#the fact that she was killed off rather than fulfilling what every instinct of mine says SHOULD HAVE BEEN HER ARC | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jadestrange · 3 years

Text

Death.. it’s not what you think

I don’t know why but ever since I was a child I was soulfully drawn to a character in a drama series I’m to embarrassed to mention the name - She said somehow she’d always known she would die young and indeed she did.

Ever since I’ve never really managed to let it go. I contemplated death from an incredibly young age and I’ve never really known why. No one close to me had even ever died when I was a child, yet death and the concept of the non-existence was constantly on my mind.

I recall for some reason I always thought about it every time we would drive through this one curve of the road near my grandparents home that would trigger it. Every time they drove past it on the way to drop me off at home I would immediately imagine non-existence, something I possibly couldn’t grasp. For some reason “nothingness” terrified me.

Death seems to be motif throughout my life, but to an abnormal degree. Ever since I could cognitively dream, I had only and ONLY had lucid nightmares. I was aware. But never fully in control. If I screamed, my voice disappeared. If ran I’d move in slow motion. If I covered my eyes from gore or horror my hands and eyelids would turn transparent. I think about the age of 5/6 I finally managed to gain enough control to do one thing and one thing alone…Kill myself

It was the only escape. The simulated pain of death within a dream was much more bearable than the nightmares themselves - even though I experienced genuine pain while doing it sometimes.

One time in particular there was nothing to kill myself with. No tall building. No bridge. No water. No knife. Nothing…

but a wall

So I ran

over

and over

smashing my face into my wall - until I woke up.

I felt it all

In fact recently I had a similar lucid nightmare.

The problem with lucid dreams is that the deeper you go the more real and tactical they feel... and the more you feel.

I often recall ever tactical piece of physical items in my dreams, analyzing them with my hands and fingertips in awe, amazement and sometimes fear at how real they felt. There was no physical telling in the difference between the dream and reality itself. Only the conscious tells whether it is or isn’t a dream - normally due to the absurdity of their nature.

In this Dream people or things were chasing me. Fear pure fear. I don’t know why. But all I knew was that THAT emotional pain was so unbearable that the risk of the pain of jumping headfirst off a bridge was worth it. I took a moment, feeling the scratchy grit of the cold metal poles of the bridge railings inside my sweaty palms. ‘This felt real’ I knew it. ‘But I had to’, it was the only way to escape. I was no longer in the lucid state of being able to control my environment only myself. I had to fight every instinct any real person would jumping head first into the low ground, the only difference was that little shred of hope - that maybe - just maybe I would wake up from the impact before I could feel anything.

I wonder if that’s what people who jump off buildings think as they’re falling down and there’s no turning back - that maybe - just maybe - they’ll die before they feel any true pain.

I paused writing this. A sudden chilly reminder came over me of a boy who momentary lost his sanity and indeed jumped head first down the stairs and indeed died. My friend saw it... I just felt a memory of a dream doing the same thing. That was weird.. I’m moving on

So right death. Another theme I carry is the need to resolve things with everyone and anyone I have encouraged to the point that it is either annoying or maddening for other people.

I guess I felt and still feel like I’m in a perpetual awareness of my death possibly arriving on tomorrows door.

Or perhaps I just want to feel lighter, because everything else, all the hidden things were too heavy to carry on their own. Like a camel’s back I could handle no straw - or more yet not even a feather.

I guess that makes me rather pathetic in other people’s eyes. But perhaps those are normally the eyes of someone who has not felt that weight.

I’m aware that a kg/ton of feathers is the same as a kg/ton of straws ( a metaphor for different the forms of pain if you didn’t catch that) - but how strong are the camel’s legs? How wounded are they? How well nourished were they since they were born? Are they loved or lashed?

Perhaps the weight may seem the same to outsiders eyes however - how it feels internally cannot be seen but merely felt by those who themselves have experienced it or at least something very similar.

I think I have a very confusing and troubling relationship with Death. On one side it always made me aware of the appreciation of my existence (the physical world, emotions, senes, conceptualization)

But on the other side it always came with an impending sense of constant pressure to fulfill my deeds and “pay my debt” in some sense. perhaps that’s not the right way to say it. More like “do the best I can” you know? Leave your mark on the world, give something back, make a positive impact as your farewell.

Which could either be unrealistic or perhaps it is just my assumption how grander that impact has to be. Something big. Something that says “The carbon footprint left by this one was worth it” haha.

Is that silly? Is that normal? Do other people feel this way or is everyone right about me? That I put too much pressure on myself.

Which too within itself seems to be a contradiction since society itself, friends, family, work, reputation, sustainability all requires pressure.

Some say I over think. While I think others under think.

Which is funny - considering I once had a lectuer tell me I was under thinking a script concept when in reality he was under thinking and unwilling to assume it had any more nuances or complexities that was an incredibly difficult topic to tackle.

It’s funny how sometimes you can seem stupid when you try explain something complex because the jargon and general context / information you’ve build up over time seems so obvious to you. Without that context your explanations can become muddled - since they would require a lot of time to give the context.

Quantum Physics for example. I remember trying to explain the concept to my friends in high school. It seemed… crazy - ridiculous - stupid - pseudo. In a strange retaliation my ex BFF went to the science teacher and queued it to come back to our group to tell me I was wrong (after we all agreed to have dropped it by the way).

I of course responded “Yes because a person who’s literally only studied a high school’s equivalent of physics would have the knowledge of a field way beyond her years and degree”

Eh.. School. Not so much friends. More just the people you settle for. Looking back all my relationships were pretty toxic - aside from one. I wrongfully teased my one friend for having hairy legs once and I still feel really bad about it today, in fact I messaged her a few years ago about it saying sorry.

But what the rest did to me… was.. ah.. definitely not on the same scale. I was betrayed a lot.

I got use to betrayal from a young age. Families seem to think it’s funny to undermine things that are important to children. It’s like they seek joy from it, I think they think it’s fun for the kids but it’s not.

Having your secrets shared between your family and laughed at as a child is.. betrayal. Being neglected, left in unsafe or unhealthy hands, unjustifiably disciplined … physically disciplined - are all betrayals.

