Tired eyes, sore throat, runny nose

Hello everyone, I’ve never had allergies before and today I thivk is the first season they are effecting me. My nose is runny head is tight throat killing me. After work I took a nap was on my back and had a neck pillow, I woke up choking on what I thivk was post nasal drip? I shot up out of sleep coughing choking and heart racing. It scared me a little but wonder if this can be caused by allergies and laying on your back ?

I’m 50% sure I’m over analyzing, which I always do, but also this follows a larger pattern in my life so maybe I’m not. I’m going to let go of it by the end of the day (by force), but I just wanted to share and see if anyone relates.
My manager was helping me fix a work problem, and I pointed out a potential solution that sidesteps the problem altogether. Then they did that “ugh” sound you make when you’re exasperated, irritated, or grossed out. Sort of guttural, like clearing your throat but in an outwardly negative way. But they immediately followed up with a compliment on how I’m “so smart” (ugh) and continued talking as if the sound was meaningless.
It was a small moment. I pretended not to notice, but this is something I’ve picked up on all my life. People think I’m a smart ass. I’ve been called a smart ass by family members, and sometimes “friends”. I periodically see eyes roll when I start talking about something I think is interesting. But I’ve never intended to be a smart ass. At least, I don’t feel like that was my intent. I just try to find solutions, like anyone else. That’s especially true in this case because the problem we were working on was a problem I inadvertently created, and I felt particularly eager to get it solved for that reason.
These moments have been piling up lately, and I don’t really know what to do. It often feels like I’m being socially punished for “trying too hard” by other people’s standards. But from my perspective, if I have a good idea and don’t share it, then I’m not trying hard enough, right? Who wants to work with someone who deliberately withholds their ideas?
So it’s after hours now and I’ve been sitting in my room thinking that maybe, when I come up with a good solution for a problem, I should try leading other people to it instead of describing it directly. That way people don’t think of me as a know-it-all. I don’t care about receiving credit anyway, I hate compliments and I hate being in the spotlight. Then I realized how much extra effort that would be for me, and I thought of this sub for some reason.
Now that I’ve written this, given the context of the problem, I do think there’s a good chance I’m over analyzing. Maybe they were scoffing at the wonky system we have to deal with and not me in particular. Idk, it’s all very confusing. I’m so tired of feeling confused.
Thanks for reading

Hey everyone! I back again with some more funny shenanigans with our good pals Lerson and Silversmith. Thank you all for the great feedback for the last chapter, it really made my day. I'm excited to hear what you all think about this next one. Hope you all enjoy!
And again a special thanks to SpacePaladin15 for the NoP universe! __________
[First] [Next] __________
Memory Transcription Subject: Lerson, Undercover Farsul Date [standardized human time]: October 24, 2136
How did I get here? Just yesterday I was running for my life through the forest on this backwater planet and now I am sitting in the back of a vehicle with a predator, who thinks that I am some kind of hunting beast. Well… what do I do now?
The first part of my plan went off without a hitch. The simple minded predators had not realized I was not one of their slave beasts, so they released me from their holding pens. However, I am now trapped in a car right alongside my new predatory master.
Maybe I could try to take it down. It doesn’t seem particularly dexterous at least compared to the other predators I have seen. It is not looking at me now, so I would have the upper hand, but it is nearly twice my size. I will probably have to hold out for a little bit longer before I make my move.
I am suddenly pulled from my thoughts when the predator in the front seat begins to growl, “Car, can you bring me to the pet store, please?”
‘Pet Store,’ what is that? My translator says that it is a place for the sale of animals. Is it going to sell me already? Maybe I am just being sent to my new prison. My heart races as I watch the vehicle begin to slow down and come to a stop in front of the building. The elderly predator gets out of the vehicle and walks around to the door next to me. Oh no! This isn’t part of the plan. I thought I was finally out of that place, but now I am just about to get locked up again. The door opens.
“Okay bud, we’re gonna get you some things,” it said. Huh. I am not getting sold? The predator grabbed the end of the rope around my neck and beckoned me out of the vehicle. I chose to oblige and we slowly made our way towards the nearby building.
It was a small structure that looked like it was in disrepair. It makes sense that the predators would not upkeep their buildings all they care about is killing and eating. I was surprised to find that they even have buildings to begin with.
The old one pushed the door open, which produced a soft jingle as we walked in. First thing I noticed was the intense smell. It was almost overwhelming with how many different scents there were. Looking around the aisles of the shop were very narrow and the shelves were packed with different items. “Um, so the lady at the shelter suggested that I get food, bowls, a bed, and… I don’t really remember what else. That’s probably fine to begin with, we can always come back later.”
