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You are not recommended to try spells to bring a lover back if you are going through the following: You know that your relationship with your ex is toxic and the best painful option to take in this is to move on. It is not a good choice to be in a relationship that is un-natural, one that is built on witchcraft. The love spark as to be their at all times.
Even the most powerful love spell may not fulfill the things that are required for a real relationship to be in place. Love should be natural and if your partner looses interest in you, its better that you let them follow the heart. If one door closes, expect another open infront of you.
Therefore witchcraft or love spells should not be the ultimate solution to mending a broken heart in a relationship, one has to make love exist naturally by doing the right things to your partner, the things that will recapture the inner feelings of love and affection as you did in the start of the relationship.
Only if and when all has been tried and failed to work that one should order for my love spells that actually work, and indeed this will be the last nail in the coffin to fix your troubled relationship permanently.
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Creating a simulation project is an excellent way for beginners in social media management (SMM) to build a portfolio and gain practical experience. Here's a detailed guide on setting up and managing a fictional business's social media as part of a simulation to demonstrate your capabilities as an SMM:
"For beginners not well-versed in graphic design and branding, focus on simple, achievable tasks using user-friendly tools like Canva."

Step 1: Choose a Business and Define Its Brand

• Select a Business Type: Choose a type of business that interests you, such as a local bakery, a yoga studio, or an online clothing store.
• Define the Brand: Establish the brand's voice, color scheme, and overall aesthetic. Determine the brand's values and the message it wants to convey to its audience.

Step 2: Create Brand Elements

• Logo: Design a simple logo using Canva or another graphic design tool. Ensure it aligns with the business's brand identity.
• Tagline: Create a catchy and memorable tagline that encapsulates the essence of the business.

Step 3: Develop a Social Media Strategy

• Identify Your Target Audience: Define who the business's products or services are for based on demographics like age, location, interests, and behaviors.
• Choose Social Media Platforms: Select platforms that best reach your target audience. For most businesses, Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter are staples.
• Set Goals and Objectives: These might include increasing brand awareness, driving traffic to a website, or growing audience engagement.

Step 4: Create a Content Calendar

• Plan Your Posting Schedule: Decide how often to post on each platform. A common strategy is to post 1-2 times a day on Instagram and 3-5 times a week on Facebook.
• Develop Content Themes: For consistency and engagement, create daily themes like:
  • Motivation Monday: Inspirational quotes or stories.
  • Tutorial Tuesday: How-to videos or step-by-step guides.
  • Feature Friday: Highlight products, services, or customer testimonials.
• Include Relevant Hashtags: Research and use popular hashtags that align with your business and posts.

Step 5: Produce and Schedule Content

• Create Posts: Use your branding elements to design posts. Tools like Canva are great for creating high-quality visual content.
• Write Captions: Develop engaging and relevant captions that include calls to action, such as asking followers to comment, share, or visit a website.
• Schedule Posts: Use a tool like Buffer, Hootsuite, or Facebook's scheduling tool to plan your posts in advance.

Step 6: Simulate Engagement and Analytics

• Engage: Even though this is a simulation, practice writing responses to comments and messages. Think about how you would handle customer service inquiries or feedback.
• Track Performance: Although you won’t have real analytics, create hypothetical data based on your objectives. For example, imagine how many likes, shares, or comments each post could realistically generate.

Step 7: Evaluate and Adjust Your Strategy

• Monthly Review: At the end of each month, review your hypothetical analytics to evaluate what worked and what didn’t.
• Adjust Tactics: Make changes to your strategy based on your review. This could involve altering your posting frequency, trying different types of content, or refocusing on different aspects of engagement.

Step 8: Compile Your Work Into a Portfolio

• Document Everything: Keep records of your strategy documents, content calendars, post designs, and engagement tactics.
• Create Case Studies: Write up case studies on your strategy, implementation, and hypothetical results to showcase your skills and approach to potential clients or employers.

By following these steps, you can create a robust simulation of social media management for a fictional business. This can serve as a showcase of your skills and abilities in the field of social media management. This experience not only enhances your portfolio but also boosts your confidence when applying for real-world SMM positions or freelance opportunities.

My permanent retainer was installed on my lower teeth 15 years ago when my braces came off. It consists of two metal wires secured to the teeth; they came off the last tooth and unwound and are resting below it.
I got a dentist recommendation from a friend. The dentist quoted $322 to recement it or $769 for a new retainer. Is this what I should expect? Should I recement it to the tooth given that it's 15 years old and it might pop off other teeth later (from reading some dentistry sites, that's not unexpected after 10 years)?

My permanent retainer was installed on my lower teeth 15 years ago when my braces came off. It consists of two metal wires secured to the teeth; they came off the last tooth and unwound and are resting below it.
I got a dentist recommendation from a friend. The dentist quoted $322 to recement it or $769 for a new retainer. Is this what I should expect? Should I recement it to the tooth given that it's 15 years old and it might pop off other teeth later (from reading some dentistry sites, that's not unexpected after 10 years)?

My permanent retainer was installed on my lower teeth 15 years ago when my braces came off. It consists of two metal wires secured to the teeth; they came off the last tooth and unwound and are resting below it.
I got a dentist recommendation from a friend. The dentist quoted $322 to recement it or $769 for a new retainer. Is this what I should expect? Should I recement it to the tooth given that it's 15 years old and it might pop off other teeth later (from reading some dentistry sites, that's not unexpected after 10 years)?

In Triplicate #8 - The Beths - Future Me Hates Me / Jump Rope Gazers / Expert In A Dying Field (2018 - 2022)
While a large discography is not necessarily the indication of a great band or artist finding a musician who can release three watershed albums, either outputting high quality work or exploring similar themes and motifs within them is to me nothing short of an amazing feat. It’s an achievement that is worth taking a deep dive to dissect, contrast and compare different works during a time of seeming creative wellspring. “In Triplicate” will be a bi-weekly spotlight on what I feel are artist at their peak by releasing three killer albums in a row chronologically and making observations on the world of music, their creative mindset and how these albums interlink, or pull apart, from each other.
Listen
Future Me Hates Me – Bandcamp - Apple Music – Spotify
Jump Rope Gazers – Bandcamp - Apple Music – Spotify
Expert in a Dying Field – Bandcamp - Apple Music - Spotify
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Guest Review by u/MCK_OH
Sometimes a band is just really fucking good. We all love a band that has a stake in The Narrative, but sometimes a great band is more self-contained. They aren’t great because they tell us something about how the world works, they’re great because they make great songs. On an unrelated note, meet indieheads favorite The Beths. The New Zealand based four-piece formed in 2014 and has since released 3 studio records: 2018’s Future Me Hates Me, 2020’s Jump Rope Gazers and 2022’s Expert In a Dying Field. All three of these records rule. These records do not contain much experimentation. They do not contain a shocking amount of growth. They do not contain messages that will change the way you view the world. They do not contain songs that changed The Narrative. What they do contain is 32 perfect or near-perfect songs, countless brilliant hooks, clever turns of phrase, fun harmonies and cool riffs. And while these records probably don’t contribute to The Narrative they do have A Narrative. I promise I’m not making this up. Let’s view the three Beths records not as three records but instead as one triple LP concept record. Future Jump Rope Experts Hate Me. A power pop Tommy except without all the parts of Tommy that kind of suck. Sadly there’s no “Pinball Wizard” either but you can’t have everything.
Act I: Wondering If You Feel The Same
What does it mean that Future Me Hates Me is so beloved in this subreddit? When we redid our essentials last summer, this record was one of the 40 named to the 2010s essentials. It’s not seen that way, I think. Fellow online music nerds don’t even agree! I think it means that we are a broadly anxious bunch because this is an exceedingly anxious record. Or maybe it just means that Future Me Hates Me is a perfect batch of indie rock tunes for the indie rock subreddit. A bit of both maybe.
Future Me Hates Me is probably the tightest Beths record. It’s the shortest (by 14 seconds, but still) and maintains an up-tempo pace more than the other two. It’s a record whose entire tracklist probably could be singles. Or, as proven by a series of Fortnite YouTubers, a record whose entire tracklist could be background music for your Fortnite highlights video. I’m not kidding! Look it up, there’s a distinctly strange amount of these and they all rule. Opener “Great No One” reveals what the record will be about pretty quickly. Immediately catchy, harmony-laden indie rock. That’s it, that’s the bag of tricks. Sometimes it’ll be slow for a bit - “Less Than Thou,” “River Run” - but mostly, it’s this. And that’s good because this is fantastic. There is no type of music in the world I like more than hooky indie rock. And no one does it better. Every song has something truly special about it. “Great No One” has those layered “Yeah”s on the chorus, “Future Me Hates Me” has the little guitar thing over the riff in the intro and after the first chorus, “Uptown Girl” has the name of a much worse Billy Joel Song, “You Wouldn’t Like Me” gets quiet and then loud (genius maneuver), “Not Running” has its ridiculous forward momentum from the drums, “Little Death” has the brilliant final chorus, “Happy Unhappy” has the way frontwoman Liz Stokes sings the word particularly, “River Run” also gets quiet and then loud (still genius), “Whatever” has the super fun guitar solo and “Less Than Thou” has the entire like 45 seconds when the band comes back in on vocals. It’s a perfect indie pop album. Every song is brilliant. The only records that I think I can fairly compare it to are If You’re Feeling Sinister and Alvvays in terms of indie pop perfection. Just 10 brilliant songs.
Oh yeah, the narrative. This is the first act of 3 in the conceptual masterpiece Future Jump Rope Experts Hate Me. It’s a simple narrative. Our narrator falls in love despite her knowledge that it will probably end badly, it works for a bit and then it falls apart. Our narrator is anxious pretty much the entire time. Simple, but effective storytelling.
Future Me Hates Me is about the first part of that process. Our narrator tries, and ultimately fails to convince herself that she doesn’t have a crush. The evidence to the contrary is simply overwhelming. She may believe that love’s no good idea (at all!) but on “Happy Unhappy” her every moment is haunted by wondering if he feels the same. She can’t even remember to take out the bins! On “Little Death” her body begins to fail her, dying the titular little death every time he comes near. Even then though, she maintains that “I’ll never tell, you’ll never guess.” On “You Wouldn’t Like Me,” she even admits that it “feels so much like being in love,” all the while worrying that she’s too unlikeable for it to work out. But on “Future Me Hates Me,” she comes around: she wants to risk going through future heartbreak. Future her may hate her but there’s nothing she can really do about it. And in the best song on the record, “Not Running,” she confirms that she’s not running away. It’s almost a response to the previous song, “You Wouldn’t Like Me.” It’s finally a song of trust - tell the truth. I won’t run away.. It’s okay to tell the truth. She was wondering if he feels the same and it looks like he does. Enough dying little deaths, worrying about future me. It’s time to meet the Jump Rope Gazers.
Act II: I Wanna Give It My Best Try
There’s a tendency, I think, to say that Jump Rope Gazers is the weakest Beths record. It has the weakest reviews, it has the fewest shooters among us non-critics, it is broadly just not quite as beloved as the other two. A classic sophomore slump. But I think that Jump Rope Gazers is, at the very worst, only like a quarter-step behind the other two Beths records. It would be like calling Ichiro’s 2002 season a sophomore slump. Yes, it was a step down from his rookie year and he would go on to have even better seasons but the dude still hit .321, stole 30 bases and made the all-star team. And yes, Jump Rope Gazers is a slight decline from Future Me Hates Me but it still has “Just Shy of Sure” and “Jump Rope Gazers” on it, which is the indie rock equivalent of hitting at least .321.
What sets Jump Rope Gazers apart from Future Me Hates Me the most at first is that it’s slower. Future Me Hates Me takes until the 8th song to slow down even for a minute, while Jump Rope Gazers slows down by track 3. It will slow down again at track 5 and track 9. These songs tend to be slightly weaker, though the title track is an exception. But there are still absolutely bangers on here. Opener “I’m Not Getting Excited” has a slightly gnarlier guitar sound than anything on Future Me Hates Me. Side 2 opener “Out of Sight” moves forward with the same momentum and pace that drives the best of Future Me Hates Me. “Mars, The God of War” does a little quiet/loud thing which is always welcome. While I can attempt to sort these songs into piles (“the slow ones,” “the bangers” etc) I think at the end of the day this is just another batch of excellent Beths tunes. “Dying to Believe” is a brilliant pop song that pulls out pretty much every trick in the book. I’m sort of in awe of it. It has sick harmonies! A bass solo! It has a part where the guitars are gone and then they come back! It’s another song about nervously waiting for the world to crash down around you but it sounds like a ton of fun. It has a super fun music video, the best they’ve ever made. It’s a ridiculous pop song that pulls out every trick without feeling overstuffed. “Acrid” has this faraway backing vocal at 3:33 that always makes my day. “Don’t Go Away” is like half chorus, and it’s a good choice because the chorus rocks. It’s a trick they’ll use again, to even better use on “Knees Deep” later, on Expert In A Dying Field. And the slow songs do still work. The chorus of “Do You Want Me Now” is absolute gold. One of their best. While “You Are a Beam of Light” is probably the weakest song between all three records, it’s still fun. The final chorus with the full band harmony is excellent. The best of the album’s slower cuts is “Jump Rope Gazers.” “Jump Rope Gazers” was the first Beths song that I loved. It has what is still probably the best set of opening lines of the decade with “I’ve never been the dramatic type / But if I don’t see your face tonight / I, I guess I’ll be fine.” Incredible, every time. The guitars sound really nice. The chorus sounds really nice. The melody is really nice. This whole song is just really fucking nice. It might be the one song from this band that makes you go “I’d want to live in the feeling of this song forever.” It’s the song that got me to fall in love with The Beths, and for that it will always be one of my favorites. But it’s not quite as good as the closer “Just Shy of Sure,” the best song on the record. It’s a high bar, but I think this one might have the best chorus melody of the Beths career to date. It feels like it has the same forward momentum of an “Out of Sight” while still having the more laid-back warmth of a “Jump Rope Gazers.” One of their perfect songs. One of the best songs of the decade. At the end of the day, what Jump Rope Gazers sacrifices in terms of bangers I think it mostly makes up for with a slightly more varied palette that mostly works wonders. It’s still a batch of Beths songs, which is among the highest compliments I’m willing to give anything.
Folks, meet the Jump Rope Gazers. The Jump Rope Gazers of course, are our narrator and the object of her affection. It would seem that our narrator has finally won the day. She is in love, willing to admit it and it seems like he is too. Of course, this has not stopped the worrying. On “I’m Not Getting Excited” she keeps her grip on joy loose, bracing for the potential for everything to fall down around her. On “Dying to Believe,” she’s willing to hope that everything won’t fall down around her but she also spends the song apologizing. She struggles with communication, with trust in herself and in her partner. There are true, earnest moments of joy on Jump Rope Gazers. The title track is a love song with no reservations. She wonders how this could have happened, despite all the worrying from Future Me Hates Me. She offers that she’s willing to give it her best try. The rest of the record tugs back and forth in either direction. You don’t get a sense listening to it whether it will work out long-term or not. While there are songs like “Jump Rope Gazers,” there’s also songs like “Do You Want Me Now” or “Don’t Go Away.” “Do You Want Me Now” indicates that communication here is often difficult. And anytime you need to say “don’t go away” 24 times in one song, it seems like things might not be going perfectly. The penultimate “You Are a Beam of Light” details a stilted phone call with tears involved but our narrator is willing to “meet outside in five.” Maybe they can work through this. Let’s return to the closer “Just Shy of Sure” and its brilliant chorus. What are the actual words in it?
“Oh, my head is aching
But if I keep very still
I might be able
To make this work until
The end of the weekend
Weak, but I’ll pretend
That you still want me
I’m the one you adore
But I’m just shy of sure”
More worrying! Not great probably. Sounds like it’s maybe not the sturdiest relationship in the world. Still, I hope they can make this work. That they can get around the insecurities, the doubts, the communication. Pull it together. Give us a happy ending. What’s the first lyric of the next album, as a sneak peak of where the jump rope gazers are headed?
“Can we erase our history?”
Ah, shit.
Act III: Staring Into Nothing (Or, I Hate Past Me)
If we continue to operate under the assumption that The Beths are the Ichiro Suzuki of indie rock (and we should, to clarify) then I think Expert In A Dying Field might be their equivalent of his dazzling 2004 campaign. After all, just like Ichiro in ‘04 this has a staggering amount of hits. Even more than the already staggering amount of hits from their previous efforts! It helps that, unlike the 10 songs of their previous records this has 12 songs. They manage to more than keep up the quality. While this is their longest and lengthiest record, it’s hardly The White Album. Lead single “Silence Is Golden” is a bit louder than usual, “I Want To Listen” is a bit quieter and “2am” is a slow, sad closer but really this is another batch of Beths tunes. Which, again, hell yeah. Can never have enough Beths tunes going around. Let’s all hang out and watch The Beths do the indie rock equivalent of hitting .372 and breaking the single season hit record.
The opener and title track, “Expert In A Dying Field” is the best song The Beths have ever made. The lyrics are as sharp and clever as they’ve ever been, the hook is gold and the song just keeps building momentum, and building momentum, and building momentum. What starts off as an understated pop tune has turned anthemic in less than four minutes. The backing vocals are fantastic, the guitar sound is great. It’s a song that could make you dance or cry. It’s the perfect Beths song. That last minute is unstoppable. I’ve gotten goosebumps listening to it more times than I can count. “Knees Deep” rocks. It’s like 65% chorus which is fine because it’s one of the best choruses the band has ever put down. It makes sense to keep hammering the chorus button if you’ve landed on something this good. No problems here. Speaking of great choruses, this record is just chock full of ‘em. The chorus on “Best Left” wasn’t my favorite initially but I’ve really come around on it. It’s really fun to sing along to. Important quality. “Change In The Weather,” written by guitarist Jonathan Pearce proves that there’s somehow more than one band member capable of writing brilliant Beths tunes. “Head In The Clouds” and “A Passing Rain” are Beths songs. Which, hell yeah as per usual. At this point it’s almost unremarkable how this band just churns out great indie pop tunes. Unusually happy “When You Know You Know” is heavier on acoustic guitars, providing a minor change on The Beths formula. It works wonders. The heavier “Silence Is Golden” similarly tweaks the formula, providing the perfect musical backdrop for Liz Stokes’ agitated vocal performance. It’s the song that probably best captures the feeling of loud construction being done beside your home. “I Want To Listen” is also a bit of a tweak on The Beths formula. It’s a jaunty little pop tune that reminds me of similar moments in the Rilo Kiley catalog. It is unsurprisingly great. “I Told You That I Was Afraid” returns to both the anxiety and the continuous forward momentum of Future Me Hates Me and does so exceedingly well. It rocks. It’s also an exceedingly tight song, the band seems to be moving as one on this one. “Your Side” is probably my second favorite song on the record, a melancholy post-breakup tune. It’s another one with a practically perfect chorus. Oh and the guitar sound is great. Especially the guitar after Stokes sings the “oo-oo” part after the chorus. That’s what music should be right there. Closer “2am” is a classic Sad, Slower Closing Song. Y’know like “My Hometown” or “Dublin City Sky” or “Gospel” or “Butterfly.” I’m broadly suspicious of this specific type of song. Slowing it down means you lose something in energy and just generally rocking (rocking, always a good thing!) so you’ve gotta make up for it somehow. And “2am” does. This type of song works when the lyrics pick up the slack, when the slow and spareness of the song makes you focus on the lyrics, and when the emotion in the lyrics complements the pace and atmosphere of the song. When the song is sad enough that mustering energy for it seems like it’s beyond the point. “2am” is a song like that. And to be fair to “2am” it does build towards the end. After an album of playing chicken with finally saying goodbye, “2am” finally does it.
So we reach the end of the road for the jump rope gazers. We were with them through the anxious crush stage, the even more anxious early relationship stage and now it’s time to say goodbye. “Expert In A Dying Field” laments all the time and knowledge now gone to waste. While on Jump Rope Gazer’s “You Are a Beam of Light” the late night phone call was stilted and sad at least there was a late night phone call, but on “Head In The Clouds” our narrator has no one to listen to her at night. The nervous self-doubt that’s shown up again and again re-appears at the worst times on songs like “A Passing Rain” and “I Told You That I Was Afraid.” Our narrator remains torn; on “Your Side” she wants nothing more than a dramatic, tearful apology, a romantic gesture, a chance that maybe they can get back together. Maybe it’s not over, or at least not over forever. But on “Best Left” she indicates that some things are best left to rot. Some things need to be put behind, and forgotten. One of the constants in these three records is that sense of uncertainty. On Future Me Hates Me, our narrator indicates that she’ll never reveal her emotions on one song while indicating she has to on another. On Jump Rope Gazers she’ll declare her love on one song, hoping it’s going to work out while indicating that she has no serious belief that it will in others. Finally, on Expert In A Dying Field she’s unsure if the best way forward is to keep looking back or to try to move forward. One way or another the story of the jump rope gazers is over though. On “2am” we finally hear how it all fell apart. We hear about the good times, but we also hear about the communication breakdown. We hear our narrator reminiscing about when it finally fell apart:
“There was news I was nervous to tell you
Through the filter softening the words we said
Were you mad? Tell the truth, I can take it
I could hear the engine as you drove away
Through the blinds, saw the glow of the light fade”
And that’s where we leave it. She asks one more time if he still feels it, but it seems there’s no response. This is it. To some degree, she was right; she probably does hate past her.
Outro: The End of the Weekend
The Beths, great band. If you’ve somehow read this far without having heard them go listen to them. I’d listen to them in chronological order but really you can’t go wrong. I admit I had to stretch the concept a bit, leave some stuff out of the narrative and all that. But I think that puts it more and not less in line with most concept records. In truth, I think these three records do work as a loose narrative if you want to view them that way, which I sometimes do. If you don’t then you can choose to view them as three of the best indie pop records of the past decade. That works too. Either way it’s a run for the ages.
As a music nerd I am naturally list-obsessed (sometimes I worry I’m getting too close to the High Fidelity guys) so here’s a bunch of Beths lists I assembled while I was writing this.
List 1: The Perfect Beths Songs
1. “Not Running”
2. “Little Death”
3. “Less Than Thou”
4. “Jump Rope Gazers”
5. “Out of Sight”
6. “Just Shy of Sure”
7. “Expert In A Dying Field”
8. “Knees Deep”
9. “Your Side”
10. “I Told You That I Was Afraid”
11. “Idea/Intent”
List 2: The Near Perfect Beths Songs
1. All the rest
List 3: The Abridged Tracklist to Future Jump Rope Experts Hate Me. Or, the songs that I think tell the narrative I’m trying to sell the best.
1. “Little Death”
2. “Future Me Hates Me”
3. “You Wouldn’t Like Me”
4. “Not Running”
5. “I’m Not Getting Excited”
6. “Dying to Believe”
7. “Jump Rope Gazers”
8. “Just Shy of Sure”
9. “Expert In A Dying Field”
10. “Your Side”
11. “Best Left”
12. “2am”
List 4: The Top 10 Beths Music Videos
1. “Dying to Believe”
2. “Knees Deep”
3. “Expert In A Dying Field”
4. “Future Me Hates Me”
5. “Your Side”
6. “Jump Rope Gazers”
7. “Uptown Girl”
8. “I’m Not Getting Excited”
9. “Little Death”
10. “Happy Unhappy”
List 5: 10 Actors Who Could Have Been That Actor In That One Particular Film
1. Jackie Chan
2. Jeremy Renner
3. Rebecca Ferguson
4. Dominic Monaghan
5. Owen Wilson
6. Charlize Theron
7. Matt Damon
8. Julia Roberts
9. Paul Giamatti
10. Viola Davis
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(Tentative) Schedule
May 27 - U2 - War / The Unforgettable Fire / The Joshua Tree
June 10 - R.E.M. Part 1 - Murmur / Reckoning / Fables of Reconstruction (Guest Entry u/p-u-n-k_girl)
June 24 - R.E.M. Part 2 - Out of Time / Automatic for the People / Monster
July 8 - Vampire Weekend - Vampire Weekend / Contra / Modern Vampires of the City
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Archive