I got accustomed to it. Silence was the way. Never tell anyone anything. People don’t help you anyway. In fact they often use it against you. Or worse undermine your pain.

It was strange.. I was clearly bullied. Yet I was the one who got sent to a shitty - oh lets just distract you for a bit but not really do anything- school councilor.

Death… mm. death death death. I understand the contemplation at around the time I started school, but why when I was like little little? Why have I always been crushed so easily?

Why was I always a target?

Did I want pity? no.. maybe sometimes (not that THAT ever worked - but no mostly it is was genuine emotion and debilitating pain. Crying. Freezing. Hyper-ventilating.

I wonder if I did it to myself. Had I done something so outright bizarre that deemed my the school target? What it cause I was a year younger? Was the shame of teachers shouting at me due to my ADD in front of my class.

Or was I just Overly Empathetic? I remember my first day of school…. the teacher shouted at a girl next to me and I started crying - she in turned shouted at me for crying.

Despite being broke now I did have money as a kid. Not like the rich kids of the school but, I had lunch money. Maybe that was it. I shared it too often maybe?

Was I too honest? Too weird? Too much of a push over? It was everything I had every been taught to my by mother’s side of the family. The family I mostly grew up in.

It’s quite sad. My mom could write a way better book full of funny characters and bizarre relatives like a movie - all the drama - the comedy. She started writing - it was good too. But she was too tired from work and stopped.

I think it’s sad because my stories aren’t funny.. just sad. Maybe with some beautiful moments (although the best ones would be indescribable). I think hers would have been better. A story a woman overcoming a broken abusive family and poverty who worked her way to the top of owning her own company.

Inspiring.

While mine just feels like a bummer… maybe that’s just because it isn’t finished yet.

1 note · View note

sassypandacandy · 4 years

Text

Candied Larkspur

Sooner or later, everyone comes to make a bargain.

The pre-law students are the hardest sell. They've read the fine print; they know the questions to ask, the verbal pitfalls to leap. They're her favorite ones to trick.

The English majors either come to her wary, or with stars in their eyes. The wary ones know there'll be a price to pay, one greater than her candied words promise. The starry-eyed ones would have been the first to eat from her table in the old stories.

Easiest of all are the scientists and mathematicians. They don't believe in her anyway.

She sits for one hour – no more, no less – at the table by the window, so the afternoon sunlight can fall on her pale topaz hair. She reads romance novels, or technical manuals, or outdated botanical guidebooks. The only other items on the table are a yellow legal pad, a blue pen, and a coffee cup filled with more cream than coffee.

These are the rules: You must bring a gift. When you have reached an agreement, you must sign your name on the legal pad. Then you must leave and never speak of your bargain again.

The first one today is a girl with curly hair pinned back by a thick butterfly clip. She has wet eyes and a sincere smile. There's a bottle of cheap moscato in one nail-bitten hand and a pack of Zebra cakes in the other. She loses her nerve halfway to the table and instead makes a beeline for me.

“Can I help you find something?” I ask, offering her my gentlest smile.

She clears her throat. “No, it's stupid.” She glances over at the table by the window, brow puckering. “She isn't...real, right? Like, she's not really---”

“That depends on you.” I can feel the heated brush of her gaze. Whatever I do, I mustn't look over. “How much you believe. How desperate you are.”

“So you know?” the girl asks.

I almost laugh. “Too much, and too late. If you're going to go through with it, tread carefully. Negotiate. Ask questions.” I lean in closer. “And above all else, remember: She is not your friend.”

The girl swallows and clutches her offerings closer. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

Satisfaction stirs within me, a lazy cat stretching out in the sun. “That's very wise of you.”

“But I still need help.”

“And you can have it,” I say, nodding in her direction. “But there's a cost, and it's not always worth it.”

The girl half-turns away before glancing back at me. “You must've seen a lot of people get suckered.”

“Honestly? I've lost count.”

“But she doesn't hurt you? Even when you warn people?”

“We have an understanding.” I shrug. “And people rarely listen to me anyway.”

The next one is a boy a little older, with tall hair and a golden smile. He does not even look at me; like the rest of his kind, he goes straight for what he wants. He drops a dark, understated bottle on the table in front of her and crosses his arms.

“I need to pass my English final next week.” His voice grates even from across the library.

She does not turn her head. Slim fingers play with the pressed larkspur pendant around her neck. In the right light and to the right eyes, her nails are clearly talons. “And what will you give me?”

I silently beg him not to say the words, but of course he does. “Anything you want.” To him, this promise is meaningless. Or rather, it has a very specific meaning: Whatever his money can buy her. But of course, that's not the way this is going to go.

“I want an hour of your day,” she says.

He shifts in place. Something has changed, although he won't listen when his instincts tell him so. “What does that mean?”

“My price is an hour of wakefulness, to be taken at my liking.”

“Deal,” he says, and I close my eyes. He will be one of the bad ones.

Paper rips. She has taken a sheet from her yellow legal pad and written out the terms. Only now, as he signs his name with three flourishes, does she look him in the eye. Will he notice the odd purple-blue shade of hers? Doubtful. “It is done.”

“Whatever, weirdo,” he says, tossing the pen down. He swaggers out of the library, confident in every step of the easy road ahead. The paper has already disappeared from her hands.

The third and final one comes as the sun is reaching its golden hour. She has a bottle of Bailey's and a small notebook that she clutches to her chest like a shield. “May I sit?” the girl asks. “Or is that rude?”

“You may do as you like,” she says, again without turning her head.

The girl sets the bottle down gently in the middle of the table and sits. The dying light catches on her earrings, silver woven in the shape of trees.

She turns her head now, attention caught. “Those are beautiful.”

“These?” The girl touches the earrings and smiles. “Thank---I mean, I'm glad you like them.”

She tilts her head. “How can I help you?”

“My mom's cancer came back last month. She just beat it in March, and her doctor doesn't think her chances are good.” Tears well up in the girl's eyes. “She can't do it again. I'd like you to heal her and make sure the cancer never comes back, in any way.”

“A classic request,” she says. “The price is a kiss.”

The girl draws back, her face considering. “Not that it wouldn't be the highest honor, but do I have to kiss you?”