We walked down one of the narrow aisles, which had dozens of bags of ‘kibble.’ My translator says it is “ground meal shaped into pellets, especially for pet food.” That does not sound very appetizing. The predator stops and starts looking through the different options. I also start to look around. The bag nearest to me has an ingredients list. Luckily I opted for the built in visual translator. Scanning the ingredients it contains mostly different grains and other fillers, which is surprising from predator food, but it also lists ‘animal byproducts’ which sounds horrifying. I guess whatever the Terrans do not end up eating gets tossed to the lesser predators.
“Let’s get this one. It says it’s for ‘senior’ dogs. Ha! That’s something we’ve go in common”
Really?! Do I look that old to everyone? By the Tenants, maybe I need to dye my fur after I get out of this mess. We continued going around the store picking up items until we got to the counter near the front.
Speaking to the predator behind the counter my ‘master’ says, “Good afternoon Bobby. How’s everything going?”
The young predator behind the counter responds, “Not too great, Mr. Silversmith.”
“Oh. I spose that was a bad question to ask, sorry.”
“It's okay sir, there is just a lot going on. I’m glad that my parents and I are all fine, being out here in the country, but my brother works in the city and we still don’t know if he’s alright.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope for the best.”
“Thank you. Now what can I do for you?”
“Oh I’m just buying some supplies for old Buddy over here,” he gestures down to me.
The clerk looks over the counter towards me, “Uh… Mr. Silversmith…” The old predator cuts him off, “I know he aint the best lookin’, but can’t say much about myself either, so I don’t need to hear it.”
“Sure… Well… let me ring that all up for you then.”
Spekh! That one has to know, right? Perhaps these predators are not as dense as I thought and the one I got is just really stupid. Well at least that helps my plan, but I will still have to be careful around other Terrans.
The old one finishes paying and we head back down to the vehicle and it drives off. After about [~34 minutes] we reach what I think is the elderly predator's den.
It is at the end of a very long dirt roadway, tucked among the trees, that I see the structure. Just like the pet shop it is a small building made out of simple materials like wood and stone. I suppose the predators really are as primitive as I thought.
The vehicle comes to a halt next to the building and the old one steps out. After he opens my door, I step out of the vehicle as well. I follow him to the entrance of the den, which is a simple wooden door painted bright red. And if I remember correctly that is the color of blood on this planet. So savage!
Upon entering, the interior looks very similar to the outside with wood adorning the walls and floors. Though I was surprised how similar the layout was to the living quarters back at the guild. The room at the entrance looked to be some kind of lounging room with a small couch and rug in the center of the room facing a screen mounted on the opposite wall. To the left of the door was what I could only assume was a kitchen with storage cabinets covering the walls.
The elderly predator returned to the car to retrieve the items it purchased at the ‘pet shop,’ which makes this the best time to do some sleuthing. I made my way past the lounge room into the depths of the den. Past the entrance room was a hallway leading further back. It was adorned with photographs filled with predatory snarls. I did my best to ignore them and worked my way further down the hall.
Up ahead there was a door and upon opening it I found a room which, by the smell of it, must be a lavatory. That really reminded me that I had to go to the bathroom. My cell did not even have a waste pit. I made my way quickly into the room and relieved myself with haste. Once I finished I thought about flushing the ‘evidence,’ but that’s when I heard the front door open again, so I was forced to hurry out of the room.
“Hey Bud! Where did you go?” it growled from the other room. I made my way back to the entrance as quickly as I could manage on all fours. “There you are. So do you like the place?” the predator asked. I did not respond and just looked towards it. “Ha ha, great!” it growled. I did not say anything?
“So I got your food and water bowls over here. Let me go fill them up. You’ve gotta be hungry.”
It walked over to the kitchen with the bowls in hand and filled one with water from the sink. The other bowl, the predator filled with the ‘kibble’ from earlier. Then it placed them both on the floor. It looks like the food situation might not be any better than my previous arrangement at the holding pen.
“Well, I spose I should eat dinner as well.”
It opened the large metal cabinet and began looking through it. I snuck a little closer to get a better look. When I approached I could feel the chill coming off of it, so I could assume that it was some kind of refrigerators unit. Must not be that primitive I suppose. After a bit of scrounging around the refrigerator, the elderly one pulled out a clear plastic container. It was green on the inside. Is it really going to eat rotten flesh!? I guess that is expected of a predator.