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I've always been bound to death.
On my eighth birthday, a shadow strode into my house and shot me and my family dead. I remember it vividly, every detail, every angle, etched and stained and carved into my memory.
I sat very still with my knees to my chest, my gaze glued to my siblings.
Lily and PJ looked like they were sleeping, and I could almost believe it.
I didn't look at the shadow.
From the comfort of my knees, I waited for my brother to lift his head.
But his body was so limp, so still, every part of him faltering. My sister’s head was nestled in his shoulder, thick beads of red running down her face.
They're just sleeping.
I could tell myself they were— as long as I didn't look at the splatter of scarlet staining the back of the couch and pooling at their feet.
BANG.
Mom’s body dropped onto the ground.
I lunged forwards, slamming my hands over my ears.
BANG.
PJ’s head slumped forwards, a teasing smile still frozen on his lips.
BANG.
Lily gently tipped into PJ, like she was going to sleep.
Before she closed her eyes, Mom told me to run.
I can't remember how long I stayed under the shattered remnants of Mom’s favorite table. The shadow was waiting for me to move, to make a noise.
I watched booted feet crunch through glass, getting closer and closer, and slowly, fight or flight began to take over.
Making it halfway across the living room, my palms slick with my mother’s blood, I thought I was going to live.
Cruel fingers wound their way through my hair and shoved me to my knees. I remember the phantom legs of a spider creeping down the back of my neck when the shadow with no face dragged the barrel of his gun down my spine.
“Turn around.”
The shadow had a voice.
When I didn't move, the protruding metal stabbed into my neck.
“Turn around, kid!”
I did, very slowly.
Behind him, my siblings still weren't moving.
They were asleep.
Lily was still smiling, strawberry blonde ringlets stained red.
I couldn't see PJ’S face anymore.
BANG.
I didn't feel the gunshot.
I didn't feel anything.
Looking down, I glimpsed slowly spreading red blossoming like a flower.
It felt like being cut from strings.
I hit the ground, just like my mother, my body felt heavy and wrong.
Paralysed.
I remember being unable to scream, unable to cry, the salty taste of metal filling my mouth. It was like being winded. Rolling onto my side, all I could see was flickering candlelight.
The air was thick, so hard to breathe.
I rolled onto my back trying to suck in air.
The shadow took a step back, opened the front door, and bled into the night.
I don't remember the pain, and I don't remember dying. I couldn't breathe, couldn't conjure words in my mouth.
I felt warm and sticky, lying in my own blood.
I think I tried to move.
But I was so tired.
I’m not sure what death feels like, because it's like going to sleep.
I remember my last shuddering breaths, a lulling darkness beginning to swallow me up. I don't know why I wasn't afraid.
Oblivion almost felt like I was sinking into lukewarm depths on a Summer’s day.
Oblivion wasn't pain, and there was a peaceful inevitability to it.
It was endless nothing, a nothing I found myself gravitating towards. But before I could envelope myself in that darkness, it was spitting me back out.
The next thing I knew, I was in a white room, a slow beeping sound tearing me from slumber. I had a vague memory of slow spreading roses blossoming across my shirt, like summer flowers blooming.
Everything was white.
The walls, the ceiling, and my clothes.
Sensation hit me in slow waves.
Exhaustion.
I felt it tightening its grip around my brain, dragging me back onto a mountain of pillows when I tried to jump up. My Aunt May was sitting next to me on a plastic chair, her warm fingers entangled in mine. Aunt May and Mom were practically twins, with the same thick red hair and pale skin.
Mom wore her hair in a casual ponytail, while May preferred a strict bun.
I had to bite back the urge to yank my hand away.
Aunt May was asleep, used tissues filling her lap.
There was a nurse pottering around, checking my vitals and prodding my arms. My eyes felt heavy. I had to blink several times to keep myself awake.
“Charlie?”
The nurse’s voice was like wind-chimes.
I pretended not to notice her forced lipstick smile, the way she stood with her arms folded, staring at me like I was one of my cousin’s experiments. “You were in an accident, sweetie,” the nurse spoke up. I could see her trembling hands. “Just, um, try and rest, okay?”
I wanted to ask where my family was, but I already knew the answer.
I think she knew that too.
“You died, Charlie.” The nurse’s voice was eerily cold. “You were dead for thirteen minutes.”
She took slow steps towards me, her eyes growing frenzied, like she couldn't understand me, like I was a puzzle she could not solve– and it was driving her crazy. I could see it in her twitching hands, her wobbling lips that were trying and failing to appear stoic.
“In fact, I just pulled you out of the morgue, honey. I opened up your body bag that I had just zipped up, and told your aunt that you were a miracle I just… can’t understand.” The nurse sounded like she was trying to choke down a laugh, or maybe a sob.
“Charlotte, you were pronounced dead at 3:02am from a gunshot wound to the chest.” Taking a slow, sobering breath, the nurse tried to smile. “The bullet went through the right ventricle of your heart and severely damaged your left lung, rendering you unable to breathe. Your heart stopped, and after four attempts to resuscitate, we called it.”
Something slimy wound its way up my throat when she began to pace the room. “I… did all the paperwork. It took me two minutes. Your death certificate was signed, and your body was taken to the morgue to be prepped for transportation. Then I had my lunch. Tuna salad with a protein milkshake. I’m not a fan of the chocolate flavor.”
She shook her head. “Anyway, when I came back to you, you were awake inside your body bag.” Her voice was starting to break. “You were…um, alive, and asked me for apple soda.”
The nurse moved closer, and yet kept her distance.
I could feel myself moving back, panic writhing through me.
“So.” The nurse spoke calmly. “How the fuck are you still alive, Charlie?”
I think I passed out after that.
When I woke up again, my head a lot less heavier, the nurse was gone.
Slowly, my foggy brain began to find itself and connect dots.
My mouth was dry, full of cotton.
There was a sudden tightness, a sharp and cruel sting in my wrists.
Something sharp was protruding into my flesh, and no matter how many times I violently wrenched my arm, it was stuck. It didn't feel right to be able to breathe so easily.
I knew the second I woke that my Mom was dead.
Lily and PJ were dead, and it was like losing them all over again.
As clarity came over me, I found my voice, a strangled cry escaping my lips.
“Get it out.” I whispered in a shrill cry.
Tugging at the IV in my wrist, I tried to yank the needle from my skin.
“Get it out!” I shrieked, my gaze glued to the tiny spots of blood staining the insertion point.
I could see it again.
So much blood.
Mom was curled up on the floor, lying in slow spreading red that wouldn't stop, seeping across her beaded rug.
She was all over me, slick on my skin and caked in my fingernails.
I couldn't wash her off of me.
“You're okay, Charlotte.”
Aunt May’s voice came from my right, stabling me to reality.
The world started to move again, started to make sense again, when she cupped my cheeks and told me to breathe. When I opened my mouth to ask where my family were, she lightly shook her head and I swallowed my words. Aunt May handed me a glass of water, and I drained it in one gulp.
She told me I was a miracle.
Aunt May didn't say much, and when she did, she broke into sobs.
Her eyes were raw from crying, clinging onto me, her shuddery voice reassuring me that I was going to be okay.
She told me I would be living with her from now on, before wrapping me into a hug and leaving to get coffee.
Once my aunt was gone, another nurse came to prod my IV.
I tried to sleep, but the uncomfortable tightness of the needle sticking into my skin and the sterile white lights in my eyes made it impossible. I waited for grief to catch up with me, drowning me in a hollow oblivion I wouldn't be able to claw myself out of. But I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel angry.
I wanted to know why my family were dead.
I wanted to know why I was breathing, and their skin was ice cold.
Rotting.
The sudden image of maggots crawling up my brother’s nose sent me lurching into a sitting position, my stomach heaving. Reaching for my glass of water, it was empty. The sensation of throwing up felt familiar, almost comforting.
Mom was always with me when I was sick, holding my hair back and lulling my hysteria with reassuring murmurs.
I was frowning at the trash can by the door, my cotton candy brain trying to figure out if I would be able to make it in time, when a small voice drifted from the doorway, startling me.
“I don't want you to come live with us.”
My cousin was peeking through the door, hiding behind a shock of dark brown curls. Jude was the only brunette in our family. The rest of us were redheads.
I wasn't sure why he was dressed up like a ghost, draped in a white cloak that was way too big for him. Jude was a weird kid. His mother, and my auntie, had inherited the family house, so in his mind, that made him superior.
Jude made it clear he didn't like his cousins, refusing to let us play with him and banning us from family gatherings.
When the adults were drinking cocktails and losing their awareness, Jude ordered us around. The times we did play with him, our cousin showed us his spider collection, or the raccoon brain he kept in a jar. PJ was convinced our younger cousin was a serial killer. Several months earlier, he'd happily showed us the roadkill he'd been growing bacteria on under his bed.
Jude’s ‘experiments’ were worrying.
He stuffed mushrooms down my brother’s ears while he was sleeping, to, and I quote, “Recreate The Last Of Us.”
When Lily had a nosebleed during Thanksgiving dinner, Jude collected all her bloody tissues and refused to tell us where he'd put them, and what he had done with them. Fast-forward two months, and I found them under a nest of spiders. Jude was trying to adapt the spiders to be able to feed on human blood. I was surprised my cousin hadn't immediately demanded to see my siblings’ dead bodies for autopsy.
Jude stepped into the room, shuffling his feet.
“I'm sorry about Lily, PJ, and Aunt Ivy.” He mumbled, glaring at the floor tiles.
My cousin made no move to offer real sympathy, instead speaking to the floor.
“But I don't want you to come live with us.” Jude lifted his head, looking me dead in the eye. “I don't like you, Charlie. I want you to stay away.”
Before I could reply, he stepped back like I was diseased.
“You should be dead.” Jude grumbled.
He scowled at me, getting my age purposely wrong as usual before running off.
“Happy 68th birthday.”
I was six months older than him.
In Jude’s eyes, I was ready for retirement.
Still, though, my cousin was right.
I was stone cold dead, and then I was somehow alive.
Which was wrong.
Growing up, I realized Death was not so subtly attempting to fix his mistake.
It started small. I'd choke on things I wasn't supposed to choke on.
Chips.
Candy.
Ice cream.
Aunt May had to perform the heimlich manoeuvre when I choked on a piece of chicken. I thought I was just really unlucky, but then I locked myself in a freezer that didn't have a lock, and almost drowned in the local swimming pool, catching my foot in stray netting.
At the summer fair, Jude convinced me to try apple bobbing, only for my head to conveniently get stuck underwater.
It started to make sense.
I was supposed to die with my family that night, and death was out to get me.
Death started to get clever, changing his tactic. Instead of using everyday things to try to kill me, he sent reinforcements.
I turned twelve years old, and my aunt threw me a huge party, inviting all my classmates. Aunt May was rich, rich.
Mom never explained it, but our grandparents left everything to May.
The house was like a palace, a labyrinth of floors I was yet to explore, and two swimming pools.
I was in the kitchen cutting myself a slice of cake, when, out of nowhere, a dead boy came rushing at me with one of my aunt’s favorite kitchen knives.
A dead boy who I immediately recognised.
Wren Oliver.
Several years prior, he'd gone missing from his parents' yard. The town launched a full investigation, only to find his body in a ditch a week later.
So, Death had sent a footsoldier.
Hiding under a hooded sweatshirt, Wren appeared older, like he had grown up with me. But there was a startling vacancy in his expression that drew the breath from my lungs, freezing me in place. Wren’s death was announced as an accident, though his wounds suggested the opposite, dried blood smearing his right temple and a cavernous hole in his chest, his clothes painted, stained, in bright red, glued in sticky mounds clinging to him.
The boy’s eyes were wild, feral, like an animal.
His hair was longer, a mess of reddish curls matted to his forehead.
Lip split into a demented giggle.
I remember taking a slow step back, my gaze glued to the knife.
Wren’s fingers were wrapped around the handle like he knew exactly how to use it, how to plunge it into my heart and kill me for good. He moved like a predator, zero self awareness or recognition, only driven to kill me.
The dead boy prided himself in slow, intimidating steps, shoving me against the wall and dragging the blade of the knife down the curve of my throat.
His eyes confused me, writhing with hatred that was artificial, programmed into him as Death’s official soldier.
He didn't speak, only smiled, revelling in my fear. I could tell it thrilled him, my trembling hands, my sharp, heavy breaths I couldn't control. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited to finally die.
I waited for the pain, and to lose my breath once again.
But death was playing with me.
When I opened my eyes, the dead boy was gone, and I was on my knees, screaming.
“Wren Oliver is trying to kill me!" I managed to hiss.
My aunt knelt in front of me, her expression crumpling.
*Sweetie,” She spoke softly, squeezing my hands. Aunt May was trying to appear calm for my sake, but I could tell she was scared, her frantic eyes searching mine. “Wren Oliver is dead.”
The kids surrounding me started to giggle, whispering among themselves.
In the corner of my eye, my cousin was leaning against the door, mid eye roll.
When my aunt was ushering kids back to the pool, Jude came to crouch in front of me. Ever since I started living with him, he'd made sure to keep his distance.
This time, though, Jude leaned uncomfortably close, a sparkle in his eyes I had never seen before. Inclining his head, he rocked back and forth on his heels, prodding me in the forehead.
“If you see the dead boy again, can you tell me?” His lips curved into a smile.
“I did see him.” I gritted out. “I’m not lying.”
Jude shrugged. “I never said you didn't,” he lowered his voice into a whisper, “I wanna know when you see him again.”
“Why?”
His lips curved into a smirk.
“So, I can catch him.”
My cousin got closer, his breath tickling my cheek.
“I seeeeeeee dead people.”
After that incident, death left me alone for a while.
I was fifteen, walking through the forest with a friend, catching fireflies in bell jars. Aunt May was lucky to live so close to the forest, the entrance just outside her back door. When we were littles, PJ would drag Lily and I down the trail to escape Jude’s weird experiments.
I decided to invite Jem Littlewood on a summer walk.
Jem was cute, but in a dorky way. He was chronically clumsy, and dressed like he'd been spat out of a John Hughes movie. We hiked all the way to the end of the river and had a picnic, watching the sun set over the horizon. I was having conflicting feelings for this guy.
Jem was obsessed with fireflies.
Though he seemed more interested in photographing them than me.
The guy couldn't seem to sit still, jumping to his feet to marvel at tiny specks of light dancing in the air.
“I'm just going to take photos!” Jem beamed, holding up his camera.
I had to bite back the urge to say, “Don't you have enough photos?”
I nodded, and he turned and sprinted back down the trail.
Before his footsteps ground to a sudden halt.
At first, I thought he was snapping polaroids.
When I got closer, though, blinking in the eerie dark, I caught something.
Bending down, I picked up a bell jar still spilling fireflies.
Further down the trail, Jem was lying crumpled in the dirt, his camera smashed to pieces next to him, blood running in thick rivulets down his temple. There he was. Leaning against a tree, his arms folded, was the ghost boy. Wren Oliver was growing up with me. Now, a teenager, and yet his face was carved into something else entirely, more of a monster, slight points to his ears and too-sharp teeth, eyes ignited.
Wren didn't look like a ghost boy anymore.
Death had dressed him in shackles of ivy, a crown of glass and bone forced onto his head, entangled in his curls. Death was torturing him.
Wren’s body was its canvas, and every time I got away, he was punished, painting his failures across scarred skin.
I should have been running for my life, but I was mesmerised by each symbol cruelly carved into his neck.
The boy did a slow head incline, like he couldn't believe I was standing in front of him.
His slow spreading smile caught me off guard.
I remembered how to run, stumbling over my feet.
But I couldn't move.
The burning hatred that death had filled him with, was stronger, hollowing him out completely. I managed two shaky steps, before I felt him, an unearthly force winding its way around my spine. This time, he didn't hesitate.
I watched his mouth move, a single curve of his upper lip that wrenched my body from my control, slamming me against a tree. There was something around my throat, choking the breath from my lungs, a thick fog spreading over my eyes.
Following his mouth curving into silent letters, I could feel my feet slowly leaving the ground, my legs dangling.
I was floating.
Hovering off of the ground, suspended by his words.
Through half lidded eyes, I caught the glint of a blade between his fist, but I couldn't move, couldn't scream.
He was drowning me, bleeding into my blood, spider webbing and expanding in my brain without moving a muscle.
Instead, the ghost boy stood silently, running his thumb down the teeth of his knife while he ripped my lungs apart.
It was like suffocating, sinking into that peaceful oblivion I met at eight years old.
This time, though, the darkness was starving.
“Charlie?”
My eyes found daylight, a scream clawing out of my mouth.
“Charlie, it's past curfew!”
Wren flinched, his stoic expression crumpling.
The dead boy’s lips moved again, this time in a curse.
Fuck.
“Charlotte!”
Staggering back, Wren’s eyes widened and the suffocating hold on me severed.
His head snapped in the direction my aunt was coming from.
“Charlie, answer me right now.”
He hesitated, his bare feet pivoting in the dirt, like he was considering finishing me off. Wren studied me with lazy eyes, sucking on his bottom lip. When my aunt's footsteps got louder, branches snapping under her shoes, something contorted in the boy’s face.
Fear.
I guessed the boy wasn't expecting other humans to intrude.
Wren fell over himself, shuffling on his hands and knees, before diving to his feet. When he turned and ran, I was released, slipping to the ground, trying and failing to draw in breath. I barely felt the impact, only a dull thudding pain. I could hear the ghost boy’s footsteps, his uneven, shuddery breaths as he catapulted into a run.
Under a late setting sun, I watched his dancing shadow disappear into the trees.
Mission unsuccessful, I guessed.
When I was fully conscious, Aunt May was checking over Jem, helping him sit up.
“Where did he go?” I managed to get out, scanning the darkness for Wren.
“He's okay, just concussed.” May whispered, dialling 911.
My aunt applied a dressing to Jem’s wound, ignoring the boy’s hisses.
“Keep still.” she murmured, smoothing his bandaid. “What happened, Charlotte?”
“She pushed me over.” Jem groaned, shuffling away from me. When my aunt told him to stay calm, he straightened up, leaning against the tree. “The psycho bitch tried to fucking kill me!”
When my aunt's gaze flicked to me, I shook my head.
“It was Wren Oliver.” I gritted, teetering on hysteria. I could tell she didn't believe me, but I couldn't stop myself.
I prodded at my throat, clawing for the indentations where his phantom fingers snaked around my neck, squeezing the breath from my lungs.
But there was nothing.
I could feel my mind starting to unravel. I nodded to my disgruntled classmate trying to dodge my aunt’s prodding.
“Ow, ow, ow! That stings!
“He knocked Jem out.” I managed. “Then he tried to kill me.”
Jem surprised me with a scoff. “You're seriously blaming your psychotic break on a dead kid?”
Aunt May pursed her lips, motioning for Jem to be quiet. Judging from her face, however, she agreed with the boy.
May forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. “Okay. Can you, uh, describe the boy to me, Charlotte?”
“He was wearing a crown,” I said, “And he looked my age.”
Aunt May cocked her head, and I saw real worry, like she was trying not to freak out. Jem made a snorting noise.
“I'm sorry, he was wearing a crown?”
“Yes!” I insisted, getting progressively more frustrated.
I tried to jump up, only for my aunt to gently lower me back down. “I know it sounds crazy, but death has sent Wren Oliver to kill me, just like my family. He tried to kill me when I was twelve, too!”
Jem let out a bitter laugh. “Your niece is a fucking wackadoodle.”
Aunt May’s eyes darkened. She grabbed my shoulders, her nails stabbing into my skin. “Charlie, I want you to listen to me, okay?” When my eyes found the rapidly darkening sky, my aunt forced me to look at her.
“Charlotte!”
She was as scared as me, her voice shuddering.
“Wren Oliver is dead.” My aunt said firmly, shaking me. Even then, though, I wasn't even looking at her. I was trying to find his ignited eyes lighting up the dark. “Wren died at eight years old in a terrible accident, and you can't keep using him as an excuse for your mental trauma.” There was something twitching in her expression I was trying to make sense of. When I risked a look at Jem, the boy was staring at me dazedly– like I really was crazy.
Aunt May pressed her face into my shoulder, and I could feel her tears soaking into my shirt. She was trying to hold it together, trying to understand.
“Charlie, I know you lost your family,” she whispered. “But you and Wren Oliver are not the same. You survived, and he didn't.” Her voice splintered.
“You need to come to terms with that, okay?”
When I didn't respond, she pinched my chin, forcing me to look at her.
“Charlotte.”
Aunt May’s voice turned cold. “I ignored this when you were a kid, but if you continue to use this poor boy as a coping mechanism, I will have no choice but to send you to a specialist.”
When Jem was taken away by paramedics, Aunt May held my hand, squeezing my fingers for dear life.
I caught her gaze scanning the tree's around us, delving into twisting oblivion. Every little noise sent her twisting around. She was looking for something.
“I'm going to get you help.” Aunt May said in a low murmur when we were back at the house. Jude was sitting on the kitchen counter, legs swinging. I could feel his penetrating gaze burning into the back of my head.
Aunt May set a cup of cocoa on the table.
“No more fairytales.”
By the time I was eighteen, I had bitten three therapists.
They refused to believe that death was coming to reclaim my soul, and was using a dead boy to do his dirty work.
For my 16th birthday, I braced myself to come face to face with Wren Oliver’s ghost.
I wasn't even in town, staying at a friend's house.
But dead boys, and especially dead boys moulded into Death’s personal soldiers, could materialise anywhere.
I locked every door in the house, and taped up my friend’s window.
Nothing happened.
On my seventeenth birthday, I was sick in bed with gastritis.
Still no ghost boy.
Death seemed to have finally left me alone.
On my eighteenth birthday, I was stuffing books in my locker when my cousin popped up out of nowhere, scowling as usual. After an unexpected growth spurt and losing a tonne of baby fat, my cousin had scaled the high school hierarchy, swapping his weird experiments for a varsity jacket and experimenting with his sexuality.
The two of us had come to an unspoken truce.
I kept quiet about his spider collection to his popular friends, and he tolerated my existence until I left for college.
“Your surprise party is cancelled.”
Jude leaned against my locker, running a hand through thick dark hair tucked under a baseball cap. Jude never admitted it, but he was definitely embarrassed of being the odd one out.
My siblings may be dead, but they were still redheads.
I pulled off his cap with a smile, throwing it in his face. “Sure it is.”
My cousin’s eyes widened. He lost his slick bravado, grabbing for his cap.
“Hey!”
According to my cousin, my party was unexpectedly cancelled every year.
I wasn't sure if it was his weird superiority complex, or just plain jealousy, but it was getting exhausting.
Jude followed me down the hallway, matching my stride.
“Can you just not come home tonight?”
I quickened my pace. “It's only a party. I'm having some friends over, and no, we won't go anywhere near your room.”
“No, I mean.” Jude stepped in front of me, and for the first time in a while, he wasn't trying to hide disdain for me.
His dark eyes pinned me in place for a moment, the world around us coming to a halt. Sound bled away, and all I heard were his slow breaths. There was something there, an unexplainable twitch in his eyes and lips, that twisted my gut.
Jude stepped closer, his lip curling. He shoved me back, losing his facade.
“Stay the fuck away from the house tonight.” He said, and his voice, his tone, was enough to send shivers creeping down my spine. Jude had always hid behind a ten foot wall in his mind. It was jarring to see something in him finally start to splinter. Fuck. I thought.
This kid had serious Mommy issues.
I blinked, and the world resumed, kids pushing past us.
Jude seemed to catch himself, slipping back under his mask.
“I'm having friends over,” he rolled his eyes, “Your presence will ruin the vibe.”
“It's my birthday?”
He groaned, tipping his head back. “Yes, I know. But–”
“I think you can deal with the attention off of you for one night, Jude.”
“Will Wren Oliver be there too?” Jem Littlewood hollered.
Jude didn't respond for a moment, his lip curling.
“Shut the fuck up.” He spat at Jem, who immediately backed down. With an audience this time, Jude forced an award winning smile. “Fine.” His lips split into a grin I knew he hated. My cousin clamped his hand on my shoulder, hard enough to hurt. I could feel his fingers pinching the material of my jacket. “Have it your way, dude.”
Jude backed away with a two fingered salute.
“Happy 78th birthday!”
In a sense, I wish I listened to my cousin.
My party was a success, sort of.
Four of us, a crate of beers, and no sign of my cousin.
I was mildly tipsy, sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling my legs in the water when my friend demanded more beers.
I was also hungry for cake, so I stumbled inside in search of the goods.
The house was dark, lit up in dazzling blue from the pool's lights reflecting through the windows. Aunt May was in her office on the ground floor, and Jude was getting high in his room. In my drunken state, I found myself marvelling my aunt's house, and how much of it was left unexplored.
For example, in the foyer, past the spiral staircase she’d had custom made, was an elevator I had never questioned.
There was a girl my age standing on the staircase.
She was frozen, mid run, dressed in ragged jeans and t-shirt.
Everything about her stuck out to me, bringing me to a sobering halt.
The girl reminded me of my sister– or at least, if my sister had ever grown up.
I wasn't sure if I was drunk or hallucinating.
Her flower crown was pretty…
Lily had grown wings.
I was slowly moving towards her, a sudden bang sounding from the kitchen.
The bang of something shattering on the floor.
Twisting around, I found myself gravitating towards warm golden light.
The first thing I saw was the refrigerator door hanging open, and someone, no, something, rooting around inside it.
Glued to the spot, I dazedly watched them grab milk, guzzling it down, and then soda, cracking open each can and sucking them dry, before carving their fingers into my birthday cake.
But I wasn't looking at the spillage of food seeping across the floor. Instead, my gaze found a crown of antlers, both human and animal bone entangled with dead flowers and human remains glued to a head of familiar matted brown curls. There was something sticking from battered and bruised flesh, twin gaping slits sliced through a torn shirt resembling glass wings that were not yet formed, reminding me of a butterfly.
Wings.
But not the wings I dreamed of as a kid. These things were unnatural mounds that both did and didn't make sense on a human boy. I could see the trauma of them slicing through his flesh, monstrous, looming things protruding from what was left of a human spine.
Human, and yet I couldn't call his beautifully grotesque face human.
Wren Oliver had grown up with me, now an adult.
Eighteen years old.
His clothes confused me, a single white shirt and shorts.
Wren’s feet were bare, battered and bruised, blood smearing my aunt's tiles.
Angel.
Death had turned his footsoldier, and my future killer, into an angel.
But there was nothing angelic about the dead boy, his body and mind sculpted and moulded into Death’s own.
The boy no longer resembled a human, feral eyes and a manic smile, choking down pieces of cake. His face had been contorted into a monster, gnashing teeth and sharp points in his ears, a sickly tinge to malnourished skin.
And that's when it hit me, watching him stuff himself with food.
Something slimy inched its way up my throat.
The boy didn't move. I don't even think he'd noticed me, gorging himself on anything he could get his hands on.
Chicken, raw bacon, leftover salad.
When he moved onto cupcakes, licking frosting from his fingers, I glimpsed markings on his arms, a language I didn't understand, carved into him.
His wrists were shackled, bound, in entangled iron and vine, iron that was ingrained into his skin, vines and flowers and ivy entangling his bones, that were part of him, polluting his blood. Slowly, my eyes found stab wounds splitting open his torso.
Raw flesh, where his skin had been torched, melting, and then merging, ripped apart and put back together over and over again.
I found his heart, the gaping cavern in his chest where it should be.
And it was.
Marked, carved, and branded with a symbol resembling an X.
Wren Oliver was not dead.
But, just like me, he should have been.
I remember saying his name, my voice slurred slightly.
I didn't drink that much, but I could barely coerce words, my head spinning.
Wren’s neck snapped towards me, his eyes narrowing with resentment I couldn't understand, hatred that seemed to puppeteer him. Slowly tilting his head, the boy’s lips split into a grin, eyes filled, polluted, with mania.
I could see where his lips had been stitched shut, and then ripped open.
“Hi.”
He held up his hand in an awkward wave.
When one of my friends stumbled into the kitchen, Wren reacted on impulse.
He picked up a knife from the counter, throwing it like a dart, straight through the guy’s throat.
Something shattered inside my mind.
Ignoring my friend bleeding out, Wren stumbled over himself, abandoning his feast. He took a single step towards me, backing me against the wall, coming so close, close enough for me to feel his very real breath grazing my cheeks. Just like when he was a kid, he traced the teeth of his blade down my throat. I wasn't expecting him to burst out laughing, trembling with hysteria.
His eyes were wild, feral and wrong, almost euphoric.
With what all I could only recognise as relief.
BANG.
I was barely aware of the gunshot.
The bullet went straight through his head, the winged boy hitting the ground.
Dead.
I saw the blood stemming around him in a halo before the bleeding pool faltered, seeping back inside his head.
Like rewinding a VCR.
Wren was dead, and then he was alive.
Wren’s body contorted, his chest inflating.
His gasp for air was painful, strangled, eyes opening wide.
Terrified.
“You fucking idiot.”
Jude’s voice sent me twisting around.
My cousin stood in the exact same robes he wore as a child.
The world tipped off kilter, and I was on my knees, then my stomach.
I sunk to the floor, my thoughts swimming.
Jude’s murmur followed me, creeping into the dark.
“I told you not to come home.”
I can't remember how long I was unconscious for.
When I woke, I was dressed in an evening gown, a dress that used to be my mother’s.
My vision cleared, and I found myself sitting in an unfamiliar room resembling an abandoned swimming hall.
The pool itself was empty, the bottom stained revealing scarlet.
There were symbols carved into each tile.
Like a game.
“Sit up straight, Charlotte.”
I was sitting at a banquet.
Jude was in front of me, sipping on wine.
He caught my eye for half a second before averting his gaze.
At the far end of the table sat my aunt May.
Kissing the rim of her glass, her smile was twisted.
“I've been waiting so long to give you your birthday presents, Charlotte. Your memories should be returning soon.”
“Mom.” Jude muttered, hiding behind his glass. “Calm down. You're embarrassing yourself.”
Ignoring my cousin, May tapped her glass with a fork, and in walked my birthday presents.
No, dragged.
By their hair.
Wren Oliver, the dead boy, was in fact my aunt's prisoner.
Behind him, was the girl who looked so much like Lily.
I think that's why my aunt chose her.
Aunt May cleared her throat.
“For a long time, our family has lived among creatures who live in the forest you played inside. In exchange for keeping this town safe, they only ask for small favors. Wayward children who disappear into the woods are good enough payment. Charlie, you and your siblings do not share our inheritance. Your mother never wanted fae children. She wanted you to be human.”
Aunt May’s smile faded.
“After losing my sister, and my niece and nephew, I made a deal to give my last surviving niece 100 years of life.”
Her words were white noise, my gaze glued to my birthday presents. I couldn't call them human anymore.
I couldn't call Wren human, when his face was so beautifully grotesque, painfully hypnotising.
The monstrous things sticking from twin slits in his back were supposed to be wings, except they looked wrong, cruelly protruding from his exposed spine. Under the influence of alcohol earlier, the girl made me smile.
Her wings, to me, looked like one of a real fairy.
In reality, they were torn and shredded apart, bigger than the girl herself.
When she dropped onto her stomach, she was dragged back to her feet, her knees buckling under the weight. Her tiara of flowers and bone looked pretty to me when I saw her on the stairs.
Now, though, I could see the pearly white of a human child's skull forced onto her head, dead flowers threaded through cavernous, gaping eye sockets.
The two of them were violently shoved into the empty pool.
“Jude. Please demonstrate, sweetheart.”
Jude stood, pulling out a gun, and aiming it at the winged girl.
BANG.
The girl’s body hit the tiles, her blood seeping across stained white.
“Now, of course, our king did not give you life for free.” May continued.
“The King demanded a debt, as well as two heirs to join him in his court once your hundred years were complete.”
Her lips quirked into a smile.
“The king is smart. If a child cannot be stolen from the human world, they can, however, be made, moulded and shaped from their human forms, skinned of their humanity through their suffering, leaving a hollowed out shell in the child's place.” She was speaking so casually, ignoring Wren’s whimpers.
“The conversion takes a while. 100 years to birth a fully blooded fae heir, who will lose their human memories, in preparation to join their new family.”
Jude shot Wren in the chest, his eyes empty.
This time, he dropped his weapon, using finger-guns instead.
“Bang.” He deadpanned.
Then the neck.
I watched Wren come back to life, and then die.
Over and over again.
I think at one point, he screamed and cried.
But not now.
He was their puppet on display, dancing for their entertainment.
Half lidded eyes drowned in oblivion found mine, and I understood his hatred.
Before he was shot again.
Stabbed.
Branded and burned, and ripped apart.
At some point, I screamed at them to stop. I couldn't breathe, slamming my hands over my ears and begging them.
Aunt May didn't listen, ordering for my hands to be tied down.
“The King required two human sacrifices to suffer in your place.” She concluded. “For one hundred years.”
Aunt May’s smile was suddenly sad, and she lifted her glass in a toast.
I was watching their blood trickle down each tile in the pool, like every death, every time they suffered, my body became progressively less human.
I felt disgusting. I wasn't supposed to be alive. Every single year of my life, every breath I had taken, was stolen.
Aunt May nodded at me, her lips forming a proud smile. She stood up, and was handed a sacrificial knife.
Climbing into the swimming pool herself, she strode over to Wren.
The boy slumped to the floor, trembling, his knees against his chest.
Aunt May grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head up, and sliced the blade across his throat.
His eyes flicked to me, and I swore he smiled.
Spots of red dotted yellowing tiles, a river trickling under my aunt's heels.
“Happy 78th birthday, Charlotte.”
Last night ended with me being locked in my room.
It's been almost 15 hours, and the door is still locked. Please help me. I'm fucking terrified of what my aunt is planning.
I can't stop shgajing. FycjbfucibFUCK
If she is telling the truth, I shouldn't be here, right??
And I can't stop thinking.
Is Wren Oliver trying to kill me, or himself?