“You may, although you are right to be wary of such a thing,” she replies. “The kiss may be with whomever you like, although it would satisfy me all the more if it were with a stranger.”

“Is there a time limit?”

“Before the new year.”

“Which new year?”

The edge of a pleased smile appears on her perfect face. “The Western New Year will do. But the sooner you fulfill your part, the sooner I will fulfill mine.”

The girl checks her notebook. “Are there any other requirements or limitations like location or duration?”

At this, she laughs. It is the soft summer breeze and the baying of midnight hounds. “There are not.”

“Will anything bad happen to me or my mother as a result?”

“That, I cannot say. Life is full of bad things. But none of them will happen to you as a consequence of this day.” That smile reappears, and she toys with her pendant. “In fact, I am hoping for something rather good. The world needs more bold acts.”

Nodding firmly, the girl says, “Then we have a deal.”

She writes out the terms, including everything they have discussed. I cheer silently for the girl; this is the best bargain I have seen in a long time.

If only we could all be saved by our wits and a little silver jewelry.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is the final day before winter break, and therefore the final day for making bargains. There is always a line to reach her table this time of year, as desperation rises and whispers abound. She is the university's worst-kept secret.

The girl with the butterfly clip has come by every day. She stops by my desk to talk before settling in to study. She talks about her break-up, how sometimes the lovesick ache in her heart feels like it weighs a thousand pounds and all she wants is to be able to breathe freely. I never mention the way her backpack pulls to one side with the weight of a wine bottle, or how the seat she chooses always manages to face the windows.

I hate to admit I'm becoming fond of her.

The peace of the library is shattered by a slamming door. The boy who made the poor bargain last week storms in, his hair in disarray and his swagger gone. He slams his bag on the table across from her, causing another student to jump back.

“Bitch,” he screeches. “You made me sleep through my business final!”

She has not moved a muscle. “The price was an hour of your life. You signed the contract.”

“I needed that class to graduate!” he rages, sweeping his backpack off the table.

“Then you should have been more careful with your promises.”

The students' whispers are growing louder. A security guard arrives, though none was called. He is just in time to hear the boy threaten to kill her for this. The boy is dragged out, purple-faced and still screaming.

I calm the students as best I can. It's finals week, and someone always goes a little crazy. Eventually they laugh it off. But they don't know what I know: The boy will follow her tonight, looking for his revenge, and he will see things he was not meant to see. It will be all the reason she needs. They will find his body in the first spring thaw.

The girl with the butterfly clip stops by my desk to say goodbye. She has a family to see, and a bottle of wine to drink. She thanks me for my advice. I thank her for listening.

Finally, the library is empty but for the two of us. “A bountiful season,” she remarks, standing. The table in front of her is empty.

“It was, my lady.” I turn off my computer and gather my meager things.

“There was one who never quite plucked up the courage,” she says. “She will taste all the sweeter when I snare her next year.”

I pause with my hand on the library door.

“They are only humans, Delphine,” she says. One hand curls over mine from behind, the talons brushing gently over my unchanging skin. “But if you would like to make a new bargain...”

Ice seizes my heart. “No.”

“No?” she croons. “But you have spent so many long centuries watching. Surely I could not trick you a second time.”

“No thank you, my lady,” I say again, opening the door with a harsh clang. I hold it for her, eyes downcast as she glides by only inches away. She smells of sugar and shade trees, like always.

In the old days I thought often of killing her, with cold iron or rowan staff or thorny bush. But my courage failed me every time, until I looked up one day and a decade had passed. And then another. And then another. In truth, I had barely noticed. There had been nothing and no one there to make me take notice. Not until a girl with a butterfly clip in her curly hair had reminded me that life was more than a slow march of days.

I stop the library door just before it can close. “My lady?”

She does not respond, but I feel the heat of her gaze. I hold the door open for her, and she walks back into the library. She takes her seat and picks up the yellow legal pad from where it is waiting. I take the second seat. The last embers of the day land on her face, painting her eyes crimson.

“Why this one?” she asks.

I know the answer without thinking. “Because she makes me feel brave. And she deserves to have a heart free from hurt.”

Her eyes glitter. There can be no greater thrill than tricking one who knows all your tricks. “Now then. What will you give me?”

She was right before; they are only humans. And there will always be someone else willing to make a bargain. But if I have learned any lesson in all these years, it is this: Some things are worth the cost.

#my wips #fairy tales #the fae

10 notes · View notes

solastia · 5 years

Text

Shadow Of You | 1

Pairing: Seokjin x Jungkook

Summary: Alpha Seokjin is sixteen when his best friend’s baby brother is born. When he finally gets to visit and meet the new baby Jungkook, he’s dismayed to discover the infant is his true mate. Or: Seokjin and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Long Wait For His Mate.

Word Count: 1,674

A/N: Surprise! Okay, I will say this before anything else, this is not going to be taboo. He’s going to wait for a long ass time for Jungkook to grow up like a good boy. And that means...lots and lots of angst ;)

Kim Seokjin’s life was a blessed one.

The Sixteen year old Alpha very much enjoyed the fact that his life was pretty fulfilling and going to plan.

He was doing well in school and was probably going to graduate number two in his whole class - only because Kim Namjoon was his friend and he was generous enough to let him be number one. He had three of the best friends anyone could have and they’d stuck with him since kindergarten. He was already on the waiting list for the same medical school that his own father had attended. And best of all, Choi Mina - the prettiest girl in their entire class - had agreed to go to the arcade with him this weekend.

Jin brought his overfilled tray to the large table that his group of friends had claimed as their own in the school cafeteria, the heathens circling his three pudding cups like vultures. Hoseok was nearly successful in grabbing one, but Jin managed to smack it out of his hands. He knew he wasn’t going to eat all three, but he liked to make them work for it before he finally gave one up.

Min Yoongi - his best friend in the entire world - was the only one that hadn’t tried to lunge for Jin’s tray (mostly because the cafeteria lady was fond of him and always snuck him an extra of his own). Instead, he kept showing off pictures of his new baby brother to the fascinated Namjoon.

“So when are we allowed to come back over to your house, Yoongi? You have the best entertainment system out of us all,” Hoseok asked, munching on a stolen French fry that Jin had pretended not to see him take.