As it opened the container I braced my nose for the putrid smell of rotten flesh, but it never came. I watched as the predator poured out leafy greens into a bowl. Huh, a predator is eating plants?
Wait, I do remember that during the Terran’s deceptive talk at Aafa, they had said they were [all-eaters]. I guess that must be true. Watching it eat the greens is making me even hungrier than I was before.
I watched as the elderly predator finished its salad. It brought the bowl and utensils to the sink to begin washing them. I waited in the corner of the kitchen for him to finish and leave. My stomach was killing me and I could only think of the amazing taste of a crisp salad. Finally the predator finished his task and turned away from the sink. It looked towards me and then at the bowls on the floor. “Aren’t you hungry boy? You haven’t touched your food at all… I hope you’re alright. Maybe I need to take you to the vet tomorrow?”
Vet? My translator says that that means ‘animal doctor.’ Even though the average human is pretty oblivious, a doctor will be sure to realize that I’m not really a ‘dog.’ I can not let this Terran take me there. I know what I have to do, but I do not like it. I steel myself as I walk over to the bowl and stare down at its contents. Am I really going to do this? You have to! So, I lower my head and bite down on a mouthful of ‘kibble.’
It… is not that bad? I honestly expected worse.
I suppress the thoughts of the ‘animal byproducts’ in it and swallow. Immediately I wash out my mouth with the water in the second bowl. Then I turn to look at the human who is now snarling at me. I freeze. Did I do something wrong? Did it figure me out?!
“There you go. Ha ha. I was worried for a second there.”
What? Is it happy that I ate? Then why is it snarling at me? Maybe maybe that means that it is happy? These predators are so weird. At least it seems like I have avoided detection once again. Nailed it!
The old predator, having been satisfied, let out a yawn revealing all its sharp teeth… well… most of them were surprisingly quite dull. “Okay bud it's getting late, so I think it's time for me to turn in, but let me get you your bed first,” it said. Reaching into the biggest bag from the pet shop the elderly predator pulled out a round fluffy bowl. It looks similar to beds I saw when working on the Iftali and Sulean homeworld, though this one is a lot smaller. It placed the bed down in the living room next to the couch.
It paused, “Oh wait. I should probably take you outside before turning in for the night. Don’t want a mess in the morning, come on.”
I follow the predator as instructed, wondering what it wants me to do now. It leads me out a side door into a grassy area. “Okay… do your business,” it said.
What? Does it want me to do something? I just look around seeing if there's anything to give me any clues.
“I guess that didn’t work. Go potty.”
What?! Is it commanding me to defecate?! Outside! I guess he does think I am an animal. But there is no way I am doing that especially with it watching me. Why is it watching? Is it some kind of pervert? Grr, Screw the plan!
“Okay… uh… I guess come back in when you’re done,” it says as it turns to walk back to the house.
Thank the Tenants! I wait [a few minutes] and then slip back into the predator’s den. On my return it spots me, “Oh good you’re back!”
It walked over to the side door and locked it. Then the predator shuffled to wall switches and turned off most of the lights. Thankfully it left a singular lamp turned on. It is already bad enough that I am stuck in a predator's den, but being in the dark with a predator would be too much even for me.
“Okay goodnight bud, see you in the morning,” said the old one. Then right as it entered the hall it stopped and looked down at a nearby table, “Good night Ella. Good night Ben. Good night Martha.” Then it walked out of sight.
Who was he talking to? Are there other predators here? I don’t smell anyone else and I think I would have heard them earlier. Spekh! Did I get a crazy one?
Okay craziness aside, I need to eat some real food. I finally stood upright. Ah my back! It was already getting bad enough when I was back home. Hopefully I can get used to this because walking on all fours is killing me right now.
I walk over to the refrigeration unit and slowly open the doors trying to stay quiet. Looking around the inside I am surprised to find so many vegetables. However, I did spot a slab of flesh towards the back, which I did my best to ignore.
Now, I can not just eat anything, it might notice if food is missing. Scrounging around for a [minute] my eyes eventually find a plant in one of the lower drawers. It looks like a big bundle of large leaves. I take it out and pry off one of the ones on the outside. It comes off relatively easily with a crunch. Hopefully this is edible. I bring the leaf to my mouth and bite down. It makes a very satisfying crunch as a do. There really is no distinct taste, but I am so hungry that I don’t even care if it is bland.