Hello! I (27F, Caucasian, 189lbs, 5’4) apologize in advance as this is my first ever Reddit post and I am a little nervous, so please feel free to remove if any rules are broken.
I am currently struggling with a range of unusual sudden symptoms that have me worried as to whether or not what I am experiencing is a nerve injury of sorts or if it falls under the category of neurodegenerative/neuromuscular disorders. I do not know where to begin so I will start from the beginning (I apologize if it is lengthy):
**January 2024*\*
*Jan. 11^th, 2024*
-I get a sudden, intense, shooting pain in the back of my head along my cervical spine which causes me extreme pain, discomfort, and nausea to the point that I was unable to get out of bed as it would shoot around the back of my head and into my jaw.
-This makes me develop sudden weakness all along my left arm and shoulder as well as a sudden pain that shoots down the arm and into my wrist.
*Jan. 18^th, 2024*
-Along with shooting pain, I get a minor case of Bell’s Palsy which promptly went away with the help of medication as per the ER doctors’ orders (went to ER the morning after it happened).
*Jan. 28^th, 2024*
-I go back to ER for a follow-up and explain the worsening nerve/back of head and neck pain situation.
-They do a CT without contrast of my head and sinuses (due to the neck/back of head pain situation) and given an all clear.
**February 2024*\*
-Pain behind neck, head, and back worsens to the point that I missed several university classes and work because of severe headaches, nausea, wobbly vision, and arm weakness.
-My primary care physician tells me it's nothing and to go home.
*Feb. 14^th, 2024*
-Pain, nausea, and headache from whatever is happening behind my neck causes me to go to the ER where I do a CT without contrast of my cervical spine (C1-D1) which ended up showing (and I'm quoting the results directly):

• Mild intervertebral disc space narrowing and early-right side uncarthrosis (c4-c5)
• Mild intervertebral disc space narrowing and early bilateral uncarthrosis, right more than left (c5-c6)
• Mild intervertebral disc space narrowing with very minimal posterior disc osteophyte complex (c6-D1).
• Reversal of the normal cervical lordosis with kyphosis centered around c5-c6).