Yoongi shrugs. “Whenever. Ma says it’s cool now as long as we wash our hands before touching the baby.”

“So, we can come over after school? You can finally show me the fancy camera your dad got you. Naturally, I expect to be your first model,” Seokjin grins.

Yoongi nods and slides his own extra pudding cup towards Namjoon. While blushing? Interesting. Jin files this information to tease Yoongi about later.

“Sadly for you, Jungkookie has that title. But yeah, I’ll send Ma a message and she’ll buy us a pizza or something. She’ll be excited to show him off. She loves that he’s a cute little omega and she’s no longer outnumbered.”

Everyone spends the rest of the school day excited and anxious for it to be over. Yoongi’s house was the best one to hang out in since his mom was super chill and always made them lots of food.

Seokjin personally thought of the Min household as a sort of sanctuary. He did have a pretty great life, but he’d admit his parents could be pretty harsh sometimes. They expected him to act and want certain things, and while he always did his best, he still felt like he could breathe a little better when he was away from them.

Unfortunately, all the boys had been asked to give the Min’s space for a few weeks to let Yoongi’s mom recover from the birth and let the baby settle. Seokjin had been tempted to climb through Yoongi’s window a few times to get away from home, but he was ultimately more afraid of disappointing his Mama Min (as she’d insisted he’d started calling her back when he was a toddler himself) than anything else. Seokjin had always had the honor of being one of her favorites and he’d rather choke under the pressure at home than be the one to make her upset. Although, he knew that if he’d simply asked nicely she would have allowed him over anyway, but he’d wanted her to have some space.

Needless to say, he was thrilled to be able to be allowed back over there. His own mother had been talking about marriage meetings already, wanting him to have a handful of girls from acceptable families to pick from. Her idea was that if he got engaged before medical school that would be one less thing he’d have to worry about, and of course the family would have peace of mind. The fact that the name most thrown about was the daughter of the Chief of staff at his father’s hospital was not lost on him. He was smart enough not to tell his mother about his upcoming date with Choi Mina. Though pretty and sweet, her dad was simply a teacher. She wouldn’t get mother’s approval, he knew.

When school was over, they all raced towards Jin’s Jaguar and piled in. He’d been the first one to turn sixteen and received the car on his birthday, so he’d become the official driver for his group of friends. He didn’t mind much. Everywhere they went he was going to, so really it just saved them a lot of time. He could do without Hoseok always trying to hotbox during their lunch though.

When he finally drove into his usual space in front of the modest-sized home, it was like a weight was finally pulled off his chest and he could breathe freely. Here, he was simply Jin. No expectations, no demands. Just some time with his friends, maybe helping Mama Min in the kitchen, maybe argue politics a little with Yoongi’s dad.

As they all piled out of the car, he popped open the trunk and snuck around to pull out the big bag of toys he’d been keeping in there since baby Jungkook was born. He was determined to become the little tyke’s favorite Uncle and what better time to start than in the beginning. Hoseok and Namjoon eyed his bag like they were worried they’d missed some unwritten rule that said you had to bring a gift and Jin knew he was already well on his way to winning already.

As soon as Yoongi flung open the door, Jin began to feel uneasy. Something was...wrong? No. He wasn’t sure wrong was the word...but something was happening. Something with that scent maybe? He’d smelled it on Yoongi before, but it had always been light. A sweet strawberry scent with a milky undertone that he’d figured belonged to Yoongi’s new omega brother. He’d thought it a really nice smell and enjoyed it when Yoongi would cuddle up with him and he could scent it on him.

This was different. This was the full straight from the tap scent and something about it made him feel a little antsy. He trailed behind the rest of the guys, letting them greet Yoongi’s parents first. They seemed thrilled to see them all, as they sat on their living room couch and ushered the boys over.

Mama Min spotted him first, waving him closer with her free hand. She smiled up at him and gently raised the wrapped bundle in her arms.

“Here, Jinnie. You hold him first while I finish setting up dinner. I trust you the most not to drop him.”

Without giving him a chance to protest, she pulled the bag of toys out of his hand and pushed the baby towards him. On instinct, he cradled the infant close to him, the sweet scent of him tickling his nose. He was easily able to hold the entire body across one arm and was so amazed at how tiny he seemed.

Curiosity was urging him to peel back the blanket so he could see the baby’s face. He wondered if the little thing had the Min nose. He loved to annoy Yoongi with booping his little button nose and he was looking forward to doing it to someone else.

One long finger peeled the blanket away from the infant’s face and his little brown eyes locked onto Jin’s own as they stared at each other.

And just like that, Kim Seokjin’s blessed life came to a crashing halt.

He could feel as his most primal urges slowly came forward, taking over his conscious. He wanted to protect this little infant with his very life. No one could hurt him, no one could touch him. If anyone so much as looked at this baby wrong, he would kill them. He was Seokjin’s.

“Dude, Seok. Your eyes are red. Why the fuck are you going alpha right now?”

Jin blinked at Yoongi, trying to grasp what the other Alpha was saying to him.

Was he a threat?

Jin sniffed at him a little. No. Family. Safe.

“Seokjin? Is everything alright?”

Mama Min’s concerned expression was what finally got through to him. He fought to clear his head, looking down to make sure he hadn’t hurt the baby. He was at war with his own mind, wanting to give her the baby and make a run for it, but also something wanted him to protect Jungkook even from his own mother.

Mine

Mama Min’s shocked face as he lowly growled was the last straw. Using the last shred of self-control he was able to conjure up, he quickly shoved the bundle into her arms and jogged towards the door.

He refused to stop, even for his friends calling his name or Mama Min telling him to wait. Even when the baby started wailing and every cell in his body was demanding he turn around and care for the infant.

Because he’d just met his true mate.

And he was only six weeks old.

Kim Seokjin’s life was a cursed one.

#bts #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #seokjin #jungkook #jinkook #jinkook fanfic #jinkook scenario #abo #abo dynamics #alpha!jin #omega!jungkook #solastia

252 notes · View notes

kinghoranshit · 3 years

Text

The Watchers (1D) - The End

Part 5

The boys looked at me cautiously as they tentatively ate their glorious breakfast. Though, it was more like glances rather than stares; it still sort of irritated me for whatever reason.