I scarfed down the rest of the leaf quickly and then grabbed another and then another. Before I knew it, the bundle was only a third of the original size. So much for being sneaky. Finally satisfied, I returned what remained of the bundle to its proper place and closed the refrigerator doors.
After finishing my raid on the refrigerators, I thought about what the old predator had said earlier. I walked over to the table near the entrance to the hallway. There must be something interesting here. However, there was nothing but a handful of photographs. Looking at them in the dim light I was able to make out the wide snarls that adorned the faces in the photo. I guess It makes more sense now since the snarl is a ‘happy’ expression. It is still very strange to me.
The photo closest to the front had the old predator standing next to a much younger predator, which appeared to be wearing Terran military pelts. Strangely, the young one has very bright orange hair on the top of its head.
Next to that one there was a similar photo, but the old predator looked slightly younger. The other Terran in the photo looked similar to the first. They did share the same bright orange hair, but the enlarged mammaries indicated that this one was a female.
I then spotted another picture including the same female, but this time she was next to a different predator and she was holding a Terran pup, which had the same orange hair. Perhaps the female was the mother of the other one. Most of the other photos appeared to be different combinations of the same four predators: the old one, his offspring, his offspring’s mate, and then their pup.
I moved over to the other side to see if I could find anything more useful. There was a photo that stood out to me. It pictured the old one, but he looked significantly younger even more than the other photos. Standing next to him was a female, which had the same orange hair as the others. Who was this? I had not seen it in any of the other pictures.
I searched around to see if I could find any more with this female in it. Towards the back I saw two pictures next to each other. The one on the left had the female again with the old predator. Laying in a bed she was cradling a newborn pup in her arms. However, the photo on the right was the old one with the pup in its arms. The pup appeared to be a year or two older in this one, but where was the mother? Looking at the older predator I saw the look in his eyes. I know that look. Cerci…
No! They are predators! They are not like us! You know they can not think like us! It's not the same!
Grr, you are tired… just… just go rest. I walk over to the bed. I curl up and try to let sleep take me. __________
[First] [Next] __________
So much for being comedic and lighthearted. I promise that the rest of it won't be so depressing, but I wanted to add a little more substance to some of the characters. Thanks again for reading! Feel free to leave any feedback or suggestions, I really appreciate it.

Air, shelter, water, and food, all essentials of life we take for granted. The gratitude of being alive,
smothered by emotional baggage. Just a bunch of pill induced zombies, riddled by life’s perplexities. Not
me, not any more at least. No, now I wake up every day reborn with a newly discovered purpose in life,
thanks to, him.
Most would be emotionally devastated and seek long term therapy, after what I had endured.
Most would need to be heavily medicated, to calm their anxiety of the fear he would return. No, not me,
the person I once was, is now dead. Suffocated, frozen, dehydrated, and starved out of me. Who I was
perished, and I am grateful. I am offering you the same, but before we get started, let me explain how I
arrived at this place of serenity.
The night was the same as always. I had just finished gorging myself on junk food while binge
watching a reality show. Empty bottles of soda surrounded me as I surfed the streaming networks.
Knowing my weight was getting out of control, I still managed to finish off the bag of greasy potato
chips. My bottles of meds sat on the end table waiting for me. Depression, anxiety, stomach, and heart
pills all courtesy of the negligence of my life choices. One by one I swallowed the antidotes of a better
me. Yet, there never seemed to be a stronger version of myself, no matter how many pills I ingested.
Falling asleep, I told myself tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow I will try harder. As I drifted
off to sleep, I felt a sting in my neck, only waking up for a few seconds. My eyes opened just enough to
see him standing over me. Fighting to stay awake, my eyes latched closed, and I fell into the darkness.
Upon awaking, I could hear sounds of mumbles surrounding me. Feeling heavy and disoriented, I
managed to flicker my eyelids. As the minutes passed, my surroundings became more lucid. The foul
stench of pig shit singed my nose hairs. Dust from old haybales stimulated my sense of smell, inducing a
sneeze. An unimaginable pain coursed through my mouth. Still dazed and confused, I heard a voice say,
"we can't have that, now, can we?". Once again, I felt a sting in my neck, causing me to drift out of
reality.
"Wake up", I heard as I came to, "we need to get started". Started with what, I tried to ask. Yet,
my mouth wouldn't open. Tranquilized still, I thought maybe my brain just wasn't cooperating with my
body. Flexing my jaw, I tried again to speak, it was useless. All I could do was mumble. My words were
nothing more than muffled grunts behind a padded wall.
