo. So there’s something to the whole not-sharing-a-room thing. *eye roll* Two nights ago I went in after bedtime and told him, “If I have to come back again, I have to give you a swat,” and he just nodded deeply, with a dopey smile, and whispered, “Yaaaaaaaaas.” How do you react to that?! Sigh.

We’re trying to impose a whisper-only rule at bedtime, applicable to us too, so as to invite peace and rest into our home. It is reaaaaally hard for me though, since bedtime comes at the end of a 13-hour day with three children and I just can’t even. I’m ready to zone out with Netflix and knitting and not talk to anyone for the next 11 hours, and they’re inclined to push my buttons. But we’re making slow headway, reading books in a whisper, talking in a whisper, not yelling when we tell Lionel to get in his bed for the third time, and I hope that the eventual payoff is that they whisper together before falling asleep instead of playing long, drawn-out games. If I gave one piece of advice to anyone just starting their family, right now it would be to implement the whisper-at-bedtime rule from Day 1. Set the expectation early.

But Lionel is sooooo much fun. He’s inquisitive and a performer and fun-loving. He is a parrot for speech, and repeats everything we say, English or Spanish. He knows soooo many lyrics to Christmas songs, and we’ve barely been listening to them for a month. He learned the ABCs and I’m a Little Teapot from Lucian. He recites stories with me. He asks, “Why, Mama, why?” for evvvveeeerrrryyyything. “Why you sneeze, Mama, why?” “Why he sad, Mama, why?” “Why you change my diaper, Mama, why?” This is acquired language from Lucian, who adds the tag to the end of his questions, too, but Lionel’s questioning is incessant, and it tires me out, haha. I thought I had another year or two before the typical child questioning kicked in, but it started early with Lionel. And it’s not like he understands the answers, but he parrots them right back to me anyway, so his little noggin is constantly working.

He also mimics Lucian’s every behavior. If Lucian lays on his stomach to watch a video, Lionel will copy him. If Lucian comes into the room to show me his book, Lionel does too. If Lucian doesn’t want a banana, Lionel doesn’t want a banana (but he really does). Both boys are finally advanced enough to learn from one another, but it’s pretty cute to realize that he is, and always will be, secondborn, admiring his brother.

One way he differs though, is that he’s more interested in stuffed animals, babies, plush toys, etc. He likes to have one or two animals in his bed every night, and he “borrowed” Celia’s new Christmas penguin to use as a pillow a few nights ago. He likes to push a baby doll in the baby stroller, and gets a huge thrill from the one hand puppet we have. So that’s been interesting, since Lucian still tosses stuffed animals off the bed and has never gotten into the baby dolls.

He is totally ready for school already. He gets right in the mix when we visit Lucian’s classroom, sitting on the rug and doing what the big kids do. He doesn’t follow classroom rules of course, but it’s hard to say whether it’s because he’s 2, or because he’s Lionel. But interestingly, being home alone all day with me and Celia, he doesn’t often seem bored. He self-entertains easily, going from the cars, to the Legos, to the puppet, to the books. Of course he’d prefer that someone play with him, but he’s not reliant on Lucian or on me for entertainment at all. 

He and Lucian play peacefully together more often than not, and they’re getting better at problem-solving, too. They offer spontaneous hugs, and ask each other to kiss minor boo-boos. The only time they really get worked up is when a toy-snatch happens, which are 50/50 these days. So with a bit more self-regulation in the coming years, they really will be wonderful playmates and friends.

And then there’s Celia. The easiest baby, ever. I never really believed when parents said their baby was a good sleeper, but now I wonder how badly we screwed our first two up with sleep, haha. Celia necessarily spends a lot of time in her cradle, so she puts herself to sleep easily. In fact, she gets out of sorts if we try to hold her while she falls asleep, growing crankier and resisting shuteye, but the minute she’s down, she turns her head, twists her body around so she’s on her side, and knocks out. She also has a strong preference for the pacifier, rather than the boob, for comfort. While she is still bedsharing and nurses at night, she always unlatches, whereas Lionel in particular, but Lucian too, would nurse for comfort and require unlatching. She doesn’t use the pacifier at night, but during the day, she likes to have it for napping. It is sooooo hard not to pop it in her mouth at every turn, but we really try not to give it to her if she’s not crying or sleepy. I hope she rejects it at 7mo, as the boys both did, but I think she might be more attached it. We’ll see.