I cleared my throat and set down my fork. “Why are you sneaking looks at me? The Purge is over, you all survived.”

“Well Kat, love, you’re still covered in blood and other gross things,” Louis answered.

“I wash my hands,” I remarked, holding them up for a moment before I took another bite of my food.

Maddy snorted. “This is the first purge I’ve ever eaten with a beaten down Watcher afterwards.”

The boys’ eyes went wide, and I couldn’t help a cocked brow in her direction.

“What do you mean by that Maddy? Did they never survive or... did they just never have to fight?”

She cleared her throat. “Uhm, nothing…” She stood and took her dirty dishes to the sink.

I was quick to follow, but cringed at the sharp pain in my leg. “I haven’t known you long, but you don’t seem to avoid conflict. You tend to throw yourself straight into it. What’re you not telling us?”

“Well…” She toyed with part of her bangs. “Modest! definitely doesn’t use this bunker every year for a celebrity under their management and have me here for good publicity because no one can actually find this place without a direct address.”

I slowly nodded and crossed my arms. “You know, I was thinking about who would have that much money to put on you guys and Maddy’s info concludes my theory.”

“What is that?” Niall prompted.

I let out a heavy, deep breath. “Your management fucked you over. They’re the ones who put the bounty on you, and my guess are the ones who let the group of hunters know exactly where we were located.”

Obviously, unless Modest! comes out with a statement, we couldn’t be completely positive. But it seemed like the best theory so far. They had the money and power to do it. It was sickly twisted of them if so.

“That… would explain why they were the only ones who found us,” Zayn replied.

Louis scoffed. “Fuckers.”

“I’m really sorry guys. I wasn’t trying to mislead you, but it’s in part of my contract.”

Liam lightly rolled his eyes. “We know all about their contracts.”

Niall laughed under his breath. “That we do… We don’t blame you.”

“So this is real? Our management tried to kill us… for PR?” Harry questioned with a cocked brow.

“Oh how the times have changed,” Niall mocked dramatically, resting a hand on his chest as he leaned back in his chair.

All of us chorused in laughter, and that’s when there was a knock on our front door.

Instinctively, I reached for the pistol in my utility belt. It was over, but it didn’t mean that anyone knocking on that door wouldn’t still try to hurt any of them, or me. I signaled for everyone to stay put and I went to answer.

It was someone from the government to collect information about the end result. I relaxed and let them come in. They clearly didn’t have any serious weaponry at first glance; just a tablet. They mumbled to themselves and tapped the screen as they assessed.

Finally, they turned to me. “Watcher 402, you have received a knife wound in the left shoulder, a deep cut in the right thigh, and other minor cuts. Subjects Niall Horan has a bullet wound in right shoulder, Liam Payne has a wound in the left leg, and Louis Tomlinson has a serious wound on the torso. Everyone included in this assignment are alive. There are 16 dead outside. Is that your final status?”

I held my hands behind my back and nodded. “Yes, all of this will be included in my report to The Watchers society. I, Watcher 402, have successfully finished my mission. Permission to leave the bunker?”

“Permission is granted. Rides will arrive shortly, get into the appropriate transportation. You may never speak of what happened here to anyone other than each other. Tracker 3004 out.”

“Like hell I’m not talking to Modest! about what happened. I want to hear it out of their mouths that they bountied us,” Louis stated.

Silently, Harry and Zayn left the room to go upstairs and pack whatever they had.

Liam crossed his arms. “I’m right behind you, mate.”

Niall sucked in air between his teeth. “I would be except they’re my solo management, need to be on good terms with them.”

“Niall,” I laughed under my breath, exasperated. “They clearly don’t care what happens to you. They only want the money.”

“Exactly.” Louis snapped his fingers. “They’re losing some money this time round. I definitely can’t sing with this injury.”

“You know they’re going to brush it off, mate,” Niall remarked.

I snorted. “Legally, they can’t. Both Maddy and I’s final written reports will have your injuries stated. Medical teams will take them into consideration as they give you your healing plans.”

“Especially mine. Your recovery process will take more time than the rest; no heavy exercise. They better not make you do your virtual performances,” Maddy concluded with a fiery look in her eyes. She looked ready to pounce on someone. I found it amusing to say the least.

Louis slightly leaned forward on the table. “I have no doubt that you two would come testify if needed.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. I never had to testify for anyone. Usually my written reports were enough, managers and companies were usually fairly empathetic. But it was definitely different this time around. I wondered if Modest! really had that much of a sum to give out if the hunters had succeeded; probably not.

“Of course I will.” Maddy smiled.

“Me too.” I cleared my throat. Then I pointed in the direction of the front corridor. “I need to get showered and packed before my transportation arrives.”

They chorused, “okay,” and I left.

I was thankful for the personal bathroom attached to my bedroom. I let the steam envelop me as the water rain down my back. Carefully, I washed my body with mostly my good arm; I didn’t even attempt to avoid the gauze. I clenched my teeth in order to not yell out in pain since the adrenaline was completely gone. Even though I wasn’t covered in injuries head to toe, there were enough simmered feelings that caused my entire body to shake.

Finally, I limped out of the shower fresh and clean. I assessed the injuries more in the mirror. They didn’t look as bad now that my body wasn’t covered in discharge, but they were definitely going to cause me some physical therapy in the future. It was nothing.

I called Maddy to help replace the wraps before I dressed in a new uniform; I left my wet hair down.

A honk came from outside so I picked up my duffel and crossbow before I went downstairs to peek out the slot. There was one black car, and I knew that it was my ride. It was for sure The Watchers property. I’d be going straight to the headquarters for final paperwork, transferring of funds, and medical assessments.

It was time to say goodbyes and this was one of the harder years to leave behind. For multiple reasons, ones more obvious than others. Louis was one of them.

“We are going to go on that date, yeah?” Louis asked, leaning in close to me.

I smirked lightly. “Of course, Tomlinson.” I pecked him on the cheek before I inched backward. “Hopefully we will see each other again under different circumstances.”

“Agreed.” Liam nodded with a light smile.

I guess it only takes saving his life for him to warm up to me. Or it could be the fact the purge was over and he wasn’t stressed about that. Either way, it worked for me.