Looking around, I could see I was not alone. Vision blurry, I still managed to make out a large
silhouette of a man sitting in front of me holding a cutting needle and thread. He then placed the needle
on a barrel and stood up. Whistling, "The Sun will come out tomorrow", I began to look around. There were other people with us. Including myself, all tied to chairs and mouths sewn shut. Three of us were men. The fourth was a woman in her
mid-forties. She was crying and moaning uncontrollably. Mucus ran down her face dripping from her
chin. Trying to console her, I batted my eyes. It was all I could do without having the use of my mouth
and arms.
The injection he had no doughtily given me, had worn off. Like the woman, I found myself in panic
mode. My heart raced fast. I thought I would have a heart attack. Wanting to scream, I
couldn't. Wanting to run but I was incapacitated. Fighting my way out, entered my mind, but how? How,
with my hands bound behind my back. Besides, I wasn't a fighter, and the man was massive. He would
be very intimidating under any circumstance. His raggedy hair was sandy blonde with a mixture of gray.
Deep wrinkles hid behind a handlebar mustache, which stretched across his face. Thick eyebrows sat
untamed above his devilish eyes. Watching him, I tried not to make eye contact. I looked everywhere,
other than at him. The other two men looked as frightened as me. One man, the bigger one, had tears
but made no sounds. The other man was a very frail older man. He shifted side to side as he tried yelling
from behind his fastened lips. His arms bared scars of that of a junkie. His body, covered in scabs.
Cautiously, I looked around. A rusty old plow sat in the corner next to some feed sacks. A saddle
lay across an old broken table. Two horses stood quietly behind their stall door. I could see rays of light
shine through the cracks between the boards. It was daylight, knowing that gave me comfort somehow.
The barn was dusty, and as painful as it would be, I hoped I would sneeze again. At least then I could
scream. Abruptly the man stopped whistling and spoke.
Your mouths are bound together so that I cannot hear you. People talk too much, making the
world noisy. All loud with pathetic excuses of their weaknesses. I am not going to kill you. Your life is in
your own hands. Up to this point, you have wasted your life hiding behind your addictions. Cowering
and leaning on crutches of life’s temptations. I am here to save you from yourselves.
The rule of three is simple. You can survive three minutes without air, three hours without
shelter, three days without water, and three weeks without food. If you truly desire to live, then you will
triumph. If not, you will perish. I am here to help you unpack your emotional baggage. Air, the very
breath you breathe, you have taken for granted. So, please slow your breathing and relax. We are about
to begin.
While you were sleeping, I provided you with adequate fluids and nutrition. I cannot have you
starting off, on an empty tank. I want to be as fair as possible and make this a pleasant experience.
Though, I warn you it will not be easy, and you will have to dig deep within yourselves.
The burly man began whistling once again. He placed an egg timer on a barrel, grabbed a plastic
bag and spoke. You can survive three minutes with no air. Do you have the desire and strength to want
to live? For you, I truly hope so.
Standing behind the heavier man he turned the timer and then placed the plastic bag over his
head. The man jerked in his chair, thrashing about. One minute, he said. The man still moving wildly.
Two minutes, almost there just hold on. Three minutes he announced, ripping the bag from the head of
the now motionless man. “Oh dear, I guess he did not have what it takes, next”. My heart raced even
faster as he stood next to the now inconsolable woman. I would be after her. I had to slow my breathing
if I were to live. Picking up another bag, he stood behind her.
The air went in and out her nose as she hyperventilated. “There, there, I’m not going to hurt you”,
he said, as he patted her on the shoulders. “Three minutes is a miniature amount of time. I wish you the
very best.” Her legs kicked out lunging back and forth. Her muffled shrieks filled the barn. “Are you
ready?” He then reset the timer. Fearing for my own life, I turned my head and concentrated on my
breathing. Trying hard to block her out, I went to another place in my head. As hard as it was, I imagined
I was calm and at peace lying on a sandy shore. Desperately, I wanted to cover my ears. Her loud cries
soon became small whimpers. Then to gurgles as she choked on her own vomit. Turning my head back
towards her, I could see her convulsing as life left her body. “Not quite a minute, what a shame”, he
said.
Thinking back to when I was a child, and held my breath under water, outlasting my brother.
Back then, holding my breath was easy for me and I always won. Being in my mid-thirties, I wasn’t a
child any longer. Could I beat this, I questioned. Unlike the woman next to me, who reeked of tobacco, I
didn’t smoke. My chances were greater than those who came before me.