-I was simply referred to physio,
**March 2024*\*
-Weakness and shoulder, neck, and back pain persist but the headaches and nausea subside. Eventually, the pain becomes less intense but the weakness throughout the shoulder, neck, and arm continues.
*March 19^th, 2024*
-My doctor. finally reluctantly referred me to a neurologist where I do nerve conduction study of both my arms, hands, and face (my doctor initially thought I had peripheral neuralgia). I also do needle EMG on my left arm from the wrist up to the neck. The neurologist says I should wear braces for carpal and cubital tunnel syndrome (not new information, have known this for years) but that I am showing symptoms of cervical radiculopathy on my left side and need physio.
-A few days later, I developed odd fasciculations and spasming all over my body including the left side of my jaw which were relentless until they subsided on their own about two weeks later.
**April 2024*\*
*April 18^th/20^th, 2024 (Somewhere between that time I do not remember the dates)*
- I do not know if it is because I messed up at the gym, have terrible posture, and sit on my laptop too much because of finals and work and all that, or because I slept on the couch in a weird position that essentially compressed my entire left side), I really hurt myself. Symptoms start with:

• Intense burning pain behind/above the elbows, (which I initially thought was just me exacerbating my cubital tunnel syndrome as it has happened before) but then suddenly it became so painful I was nauseous.
• Further weakness in my left arm/shoulder. Developed wobbly wrists, a wobbly pinky when I try to press it onto my thumb (left more than right), shooting and burning pain up and down my arm, and burning and pins and needles in my shoulder blade, left side of my back down to my ribs when I would lie down on my back or left side.
• Trying to sleep on my right side causes me to mess up my elbow and shoulder on that side too (though not same extent as my left) and wobbly.
• Unusual throbbing, trembling rippling sensations in the back rippling from left lumbathoratic spine outward. Same thing in my shoulder blade on left side.
• Weird rippling sensation of pressure/dull squishing aches that rippled down my arms to the point that they made my wrists ripple.
• Burning/shooting pain near clavicle going down to under armpit, more so on left and right, as well as more pain in the neck.
• Unable to get up from seated/lying down position without having knees tremble and limp. Walking over the next few days worried me as I was afraid I would just drop because my knees felt like jelly. This has since subsided and I'm feeling fine and overall walking normally again.
• I had an appointment with another doctor (unrelated reason) where I also mentioned the jelly knees and the spasm/fasciculation situation from March and she said that could a be neuromuscular disorder.

**May 2024*\*
*May 1^st, 2024*
-These sensations persist so I go to ER. Doctor did cervical spine X-Ray (showed nothing), as well as an ultrasound of my lungs, liver, spleen, and heart (all clear), as well as regular blood tests to check the basics, CBCs, clotting (all good in terms of bloodwork). All the doctor ended up telling me is that everything looks fine and hopefully this goes away on its own but if it continues for another 4-6 months it might be a neuromuscular disorder. He recommended I follow up with a family doctor.
*May 5^th, 2024*
My primary care doctor says I’m stressing for nothing, and sends me home within 5 minutes.
-I get an emergency same-day appointment at another clinic where the doctor prescribed me naproxen and told me that my trap muscles were just tight, and I needed a massage. Tells me I do not need any CT scans, MRIs, or follow-ups with a neurologist.
*May 5^th, 2024-Present*
-Symptoms have subsided however the deep shooting elbow pain persists sometimes, as does the squeezing/ rippling in both my arms. Left side aches/ burns from the cervical spine down, sometimes causing headaches and I feel it in my jaw and my ear, but also between my back. My shoulder still shakes and now my hand just trembles on its own sometimes depending on what I’m doing. I no longer have continuous intense full-body tremors nor excessive pins and needles and burning in my shoulder blades but I still have exacerbated weakness in my arm and hand and I think now on the right side too. Furthermore, I noticed that I only get weird sensations (like muscle spasms? fasciculations? I don't know) on my back depending on how soft the surface I
-Sometimes I get buzzing/ fluttering around/behind my knees, in the creases where each thigh meets the pelvis (like at the front, not between legs), on my butt, and occasionally, on my sternum.
Note:
-So far, I have not lost any strength since January, I carry/hold stuff without issue though not anything too heavy on either arm because I feel a painful burn shoot from my neck down my shoulders and my left shoulder is killing me (like burning). I do not know what atrophy feels or looks like (but I think my left arm/wrist area) is weaker than my right given how my left wrist shakes, also bending my left wrist causes weird pain that happens around my arm).
-My left arm/side is my dominant side.
-I also have another appointment with a different doctor tomorrow at a private clinic because my doctor said I’m stressing for nothing. Although I am getting another doctor tomorrow, I was wondering if this is ALS or some neurodegenerative situation or if could it be the result of an injury? What steps do I take?
Thank you so much and apologies for the lengthy post. Have a great Sunday!

There was a boy. I’d known him since I was 5 but it wasn’t until I was older that I truly noticed him. We were in 6th grade when we started taking an advanced math class together. I could tell he was smart, funny, and a person I’d want to be around for a long time. Middle school and all the drama that ensues during that time quickly invaded my life. My social group shifted and I found myself closer to my friend, Dakota. By the time we were in 7th grade he was tall and strong. Blond hair and a light greenish set of smart eyes. We started working together outside of school. My dad worked for his dad and I often found myself at their house. Dakota had one older brother, a younger brother, and a younger sister. I’m the oldest of four so I could handle the chaos of lots of kids in a home. I had some of my most fun memories in middle school at that home. Not just me and Dakota, but with other friends we worked with, our siblings, and family friends. Nerf gun fights, swimming in the pool, and playing manhunt on the homestead that they lived on. I developed what you could consider a crush on Dakota. And the feeling was mutual. He hinted with the not-so-subtle flirting of a 14 year old boy. Pulling my hair, taking my things, and throwing snacks were often his go-to moves.
One night at a Christmas party, us “kids” were watching a movie while the adults played games and hung out in the other room. At some point, his head ended up on my lap. I remember touching his hair, but ultimately deciding I did NOT want someone to see this and assume the worse. Another time, we were alone in the basement. The basement was the place of all our friend hangouts. The video and board games were down there, along with the nerf guns. One night we were on the couch showing each other memes from our iPod touches. We were laughing and joking, then he handed me his iPod to read the next one. Except this wasn’t a meme: it was his notes app. On the screen it said “I think you are beautiful”. I instantly blushed and tried to hide my face. “Me?.....” I looked at him, also blushing red and he nodded. I told him thank you. It was the first time any boy had told me I was beautiful. In my own eyes, I was not. I had a big tooth gap because my parents couldn’t afford braces, and I wore glasses. I don’t know what he saw, but I appreciated the flattering compliment.
We entered high school where once again, your life shifts. You are faced with new teachers, new course materials, new teammates, and new challenges. We remained close friends through this time, by taking enough classes together and being involved with the same friends. It was nearing the fall homecoming season and I was nervous about getting a date. I saw many older boys asking girls to be their dates and I wondered if I would even have one my freshman year. Leave it up to my best friend Anna to set me up.
I clearly remember it was a Sunday night and I was watching football. My mom tells me she got a text from Dakota’s mom that there was a book she needed to grab from their house. She told me I needed to go with her. Without any context, I was annoyed she was making ME drive her there since I did not want to leave home. They lived about 5 minutes away so I figured the faster we leave the quicker I can get back home. Mom told me I should brush my hair.
“Why?”
“Well because you should look a little presentable.”
“It’s fine right, we’re just grabbing a book really quick, right?”
“Yes but you don’t want to leave the house looking like you do.”
I huffed and opened our sliding glass door going outside to the car.
“You should at least put some shoes on!”
“I’m FINE, Can we just go and get this over with”
I angrily and annoyed drove/ sped down the paved road to their house, all the while questioning my mother why she really needed me to go with her.
“I don’t know, there might be something there for you.”
I had no idea what that meant. We drove to the shop on their property that this supposed book was. I stepped out of the car, barefoot on the gravel and walked into the shop. There I see Dakota, holding a sign. I frantically looked around to figure out what was going on. I see Anna crouched in a corner covering her smiling mouth. I looked at his sign and read the homecoming proposal which used lyrics and titles from Beatles songs, my favorite band.
“Oh, Dakota! Of course yes!”
I gave him an awkward hug and turned around to realize that my mother didn’t need a book at all.
Dakota was sweet. In an innocent way. He had casually asked before if we could date, but being the reserved and shy individual I was, I had always declined. After the dance, we drifted, not for any particular reason. I heard he had started dating a different girl. She was older by two years. Was I hurt? Not particularly. Was I jealous? Maybe a little more so. They went to prom together and she was definitely way prettier than me. It happens, I thought, we aren’t meant to be. A romantic relationship would definitely change our entire chemistry.
Summer came and we were out working together on his family’s farm. We spent hours in the fields, talking, singing, and sweating. Just good friends again. It was normal and felt right. We spent a week together in late July on a church trip. We worked on a homeless shelter with our youth group and had a fun yet powerful time together. My mom, dad, and brother were on this trip as well, along with many of our church friends. After the week was done on Saturday, we drove back to our town. I remember waving goodbye to his family in their Suburban as they left the church parking lot. I didn’t realize how significant that goodbye would be.
A few days went by and we had casual texting conversations about work and school starting in the next few weeks. He texted me Tuesday night that his dad really needed some help the next morning bright and early. I wanted to sleep in. He texted “Don’t worry about it, we’ll get it covered.” A decision I’d soon regret.
Wednesday morning, I go to the church with my mom to do a couple of things with her. I can’t even recall what it was. We were getting into our car when we heard loud sirens throughout our small town. Mom and I looked at each other. Sirens are never a good sign. We get in the car, curious, but praying whoever needs the ambulance is okay. My mom gets a phone call. It’s one of our family friends. She says Dakota and his older brother have been in a bad car accident. That heavy feeling that makes your heart sink to your stomach instantly hit me. “They’re okay, they’re okay, they’re okay.” I kept telling myself. The ambulance was going fast, and Dakota is strong. He’s practically invincible. My mother’s friend tells us that we should stop by Dakota’s house to grab the boys clean clothes and bring them to the emergency room. We drive in silence, except for maybe a short prayer that the boys are okay. We get to the house and my mom quickly runs up the stairs to the boys’ bedroom. I stay downstairs. I observe the dining room. Dirty laundry in the baskets. Dirty dishes on the counter. Dakota’s name on a marker board along with a list of chores to do. We speed to the emergency room in the nearby town. On the way we received a text from Dakota’s older brother, John. He said he was doing okay but he wasn’t sure about Dakota. We should be keeping their family in our prayers. The panic was rising in my throat. I had been nervous about things before. This was different. It was like a nauseating churn that started in my stomach. Like my soul was shaking out of my physical body. We got to the hospital, parked and my mom said I should stay in the car. Probably wanting to protect me from any scarring sights within the ER. I wanted to go in. Could I see him? She insisted that I stay in the car. I stayed. Frozen at first. Then rocking back and forth. My palms were shaking and itchy in the center.
“This can’t be happening. Not Dakota. He’s like my best friend. Kids don’t die. He’s too young. Too smart. He has an incredibly successful life ahead of him.”
I was eyeing the automatic door for any sign of someone that I recognized. The ten minutes I waited felt like an hour. Ten minutes of restless uncertainty. Then I see my mom. She had one of the hardest faces that I had ever seen her make. She opened the driver’s side door and I immediately asked “What’s going on. Is he ok?!”
She looks at me dead in the eyes, shaking her head, “He didn’t make it, Jasmine”
A million emotions and questions flood my brain. I started blubbering and sobbing while hitting the dashboard. “No, no, no. Why!? Why him?” My mom breaks down with me, not able to get out a single word. The family friend who delivered the phone call joins us in the car. She says Dakota’s in a better place now. I’m in a state of shock and disbelief. Hot tears will not stop streaming down my cheeks. We were silent on the way back home. I ran upstairs to my room and shut the door. I cried into a pillow for the rest of the afternoon. I skipped dinner. There was a candlelight vigil that evening at a church. I barely had the strength to go, but my mom said it would be good for me. I brought my water bottle. I ate nothing and only drank water to replenish my tears the next two days. Saturday morning, I went to a different church with my family to see Dakota’s family. The church’s youth were making survivor bracelets out of parachute cord. Dakota had made them during his depressive episodes during his 9th grade year, when we somewhat drifted. Dakota and I took Spanish class together our freshman year. One day he asked me what my favorite color was. I told him blue. The next day he gave me a blue bracelet he had made. He said he accidentally made one too small. I was instantly brought back to that moment while standing in the church with dozens of people learning how to braid the cord. When I got home, I tore apart my vanity in search for the bracelet he had made for me. I put it on my right hand. I wore the bracelet everyday for an entire year. I had a Dakota original.
Dakota’s brother, John, who was entering his senior year, invited many of us friends to go out to the place where the accident happened. It was a blind intersection that I had previously been weary of earlier that summer. The corn was high and there were no road signs for a yield or stop. John explained how they had just got in the truck after working the field about a half mile south and were going to take their lunch break. He said they had just started going down the road, picking up speed, when he heard a small voice tell him to put his seatbelt on. John put his seatbelt on, but Dakota didn’t. John said he felt as if there was something around the corner, but ultimately did not slow down near the intersection. A driver, going 50 miles per hour, t-boned them in the intersection. According to John, the truck rolled and Dakota was thrown through the windshield. John found his phone and quickly called 911. He found Dakota and blood was coming from his mouth. He had a large wound on his forehead where he had smashed the dashboard. John pulled him into the field of soybeans, opposite the corn, and tried performing CPR. Dakota was mumbling and sputtering blood before his breathing stopped. The paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene. They said he was internally decapitated.
The wake for Dakota was on Sunday night. I had a tough time finding the strength to go. We waited in line behind dozens of people for close to an hour. When I finally got up to him, my heart sank again. There he was. His skin was pale. His hair was not right. His mother, who was right by, said it was okay to touch him. I reached for his hair to move it how he usually wore it. As I parted it, I saw the large scar covered by gobs of makeup that the hair was covering on his forehead. I put it back.
His funeral was the next day. Monday. At 1:18PM, his birthday date. I felt sick the whole morning. My whole family got in the car and my mom was talking to my younger siblings. I was silent. I was going to one of my best friends’ funerals. The church where the funeral was held was absolutely packed. Parked cars took up the surrounding blocks. The church had multiple floors and rooms with casted video of the celebration of life. I was considered close enough to sit in the sanctuary in the front half of the pews. I sat with my gifted teacher and other friends from the gifted program. What a terrible way to end your summer. Saying hello to people you haven’t seen in a few months at a funeral. I remember the funeral. There were songs and the service was led in large by Dakota’s own mother. To this day I have no idea how she had the strength to do that. I remember a few of the songs that were sung, but I’ll never forget the sound of the casket closing. The last goodbye. The final SLAM. His face would never again have sunlight shown upon it. Never again would a person touch him, hold him, hug him.
My family tried to get out to the burial but the crowd was just too insanely large to get around. I had the final say that we could go home. I’d come back another time.
The next day, I went to the scene of the accident. It was an intersection 5 miles east of my house. Someone had put up a make-shift cross at the intersection. I brought a big University of Kansas patch from one of our gifted trips to place at the cross. He loved basketball, and especially the Jayhawks. On the back of the patch I had written “I love you”. That night, there was a big storm. I sat up straight in bed and started crying as the wind whistled by my windows. The patch.
When I woke up, I found a reason to leave home and went back out to the intersection. I ran up to the cross and found my patch wrapped tightly around the base with some old barbed wire. I burst into tears of relief. I have no idea who saved my patch.
The next two weeks were spent preparing for school and fall practice. I had decided to do tennis that fall instead of volleyball. On the first day of school, I rode the bus into the town with my school. We drove past the intersection and I burst into tears. I cried four more times that day. Each time in the class he should have been in with me. I was distraught. I have no other way to describe how absolutely depressed I was walking the halls. Teachers were not the same. There was an absence in our sophomore class. An absence on our football team. In our audition choir. In our youth group. And in me. I tried my best to get through it. I started journaling a little bit after the accident to help organize my thoughts. To remember all the little details I could about him. To write them down so they didn’t disappear.
My sophomore year was brutal. I was playing tennis in the fall with a small team of girls who helped to create a safe and calm environment for me. I spent all of my hours in the team vehicle listening to two Lifehouse albums on repeat. I’d look out the window and reflect. What was life? What was my purpose? Why did this happen?
I didn’t have an answer. I bottled it up. It seemed that a lot of my class who weren’t very close with Dakota had a lot easier time going back to their normal lives. I was missing a friend. There was a contact in my phone from whom I’d never received another text. I had unfinished business. We had talked all summer about how our math class and Spanish II classes would be so fun this year. The bracelet I wore everyday was getting a stark tan line.
The semester rolled on. One of my other close friends moved to Colorado. And my last best friend, Anna, was in her own self-discovery phase. She wasn’t as close to Dakota and I was more or less a depressed teen at that time. I cried at school. In the bathrooms. In the locker room or a small music practice room. Am I just that sensitive? Why is no one else dealing with this grief like I am? I tried to distract myself with various activities. It worked for the most part. In the spring, I went out for softball. I loved softball. I had been playing it for years. I even had helped “assistant coach” a little girls rec league with Dakota and his family a few summers beforehand. Softball was hard but I needed the challenge. I worked hard at the sport and found myself on the varsity team after multiple players were out for the season due to injury or illness. In the last regular season game, on May 9th on our home field, I broke my leg. I had a high impact with the catcher while trying to steal home. The ump called me safe and we won the game by a run rule as I crumpled to the ground. I remember thinking I could stand up, but the weirdest tingling started down my leg around my knee. My coach carried me off the field like a baby. I pulled my helmet off and one tear slid down my cheek. They put me on a stretcher while the athletic trainer checked my knee.
“Yep, you fractured a bone. We should get you in to the ER for an X-ray”
“Fracture? Like my bone broke?”
“Yes that’s what a fracture is”
I started sobbing. Not from the pain. From the overwhelming feeling of becoming an invalid for an uncertain amount of time. I slid in the back of my mom’s vehicle as we drove down to the county ER. We got there, I was still in uniform. Just hysterical. I had no idea what was going on as I had never had an injury like this before. The ER lady took X-rays of my right leg. The images came back and showed a tibial plateau fracture. I wouldn’t be walking for a while. They helped cut me out of my softball pants and sent me home with lots of pain killers. The next few days I spent vomiting from the strong norco drug. I had a surgery a few days later where they placed hardware in my knee and put me in a straight-leg brace. I was miserable. It was hot and scratchy and I had my finals coming up. I went back to school the next Wednesday or Thursday to collect some class work to do at home. As I lived on the downstairs couch for close to three weeks I found myself asking again “Why did this happen?” I finished the school year by doing my final projects and giving my German foreign exchange student friend a final hug. I remember thinking “This is a nicer way to say goodbye to someone forever”.
I couldn’t walk for most of the summer and I started painful physical therapy. I was frequenting 3 times a week for a long while to build back my strength and relearn to walk. As soon as I was weight-bearing, I started working outside again. Doing what I could with one crutch. Dakota’s dad hired me to help manage the field workers and I could do some wood stacking decently enough. On the 1 year anniversary of Dakota’s death, I went to the gravesite for a small ceremony. It was the first time I had been there. The intersection where he died was my frequent mourning spot, almost daily on my drive to and from school. The gravestone was large and obviously very expensive. It has a beautiful picture of him and the quote “You got this”, that he used often as a self-reassuring phrase. At some point after the 1-year, I stopped wearing the bracelet he made me. Was it time to let go? How long does one mourn?
The rest of my high school journey was tainted with the memories of him and the phantom memories of where I imagined him being. At my graduation, we had an honorary memorial and scholarship dedicated to him and his character. Then I went to college. I was already dating who would become my husband a number of years later.
Years have passed. There is no happy ending. I'm still here. Aging. Growing older while I can still see the face of my 15 year old friend. He isn’t growing. He’s in the ground. Resting. It feels like a lifetime until I can see him again. I’ve had dreams of him. Unprompted visions of him were prevalent for about 2 years after he passed. You would think this story would get easier after the number of times I’ve played in my head over all of these years. But it hasn’t. I’m in the acceptance stage of grief. I’ve lived life, gotten married, laughed again, and see a bright future for myself. Though I do often think, Where would Dakota be now? Would we have become closer friends? Would he be married? He would have made a good father.
Again, I have no answers to these questions that I suppose may eternally sit with me. I do have some answers though. I’ve learned how to not take people for granted. I’ve learned how to recognize depressive symptoms and how to be a listening ear for someone who feels hopeless. I’ve learned how to find purpose in helping people. I’ve learned patience. Sometimes patience is agonizing, which means the reward is definitely worth the wait.