As I stepped out onto the porch, Maddy latched onto my good leg. I nearly fell over. “Please don’t go yet, Kat.”

“Maddy, I’ll probably be seeing you soon. I’ll miss you a lot.” I did the best I could to get her off and hugged her again. “You are the most badass medic I have ever met.”

She laughed out her tears. “Thank you, Kat. I am grateful to have fulfilled this mission with you.”

“You too.” I nodded and stepped back for one more wave. The trip to the car was fairly slow, eventually I made it. I got into the backseat with a heavy heart, and sigh.

“State your ID,” the driver stated as they peeked through the review mirror.

I laughed under my breath. “Watcher 402, Katie Lee.”

I watched as the group all got smaller and smaller until we were covered by the trees and they were no longer there.

***

My dad was perched on the couch when I walked through the door. It’d been another 24 hours before I actually went home since I had to go to The Watchers headquarters; they wanted me to start physical therapy in a month. That would be fun.

He stood to greet me with a hug. “You took down a group of sixteen in the last 24 hours and kept everyone alive. That’s my girl.”

“Damn straight.” I laughed.

He chuckled. “You may win the top Watcher award this year.”

I’d never won top Watcher before, I was always second or third place.

I lightly smirked. “We will see about that… Can we talk about this more later? I’d like some real rest.”

“Of course.” He kissed my head. “I love you, Kat.”

“I love you too.”

I didn’t bother dragging my belongings with me. I limped all the way to my bed, then collapsed on the cozy, comforting pile of blankets and pillows. I sunk as deeply as possible, closing my eyes.

That’s another purge in the books.

Next: Nothing. This is the end.

[The Masterlist]

#One direction #1D #purge #1D purge #fanfiction #one direction fanfiction #1D fic #one direction fic #Niall horan #Louis Tomlinson #Harry Styles #Zayn Malik #Liam Payne #action #comedy #stupid

0 notes

gaiatheorist · 6 years

Text

Pumpkins, pigeons, and pizza.

I’ve been quiet on here of late, because I’m conscious that I have a tendency to whinge. Whinging serves no purpose, all of us are dealing with our own issues, and I made a conscious choice to ‘try’ to stop oversharing the “My life is a toilet.” constant background chunder of thoughts that occupy my mind. If I spend too much time thinking about my life being a toilet, the self-fulfilling prophecy element creeps in, and I’m effectively inviting people to use it as such.

Tah-dah! All fixed with the power of positive thinking, and ‘just’ going outside more, and ‘just’ finding a hobby, and ‘just’ making best use of the resources I have available, and not wallowing in self-pity because I haven’t had a holiday or a haircut in four years. I’m like Mary Poppins, except when I rummage in various bags, I’m looking for loose change, or scraps of tobacco. (Yes, I stopped smoking in March, but I’d smoked for over 20 years, sometimes that craving comes on STRONG.)

I’m Muttley-chuckling, because the well-meaning, but unfit-for-purpose IAPT counsellor that saw me for 16 sessions, against a usual limit of 6 somehow had it in his head that I enjoyed gardening. I’d never mentioned gardening, and then he kept pulling it out of the bag every session, there didn’t seem much point correcting him, maybe I look like ‘a gardener’? (With my ginge-ish hair, my one functional hand, my photo-sensitive grey eyes, and my whiter-than-white skin, that blisters and scars once the temperature is above about 23 celsius, if I’m not slathered in factor 50? There’s a new scab on my collar-bone, probably from a quick scuttle to the corner shop without sunscreen.) I don’t think it was subliminal influence from him that turned my house into a potting shed, or caused this current obsession with slugs and pigeons, it was more the fact that the UK benefit system is hideous. I’m on unemployment benefit, while I wait for the ‘work capability assessment’ (which should have been done at the start of the claim, but wasn’t), and the tribunal for the PIP disability benefit. I’m one of Jamie Oliver’s ‘poor people’, I don’t know how many inches that flatscreen TV is, the ex bought it, I don’t use it very much. I’m not sitting in front of the TV eating cheesy chips out of polystyrene cartons, drinking white cider, and chain-smoking. The smell of booze on me (at 11am on a Saturday morning) is because I’ve racked-off some home-brew to sink the sediment for slug-traps. Phone Social Services on me if you like, I’ll give you my Social Worker’s extension number to save wasting time.

I’m poor-me-ing already, aren’t I? I’m also getting my pizza before my pumpkins and pigeons, which won’t do at all, routine and order are very important when you have brain injuries and mental health issues. The bottom line of my poor-me is that my unemployment benefit is £662 per month, £317 for ‘standard’ daily living, and £345 for ‘housing’, to cover my rent, which is £495 a month. I’ve limped along for over a year, ‘cutting my cloth to suit’ and such, but the benefit never covered my outgoings. I’ve had to buy a cheaper brand of champagne and caviar. I’m being facetious, dark humour being my default setting.

Pumpkins. My man-sized-son REALLY likes pumpkin, but, living at the arse-end of nowhere, they’re only available to buy for about two weeks in October, for people to carve into lanterns. I’ll put my Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall hat on for a minute, that’s a tremendous waste. Pumpkin soup, pumpkin pie, pumpkin pakoras, pumpkin curry, rather than just scooping out the flesh and binning it. (Then leaving the pumpkin outside when it starts to smell ‘off’, where the local teenage hooligans will kick it in the face...) I could go off on a rambling anecdote about “We were so poor when I was young, we didn’t have pumpkins, we carved a swede with a teaspoon, and got blisters.”, but we were even more poor than that, there’s no way my mother would have allowed the waste of a swede that could be eaten. Swedes, not turnips, don’t argue.

Pumpkins. My various disabilities pretty much rule out carrying pumpkins home from Tesco, it’s only about a mile, but it’s a long mile back carrying shopping, let alone a dirty great pumpkin. More often than not they’re ‘out of stock’ for delivery from Morrisons, IF I have the £40 available to make the minimum order for delivery, which, let’s face it, I don’t. What I do have, is a son who likes pumpkin, a garden, and plenty of time. The ex sent me some money before the kid was due back here for the Easter break, and told me that it was for ‘me’, that he would send more for the additional expense of having the kid home. (Then I had to remind him... I married a gibbon.) For ‘me’, I bought some plant seeds, and some home-brewing yeast. I’m nothing if not practical. Did you get that, Jamie Oliver? A little bit extra in my bank account, and I didn’t spunk it on 2-for-1 pizza. I daresay that, come the apocalypse, I’ll last longer than Jamie Oliver.