Excepting the inevitable, I practiced my anxiety exercises my therapist had taught me. Four, four,
four, inhale hold, exhale hold. If I panic, I will surely suffocate, I told myself. The other man was calmer
now and followed my lead. Our eyes locked on to one another as we breathed. “Very good, that is what
I want to see, a thirst for life, the will to live.”
Picking up a bag, he then stood behind me. I took a deep breath as he turned the timer. I felt the
panic trying to set in, but I pushed it deep down. Oddly enough, the tune he’d been whistling popped
into my head. “The sun will come out tomorrow”, played as the bag was put over my head. “So, you got
to hang on ‘til tomorrow.” Not wanting to see the blurred images through the bag, I closed my eyes. I
just kept humming the tune in my head. “One minute”, he said. Getting more difficult to hold my breath,
I could feel my heart beating faster and my blood pressure rising. The tune still reeling in my head,
“tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you tomorrow”. “Two minutes”. I can do this, I’m almost there, but my
mind was getting foggy, and my chest tightened. My muscles tensed up as I felt my existence dwindle
away. The tune that kept me going had faded away somewhere deep into my brain. Hungry for air, I
started scratching my hands behind my back. I was going to die. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I managed to
think one last time. “Three Minutes”!
Air rushed through my nose, as I clung to the remaining life I had. It was the greatest feeling just
being able to breathe. I’d made it, I had beat him, I was alive. “Congratulations, you did well”. “Breath
and continue to appreciate the gift, I have given you”.
Tears rushed down my cheeks, as I sat watching the man set the stage for the last occupant. As
sympathetic as I was, I was overwhelmed too just be alive. Still fighting my anxiety, I closed my eyes,
four, four, four. Sounds of distress and faint scuffling could be heard, yet I refused to open my eyes.
Three minutes passed quickly. “We have another fighter, outstanding.” Opening my eyes, I seen that the
other man had also survived. “Two out of three, I wished it faired better.” “It is a pity they perished, yet
the pigs will eat well.” “Nothing should ever go to waste”. “Their carcasses are a valuable resource.” I
am thankful for their contribution.”
“I will let you rest up.” The next gift, is that of shelter.” “People of the world scratch and claw to
have bigger dwellings of that of their neighbor.” Never being thankful of the shelters warmth when it is
cold.” “Not a second thought about the materials taken from the earth to provide that comfort.” “I will
teach you to not care about the size or the looks. You won’t care if it’s a barn or a house made of sticks.
You’ll learn to be content as it shelters you from the storm.
Not understanding what was coming next, I tried thinking of ways to escape. Wringing my hands
together, I tried loosening the rope. He had his back turned removing the bodies from the chairs. Yet
somehow he still managed to catch on to what I was doing. “That’s a double sheet bend knot.” Try as
you might, you will not loosen or untie it.” “Yet I commend you on your perseverance.” “If you escape,
you will not learn the valuable lesson I am trying to teach you.” “Sit and be patient, like I told you
before, I’m not going to kill you.”
He was right. The more I tried twisting my wrists, the tighter the rope became making them bleed
and burn. “Why was he doing this and why me”, I wanted to ask. The inside of my mouth was so dry,
and I was thirsty. All I could think about was water to wash out the metallic taste left from the wounds
of my lips. Making eye contact with the other man, I wondered if he was as thirsty as I. “The storm will
be here soon, and we can continue.”, he said as he removed a hacksaw hanging from the barn wall.
We watched as the man carried on as if he’d done this before. He laid the saw across a table.
Sweat dripped from my head as I panicked. What was he going to do to us? I thought. Do not worry, this
saw is not for you, he said as he placed the woman’s body on the table. He then began to dismember
her legs. He continued to hack through the bodies throughout the day. He would casually take breaks
between the removal of the body parts. After he was done, he used a rusty old wheel barrel to take the
parts out of the barn. He kept his word. I could hear the pigs happily squealing as he fed them.
The light that had previously comforted me dwindled away as darkness approached. As frightened
as I felt, all I could think about was water. “It is time”, he said as he wiped sweat from his brow. “I will
untie your arms so you can move freely. I encourage you to move as much as possible to keep the blood
circulating. Frostbite and hypothermia are inevitable if you let yourself settle. You can wear the clothes
you have on, but nothing more.
The barn was heated with an old wood stove. Our captor had fed it wood throughout the day. Yet
the wind from the storm outside seeped through the cracks. A chill came over me, fearing what was
next. The four technique no longer working. He then placed a makeshift collar around our necks.
Connected to the collar was a chain. After untying the ropes from behind our backs he told us to stand.