She is between 4-5mo now, and hitting that point where she is alert and engaged, but has zero control over her body, so she’s a bit more high-maintenance. She tires easily whether she’s doing tummy time, or propped up, or held on her feet, or laying on her back, and she can’t use her hands yet, so she needs a lot of support during her wakeful periods. But hand control is on its way--when a toy is held in front of her, she looks intently at it, then her hands spring to her mouth (empty) and she gets all in a tizzy, because she wants the toy. And if the toy is put into her hands (or she inadvertently pulls the pacifier from her mouth), she watches it with such fascination as her hands swing it around.

She is chatty, perhaps the same or more so than Lionel was. We’ll take a dozen “turns” talking before she gets over it. She has a broad range of vocalization too, experimenting with higher pitches, and she’s starting to attempt consonants, not just coos.

With the first baby, every milestone seems far away, and each phase in babyhood seems to last a long time, but by the third, it goes so fast. It’s so hard to believe that in only 6-8 weeks, we’ll put her in a high chair and give her some avocado. The fragile newborn is already behind us, and the interactive baby is emerging.

The boys are so much more interested in her, and loving, than I expected. I thought they’d kind of ignore her for a few months, but Lionel in particular likes to be ON her, giving kisses, tucking her in, poking her eyes, tugging her hands, etc. It’s a little much, but well-intentioned. Lucian repeats to me constantly, “I like Celia, I like our baby.” Both of them say some version of “When you learn to walk, I can hold your hand,” with Lionel’s version hardly recognizable, but a good effort. It’s something like, “When you nana na na na walk, I’cn ho yo han.”

I have three precious kids, and I can’t believe it some days. But they fill my cup.

[ecotone99]

[HR] "Benjamin" (looking for feedback from experienced writers; 3/4 complete)

Benjamin

​

It was born: seven-and-a-half pounds of pure delight. Some babies have scrunched up faces and they're ugly until they reach early toddlerhood, but not this baby. It was absolutely pristine. Its head was an aesthetically pleasing, moderately-sized oval, with no sharp arches or corners. Its cheeks were rosy and plump, and it had the most adorable, intelligent pale-blue eyes. Its skin was blemish-free and as smooth as ice. Its hands and feet, fingers and toes, from its heels to its nose, proportional. The perfect child. They called him Benjamin.

​

He spent his first waking years in a loving middle-class family household, with a loving mother and father who gave him everything he could ever want. The house was cosy but spacious, filled with beautiful modern things. The garden was luscious green with an immaculate picket fence which bordered into a safe, quiet, well-off suburban neighbourhood. Daddy was a writer and mummy was a doctor, so, during the days, he was cared for by a respected nanny, who was paid more than her fair share for doing a good job and making sure he felt loved. At bedtimes, he was read the sweetest, well-authored stories, hand-chosen fresh from the bookstore by daddy and mummy, with love and affection, thought and care.

​

By the time Benjamin had started nursery, he was already walking and talking like a pro. He was a funny, intelligent, "switched on" little shy boy who charmed everyone. He was fairly shy, but nonetheless clearly enjoyed interacting with other like-minded children. Benjamin's favourite thing to do was build forts out of alphabet blocks, so daddy bought him a whole box full and gave it to the nursery for him and the other children to play with.

​

Benjamin's parents sent him to the best primary school in the local area, well-regarded among the middle-class as being one of the most academically-encouraging and friendliest educational institutions in the country, and it was full of mannered and good-humoured boys and girls which Benjamin could befriend.

​

In the first two years, his budding talents and interests were explored and nurtured in an encouraging environment, with helpful teachers at hand if he needed to raise his arm and ask questions, which he did frequently, the inquisitive soul that he was. Parents organised play dates and sleepovers for him and the other kids, after school and at weekends, so he wasn't bored or alone. Neither was he pestered or mollycoddled or over-encumbered with attention. It was just the right amount of quality interaction he needed, from parents, teachers and friends. Benjamin had the perfect social environment in which to flourish.