PART ONE THOUSAND AND TEN
[Previous Chapter] [Next Chapter] [The Beginning] [Patreon+2]
Sunday
Brock loved one aspect of being a teenager again, and that was the utter lack of responsibility that no first-time teen truly appreciated. He’d stolen a facsimile of that freedom over the last six months of his life as Angelo, though not in a good way. Back then, no one expected anything of him because he was a waste of oxygen that nobody except Robbie cared about.
Well, Mason and Sam were worried, but as the younger roommates, that was the extent of their capability. Now that he’d been handed the original formula, it was fun to wind everyone up by hiding behind the kid façade. Not so much when Robbie laid down the law, but the highs outnumbered the lows tenfold, such as nobody expected him to be up before lunchtime on a Sunday. So when he rolled out of bed with barely two hours to spare, he found the apartment practically a ghost town.
He whistled the words “Yoooohooo,” to see if anyone would respond, and no one did.
Dang.
Where is everyone?
The warmer was empty, and the fridge had the basics, but he wanted a Robbie meal, and he was sure his best friend in the whole world wouldn’t be holding out on him. He went over to the magic box covered by a dishcloth and lifted both the cloth and the lid in one move.
Nada. Nothing.
With a huff of disgust, he lowered the lid (minus the dishcloth since that slid over the back) and went to step away when he remembered the trick to the box. Well … crap! How was he supposed to know what Robbie had put in there for him? The only one who’d know for sure was Robbie, and he was probably out putting together a global grocery shop to restock their pantry after yesterday’s party.
Okay, think dumbass, he ordered himself. Robbie wouldn’t have left you something you couldn’t get to. He placed both hands on the magic box and drummed his fingers. “Alright, box. How do I make you cough up my breakfast?”
The answer was so obvious that he wanted to bang his head against the counter for not thinking of it sooner. Because Robbie’s innate is food. Stop asking what he made and ask yourself what it is you want for breakfast!
Dozens of options rolled through his mind, each sounding better than the last. And then he had it. “Nonna’s frittata,” he said to the box, already salivating, and he hadn’t even smelt it yet. He flipped the lid and filled the room with freshly cooked fluffy eggs and Grana Padano cheese. “Oh, holy mother,” he whimpered, practically drooling over the chunky potato pieces that, for some reason, many Americans left out of the traditional frittata. His Nonna had always called it a travesty.
“Come to Papa,” he declared, lifting the plate to his nose, and breathing in deeply. “Robbie, you’re the best,” he promised, shutting the magic box’s lid and patting it like a dog that had done well. He then went to the cutlery drawer and grabbed a knife and fork for himself. He didn’t worry about a drink because he was certain he could drown in the amount of saliva already dripping from his chin.
For the next ten minutes, he tried his very best to slow down and appreciate the meal. To remember all the good times he’d had with his grandmother before she passed away.
As always, when it came to his Nonna’s recipes, he was full by the time he finished, though he lifted the plate and licked the flavour-infused oil from the surface.
“Risparmio e il miglior guadagno,” he whispered, quoting his grandfather’s favourite defence about his wife’s cooking whenever she’d bust him doing exactly what Brock was doing now and chase after him with whatever wooden implement she had at the time.
Brock paused, then put the plate down and stared at it. He barely remembered what his grandfather looked like, but he’d remembered that. The stocky, no-nonsense, chain-smoking roadworker had died from lung cancer while he was still a toddler, and in that moment of reflection, he couldn’t help but wonder how different things would be if Nonno had survived his fatal condition.
His mother certainly wouldn’t have gotten away with her drug use, and he wondered if Rocco and Giani would’ve gotten tangled up in the underworld if he’d been there to keep them on the straight and narrow. They were young to his old, but Nonno was still the patriarch – or had been.
Then again, if he had lived, Angelo wouldn’t have spent so much time on the streets or met Imogen, which led to Robbie being his best friend. He might still be Angelo instead of Brock…
“God works in mysterious ways,” his Nonna often quoted.
If only you knew, Nonna. I miss you so much.
He dropped the dish and cutlery into the dishwasher and went in search of everyone.
As always, he started with their side of the apartment first.
Since it was heading on for lunchtime, it didn’t surprise him that Charlie was gone. She was probably next door doing more car preparation for the racing driver Nascerdios, who was supposed to be coming by in the next couple of days.
For a second, he thought about knocking on Boyd and Lucas’ door and quickly decided that would be just as fatal as Nonno’s lung cancer. At the very least, Boyd would rip him limb from limb and beat him to within an inch of his life with each of them for bothering them the night after their engagement party.
That left Mason, and a light knock on his door had his friend calling out, “It’s open.”
Brock let himself in and was thrilled to see Mason in his work corner, with his fancy table alight and some sort of internal organ being dissected, his laptop open, and ten tons of paperwork scattered around him.
…mainly because it left something else in the room unused.
“Hey,” Brock said after glancing at the gaming corner and finding it just as he’d left it; fully closed up. “Any chance I could…?” His grin was all teeth as he rolled both pointer fingers at the gaming corner.
Mason growled and waved him off. “And you’re still going to find time to play basketball with us this afternoon, right?”
“Damn straight. I have to prove my superiority to all you losers,” Brock laughed, making a beeline for the coveted machine. He opened the folding doors and pushed them back into the same wall that shared the hallway. Then he kicked over the system, practically giggling with excitement as the whole thing slid and rolled like a Transformer shifting between forms.
And because he had been the last one to use it, the seating was still set to his specifications. He slid around the side and into the chair that was already angling itself with the footrests at the perfect height for him. He took the headset from the charger built into the back of the headrest and pulled it over his ears, twisting the microphone to sit in front of his mouth. “Ground Control to Major Tom,” he sang as the screens on the overhead brace came to life.
He saw rather than heard Mason snapping his fingers at him through the gap between the upper monitors and the keyboard and popped one ear out of the headset. “Yeah?”
“Keep it down, buddy. Some of us are trying to study.”
“Oh…sure. Sorry.” To make a point, he sucked his lips between his teeth and pretended to bite them, flipping both thumbs up at his friend.
Mason laughed and shook his head. “You’re still an idiot.”
You’re studying, and I’m gaming. Who’s the idiot again? Brock mused to himself as he returned the headset’s earmuff to his ear and began typing on the keyboard.
A quick log-in and scan of his character’s inventory and how the land around his base was situated (because leaving the game for days sometimes cost you as others raided your space), he headed out into the mainframe, appearing once more at the crossroads where he’d first met everyone.
Patalon was there, but he had the AFK sign above his head. “Awww,” he said, quickly shooting the orc tank’s player a ping chat to let him know he was available for some more fun if he was interested. Then he left the crossroads and headed ‘east’ towards the mountains.
* * *
The almost inaudible ding sounded like the biggest of Chinese gongs going off in the tiny room, and just like those types of summons, two men launched themselves over the back of the couch where they’d been watching TV and a third rolled off one of the three cots that were placed on the far side of the room. A fourth man rushed in from outside, having crushed out his cigarette on the doorframe, and all four leapt into their seats, each grabbing their receptionist-style headsets that only covered one ear from the back of their chairs.
“Now, this time, try not to stomp on his system so hard you warn him off,” the youngest of the four said from the far end said, as they all woke up their characters and converged on the gaming crossroad. “Or he might disappear for longer than a couple of days.”
“Fuck you. We’re getting paid to find this fucker’s scrawny ass, not pussy foot around forever holding our dicks,” another snapped. On a large monitor against the wall behind their consoles, they could all see the grid section of New York City. As brutal as Clay’s initial assault on the city’s network had been, it had narrowed the field from a global search to this city of eight million people.
The smoker ignored their banter and leaned forward to read the private message on his screen. “You can’t hide forever, Trevino.”
[Next Chapter]
* * *
((Author's note: going out tonight, so I put this out before I left. Enjoy!! 🥰😘💕 ))
((All comments welcome. Good or bad, I’d love to hear your thoughts 🥰🤗))
I made a family tree/diagram of the Mystallian family that can be found here
For more of my work, including WPs: Angel466 or an index of previous WPS here.
FULL INDEX OF BOB THE HOBO TO DATE CAN BE FOUND HERE!

10,000 Stolen Days

May 10, 2024 marked exactly 10,000 days since Sophie’s life was taken. 10,000 days which had they not been stolen from her in December 1996, must have seemed to be filled with possibility .1996 had been a banner year, she had achieved so much in the previous 6 months, setting up her production company "Les Champs Blancs", and producing three different productions, with more on the way. But it had been exhausting few months with all this work and travel, and although Christmas is a holiday, it is not always a relaxing one.
Christmas had often been a difficult time for Sophie. She walked out her first husband Pierre Jean at Christmas 1981, so suddenly, she left her infant son behind and had to steal him back with a ruse involving a relative. She broke up with Bruno Carbonnet over Christmas in 1993. leaving him a puzzling note;
“Je suis partie là où tu n'a jamais été, là où tu n'iras jamais".
“I have left there where you have never been, there where you will never go”. This didn’t make much sense to Bruno. He waited alone for two weeks in the apartment hoping she would return, he a had bought a bicycle for Pierre Louis for Christmas. In January he left to teach in Le Harve and when he returned the locks had been changed and all his stuff was on the landing. Sophie was deliberate about change in her life she didn't just let things happen to her. Her agenda year planners reflect this. She was meticulous in recording meetings, calls, contact details and travel plans. She brought 1995, 1996 & 1997 year planners with her. There are notes and reminders stretching into February 1997. She even tore off the little perforated corners as each week passed. It's a poignant reminder of how abruptly her life was cut off in full flow - the week beginning 23/12/1996 still has its corner intact.
Sophie’s style was austere, almost minimalist. Her cottage was painted white inside and out, with a except for the ground floor, which was black slate with a shiny varnish. The only decorations were a few sprigs of holly placed by the housekeeper to welcome her. A traditional Christmas week filled with loud music, tinsel and overconsumption was the diametric opposite of her character.
Worse there is the prospect having to trade pleasantries with tiresome relatives.
That Christmas Daniel had decided for the first time to have a big family Christmas inviting his extended aristocratic family to his chateau in Ambax in the South of France. For Sophie, who even after six years of marriage barely knew Daniel’s relatives, this was an easy choice and a hard no.
She bought her ticket on the morning of her travel planning to spend nearly a week in Ireland including Christmas Day and return on the 26^th. It may be that this was the only return flight she could get at the time. Or it may be, as she told her aunt Madame Opalka “she was going to go to Ireland to spend Christmas there, because the house in Ambax was full of people”. From what Daniel has said, and from what others have said, it may be he tried to persuade her to come to Ambax for Christmas and convinced her. Sometime during the weekend she got an itinerary by fax at the cottage confirming her flight back on the 24^th. But even on Sunday afternoon she told friends she had not made up her mind which flight she would take.
It is difficult to say how well their marriage was going at that time because the reports vary. Daniel said it was "harmonius and peaceful" which was far from accurate. There are several biographies of Daniel Toscan du Plantier, and they paint a vivid picture of a man who though incomparably charming, lived his life his own way without much concern for his family. He married four times and in three cases his wives were already pregnant before they got married. When he married Sophie, his eldest son and daughter were not even told about it, they only found out later in the summer when Sophie turned up at events.
Some witnesses including Daniel said was it was the happiest period, others say she was basically “an official wife” and that “their open marriage was an open secret”. The truth was probably somewhere in between. She had visited Ambax in November and collaborated closely on the documentary Europa 101 with Daniel. Whatever their personal arrangement, Daniel was deeply affected by her death, even though he refused to come to Ireland. His daughter Ariane wrote how she spent months taking care of him, feeding him sedatives and sleeping pills. He was clearly overwhelmed, so Sophie must have been more than an "official wife" to him. Was their marriage "open"? They clearly had a high degree of independence from each and had affairs in the past.
Nevertheless, Sophie may have balked at spending Christmas in Ambax. For one thing, it was far away from Paris, where her friends and family lived. For another, Daniel’s family and entourage knew very little about her. Apart from his second son Carlo, who was friends with her son Pierre Louis and some servants, she would have been on her own. Christmas in Paris would have been tolerable, she could escape and visit her parents and friends whenever she wanted, but in Ambax, she would be cooped up with nowhere else to go.
There is a question of whether Daniel was having an affair at the time. According to a Garda memo, French journalist Caroline Mangez said that Daniel was with a female film producer. However the files are full of unsubstantiated rumours and lies. Even if he wasn’t having an affair Sophie may have suspected he was. If Daniel had invited a mistress, or even a former mistress, or a former wife to Ambax, it would be unbearably awkward for Sophie. Daniel had uncountable affairs, and many of his mistresses knew each other, some remained on good terms.
Daniel may have been faithful at that time, perhaps he was telling the truth when he said their marriage was harmonius, but in any case Sophie had other reasons to skip Christmas. She had wanted to come to Dunmanus for months, but work got in the way. The heating had just been fixed and she needed to pay the plumber and her housekeeper. They preferred cash.
And if Daniel was unhappy that she wasn’t going to be there for Christmas, they were going on holiday together in the New Year to Dakar, Senegal. It would be much easier for Sophie to be with Daniel by himself than his whole family. This trip to Ireland would be a breather for her. She didn’t want to be alone, she asked at least 8 different people to accompany her, including 2 former intimate partners, though there is no evidence that she was having an affair or intended to have an affair.
There is a post-it note with a message in Sophie's hand seemingly inviting someone to spend Christmas: "Je vous laisse le choix : venir ou de refuser histoire que vous passiez un bon noel"
"I leave you the choice: come or refuse just so you have a good Christmas"
Whoever that note was written to, it was to someone she addressed as "vous" so not one of her closest friends or family.