Fearing what he would do, I did what he told me.
He then unlatched the wooden brace holding the barn doors shut, unveiling winter’s wrath.
Weather in Michigan was unpredictable and harsh at times. That night was no different. The wind
bustled through the doors as we all stood staring into the night. Snow was falling rapidly and had quickly
begun accumulating. “Tonight’s storm is only a mild one but will last a few hours.” “Having your mouths
bound is a positive.” “It will protect your lungs.” Your heart rate will lower the less you move so keep
moving to boost your circulation.” “You will have to endure three hours in the weather.” “This trial is
brutal, I know but if your life is precious then you will improvise, adapt, and overcome.
He then led us by the chains out of the barn and into a wooden pen. It didn’t have a roof but was
too tall to climb over. “I know you must be thirsty, but if you try and eat the snow you will only amplify
dehydration and hypothermia.” He then removed the collars and locked the door. As he walked away in
his rabbit fur coat, he turned and once again said, “Do you have the desire to live, for you I truly hope
so.”
Frantically I surveyed the pen looking for a way out. The enclosure was made of old pallets, thin
boards, and cattle fence. It was sturdy enough to keep us in but not the wind out. It must have been
about twelve feet wide by twenty-four feet long. Rubbing my hands along the gaps, I felt something
warm run down my fingers. I had sliced my hand along the inside of one of the pallets. He had secured
razor blades and sharp nails from the inside to keep us from climbing out. Even if we were able to make
it to the top, we wouldn’t be able to climb over the razor wire that spiraled along the perimeter.
More frantic than I, the other man ran back and forth. He was shaking and sweating profusely. How
could he be sweating in this weather, I thought. On the other hand, I had begun to shiver. My feet had
already begun to tingle. Wearing only gym shorts, socks, and a t-shirt, I knew I must keep moving. The
other man was more fortunate than I. He was wearing pajama bottoms, socks and a hoodie. At least he
had a layer to break the wind.
The snow was dry and easy to move. Thinking maybe we could get out from the bottom. I began
moving the snow with my hands. As I moved it, I motioned for the other man to help. My attempts to
get his attention went unnoticed. He had found a nail long enough to cut through the stiches in his
mouth. Watching him, I debated on doing it myself. Though I thought of the burly man and his hacksaw.
Deciding it was best to keep my lips bound, I watched him saw through his. He yelled in agony as blood
dripped from his lips. Be quiet, I wanted to tell him, he’ll hear you.
When the last stitch broke the man dropped to his knees gasping and crying. He then stood up,
removed himself from his pants, and began urinating in the snow. “I’m Evan”, he said shivering and still
covering the white snow yellow. His urine smelled foul as the wind carried the smell. Not being able to
talk, I used a stick to spell out my name. Letter by letter, I spelled it out, Liam. He didn’t acknowledge
what I had written. He didn’t seem to care about what my name was.
Bending over he began to eat the yellow snow. Then pulling up his sleeves, he did something that
made my stomach churn. He picked off the scabs from his arms and started sucking on them. I now
understood he was detoxing and was trying to get a fix from the meth that had exited his body. I had a
cousin in jail once, who had described this same behavior from the inside. After doing this for a few
minutes he then spoke. Stuttering out his words, “I know it’s disgusting, but it is what it is.” “Now how
we gonna get out of this here, Liam. No matter what he was or what he spoke, it was comforting to hear
him speak to me.
Not knowing how to get out I just started moving. Shaking my head and still shivering, I began to
do jumping jacks. There wasn’t a way out and I was so cold. Knowing that I had to keep moving I
continued. I knew that if I didn’t move, my heart would slow and eventually stop. “You gonna listen to
that Behemoth or ya gonna try and help me find a way out?” Stopping, I once again tried looking from
the bottom. He looked for a way to climb over. Neither of us found a way to escape. Both of us,
shivering we stopped looking.
As we huddled together in the corner, a voice came from a speaker. “One hour has passed, two
hours remain.” Your lust for drugs trumps your lust to live.” “It will be your demise.” He’d seen, he’s
watching us, I thought. Not wanting to die, I began running in circles. The pain was excruciating. Every
step I took was like stepping on needles. My nose felt like it would break off.
“It’s no use, we’re gonna die, Evan said as he plopped on the ground. Using my arms, I motioned
for him to get up, but he refused. He sat in the corner with his teeth chattering and shoulders shaking.