We had an allotment years ago, well, we ended up with six allotments, because I married a gibbon. I’m not entirely sure why he kept renting more adjoining plots, I don’t remember him ever doing any digging, he hates vegetables, and wasn’t keen on cleaning out the hen-house. Gibbon. Initially we ‘shared’ the first two allotment plots with another couple, bit tense, that, due to their over-fondness for ‘Round Up’ weedkiller, and their under-fondness for paying for consumables. Also-tense was the issue with the Father-in-law, who ‘helped out’ on the allotment. He’s 493 years old, and very set in his ways. He wanted to plant potatoes. Now, I understand the reasoning in planting potatoes at first, that allotment plot had been vacant for ages, the soil, when we found it, under the shoulder-height weeds, was compacted, and hadn’t been dug over in years, potatoes would break up the soil, and make it easier to work the following year for... oh, look, the Father-in-law has planted MORE potatoes. Potatoes, onions, and those crappy-floppy ‘butterhead’ lettuce that only really served the purpose of transporting mud, and slugs into my fridge.

The Father-in-law ‘knew better’, as did the incessant stream of other old men, who would come and chat with the ex at the picnic table, while I was up to my elbows in earthworms and guano. “You don’t plant ‘em like that, lass!”, and “You ought to be doing it his way, not that way.” A certain type of old man, who assumed that, as I had lumps in the front of my jumper, I couldn’t possibly think for myself. The Father-in-law gradually took up more and more of the growing space with his potatoes, onions, and lettuce. He was astounded at the fact that I seemed able to grow pretty much anything without being 493 years old, and marking my lines out with a ruler. (Yes, I did set some of my rows higgledy-piggledy JUST to annoy him.) He’d never seen parsnips grow like mine did, and, while he laughed at my comfrey-water and nettle-water fertilisers, and wanted to put Round Up on ‘my’ plots, most of my crops were successful. (Lamenting the entire row of salsify that he dug over, because he didn’t know what it was, and the utter abject misery when I came out of hospital after brain surgery to discover he’d torn down my soft fruit bed, because it was ‘untidy’, I liked it untidy.)

That was a long and winding way of saying that I’m not bad at growing things. It’s guesswork and instinct, I’d already had a phenomenal success rate with planting some butternut squash seeds, and the ends of a few chillies and peppers that would just have ended up in the bin, the kitchen table was turning into a greenhouse. That could just have been fluke, though, I have an innate affinity with green things, BUT the pumpkin seeds, when they came in the post, were something else, they were special, they were ‘for’ my son, by way of apology for me being a terrible mother, and dragging him through levels of hell that even Dante wouldn’t have imagined. The pumpkin seeds were treasure, except I hadn’t bought top-end ones those ones were REALLY expensive. (Might put a tip-jar on my Twitter, for seeds...) Knowing that I hadn’t bought the most expensive ones, I knew there was a fair chance they wouldn’t all germinate, the chillies, peppers, and butternut squash seeds had been ‘mine’ from start to finish, they hadn’t been sitting on a shelf in a warehouse, or sprayed with pesticides, or preservatives, they just ‘were’ seeds, and I know how seeds work.

Off the top of my head, the multi-pack of seeds I bought contained the pumpkin seeds, some melon seeds, some tomato seeds, some dwarf bean seeds, and some pea seeds, I only really wanted the pumpkins and the peas, but it was cheaper to buy the multi-pack than shell out on individual packs with postage. There were only 10 pumpkin seeds. There were 25 melon seeds, and only 10 pumpkin seeds. I live in Yorkshire, it’s hardly melon climate. There only being 10 pumpkin seeds sent me even more mental than I already was, I developed a somewhat unhealthy obsession with the pumpkins, I MUST grow pumpkins for the boy. (It’s me, I’m an all-or-nothing animal, I either don’t care about a thing, or I’m balls-deep into it, there’s no middle ground.) Cue obsessive paranoia about NOT killing the pumpkins. That I hadn’t planted.

Six of the ten seeds germinated, five of them are out in my garden, and one is in a pot in my hallway, because I’ve promised it to a friend. I must not kill any of the pumpkin plants, The local slugs, snails, and birds haven’t had the memo about not killing the pumpkins, so there’s squash-tanamo bay happening at the top of my garden. I’d started with just the two strongest seedlings outside, a trial run. One of then is completely dead because the slugs or snails have been at it, and one is looking a bit sad because a bird jumped on it. Jumped on it. The bird didn’t peck the plant to eat it, she JUMPED on it. (It was a female blackbird, I’m not Bill Oddie, but I know some birds.) I had some butternut squash seedlings in the same bed, and I’d planted some courgette seeds, sent to me in a care package by a beautiful creature from the Twitter-land. Aware that birds might peck at the emergent seedlings, I’d thrown a layer of twigs on top of the vegetable plot, to give the tiny green things a chance to become established before the wildlife ate them. I have no problem at all sharing my produce, but, for it to become produce, it needs to grow, and I’m not a fan of chemicals. Twigs, and egg-shell, and then a border of longer twigs forming a frame around the plot, I’d laced some old fishing-line I found in the shed between the long-twigs, and tied strips of crisp-bag to the fishing line, to discourage birds-from-above. (The ex tried to chide me for using high-tensile fishing line, but if he’d needed the line, he would have realised that in the two years he’s been gone, he eats fish now, but he won’t kill or gut them, that was always my job.) That’s the obsessive determination of my poverty, doing everything within my power to protect the seedlings that I’m growing for food, not fun.

Three of the pumpkin plants are thriving, one is dead, and one is near-dead. Trapped in this toilet-life, I am paranoid about my pumpkins. (There’s other produce out there, too, to supplement the stockpiled food I have in the house, my dinner today was made on a bowl of salad leaves and spinach picked straight into my bowl, strangely rewarding, if a little weird, eating warm chicken liver on a bowl of greens, with last night’s pizza sauce on top.) I will grow pumpkins for my son, pumpkins are a clever fruit, even if I do end up with a glut, they store well if kept cool.