​

He continued to receive good support into his third and fourth years, and he was learning a lot. He particularly enjoyed English, and he'd bring home short stories for mummy and daddy to read; friends of his parents said he took after his father. He also liked Science and was pretty good at it. It was clear from the language in his school reports that the teachers were fond of him. He wasn't too obedient, but he wasn't naughty. The point is, he wasn't afraid to stand up for himself if he felt something was wrong about a situation. He'd come out of his shell somewhat since his nursery days. He was less bashful and more confident.

​

In his fifth year of primary school, Benjamin got into a fight outside the school playground, and a boy got badly hurt. When his parents found out over the phone, they set off immediately in their four by four, arriving in the school car park ten minutes later to a distraught Benjamin, sitting on a bench in the main reception office with his head down. Benjamin told them that a boy insulted his best friend Tom, and that the boy punched him in the arm, and that he didn't see the stairs behind them. It was an accident, he said. I'm sorry, he said. He showed them the bruise on his arm and a cut on his knee to prove he was telling the truth.

​

Benjamin's parents decided to suspend his pocket money for a month, and they had a stern talk with him about the consequences of his actions. It took a while, but after a good few talks with the other parents, and an offering to help pay any bills associated with the injury, the situation was eventually considered reconciled, and he was forgiven. It was an accident, after all. He didn't mean for it to happen. He was just doing what he thought was right at the time. It's not as if he started it. He was brave, in a way, for trying to stand up for his friend. In the end, they took Benjamin to see the kid in the hospital, and they both apologised to each other and made up. From that point onward, it wasn't a problem.

​

His last year of primary school was his best academically. He excelled in all his subjects, far more than was expected of him, and much more than anyone could predict. He got top grades on everything from Science to Art, and even Maths, a subject he was previously weak at. Sometimes he would spend whole breaktimes in the library, reading, with his head bent forward like an ostrich. And he wrote more stories than ever. Mummy and daddy got him a laptop, so he'd stay up in his bedroom and write and write and write. He never stopped. Sometimes he got really angry with himself if he couldn't get the wording right, or he couldn't come up with a good ending. His face would blush crimson red and his nose would pulsate, and sometimes he'd bang on his desk really hard, and mummy could hear him when she made the dinner.

​

Benjamin's hard work paid off, and he left primary school with very good recommendations. He spent most of the summer up in his room, writing stories. Come late August, his parents got concerned he wasn't going out enough. He didn't seem to want to enjoy the sunny weather or get any exercise. He also hadn't spoken to any of his friends since he left primary school. When mummy and daddy asked him about this, he said he was too busy writing to have friends. In an effort to bond and get him out of the house, daddy suggested a camping trip with his old best friend, Tom. He said it would give Benjamin different kinds of skills unattainable from the confines of his bedroom walls, and he might enjoy it. Benjamin reluctantly agreed, but he wanted to take his laptop with him and charge it in the car.

​

They all arrived home in the four by four, two days later. Benjamin immediately got out of the car, leaving Tom and dad behind, and went straight up to his room and shut the door. "Is he upset?" Mummy asked. Daddy shrugged.

"He seemed fine on the way back." He closed the car doors and called to Tom, then turned back to mum. "Maybe he's tired, or excited about being back?" She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but something felt wrong, as if the passing months of Benjamin's reclusive behaviour might have been more than just a phase he was going through. She was worried about him.

​

That night, Benjamin refused to come down for dinner. Mummy tried and failed to reason with him on two separate accounts, climbing and then descending the stairs three minutes later with a bewildered expression on her face. He wasn't just refusing to come down; he refused to talk to her. Tom was supposed to be having a sleepover, but Ben had been upstairs the whole time, on his laptop. Later that evening, Tom was driven home, and mummy suggested that Ben see a psychologist. In the meantime, they confiscated his laptop.

​

Despite going to weekly appointments with Doctor Brandly, things only got worse as time passed. When it came time for Benjamin to start secondary school, he expressed no feelings or thoughts about the new chapter of his life. He was slowly but surely shutting his parents out from everything. Having no laptop, he'd taken to buying stacks of notebooks, which he filled with countless stories too fast for his pocket money to keep up, so mum and dad increased his allowance, hoping to get through to him and receive an acknowledgement of gratitude, but nothing came. He ignored them as much as he could, and he kept refusing to eat at dinner time.