Work

If she had another relationship, it is not obvious from her diary and it was unknown to her friends. What her diary does show though is that she had thrown herself into work.
Apart from her agenda she kept a working notebook, a red hardback book which is filled with a tantalizing mash of different references to famous works of art, music, and contacts details of artists and philosophers. She had recently completed work on three different films. The first work was a documentary on African Art. The next was Europa 101, a documentary written by Daniel showcasing the wealth of European cinema. This was Daniel’s pet project, he loathed US cinema and the dominance of Hollywood. He once likened his wife’s death to a “bad movie”. His life’s work was a “struggle against cheap portrayals of violence, which is what leads to deaths like this” (Irish Independent 12/07/1998). This project involved gathering interviews and footage from dozens of famous directors and actors, including John Malkovich, Ingmar Berman, Pedro Almodovar, Werner Herzog, Nanni Moretti, Jean Luc Godard and many others. It was broadcast on December 8, 1996.
The third was an art house movie called “He sees folds everywhere”, a concept movie exploring the idea of folds and creases in everyday life, in hanging clothes, paper, wrinkles on skin, folds of a human brain. This was a project of the director Guy Girard, and it was the work to complete this that delayed her trip to Ireland. But she had other projects in train in her notebook. She was researching Greek folk music, Rebetiko. She had a project or projects in mind which were somewhat dark in nature.
She was in contact with George Didi-Huberman who had written a book called “The Invention of Hysteria”. This is a photographic history of how Jean Marie Charcot – one of the giants of 19c French science – locked up thousands of women for the imagined maladies of hysteria, lethargy, catalepsie and experimented on them, deliberately photographing them in contrived and frightening poses. It is a very weird and frightening history.
Her next project seems to have been based around human fluids. Her final notes are filled with references to human flesh, death and the four medieval humours of blood, phlegm, black bile, yellow bile. There are extensive notes to what seems to be a lecture given by linguist Jean Claude Milner on the subject of melancholia. Note that “melancholia” is a synonym for “black bile”, one of the four humours.
She was researching the avant garde Irish/British painter Francis Bacon, who was known for producing uniquely disturbing images. She references “Three Studies for the Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion”. There was a Bacon exhibition in Centre Pompidou in 1996 and Sophie must have attended it. Her notebook contains her jottings from a lecture on Bacon by writer Philippe Sollers which seemed focused on blood.
"Why does painting touch the central nervous system?" "We are carcasses of meat, meat above all" "The canvas bleeds, blood spurts red" "Dostoyevsky had a crisis in front of the 16^th century Hans Holbein’s painting “The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb She jotted down a quote from the play Libation Bearers from Aeschylus:
Orestes sees the Furies coming and exclaims "O Lord Apollon look! Now they come in troops, and from their eyes they drip loathsome blood!"
The last entry reads "research the Furies"

Friday

Having failed to convince anyone to join her in Ireland for Christmas, she went alone. She telephoned Josephine on Tuesday 17^th, told her she would be arriving alone on Friday. She called her again on Thursday to ask her to make sure the house would be warm.
She went to the airport on Friday morning, bought a ticket with the return date on the 26^th, carrying with her a rather hefty bag filled with clothes, including some eveningwear. Perhaps she envisaged visiting people at Christmas time. She expected to stay nearly a week. Later, possibly on Sunday she changed her ticket, she called the Aer Lingus ticket desk in Charles de Gaulle airport, Paris and got a return flight for the 24^th. She received the itinerary details by fax, as she had a machine in the cottage.
She was not in a good mood when she arrived. She had some words with the woman at the Avis counter who passed her to her colleague. The photos on CCTV show a woman looking tired and drawn, something which was remarked upon by the Avis rep, who estimated she was in her forties, a little older than her 38 years. But nobody looks their best walking off an aircraft. She had also attended the Unifrance Christmas party the night before. This was a lavish party held in “Les Bains Douche”, a unique Paris nightclub combined with a swimming pool. Apart from the late night, the social effort must have been tiring. There was a rumour that Sophie had a row that night at Les Bains, a row with one of Daniel’s mistresses, but I have never heard that confirmed. But other reports say that those who met her there found her "radiant", "in good form", "playful". "She went arm in arm to see friends," one guest at the party told Paris Match, "but she always came back to the table where Daniel was sitting." (Paris Match 09/01/1997) Daniel was quoted years later by Michael Sheridan - “She spent some hours having an intense, passionate conversation with a film-maker” - Alain Terzian, producer of Les Visiteurs, one of the most successful French comedies of the 1990s.
Strangely though, Daniel’s first statement said she left on Wednesday. So perhaps it didn’t register with him that she was at the Unifrance party with him on Thursday 19^th, or perhaps he had forgotten the party altogether.
Sophie was captured on Cork Airport CCTV at 14:41 pushing a trolley through the arrivals gate. The scheduled arrival time was 13:20, but because of almost an hour’s delay in departure it didn’t touch down until after 2. It would have taken about 15 minutes to pick up baggage from the carousel.
Cork is a small airport and it is quick to get through the arrival hall to the car hire desks, only a matter of a few meters away.
Sophie hired a silver Ford Fiesta and would have been on the road by 14:50.
The quickest route to West Cork would have been via Bandon and Dunmanway but it is more likely she went via Clonakilty and Skibbereen. She stopped in Ballydehob to buy kindling. She may have stopped in Skibbereen to buy petrol. A pump attendant reported seeing a woman matching her description driving a silver Ford buying petrol. He also noted a tall male companion in the passenger seat. The Gardai discounted this sighting because they accounted for the petrol in the car when it was hired and the mileage thereafter. There were also some discrepancies in the vehicle’s appearance and its description in the statement. Also the Ballydehob sighting is more reliable as the woman got a chance to talk to her. It would seem odd to stop in both Skibbereen and Ballydehob, both petrol stations.
But she seems to have stopped again in Schull because she bought bread and cheese in the Courtyard Deli, and this was most likely on Friday. She talked with the proprietor, Denis Quinlan to ask if there would be live music. At this stage it would have been around 4:30pm and after this she went to the cottage. She called her caretaker Josephine at 5:15, so she must have been at home by then. We don’t know if she went out after that point. She may have stayed in. At 10:15 she called her friend Agnès Thomas and spoke to her for half an hour.

Saturday

Sophie’s whereabouts on Saturday morning are unknown. Perhaps she stayed in, perhaps she went out. Finbarr Hellen was working on his land nearby and saw her car outside the house 12 to 1pm. He didn’t see her and thought it was unusual for her not to come out and say hello. He also remarked her car was parked in an unusual place. He did not elaborate more than this.
The next event we know is that she bought some groceries in Brosnans supermarket on the main street in Schull and took £200 out of the ATM.
For the curious, her shopping list is listed below:

Item	Price
Firelighters	0.85
Independent Newspaper	0.85
EP Televised "Chopped" & Her	0.52
Parsley	0.40
Low Fat Yoghurt	1.90
Ballygowan Natural Spring Water	0.85
Napolina Penne	0.75
Rashers	1.26
Courgettes	1.23
Chicory	1.79
Onions	0.09
Fox's Classic Biscuits	0.83
Flat Mushrooms	0.65
Pepper Coated Salami	0.85
Cooked Turkey	1.89
Mushrooms	0.34
Avonmore Leek & Potato Soup	0.99
Monini Olive Oil	3.45
Ballygowan Natural Spring Water	0.85
Avonmore Carrot & Coriander Soup	0.99
Ballygowan Natural Spring Water	0.85
	22.18

This list does suggest she was buying just for herself, but also that she planned to cook moderately elaborate meals with parsley, courgettes and chicory. Together with the cheese, bread and fruit already in the house she had enough food on there to last a few days. This quantity of food suggests she had not decided to travel home on the 24^th at this stage.
The till recorded a time of 2:49pm.
Sometime after this or perhaps before Sophie entered Tara Fashions, the clothes shop run by Marie Farrell. What Marie Farrell saw that day and subsequent days has been subject to revision, retraction and details seemed to be added with each telling. But I think the most reliable report is the first and all the subsequent revisions cannot be trusted. Farrell called the Gardai on the 25^th but they didn’t get around to taking a statement from her until 27^th. Even so we can assume her memory was fresh. Here is her statement, verbatim.,
On Saturday the 21st December 1996 I was working in my shop at Main Street, Schull, Co. Cork. Between 2p.m. and 3p.m. I noticed a weird looking character across the road from my shop. He was approx 5’10” in height, late 30’s, scruffy looking, long black coat, flat black beret, thin build, sallow skin, short hair. He was there for about 10 minutes. On Sunday morning at 7.15a.m. approximately I noticed the same man on the road at Airhill. When I saw him he was walking towards Goleen on the right hand side of the road and I was travelling in the opposite direction. When he saw me he stopped and put up his hand to thumb a lift. I did not see this man before or since. On Saturday the 21.12.1996 at approx 3p.m. there was a woman in my shop. She did not buy anything. I now know that this woman was the deceased woman from Goleen. I recognised her from the photograph on the television.
There is also a record of her questionnaire which may have been taken earlier than this statement.
In reply to question no 8 When/where did you last see him/her alive? She replied "saw her in shop. She bought a "Carrig Donn" aran sweater aran nap coloured, rolled neck late Sat aftemoon. Paid £39.00. Questions No. 9, 10, 11 & 12 were left blank. In reply to question No. 13 "any other help?" Marie Farrell replied "saw a man on Sat afternoon hanging around street. Desc late 30's, 5'10" very short hair wearing black beret. Saw him again Sun morning @ 7.20am walking towards Airhill but thumbed her.
In a later questionnaire, Farrell said the sweater was too big and she didn’t buy it.
What is interesting her is that Farrell does not draw any explicit linkage between the weird character in the long black coat and the woman in the shop. They were just there at approximately the same time. Farrell did say in later statements that the man followed her up Ardnamanagh road, but this was many years later. Her statements that she saw the same man at Kealfadda bridge at 3am on Monday are untrustworthy, but we won't go into this here.
A farmer, Frank Lannin, saw Sophie driving towards Schull from Goleen around 3pm. She saluted him as she passed him in his tractor. The time or the direction of travel must be wrong here.
The final sighting on Saturday she was seen in the Courtyard pub, eating a crab sandwich and left at 3:30pm. Sally Bolger went to feed her horses on Alfie Lyons land at 4:15pm and says she saw Sophie’s car at her house.
Saturday evening is a complete blank. Nobody saw her, she may have called people on the phone but we don’t have precise details. Her husband said she called him twice on Saturday, but we don’t have any confirmation of this.
At some point Sophie changed her ticket home. Her diary has a number listed as “O’Mahony” and the number was the line to the Aer Lingus ticket desk in Charles-de-Gaulle Roissy airport. The new itinerary was faxed to her in her cottage. The reason why she decided to come home early is not known. Her friend Jean Senet said her husband Daniel persuaded her. For his part Daniel said there was no particular plan and he was to pick her up from the airport at Toulouse at 8pm. Another report tells that she came home early to meet her father, so she could help him with his taxes.

Sunday

For Sunday morning we don’t have any reports.
She called to Dunlough at in the early afternoon, perhaps around 1pm. Sophie had walked here several times before. It is a spectacular headland featuring a lake and three crumbling castles. It was cold and dry at the time, good weather for a walk, if bracing. It is necessary to pass the farm to walk the headland and when Sophie did so she met Tomi Ungerer. This was the second time they had met. Sophie had called here in April but it seemed Tomi and his wife were having a row at the time and Tomi had not paid much attention. Daniel said that Sophie feigned a puncture as an excused to call to the farm. In June Sophie had sent Tomi a fax about the death of a mutual colleague, Gilbert Estève. She may have been seeking information or just making contact. Sophie made a habit out of making contacts with important artists and thinkers. It was one of the things that a colleague said of her, she knew all the right people. It is possible that Tomi was one of the people Sophie wanted to meet for a while. Tomi invited her in for a drink after she had finished her walk. She returned an hour later and they had a conversation over two glasses of wine.
Tomi was a renowned visual artist, with a keen eye and a professional interest in culture. Born in Alsace he was marked by World War II and had seen the ravages of the Nazis and the backlash from the French afterwards. He worked for as a cultural ambassador to improve Franco German relations.
The statement that Tomi gave is remarkable in the insight it gives to Sophie’s character her interests and state of mind.
“She was saying how great Ireland was for literature and education compared to France, how France had thousands of books published every year but that there was no good Authors there, how Ireland was vibrant as a centre of literature for a small Country. She discussed her family, moreover her children and their education in France. She indicated that the reason she was here in Ireland was she wanted to be alone for Christmas. I considered this strange but I sometimes like to be alone too. We talked about books and culture and how the language here was more meaningful and truthful compared to the superficial nature of the French.”
“She seemed a very genuine person, a fine person, not pretentious or snobby. I thought she was deep and intelligent, so much so that I made notes of some things she said, “In a language there should be no need of the use of cuteness” “The problem of France is her lack of modesty”. I wrote those saying they might be useful for my work in the futre. I wrote the quotes on a card in which we exchanged addresses before she left. On hindsight now I would go as far as saying she was not beaming, that she had something on her mind. It’s hard when you do not know someone well to say. I offered her a third glass of wine but she did not take any. We gave her some eggs to take with her, half dozen for her supper. We have hens.”
The word “genuine” is telling. Tomi was struck by Irish people, how the highest compliment an Irish person can give about another, is to say that person is “genuine”.
Tomi described her appearance:
“She was wearing some type of black leather expensive looking pants, brown suede hiking boots, a white/cream ribbed polo necked sweater and a beige wool blazer and a navy blue wool jacket with belt and a navy wool cap and red suede gloves, wine/red gloves. She was dressed very well. She had her hair tied back.”
As to her demeanor, this seems to have grown with the telling. The documentaries made much of the legend of the lady of the lake, whose appearance is reputed to be a harbinger of death. This lurid tale does not feature in the early Garda statements. Tomi remarked that “she was not beaming”, that she may have had something on her mind. His wife Yvonne turned up while they were chatting.
“While we were chatting, Sophie told me that while she was up at the castles she felt this great anxiety almost fear. This is not an uncommon feeling for people who visit the castles. She wasn’t in a cheerful mood but she wasn’t really glum either. She talked about her plans for the future and we spoke about meeting up in Paris in the Spring. She seemed happy to be here and she wanted to be here. She said she liked it here but her husband didn’t. She said she would be back at Easter. We made vague arrangements to meet over the next three days. I gave Sophie some eggs and she left here at about 5.45 p.m.” Yvonne’s estimate of the time she left must be an error. It is more likely she left at around 3:45.
After leaving Dunlough Sophie went to Crookhaven to Sullivans pub, a legendary stop. Here she spoke with the proprietor Billy O’Sullivan and his son Dermot, both of whom speak good French and knew Sophie from prior visits. They also knew her friend Alexandra Lewy. One time Alexandra had arranged to buy a cast iron church gate for Sophie’s birthday, Sophie was fond of antiques and bric-a-brac. Dermot had carried this gate up to the cottage. Sophie asked about getting logs for her fire. Dermot recommended she go to a filling station. She said there was only kindling at the filling stations.
It is interesting that so much of Sophie’s alleged stops and conversations were about fire, kindling, logs etc. Despite this, the photos from her house show she had a lot of fuel. There is a stack of logs, several bales of peat briquettes, what looks to be a 40kg bag of coal and one, perhaps two baskets full of kindling. She had enough for days of fires, unless she lit both hearths, which would be unlikely considering the second hearth did not draft properly, and she was arranging to have it fixed. The kindling may have been bought from Camiers Garage when Kitty Kingston reported meeting her on Friday.
She told her friend Alexandra before she left that she was going to sleep in the guest room because it was the warmest room, being directly above the oil range. There was also a brass bedwarmer found next to her bed. All these details point to Sophie being acutely aware of the cold.
A witness heard her discussing the old Coastguard houses with the Sullivans. These are a prominent landmark visible from O’Sullivan’s pub across the water. The witness left before Sophie did at 4:30pm so she must have returned to the cottage no earlier than 5pm.
The witness noted she was wearing “black leather pants and brown suede desert boots and a long chunky jumper”. This matches well with Tomi Ungerer’s account.
Note the "desert boots" seen by this witness and the "suede hiking boots" mentioned by Tomi Ungerer are probably not the hiking boots she was wearing when she died. The hiking boots she was wearing were very worn, the laces had snapped and had been tied halfway down the lace holes. It looks to me she shoved them on without untying/tying the laces. Sophie would not have visited Schull wearing old worn-out shoes. A pair of dark brown suede "desert boots" are visible at the bottom of the stairs in the garda photos. These match better with the shoes seen by the witness.
It’s 25 minutes drive from Crookhaven back to the cottage so if Sophie left at 4:30 she would have been back home before 5pm.
We know she most likely went home, because at 5:32pm she called her friend Agnès Thomas to wish her a happy birthday. Agnès was out so Sophie left a message.
The postman called at 6pm and noted the lights were on. Presumably he was doing a Sunday shift to cope with the Christmas rush. He didn’t see Sophie’s car, but as he only went as far as the lower gate, it is quite possible he missed it.
At 7:30pm she called her housekeeper Josephine but she was out. She tried her again at 9:10pm but again she was out. Josephine returned and called her back at 10pm. Sophie told her she would be leaving on the 24^th, not the 26^th as she originally intended. They arranged to meet the following day at noon.
Sophie’s phone records were not available, as the exchange she was on was a traditional analogue exchange, with no recording facility. Schull was one of the last places in the country to have such an old system. Days later Garda technicians tried to retrieve call details from her cordless phone but its batteries were flat and nothing was found.
At around 10:30pm she called her husband Daniel, who said he couldn’t take her call. He said he was in a meeting with Unifrance associates. As it was nearly midnight in France, this an unusual time to have a work meeting. Daniel called her back “about twelve minutes later”. He said she was sleepy and probably in bed. Given that the cordless phone was found next to her bed, this seems plausible. He also said that she told him about her visit to the Ungerers and had formed a work project with him. He said she told him she returned home at 9:30pm, but he could be wrong about this. The phone calls to her friend and housekeeper strongly suggest she was at home from 5:30pm.
This was the last anyone heard from Sophie until her body was discovered at 10am the following morning.
From this point all we have is are the police photos and the story they tell is ambiguous, there are multiple possible interpretations.
The fire was lit that evening and there was an empty wine glass on the mantlepiece with dregs of wine in it. There was a loaf of bread, a white crusty “basket loaf” which had been sliced and left open. This is odd as there are no crumbs visible on the table and no plate. Would Sophie have gone to bed leaving the bread out? It’s possible. Another possibility is that the bread was sliced in the morning. But if so where is the plate that she used?
Conceivably Sophie may have left these items from another evening, but it is more likely she consumed the wine that evening, possibly with some cheese she had in her pantry, and the bread she had cut. There was a book open on the table, propped open by a jar of honey next to an empty teacup. However as the cordless phone was found by her bedside, it seems likely this was all left from the previous evening.
It seems the most likely Sophie spent her last night reading, went to bed and then took the call from Daniel.
The book propped open was not a Yeat’s anthology. There is a tale repeated by many true crime authors that Sophie was reading a Yeats poem called “A Dream Death”. It contains the lines
I DREAMED that one had died in a strange place Near no accustomed hand,
Ralph Riegel titled his book after this poem. But this is not the poem she was reading, if any. Yes there was a Yeats anthology found on her bed, but not the bed she slept in, it was on the bed in her personal room which she didn’t use that weekend. The anthology is “Quarente-cinq poèmes suivi de La Résurrection”, a collection of later Yeats poems translated by Yves Bonnefoy. It does not contain the poem “A Dream of Death” but it does contain a poem called “Death”, a meditation on how animals die versus men.
Nor dread nor hope attend A dying animal; A man awaits his end Dreading and hoping all;
But the Yeats anthology is not open on the bed, it is closed in the police photos. Unless the Gardai picked it up before photographing the room, then we cannot be sure what poem or poems she read. As regards the book propped open on the kitchen table, it’s prose and it is French. Journalist Lara Marlowe wrote that the book open on the table was a book about lighthouses.
Among the exhibits the Gardai took are three books

1. Le Coeur Battant – “The beating heart” – this is the title of a 1960 French movie.
2. Le Tenes Vert – Unknown – looks like a transcription error by the Gardai, could be “Les Terres Vertes”
3. Le Cine Monde – World Cinema

Other books in the house seem to correspond well with what we know of her character. On the landing there is another book from an Irish writer, Sean O’Casey, “Les Tambours de Dublin” in French.
On the shelf in her box bedroom we can see a book by Virginia Woolf, the title itself is illegible in the photo but Woolf’s distinctive profile photo is visible on the spine. I wonder if the book might be “A Room of one’s Own”. This essay advocated that a woman writer could never accomplish anything unless she had financial independence and her own space to work in. Even if it was some other book by Woolf, this essay would have been known to Sophie. It hints at what the white cottage meant to her. Her tiny box room tucked under the gable and raised single bed was a quasi-monastic cell - a creative space, a room of her own in West Cork.

Like I use them, but I don’t use them right, I think.