I thought I was being resourceful and eco-friendly with the twigs. I hadn’t reckoned on the pigeons. The Pigeon. It was the same pigeon, I’m not pigeon-racist, or anything, medium-sized adult male pigeon, grey, with a petrol-blue collar. I know it was the same pigeon I declared war on, because he went back to exactly the same branch of the elderberry tree behind my house after each raid. He was taking the twigs, most likely building a nest. Every year, pigeons nest in the elder-tree, and, every year, I hear the scuffle-and-squeals as the local cats kill the squabs. Nature is cruel, and pigeons are stupid. He was picking the twigs out of the bed with the pumpkins in, and pigeons are a fair size, I didn’t want him trampling my pumpkin plants before they had a chance to set flowers. I dragged some more twigs out of the undergrowth, and dropped them in a heap, away from the pumpkin plants, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t, of course, bird-brain, he’d decided that ‘twigs’ were ‘there’, and paid no attention at all to the other pile of perfectly good twigs. For several days, I had periods of sitting outside, and lobbing clods of soil at the pigeon, but I couldn’t do that full-time. I wondered, applying human-logic, how long it would take the pigeon to learn that the big-thing only threw the brown-lumps when he was in that bit of garden, but then remembered that he’s a bird-brain, and probably had issues with object permanence, thinking that twigs could only be ‘there’. Pushing aside thoughts of pigeon-pie if I did accidentally hit the idiot-bird with a clod, I reinforced the pumpkin-patch with more twigs. Which the pigeon promptly walked through.

For the best part of a week, I was a pound-shop scarecrow, either the nest is built, or someone in another garden has a better aim than I do, because the pigeon hasn’t been back in ages.

That pigeon-pumpkin-paranoia does link to pizza. Bear with me, I’m not having another stroke. Jamie Bloody Oliver has been at it again, the pizza 2-for-1 fuss died down, and, possibly having a book, or a TV programme, or some other venture underway, Mr Oliver tweeted “Favourite go-to breakfast”, to generate publicity, clicks, and chatter. ‘Poor people eat rubbish, and it is bad for them!’, he’d declared previously, not quite grasping that ‘poor people’ often don’t have very much choice in whether they eat rubbish or not. His recipes are vibrant, and packed with flavour and nutrients, but they’re not suitable for a very low budget. (Mine being £18 per month for groceries and emergencies. Yes, a month, not a week.) Jamie Oliver recipes can be a useful starting point, but, I’m not going to have ‘that’ type of poncey oak-aged Iberian ham, or ‘that’ particular type of cheese, so I substitute with the closest thing I have. Some people won’t have the time, energy, facilities, store-cupboard, or ingenuity to do that. The main reason I’m not subsisting on 69p frozen pizzas is that I can make pizza-dough from scratch, some people lack the facilities, time, knowledge, or confidence to do that.

The ‘go-to breakfast’ tweet generated a magnificent response from Twitter, I follow some brilliantly sarcastic bastards. I’m sure that there were the usual braggadocios responses from the types who like to chip into Guardian poverty article comments with “A bag of carrots is only 40p!” or “Buy some oats!”, I don’t follow Jamie Oliver, I don’t know. Yes, carrots are relatively cheap, but you need somewhere to store them, and facilities to prepare and cook them, unless you’re able to subsist for sustained periods on just raw carrots. ‘Rabbit starvation’, anyone? You ‘could’ survive for a while eating only rabbit, but your body would eventually start eating itself, because you’d be malnourished, with a full stomach. Oats are great, if you have the facilities to do something with them, I have 2 full bags of oats in my cupboards, and no milk, oats-with-water-porridge is going to happen before long. If I followed Jamie Oliver, I would probably have been the thousandth person to reply ‘pizza’, because that’s what I had for breakfast. It wasn’t leftover Dominos or Pizza Hut delivery pizza, it wasn’t even leftovers from one of the local take-aways, or a frozen one, it was home-made.

This is where the seriousness of my situation can’t help but creep in. I’m growing food in my garden to eat. (I’m probably in violation of my tenancy agreement, digging up the garden, but, if I am evicted, they can just throw some bedding plants in.) A few weeks ago, I made a big fuss about having made a delicious pizza out of cock-all. I’d mashed a tin of sardines into the end of a carton of passata to make the sauce, and told Twitter it was an alternative to opening a jar of anchovies, in a way, it was, I’m ‘saving’ the anchovies for when the kid comes back from uni for the summer. Home-made base, fish-and-herb-and-garlic sauce, a few shrivelled mushrooms, a spoonful of olives... and dandelions. I ate weeds, because I was ‘saving’ the frozen veg for when the kid comes back. Jamie Oliver’s cheeky-cockney-chappie persona is supposed to make him ‘accessible’ to the masses. He says ‘bosh’, not ‘gently fricassee’, he did those 15-minute meal recipes for busy people, and he has no idea whatsoever what it is to be genuinely poor. The ‘cheesy chips in front of a massive fucking telly’ line only served to further demonise people-like-me, while he continued to hawk the wares of whichever supermarket chain he’s whoring for now. The ‘leftovers’ and ‘budget’ recipe sections on most of the branded websites are laughable, most require some obscure ingredient that ‘poor people’ just wouldn’t have in the store-cupboard. Oh, look, we need Albacore tuna, not shop’s-own, better pop to the supermarket, and GOODNESS, look at all the 3-for-2, and the familiar food, in case the tuna-thing goes wrong. (Hat tipped to Grace Dent, for her article un-demonising familiar convenience food in moderation.)

I’m inventive, I’m resourceful, I had pizza for my breakfast, because it was ‘there’, and I didn’t have to think about opening something else, further eating into my dwindling stockpile of food. (Don’t ask about dinner, it was thoroughly disgusting, but contained protein, and vegetables.) I wonder if I could put pumpkin on a pizza, I bet I could, if I oven-roasted thin slices with some smoked paprika... I’m damned sure I could put pigeon on a pizza.

0 notes