​

Sometime after his twelfth birthday, Benjamin's face started receiving tiny pinprick red spots. Probably puberty, his parents thought. But more and more spots appeared. They proliferated like bacteria, completely swallowing his face and the whole of his body within just a few weeks. His mum thought it may have been some kind of rash or awful reaction to something, so she drove him down to the hospital. But they were right. It was acne, albeit a rare and extreme case. He was prescribed antibiotics and skin cream to help with the soreness. By the time he was thirteen, his body was so covered in them, that statistically more of him was red than any other colour.

​

Around the same time as the red spots, Benjamin stopped talking to his mum and dad completely. He was still refusing to eat dinner every night, and he was staying up later than ever, scribbling down stories on his notebooks non-stop. Mum and dad tried to get him to sleep, but they couldn't. On one desperate night, they even tried holding him down on the bed, but he struggled violently, kicking and shrieking, and they eventually gave up and left him to it. Later in the evening, mummy checked his temperature and he was scorching, almost inhumanly hot, so she immediately called a doctor out to examine him. Benjamin hissed at him the whole time. The doctor politely explained that this wasn't his area of expertise, told them to contact a specialist and walked out the door. The next day, they received a phone call from Doctor Brandly's office. Ben had bitten him during one of their sessions. The gash was so deep it needed stitches. He said he was sorry; he couldn't work with Ben anymore. That was the last they heard of him.

​

What the hell had gotten into him? Why was he behaving so strangely? Why was he suddenly so antisocial? Was he autistic? Was it just a teenage phase? Was there something difficult going on in his life that he felt he couldn't talk to them about? Was he in some kind of danger? Time and time again, Ben refused his parents' inquiries with silence.

​

By this point, Benjamin's academic performance had wilted. His precocious beginnings and the promise of a bright future was waning. Art and English were the only subjects that hadn't suffered. In those two subjects, he was the top of his year. This made Ben's parents somewhat hopeful, but his behaviour continued to grow stranger.

​

In his tenth year at secondary school, Benjamin suffered some kind of severe mental breakdown. According to witnesses who saw him in the lunch hall, he was on his back, shouting and screaming and pulling weird faces. The noises he made were heard throughout the whole school. Teachers suspected Ben might have had a seizure, so they checked the footage on the security camera after it happened. The images were very unpleasant to watch.

​

The footage showed Ben walking down the lunch hall, then stopping dead in his tracks. He stood rigidly still for about a minute. Kids brushed and barged past him, but he stayed on the spot. Suddenly his body twisted backward towards the camera, his mouth opened wide and his eyes rolled upward into his head. Then he flung himself violently onto the table next to him. Children scattered in fear. His hands and arms contorted like a willow tree, and his back spasmed into a crooked arch. His head shook frantically from side to side so fast that the low-frame-rate recording couldn't pick it up fully. Then his right leg kicked him off the table like a ragdoll, and he landed face-down onto the hard floor and lay still until teachers came to his aid.

​

He visited the nurse and was sent home. Apart from a nose bleed, he was okay, but they advised to keep a close eye on him and to call the doctor if it happens again. The school asked if anything was happening at home and if he was seeing a psychologist, but his mother was too exhausted to tell them anything. Much to his parents' relief, Ben slept that night.

​

Ever since that day, Ben stopped talking at school. Instead, he developed his own perverse form of communication. He started using "clicks" of various pitches, which he produced by flicking his tongue over the roof of his mouth. He pointed to things by twitching his head to the left or to the right. His arms jerked in weird, spasmodic patterns. He stuck his tongue out and back in again, like a frog. "There's something unnatural about him," the teachers complained, "I don't want him in my classroom... The children are frightened of him."

​

The principal still wanted to accommodate Benjamin if he could, but something had to be done. Perhaps they could get him to graduate into the final year, but they'd have to transfer him to a special department, away from the other children. It was that or suspend him indefinitely. They sent out a letter to his parents with the ultimatum. After trying and failing to get a response from Benjamin, his parents opted to withdraw him from the school. It was clear he had some kind of mental impairment.