🪞 “It's much easier to get in that it is to get out,” Emilie Autumn used to say. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4.1 - Part 4.2
She was not wrong. Welcome back to the Asylum write-up!
In this installment, we're finally getting down to the nitty-gritty of the enmity between EA and her fans.
It's time for war. It's time for blood. It's time... for tea. 🎵

THE PRESENT DAY: “ASK ME ANYTHING (WELL, NOT QUITE)”

​

"Ask me anything" titles are catchy, and that’s why I’m using one. But, obviously, don’t ask me anything, by which I mean that, if you think I wouldn’t answer it, you’re probably right. Ask me something really good. I’d love to answer you. I’d love to have comments on these posts, in fact, so that I could answer questions there regularly and ask you things as well, but insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, or so Einstein is supposed to have said, and attempting to create yet another interactive online venue after every previous attempt has ended in heartbreak—forums, facebook groups, social media accounts—it would indeed be insanity to think that this time would be any different. So there are no comments. This too is heartbreaking in the sense that, and you may not realize this, but I desperately want to connect more completely with you—to be able to intelligently converse and share and exchange. We can do that in person, of course, because the wrong people never show up in person. Isn’t that funny… So, perhaps we’ll have to arrange that;). I’ll start you off with an example question I’d want to know if I were you (I can almost guarantee that you do not want to know this). Q. Hey EA, how do you keep your wireless bodypack transmitter secure when you are leaping about in skimpy costumes and doing frequent costume changes? Also, dye your roots. A. Fantastic question, EA, and I just dyed my roots thank you very much. ... (Deleted blog post followed by a year of radio silence, 2022 📝)

Sooo. For the past five-ish years, the vibe in the Asylum has been that of a protracted Christmas dinner where everyone is tensely moving their food around in their plate, bracing themselves for whatever will trigger the screaming match. Wondering what it's going to be this time. Weary old-timers make small talk about the food because no other topic feels safe. Every glance, every forced smile, is fraught with eons-old grudges and unspoken regrets; every nervous pleasantry sounds like a thinly-veiled accusation. Aunt Emilie always insists on hosting, but not-so-secretly hates having people over. Sooner or later, she finds a way to get all of these assholes out of her house. Most of the adult children are daydreaming about going no-contact.
Everyone ready for some dysfunctional family history?
CW for discussion of bullying, online harassment, mental illness stigma.

YE OLDEN DAYS: CUCKOOS OF A FEATHER NEST TOGETHER

In the beginning, it was beautiful.
EA had the excellent instinct to start banking on her online presence📝 long before MySpace was even a thing. She had a website, several online stores, an active LiveJournal and a ProBoards forum right from the turn of the millennium.
In 2004, she attached an official forum to her website; the earliest archive shows 74 registered users. By the time Opheliac came out in 2006, that number had grown tenfold. And it was, by most accounts, a pretty dope place to be! (I should specify that this write-up focuses on the anglophone side of the fandom: there were also thriving fan-run communities in at least German, French, and Spanish. Because EA doesn't speak any of those languages, the lucky bastards were mostly left alone.)
Forum users enjoyed interacting with some of EA's closest IRL friends and associates – and with the mistress of the house herself (user flair: PsychoFiddler), when she occasionally responded to comments under her own posts. But that wasn't even the main appeal for many. For a long time, on top of all EA-related topics, the official forum had very active “Off-Topic” subforums, with lively and friendly conversation on a variety of subjects. (There was even a “Filthy Libertines (18+)” sub for a while, which was closed due to preemptive concerns about minors.) Swear words (not slurs) were allowed and encouraged, and moderation was overall pretty loose beyond basic enforcement of civility. There was a lot of mutual support, creativity, and solid banter going around.

It wasn't just about Emilie on the forums. People could chat about almost anything with near free reign, making connections and lifelong friends. ... This community mattered SO MUCH to people. They felt included, accepted, and understood within the walls of the Asylum. People invested their time and creative energy into keeping the forums a vibrant, active community, and made sure that carried over into the real world. ... I've never seen anything like it in a fan space. I doubt I ever will again. (@Asylum_Oracle - “Fandom History” Instagram highlight 🔍📝, which contains most of the sources for this segment.)

And it did, indeed, carry over into the real world. There were numerous meet-ups – a few organized by EA, many more spontaneous. People who didn't know any other EA fans in real life, or were just excited to add new Plague Rats to their friend group, would regularly connect with other forum users from their area to meet up and hang out before EA shows. “Who else is dressing up??”
In 2008, for instance, EA held an afternoon meet-up at Lincoln Park in Chicago. 📺 The event was free to attend; it featured live acoustic music and a reading from EA's upcoming book, the intriguingly-titled Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls.
On the appointed day, EA rolled up in a fabulously tousled red wig, bedazzled white corset and steampunk-altered wedding dress. She had brought friends alongs. Sporting blue hair and a pink bustle and corset was her Chicago bestie, the main forum admin. Rocking a guitar and a top hat was EA's sound engineer, the soft-spoken wizard behind the Victoriandustrial sound, who was also a forum mod. The photographer from the original Opheliac cover art was there as well; he was formally introduced by EA and got his own round of applause.

People who would never normally be involved in an artist's fanbase were in EA's world. And not only were they known – they were respected and incredibly active with the fanbase. These people who managed an online message board were willing to engage in real-world meet-ups (with no security??) because of how tight-knit the community they had built was. People turned out to this event. People traveled to go to this event. It was a short reading of a book that hadn't been released yet, and wouldn't be for some time. Why? Because not only was it a chance to meet Emilie and listen to parts of the new book, but it was also a chance to hang out with their friends from the Asylum. ... The fandom really was a family for a lot of people. (@Asylum_Oracle)

“SERIOUSLY, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE.”

It all started with The End.
The End Records, that is! Quick refresher: in 2009, after three years or so with Trisol, EA split from the label over allegations that the owner was embezzling money from ticket sales. A few months later, she signed with The End Records. Understandably, EA still wanted to sell the album that had made her famous, and to which she had smartly retained the rights – which meant a brand new, “Deluxe” release of Opheliac. (Remember, from part 3? The one you could pre-order as a bundle with the book? Some projects are just cursed, I guess.)
At that point, Opheliac had been released three times already, as recently as the year before, with only slight variations in format and tracklist. (Yes, that is a theme in this story.) The End Records version would feature new cover art and a handful of new tracks, but overall, it was... you know... the same album.
(The following paragraphs are largely sourced from this excellent recap 🔍📝, which also provides potato screenshots for all quotes.)
One fateful day of August 2009, a user started a thread entitled “Opheliac US edition deluxe re-release??” in the “EA News” subforum. In the thread, some people were kind of balking at the re-do, pondering whether to buy the “new” Opheliac or sit this one out. Some expressed that after three years, they were jonesing for a new album. Others shared what B-sides or dream covers they would have liked to see included on the bonus disc. Just... fans being fans, in a fan discussion space.
And then EA jumped out from behind the curtains.

Fan: Okay. Before I start, I just want you to know that I think it's very good that EA is getting more popularity, and that she can release lots of albums, but - are 5 editions of the same album really needed? You may say now “ah, it's not the same, it has 2 bonus tracks” or whatever, but I mean: it's not new material. Now don't get me wrong. I'm happy for it, maybe I'll even buy it, but I'm just wondering if she shouldn't keep herself busy with other (maybe more important) stuff? * hides * EA: Nobody's forcing you to buy it. Thanks.

Record scratch.

Fan 1: is this Opheliac release version number 4? lol If she's recording NEW tracks, then surely they deserve to be sold by themselves, otherwise people are going to have to buy an album that they may have already bought twice (like me!). But... alas, I am a fool and adore everything this woman does... im buying it lol Fan 2: exactly – if it was just reissuing the last version of Opheliac to tap into new markets that would be fine (...) but if they start adding extra bits of material to albums people already have then the true muffins are going to feel obliged to buy new copies (...) EA: How exactly are you obliged to buy anything? Nobody is forcing you to spend a fucking penny, my dears. I suppose it would make more sense to you to simply not have my records available any more as the old label I just escaped from will no longer be distributing them? Forgive me for adding extra tracks. No obligation necessary.

...Okay, so I'm pretty sure that we can see both sides of the argument here. Fans are annoyed at the idea of spending money on barely-anything-new, because they love EA and buy every single CD she releases. EA is exasperated by fans acting like she's twisting their arm and somehow resenting the inclusion of new material, when she was just ensuring that her album would remain available for purchase and trying to keep things interesting.
But maybe we can also agree that those replies should have been screamed into a pillow rather than typed out on a keyboard.
EA was getting increasingly (and, I'll just say it: disproportionately) sarcastic and defensive in her replies. Enter poor FantineDormouse.
FantineDormouse meant well, I think. Maybe she thought, she's spiraling. Maybe she thought, friends don't let friends go down that road. Granted, FantineDormouse probably should have known better than to phrase it the way she did. Or to assume that EA perceived her as a friend.
Either way, at some point, FantineDormouse jumped in and posted the comment that finally made EA lose it. THE comment which, overnight, ended the honeymoon period of the Asylum, triggering a doomsday domino effect from which the fandom would never truly recover. Are you comfortably seated?

FantineDormouse: Uhm, Emilie, love, I don't mean to sound rude or anything... but maybe you should have a cup of tea and relax a little.

...
* sound of archduke getting shot *

EA: Excuse me? You can throw this onslaught of absolute cruel bullshit at me and those I work with in my own space that I own, and I can't say anything back? How fucking patronizing. Relax? Are you fucking kidding me? Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? FD: I'm not trying to piss you off even more, Emilie. And trust me, I have to deal with it myself, and as much as I would really love to punch the cunts I have to deal with in the face, I don't. You're pissed off, I get it. You're bipolar, which makes it 10x worse, I get that. I'm just not the person to stand around and do nothing when a fight where I'm pretty sure there will be a lot of regret is going on.

Famous last words. Literally! Immediately after EA delivered her irate closing statement – which includes one of my all-time favorite EA zingers, bolded...

EA: I cannot believe this... You just don't stop, do you? So just because I've shared the personal information with you all that I happen to be bipolar, I can't get pissed off at all of you being perfectly awful in the very space that I pay fuckloads a month to have up (has it ever occurred to you all that I pay dearly for this space you play around in?) Why not just tell me that I must be upset because it's my time of the month? Seriously, get the fuck out of my house. You are unbelievable, and your level of patronization is almost criminal. Don't make me write another book. With muffins like you, who needs enemies? Nothing I say or feel is legitimate, not ever ever ever because I'm bipolar... discredited before I begin... unbelievable...

...FantineDormouse got permabanned.
Jaws dropped. After days of infighting between white knights, detractors, and crossfire negotiators, several mod resignations, and general mayhem surrounding the ban, EA made a post entitled “In Which: I Invite You to Make a Fucking Choice.” 📝 For brevity's sake (cue laugh track), I can't reproduce it in all of its righteous splendor, but it's quite a read. It runs the gamut from fair and articulate points about how mental illness shouldn't be used to discredit someone's legitimate anger... to histrionic commands that “deserters to the cause” should “turn in their weapons” if they can't handle her way of doing things.

To those of you who appear not to understand why said posts, most especially those of the banned party, were offensive to me, I give you the option to either educate yourselves on your own time and in your own space (because please never forget that this is my space that I share with all of you at my own expense, and in which I generally give you all the freedom I would wish for myself), or to resign your posts in the Asylum Army – this is not the place for you, and I humbly suggest that you turn your attention and support towards other artists of a more placid, non-controversial, and less opinionated nature; there are more than enough of them out there, and I’m sure they all have forums of their own.

Some fans did leave. Most stuck around, whiplashed. Soon, the storm quieted down, and business as usual resumed on the forum. But something had been damaged beyond repair. The FantineDormouse fiasco had erected walls and drawn lines in the sand, both around EA and among her fans; its sad specter would haunt every Asylum crisis that spiked up forever after. “Fucking Patronizing Fucking” or “FPF” 🔍 became memetic shorthand in the fandom for overreaction and self-righteousness. 🐀
...And now you understand why, in the following years, some fans were so delicate and diplomatic in voicing their very legitimate complaints about messed-up orders, unsigned books, and puzzling lies... while unofficial platforms like Tumblr flourished with pent-up resentment and snark. 🦠

A NOTE ON HARASSMENT: “MAD GIRL, CAN YOU BELIEVE WHAT THEY'VE DONE TO YOU?”

Wouldn't they stop When you asked them to leave you alone? (“Mad Girl”, 2008 🎵)

Now, let's be clear, because it should not be minimized: EA has also been the target of genuine online harassment. Based on the simple fact that she is a woman with a public presence on the internet, I have zero doubt that EA has received (and perhaps continues to receive) more than her share of truly vile, bigoted, creepy and threatening messages – and, knowing what I know about the darker recesses of the Asylum, a terrifying amount of emotional blackmail and obsessive projection from people who hold her to punitively high standards. I'm also inclined to believe that it started way before she ever did anything that warranted any backlash. And that fucking sucks. It's repulsive and inexcusable, and the people who harass her should crawl into a hole and live among the worms.
Notwithstanding. In my decade-plus of following EA drama, the public comments on EA's own platforms (where people knew she was likely to be reading) have been, for the most part... civil and nuanced, and relatively mindful of the human? Even very confrontational comments (some clearly written from a place of anger and desire to shame) rarely resorted to outright name-calling or cruelty. When abusive or bigoted language did crop up, it was often promptly shut down by other fans as gross and uncalled for. In short: I have, with mine own two eyes, in real time, read some of the comment sections that EA described as cesspools of blind rage and odious attacks, and... I just couldn't see it.
If anything, for a long time, a lot of the angry comments directed at EA during any given controversy read more like break-up letters to an ex-best friend: harsh, curt and targeted in a way that cuts deep.... but also kind of screams how much love you still have for this person, against your better judgement.
Not that it wouldn't mess a person up to get hundred of those in a matter of hours, even if they don't individually qualify as “abusive”.
It's worth noting that prior to becoming semi-famous and regretting it, EA was also (by her own account and among other forms of abuse) a victim of intense childhood bullying. It feels like the two situations are closely connected in her mind when her focus seamlessly transitions from one to the other. 📺 I don't think that tremor in her voice is put on.
Based on her writings, I get the feeling that over the years, EA has developed a very black-and-white view of two monolithic groups of people. There's (an idealized vision of) her “real audience”, well-dressed, well-read, kind-hearted, and Asylum-savvy, who she fully trusts to “get it” – and buy it, and love it, unquestioningly, whatever “it” may be at any given time – because that is the true measure of love and loyalty. These are the people she makes art and merch for, the people she writes heart-emoji-filled newsletters to, and desperately longs to see in person again.
And then there's the lynch mob, those who really don't “get it”: the trolls, the faceless creeps, the basement-dwelling mouthbreathers, the ones who stalk her every move obsessively, waiting for any chance to spam her with vicious abuse and slander and obscenities. The latter only exist online (they are manifested into arbitrary existence by the internet itself, not by anything EA said or did), and there is zero overlap between the two sets of people. That seems to be the official narrative.

The "public eye" isn't an [enviable] place to be, and the closer I've come to it, the more horrified I've been. Because, for starters, who is "the public?" Is "the public" my audience? Hell no. My audience is special. They are not the general public. If they were the general public I would be a lot wealthier. The "public eye" means getting stalked, harassed, viscously judged, and put in danger. If I do things in the future that gain notoriety, I will do them in spite of fame, not because of it. I am out for world domination, but not fame. (Interview for The Moaning Times, 2014 📝)

In real life (well, mostly online, but I mean: on this shared plane of existence), things play out slightly differently. The Venn diagram of “true blue fans” and “people who criticize EA" and "people who know way too much about EA” is a circle. The call is 100% coming from inside the Asylum, and I think EA rationally knows that. But here's the thing: no matter how many shows and meet-and-greets you've dressed up for, how many loving and supportive comments you've left, or how many family heirlooms you once pawned to purchase a copy of the not-for-sale 2003 DJ pressing of Enchant... the instant EA feels attacked, everyone is a saboteur and a bully until proven otherwise, and suspected treason is dealt with on the spot. One strike, you're out. Unfortunately for everyone involved, her threshold for bullying seems to be “any remotely thoughtless opinion from any stranger on the internet”.
It makes for outstanding human-interest entertainment... but it also sounds an awful lot like the unhealthy patterns of a person suffering from all sorts of PTSD. 🔍 So, please bear that in mind as you read through this write-up. It's easy to make EA out to be the sole villain, a paranoid and delusional drama queen, based on her extreme reactions to things that often “weren't that bad”. Anything can, in fact, be “that bad” when you're thrown back into the very worst moments of your existence every time your brain decides that the situation is even remotely similar.
PTSD takes over your rational mind and actively distorts your perception of reality. That can be how a person ends up impulse-reacting to “a few people expressing an unfavorable opinion” as if the entire internet had just ganged up on them with knives. Which makes their audience feel unjustly accused, which makes them hostile, which gives the person actual good reason to feel attacked... and so the cycle of hurt continues.

You know the games I play And the words I say When I want my own way You know the lies I tell When you've gone through hell And I say I can't stay You know how hard it can be To keep believing in me When everything and everyone Becomes my enemy, and when There's nothing more you can do I'm gonna blame it on you – It's not the way I wanna be I only hope that in the end You will see: It's the Opheliac in me... (“Opheliac”, 2006 🎵)

And YES, it is extremely regrettable to have this as a trigger, when you're a public figure and you're bound to receive more negative feedback than the average citizen. “It's what she signed up for”, “it comes with the territory” and all that jazz. I really don't think EA was unaware of that fact when she decided to become a musician, share her personal life, and form an intense parasocial bond with her audience. But maybe she underestimated how hard it would be to process and recover from.
Just because you expect something unpleasant to happen, doesn't mean your psyche will be ready to handle it when it does – or that you'll pick the best and most effective strategy to deal with it.

A MADHOUSE UNDER MARTIAL LAW: MARCHING INTO THE FORUM WARS

There are two sides to every story... except for this one! (“If I Burn”, 2012 🎵)

You may have noted the military imagery in EA's “Make a Fucking Choice” response post – “resign your post in the Asylum Army”! What do psychiatry and the military have in common? They're both institutions of top-down social control. 🔍 EA's mixed metaphor may be a bit clunky, but it did foreshadow the evolution of the Asylum – in terms of aesthetics and power dynamics – in the years that followed the FantineDormouse incident and the release of The Book.
EA's next big release after the Asylum book came in 2012. It was a new album, an outline of the soon-to-be Asylum musical, called Fight Like a Girl (FLAG for short). As the name suggests, the main mood was bellicose. Incidentally, in the interim years, EA's communication style generally became noticeably more combative, incendiary, and (within her own spaces) controlling.📝 You remember those quirky word filters on the forum, that would change “fan” to “muffin” and “bra” to “teacup holder”? They kind of took on a Nineteen-Eighty-Four-burlesque flavor when you realized that one filter automatically changed “Fischkopf” to “Liddell” - and that circumventing the rule to address her totally real last name would get you banned, as would any discussion of her family. (“Wikipedia, random internet sites and heresay are not credible sources.” - Mod reminder of forum rules, 2010.)
Also, you try sustaining a serious, grown-up conversation among concerned fans about how Emilie Autumn should “take ratsponsibility for her mistakes out of ratspect for her muffins”. Thus, the official Asylum forum kept a tight grip on overt criticism of EA's claims and actions.