​

Ben spent the first two weeks out of school in the back of the four by four, visiting clinics and having MRI scans. It was during these sessions that they noticed just how grotesquely skinny he'd become. They hadn't seen Ben naked for a long time, for obvious reasons. It appeared the shirts and jumpers he wore were disguising an emaciated, anorexic husk. Years of refusing to eat dinner and avoiding exercise had turned him into a ghoulish skeleton, with his red skin and sunken blood-shot eyes, twig-like arms and legs, protruding ribs, and a collarbone that jutted out from his chest like a fossil on excavation grounds. His mother reassured staff that they were doing everything in their power to get him to eat, and on many occasions she broke down in tears while trying to explain. "He just won't eat."

​

Much to everyone's astonishment, the MRI scans revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Ben's brain was normal: no clots, no tumours, no lesions, no aneurysms. Nothing. It didn't make sense. Was all this crazy behaviour really only psychosomatic? What kind of messed-up, traumatic experience had he gone through that they weren't aware of?

​

Doctors checked his blood pressure, took some samples, recorded his heart beat and listened to his chest, but all the physical analyses produced fairly standard outcomes. Other than advising that Benjamin eat more, the only other thing they could do was suggest a specialised psychologist that deals with abnormal cases. In the meantime, they would continue to analyse the MRI scans and contact them promptly with the last of the results. They said that was all they could do for the time being.

​

Now that Benjamin was out of school, he was spending all of his time in his bedroom. His parents didn't know what he was doing in there. He always kept the door shut, and he hissed every single time it was opened by anyone but him. His parents just hoped he was still writing his stories. At least that would be something proactive and fairly "normal". They weren't optimistic out of choice. They were desperate. If they or Doctor Brandly or MRI scans couldn't help him, what in God's name could they do?

​

On November 23rd, the tail-end of a major tropical storm hit Britain's shoreline. They called it Hurricane Samara, though Mexicans, who had been ravaged the worse by it, called it, "Huracán Satanás". It was a one-hundred-and-forty-mile-per-hour monster, and by the time it had traversed the Atlantic, it had already done near a billion dollars’ worth of damage and slaughtered an estimated four thousand people.

​

The Met Office issued a weather warning on television and through the radio, the likes of which the UK had never seen before. Families were advised to stay indoors for the time being, as the roads and the streets were deemed hazardous, and the emergency services cautioned significant wait times. It rained for days, and gale-force winds blew tiles off roofs and howled through trees and across windows.

​

During this time, Benjamin's mum rediscovered her passion for making cheesecakes. A long time ago, back when Ben was young and normal, he and his dad used to love mummy's raspberry cheesecakes; they used to accompany them in their man-to-man chats at the dining table. She thought maybe Ben might have a slice or two if she offered him some. She thought maybe it would make him remember. It was worth a shot.

​

She walked upstairs to his room. She opened the door slowly and gently, expecting to receive a prompt hiss in her direction. But there was no noise. As the door opened wider, she noticed Benjamin wasn't in his usual spot. His desk was empty, and so was his bed. When the door was fully open, she saw Benjamin.

​

He was sat on the carpet, cross-legged in front of his wardrobe mirror, and he was... pulling faces. But these weren't just any faces. He was stretching his mouth wide open and sticking his tongue out and gnashing his teeth and grimacing malevolently. What was he doing? He was completely unphased by her presence, almost like he didn't know she was there. Maybe he doesn't know? She stood in the doorway as still as she could, releasing her breath even quieter than those times she played hide and seek as a girl. Something primal tugged at the back of her legs, willing her to sprint out of the house as fast as she could. After witnessing twenty wide, full-toothed grins, she decided she'd had enough, and gently pulled the door shut. Then she tiptoed silently downstairs.

​

She didn't know what to do with herself for about half an hour after that. For the first time in her life, she didn't feel safe in her own home. She busied herself with chores for the rest of the afternoon, vacuuming and laundering and dusting and cleaning. She organised her work computer and prepared dinner. But between the gaps of the jobs she tried so hard to focus on, she couldn't shake off a growing sense of unease and dread in relation to her child. She ruminated about it in the background until she confessed to herself at last: she was scared of her own son.

​

After eating dinner and doing the dishes, she walked into the living room where Ben's dad was sitting on the sofa, doing a crossword. She sat down next to him and immediately burst into tears. Relentless floods streamed down her face. Ben's dad put his crossword on the table and positioned her head on his chest, letting her cry there for ten minutes.