The Emilie Autumn forum is a dystopian hell. Truth be told, when I decided to leave you could not do anything but gush about Emilie. Otherwise all of her extremist arse kissing fans will be down your throat, ripping you apart in seconds, if you so much as questioned her behaviour. So much for freedom of opinion, let alone the idea of creating a harmonious community for ‘outcasts’. Hahaha. (2014 🐀)

The word filter thing really wasn't a big deal – I'm just pointing it out as one goofy expression of EA's need to control the narrative and rhetoric, which became especially noticeable in those post-book, pre-FLAG years. By that point, EA's fuse had been shortened by near on half a decade of non-stop touring / recording / writing / promoting / adjusting to the pressure and demands of an ever-growing fanbase, while also dealing with a horrorshow of personal turmoil and health issues behind the scenes. In other words: she was done taking any shit, in any form, or humoring anyone's ridiculous feedback regarding anything.
To be fair, it was never her forte to begin with. Will it come as a shock if I tell you that EA doesn't have the greatest track record for successful collaborative work? Let's do a quick-cut montage!
EA's very first corporate sponsor was her mother's “Enchant Clothing & Costume” online store 🔍; she went on to claim that her mother was dead. She sessioned for Billy Corgan, that went super well. 🎵 She liked Courtney Love for a minute, but that didn't work out because she felt that Courtney only valued her for her pee. 📝 (It probably didn't help that in early 2006, while EA was recording her post-break-up-tell-all album about Corgan, C-Love was recording her post-rehab-redemption album with Corgan. 🔍 Either way, EA didn't seem to like Courtney anymore after that. Courtney likes her, though! 📝) The one artist EA has ever approached for a duet (and by approached, I mean she recorded a demo and threw the CD on stage when he played Chicago in 2004) was, of all people, Morrissey. That never came to pass, thank mercy 🔍 – this fandom has suffered enough. In 2005, EA recorded some haunting vocals and violins for a potential collab with the frontman of Attrition. When, three years later, they were used on one track 🎵 of Attrition's All Mine Enemies Whisper, she alleged 📝 that the recordings had been obtained from her under the false pretense of a different project, then hideously altered to sound “out of tune”, and used without her permission. She enlisted her fans to boycott the album and the band, and threatened legal action. Meanwhile, on LiveJournal and Attrition's message boards, band associates were appalled: according to them, EA had been aware of the project's nature from the start... and had been completely unreachable, even through her label, during the months of its development. (Besides, Attrition is a semi-obscure English darkwave band from the 80s, whose micro-distributed albums don't even have their own Wikipedia pages... so I wonder what EA was hoping to get out of that theoretical lawsuit. These people own nothing but vintage gain pedals!) The song “Cold Hard Cash” 🎤 by Angelspit (who contributed a remix to one of her EPs in 2008) may or may not be an EA diss track. 🐀 Back when indie jewelry brand RockLove (which now has licensing deals with Disney, Marvel, and DC) was still someone's bedroom project, their first drop was an EA-inspired collection 🔍, which appears in many early Opheliac photoshoots. The partnership was terminated on bad terms, for unclear reasons; the RockLove owner shared in a statement that EA had “drunk the cool-aid” of Trisol Guy's shady business practices, and that the two of them had been spamming her with “crazed angry message[s]” for days.
Why am I talking about this? Because it was precisely one such ill-fated business partnership that triggered the Great Asylum Secession.
One fine day of spring 2010, the owner of vegan make-up brand Aromaleigh popped onto the Asylum forum to announce that they were cutting ties with EA, with damning receipts of copy-pasted emails (lost to time). Basically, the brand had been sponsoring her for half a decade, and while Aromaleigh had been actively promoting her music and tours, EA hadn't exactly been returning the favor. (Indeed, the extent of EA's sponcon seemed to have been a banner link to their website on her front page, and a single “random drunken endorsement” LiveJournal post that kind of reads like satire📝, from 2005.)
EA responded by banning the owner's account, deleting the thread, and posting this flippant statement a few days later:

Dearest Plague Rats, To be honest, I have no idea of what the hell happened with Aromaleigh, and I don't care to find out – the whole drama is a complete mystery to me, as I've been away for months touring and have not been in contact with anyone. All I know is that I've been promoting the company for ages and have not asked them for anything in years. (...) Please focus on more interesting things. I am. (“Save the Drama...” forum post, March 2010)

Posts questioning her good faith in the conflict were deleted from the forum. Shortly thereafter, citing how prolific and labor-intensive the Asylum forum had grown, EA shut down all non-EA related subforums – which, among many other topics, included a pretty active thread about Aromaleigh products.
So one Plague Rat decided to create a separate, members-only forum 📝, where users could recreate some of the now-defunct off-topic threads... and also freely voice their critical opinions of EA's behavior without fear of backlash from mods or rabid stans. Thus, “The Reform” was born. (Reform [n]: amendment of what is defective, vicious, corrupt, or depraved.)
For a few weeks, the two-state solution seemed to work fine. And then word spread among forum mods and other diehard fans that there was this horrid other forum, where obsessive haters gathered to spew disgusting lies and vitriol about EA... and soon enough, it was bedlam in the Asylum.
Any explicit mention of the Reform was forbidden on the Asylum forum. Suspicion of participation in the Reform would get you banned. The party line was that The Reform was the enemy 🐀 – even though a number of people were active on both forums, because they liked freedom of expression almost as much as they liked EA. Double agents would lurk on the forum and report back with snark material; sycophants would infiltrate the Reform to identify traitors – much to the amusement of the “haters”, who mocked them and their ilk for “licking EA's pink sparkly boots”. There was no containing the seething, or the sass, among Asylum ranks.
Pretty soon, the insubordination spread to Tumblr. There was the “Ask the Reform” Q&A blog, where questioning fans could interact with “Rebel Rats”, get more details on past drama, and make up their own minds about the people EA called bullies.
And then, there were the “confession blogs”, which published anonymous submissions about EA, positive, negative or neutral, with little censorship. Finally, you didn't even have to pick a throw-away username on a private forum to voice your hottest / strangest / most controversial EA takes. Fans could vent, rant, lament, wonder, shitpost to their heart's content, anonymously. Obviously, given the context of frustration and censorship in the fandom, a lot of the first waves of confessions were EXTREMELY negative.
EA's acolyte Veronica managed to get the first one shut down. If memory serves, she misunderstood the confession blog format, and may have believed that all the posts on “Emilie Autumn Confessions” came from one or a small group of individuals. She was genuinely devastated, and wrote the blog admin to let them know that they were a terrible person who said terrible things. The admin was mortified, apologized profusely and deleted the blog of their own initiative. (Which goes to show that the concept did not come from cruel and malicious anti-fans, as detractors often claimed.)
But a new blog sprung up almost immediately, with a different mod team, and did not surrender. And much like in EA's own book, once the Plague Rats found out that they possessed the gift of speech... well, they really took to it.
Established in 2011 and passed on through generation after generation of mod teams to the present day, Wayward Victorian Confessions would turn out to be the longest-lived institution in the EA fandom. For over a decade now, through all the bleakest nights and dankest debacles of the Asylum, and despite its initial reputation as a troll den, WVC has acted as a kind of neutral ground and vox populi for the active fanbase and anti-fanbase. (The last nominally-active EA fansite to date, She Fights Like a Girl, is actually an offshoot of WVC: one of the old admins created it as a database to answer “frequently asked questions” about EA.)
Wayward Victorian Confessions has now outlived every other EA platform, official and unofficial. Were it not for the continued existence of the “troll den”, what little fan community survives in 2024 would be non-existent, plain and simple. To quote from late 20th century Canadian philosophy: isn't it ironic?

I feel like [WVC] is the only place I feel any of that old Asylum community kind of feeling I felt before EA got so focused on the book. It sucks that it’s so full of unhappiness, and I wish she hadn’t poisoned the sanctuary she claimed to have built. It’s just kind of fallen apart, like a crumbling building. (🐀 2016)

CONTINUED IN COMMENTS

Hello my name is Autumn, I'm 34 years old and a mother and wife. I'm fundraising for myself in order to get braces and have the teeth of my dreams.
When I was around 11 years old I was on my way to getting braces (that my biological father agreed to pay for). Long story short he didn't fall through with his promise. Ever since then I do not smile in photos, l cover my mouth when I laugh or talk, and honestly I feel very immature with the smile I have. My teeth are very crowded and my bite is off. All in all it's awful.
I'm not able to max out credit cards or even get a loan unfortunately. I got quoted for braces a couple years ago and it was around $7,000 and about $300 monthly payments that I just cannot do.
I just want to feel pretty and to be able to smile and feel confident. Hopefully all of this doesn't sound so selfish but I thought I would give it a try. Thanks to anyone who helps.
Also to add that I also tried the program Smile Direct Club in 2022. The beginning seemed promising but it did not work for me. I ended up spending over $1,000 in payments and the company ended filing for bankruptcy and closed. So l'm not even able to go back and have them fix the problems I had.
https://gofund.me/d4ec67be

Purtle's Internet Lineup for May 9th, 2024 6:26pm
Pics:

• Home runs are not allowed. https://twitter.com/ScrubQuotesX/status/1788237675440324847
  
• people responding to Microsoft's fuckup with "we have to financially support [dev] even more or MS will kill them" reminds me of the late 00s early 10s jrpg space when people would buy atlus/xseed stuff they didn't even want to play in hopes that they'd localize an unrelated game https://twitter.com/pancakeparadox/status/1788290113534865728
  
• AVGN: This summer will mark the 20th anniversary of my NES reviews of Simon’s Quest and Jekyll & Hyde, when I created the character which became AVGN. I’ll be celebrating the occasion a little early, reflecting on retro Castlevania games again. https://twitter.com/cinemassacre/status/1788177418492019027
  
• FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER. IN 10 YEARS OF MY CAREER. MY CAT DECIDED TO JUMP ONTO MY LAPTOP, I TRIED TO MOVE HER BUT HER FOOT CLICKED THE MOUSE AND THE TWEET WAS POSTED. ON A COMPANY ACCOUNT. https://twitter.com/sarahhana/status/1788265064119804150
  
• Everybody hated That Apple Ad but the Japanese REALLY hated it. I’ve never seen so many upset Japanese ppl commenting on a single thread: https://twitter.com/AngelicaOung/status/1788241764383678900
  
• Takeda when asked about how they decided the Wii’s specs https://twitter.com/Jiikae/status/1788585577845084552
  

Clips:

• kakerugo quarter finals match against yakitori s.hawk. one of the smartest and most execution-perfect 2X players i know. https://twitter.com/makiri_ken/status/1788294313753157691
  
• Apple has unintentionally made one of the most fitting and revealing advertisements of the modern era. My god. This horror perfectly encapsulates the feeling of life as the powerful wreak escalatingly careless and clueless destruction. https://twitter.com/JYSexton/status/1788189384568664175
  
• new world record for the earliest "ggs" in a street fighter match https://twitter.com/broskiFGC/status/1788254608147521642
  
• Despite racial, social, or monetary differences we can all be united in that British food sucks. https://twitter.com/DocStrangelove2/status/1788312187456389519
  
• Omggggggggg the second book, help. Drake is getting cooked by a puppet https://twitter.com/tyelerrdurden/status/1788359115502244171
  
• Dissecting Kendrick Lamar's "Not Like Us" live on a podcast https://twitter.com/FrakThePerson/status/1788250196708827152
  
• May 4, 2024 MatsuBlanka vs. Nyo Definition of striving for perfection and minimizing all risk, Nyo played with ice in his veins. Though we wont hear it here, Nyo's name comes from the sound Dee Jay makes when he loses. https://twitter.com/superloreboys/status/1788628705251819715
  

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Videos

• "Zoids - ZOIDS -" 25th ANNIVERSARY PROJECT https://twitter.com/zoids_official/status/1788012189514715155
  
• How Bridge Engineers Design Against Ship Collisions - Practical Engineering [28:44] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLOVv09n46g
  
• Libraries: Last Week Tonight with John Oliver (HBO) [27:53] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42xZB80sZaI
  

Articles/News/Other

• Xbox still isn't done cutting costs, sent voluntary buyout offers to some Zenimax staff - Why were Arkane Austin and Tango Gameworks closed? Bad timing, perhaps - Activision purchase has ramped up scrutiny on Xbox And much more - here's my latest: https://twitter.com/jasonschreiestatus/1788298433922482319
  
  • "Before its closure, Arkane had been looking to return to its roots by pitching a new single-player “immersive sim” game, such as a new entry in the Dishonored series, according to the people familiar." https://twitter.com/Wario64/status/1788303053122060683
  • Inside Microsoft’s Xbox turmoil. Here's what's going on inside Xbox right now, as employees brace for more cutbacks and uncertainty. Details below https://twitter.com/tomwarren/status/1788299893326373145
  • Microsoft is considering increasing the price of Game Pass Ultimate again. It's also had internal debates on whether to put new Call of Duty releases on Game Pass. "Hellblade II is another game that Microsoft has been considering for the PS5" https://twitter.com/Wario64/status/1788301644574105836
  • "Tango was in the process of pitching a Hi-Fi Rush sequel, said the people, who asked not to be identified discussing nonpublic information." https://twitter.com/Wario64/status/1788300038600376375
  • Microsoft says it needs games like Hi-Fi Rush the day after killing its studio. “We need smaller games that give us prestige and awards,” Matt Booty (head of Xbox Game Studios) told employees in a town hall today. https://twitter.com/Wario64/status/1788365611321508103
• As of June 10, 2024, it will no longer be possible to post screenshots and videos to X (formerly Twitter) from the Nintendo Switch's Album, or send friend requests to social media users via the Friend Suggestions feature. https://twitter.com/NintendoAmerica/status/1788375084886892947
  
• New Lord of the Rings Movies Coming from Peter Jackson in 2026 https://old.reddit.com/movies/comments/1cnwwes/new_lord_of_the_rings_movies_coming_from_pete
  
• Florida man points AR-15 in Uber driver's face, forces him to ground for dropping daughter off: deputies https://old.reddit.com/news/comments/1cnyfjf/florida_man_points_ar15_in_uber_drivers_face/~~~~
  

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Lala: I usually like her. I don't like how she's being so hypocritical this season. She refused to discuss her relationship (with Randall) in the beginning saying that he didn't consent to broadcasting that aspect of her life. Now she's demanding Ariana to showcase that or she's not being authentic? I think Ariana is being THE most authentic.
Ariana: she knows that real life doesn't need to be broadcast. At the end of the day, her life is hers and no one is warranted to it. It's not just catchy drama. It's her REAL life. She had a relationship for almost a decade and was betrayed by her partner and her friend. That sort of think hurts anyone. Being a reality TV star doesn't shield her from the trauma. She's not keeping up boundaries because it's trendy. It's what keeping her in a state of peace by not allowing the things that hurt her, have access to her.
Sheana: I get her position about her longstanding friendship with Tom but she's stubbornly choosing to ignore that he is a performative snake.
Brock: he had broadly insinuated that being a low maintenance friend is not a good friend. If you're not heavily in contact with your friends lives the you're not a good friend at all. That's not true. Period.
James: he, too, has been very honest. I don't think he's mincing his words. He's saying what comes to mind with no filter. If you look past the jokes, he's making good points.
Katie: same as James, she speaks the truth. Sometimes I think her delivery is poor but she's making fair points as well.
Sandoval: performative snake. I think he does mourn some lost friendships, like scheana. But not everyone. I know he probably wouldn't care if Lala was in his life or not.
Schwartz: I have to wonder if he's really as dense and airheaded as he displays. During S10 reunion he shows a smidge of being insightful and aware of how bad things were.
Jo: can she freaking leave? She makes me think of that mean girls quote "she doesn't even go here!!"

Hello everyone I'm 13 weeks post-op. Currently I have been wearing a lace up ankle brace, this doesn't seem to lessen any of my pain that I have in fact it seems to cause more pain on my heel. My question is when did you know when it was time to remove the brace and walk without it? I don't want to do it too soon and cause further damage. I'm looking in to getting some more comfortable shoes to Aid with the heel pain. Apparently there is a Spur left in my heel that my surgeon did not remove " that's not the one we where focused on" his quote. In fact my MRI looked worse than when I began so I'm not very happy. But looking for answers about pain control, when did you remove the brace, and when did your limping stop?

Some background info relevant to the story. I go to a dental group and it’s basically a one stop shop, they have an orthodontist, general dentist and an oral surgeon. I unfortunately have to see all of them for dental work I’m having done this year (which when it’s all said and done will have cost me a cool $12K)
That being said, I’ve had nonstop issues with their office admins from basically the moment my braces were put on. It’s been one miscommunication after another between them and the doctors and then relaying wrong info to me or like the time they cancelled a piece of equipment they needed to add to my braces which has now set me back a few months on my work, but the icing on the cake happened this week and I just can’t seem to get over it.
I have to get a few teeth removed and there are multiple options that were presented to me regarding pain management during the procedure and depending on what I chose to do determined which doctor would be doing the procedure and of course how much it’s going to cost me.
I was very up front with them and said I didn’t have thousands of dollars to spend on this and needed to know the costs to been seen either way so I could choose what I wanted to do.. After asking for the quotes while I was in office they couldn’t provide them for me but said they’d email me… Fast forward an entire month and after I’d called their office twice to follow up and ask for the quotes I never got anywhere and my orthodontist was upset with me for not getting my teeth removed yet. I’d explained the situation to her and she went and told the front office staff to get me the quotes I needed and once again I still left the appointment not knowing how much it would cost, but they convinced me to schedule my next cleaning and by then they’d have to quotes for sure…
Welp that day came and they presented me with 1 option to see the general dentist and get 2 extractions done with only local anesthetics. The dentist, the dental assistants and the office admins all reassured me that it’d be relatively painless, very quick, and that people got these same teeth pulled like that all the time. I was hesitant and nervous bc said okay bc I literally had 5 people tell me it would be no problem.
Well it ended up being a HUGE problem. The first tooth they tried to pull out wouldn’t budge and the dentist ended up pulling on my tooth for an hour and a half and after it wouldn’t come out he decided he needed to surgically remove the tooth which took another hour and meanwhile the only thing they’ve given me is a single ibuprofen and numbed my mouth with shots.
I’ve been so traumatized after that experience and didn’t even get the second tooth removed that day. So now I’ve been referred to their oral surgeon for the second tooth, which mind you I asked and never received a quote to see him like I’d originally wanted.
Once again though I told them I needed a quote since I knew it’d be more expensive and wanted to be prepared for the cost. Three weeks passed with no quote and now we’re 24 hours from the appointment and I finally get an email from the office telling me it’ll be $887 to get my tooth removed… On a 24 hour notice. I was distraught to say the least. So I called the office to see what we could do to get the cost down since I’d just spent $600 on my last appointment that went totally sideways.
They office admin basically shut down every option I presented trying to get the cost down so I asked to speak with the dentist who did the initial extraction and he tried to dismiss my frustration with the office admins lack of communication which caused me to now spend a total of $1500 to get 2 teeth removed when I’d originally tried to get all of the pricing figured out before I started this process. I was never rude, didn’t raise my voice or anything, but I did become adamant that this whole issue had been his office staffs fault and it’d caused me pain, distress and a shit ton of money and something needed to happen for it to be amended. But no one seems to care or really listen to me and no one apologized for the situation that unfolded.
Now the office admin have called to confirm my appointment and they’re being very cold and standoff-ish towards me (honestly just being down right rude towards me) like seriously when I answered the call the first words out of one of their mouths was “so are you going to keep your appointment or not.” Now I’m sitting here riddled with anxiety about going back to their office and it’s lead me to wonder if I was the asshole for being frustrated with the way things were handled?
TDLR: office staff didn’t give me the quotes I needed after asking multiple times for them. I was finally presented with an option to get my teeth removed and it went totally south and caused me a ton of pain. Fast forward to me having to see someone else in their office to get the other tooth done (which id originally asked to get a quote from at the beginning of this process and never received) I finally get it and it’s almost double what I’d just paid. The office staff wasn’t helpful when I tried to see what I could do about getting the price down so I spoke with the main dentist and told him about their lack of communication which cost me $1500 and caused me to be in a shit ton of pain. Now the office staff is being cold and standoff-ish towards me and I’m wondering if I was wrong for calling them out?