​

"He's evil. John, he's evil. He's fucking evil, John. I know it." She sobbed further out of guilt at what she had just said.

"He's not evil." He reassured her whilst stroking her head.

"No, John." She held back tears and swallowed some snot. "My sister was right." She looked up towards his bedroom. "He's... unnatural."

"Don't be silly. Humans develop weird illnesses and physical ailments. You of all people should know that. Ben's not evil, he's just disturbed. There's something wrong with him that the doctors haven't encountered before: it's a new 'thing' that hasn't been documented, but they're still looking into his condition. We need to hold tight and wait for the final MRI results. How many times do we have to have this conversation?" Ben's mother sniffed and snuffled herself back into composure: "When the storm dies down, I want to take him to see a priest." Ben's dad looked skeptical.

"A priest?"

"We've tried everything, John," she snapped, "No, no, and I don't care what you say. I'm taking him to see a priest. When the weather dies down, I'm taking him to see a priest."

"You think he needs an exorcism?" He said condescendingly. She let a few more tears slide silently down her face before she spoke again: "Maybe. Yes." She whimpered, tearing up again because of guilt.

"Elaine, come to your senses. What priest? Who? Exorcisms don't exist except in books and films. They're fictional. No priest who is in the least bit concerned with his reputation is going to perform a-"

"I've found one," she interrupted, "Online. And before you ask, yes; it's a proper priest. He works for the St. Pauls Church about forty miles away. I asked him, and he said he could do it. He's only asking for fifty pounds in cash, which I said is fine." They sat without speaking for a minute.

"What on Earth did you tell him to agree to this?" She looked at him dead in the eye with profound seriousness. "The truth." Ben's dad considered.

"What do you mean by the truth? You mean the truth that Ben has bad acne? You mean the truth that his brain is abnormal due to a medical condition that isn't fully understood yet? You mean the truth that he's a good kid who's had some bad luck? See, this is what I don't understand, Elaine. We're still waiting for the final results, and there are other things we can do. Why are you giving up on our son so quickly?"

"I mean the truth that I saw him on his own tonight, in his bedroom, making weird scary faces in the mirror."

"So?"

"ON HIS OWN, John! For God's sake what kid does that?"

"What kid is born with an extra leg or a hideously deformed face? It's the same thing. Ben has the equivalent, but the malfunction is psychological."

"If it was to do with his brain, the MRI results would have shown it. John, I know this."

"No, you don't. You're tired and stressed out and not thinking rationally. Every single physical and mental ailment was once a mystery. Diseases we never knew existed are constantly being discovered and documented. Why are you so damn sure this is any different?"

"I know how this sounds, but... I just feel there's something deeply wrong."

"There we go." He said triumphantly.

"Don't you feel it?" She begged him to share her unease.

"I'm a little disturbed by it. Of course I am. I hate seeing my son like this. I just want him to be back to normal. But at no point have I ever thought he was evil. It's ridiculous, Elaine. You think this is like The Exorcist."

"Okay, fine." She had stopped crying by this point.

"You see my point?" She took a deep breath before replying.

"Yes... I'm just..."

"Just?" She looked at him and welled up, becoming teary-eyed once more.

"Scared." Ben's dad hugged her.

"I'm scared too."

​

Later that night, Benjamin's mother awoke to the sound of rain crashing against the window. She widened her weary eyes and looked at her alarm clock: 2 AM. She sighed a tired sigh and yawned, got out of bed and went to the en-suite bathroom for a pee. Whilst she was on the toilet, she heard a loud bang coming from the wall which bordered the hallway. She flushed the toilet and exited the bathroom, opening her bedroom door and into the landing. She turned on as many lights as she could, then she opened Benjamin's door.

​

Her eyes were still adjusting to the light; objects appeared to her as blurry grey shapes. She noticed a horizontal thing that didn't belong in the middle of the room. It must be Benjamin, lying down on the floor for some reason, she thought. She switched his bedroom light on and gasped. Benjamin's forehead was covered in blood.

​

He was lying perfectly still, on his back, looking at the ceiling with his eyes wide open. Fresh blood clang to the shards of his now-broken wardrobe mirror. It was clear what he had done, but it made no sense.

​

To be continued...

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