While Evan sat, I continued. Running from one end to the other, tears freezing as they plummeted from
my eyes. As I ran, I tripped over something that caught my attention. It was a stack of a few boards
hidden under the snow. Uncovering them I counted them out in my head. There were several I dug out. I
crafted a fort in my head. We could use the wood for a shelter. Once again, I motioned for Evan to help.
Evan didn’t speak or move. “Two hours”, I heard as a voice projected from a hidden box.
Quickly I stumbled to Evan, shaking him. Tears ran down my cheeks as I faced the truth. I was
alone. Evan’s inability to try had snuffed out his life. He was dead. Time seemed to stand still in that
moment. Looking at his lifeless body, I realized he wasn’t a frail old man. He in fact was my age. The
drugs just made him look old. My sadness for him abandoned me to be replaced with anger. He should
have tried harder. I was now alone. He had left me alone.
Feeling numb and secluded, I wanted to give up. There wasn’t much fight left in me, yet
something in me snapped. I didn’t want to die. Ripping my wet clothes off, I threw them to the ground.
Trying to keep my temperature above freezing, I jumped and staggered in the snow. Laying Evan’s body
flat on the ground, I thought I would use it as a warm layer between me and the ground. One board at a
time, leaned them over Evan’s body and up against the pen, making an ominous clubhouse. Shivering
and naked, I crawled inside and laid on Evan’s lifeless body.
No longer having the strength to move, I lay crying. In the last hour I replayed my life. If only I had
another chance to do it all over again. If only I thought as my eyes closed. The door then opened, “Three
hours”. “Stand up.”, he said as he wrapped a fur coat around my frigid body. ”Come on, you have passed
but you are not out of the woods yet.” Replacing the collar around my neck he then led me back into the
barn.
“I have prepared a warm bath for you.” He then helped me lift my legs over a galvanized water
trough. “There, there”, he said, “Just sit and let the bath warm your blood. The pain of prickly needles
washed over my body as the numbness dwindled. Fading in and out, I watched him carefully remove a
stockpot from the stove. He poured the water from the pot over my head. “Just relax, you should be
proud of yourself.” “You have outlasted all who came before you.” “You’re a fighter and you value your
life. I watched as he warmed pot after pot, continuously pouring them over me.
“I will have to give you warm fluids intravenously.” “Try to stand”, he said as he lifted me up and
out of the trough. He then dried my body with a towel. After he dressed me in dry clothing, he led me to
a makeshift bedroom converted from a stall.
As he assisted me into the bed, I noticed a tray with medical instruments on it. What were they
for I wondered, but to tired to care anymore. He then placed the I.V. needle in my arm and covered me
up. “Rest up and sleep while I deal with the frostbite.” Before I was able to think about what he had just
said, I went out.
Waking up, I was no longer cold. The shivering and pain from the night before gone yet replaced
with new discomfort. My hands, feet, face, and head all pulsing. Slowly, I removed the blanket with my
bandaged hands to see my feet. Both were wrapped in bandages. Looking over my entire body, I
reached for my face. It was also bandaged. I could feel that my ears and nose were missing. “I know this
must be shocking to you, but it had to be.” “You had deep frostbite in your fingers, toes, ears and nose.
They had to be amputated. “I have sealed off the wounds and have given you antibiotics to fight off
infection.” “Be grateful your alive.”
“You are very ambitious, and I want to reward you for your success. “If you can continue to
cooperate, I will remove the stitches from your lips. “Don’t speak unless I ask you to.” “Can you give me
word that you can stay quiet?” I nodded in agreement.
As promised, he removed the sutures from my lips. Handing me a tin cup of water, he told me to
drink. Words can’t express how refreshing the first sip was. Not being able to control myself, I gulped
down the entire cup. Handing the cup back to him I managed to mumble, “more?” Violently, he struck
me in the face and stood up. “More, more more”, he yelled as he paced the floor. “Always wanting
more!” “You should have savored every last drop rather than gulping it down like a pig at a trough.”
“You have reached your third trial.” “Water is the source of all life and you will learn to appreciate it. Do
you have the desire to live?” “For you, I truly hope so.”
Locking the door behind him, he left the room. Feeling relief from his absence, I took a deep
breath. Concentrating on the air that went in and out my lungs, I was thankful to be alive. It had been a
couple of days since I was able to breathe through my mouth. I felt happiness and gratitude to just be
able to breathe. The blanket and bed kept me warm from the cold that seeped through the barn walls.
Feling relieved, I felt safe for that minute. I pulled the blanket up under my chin and just lived in the
moment. Looking for ways to escape no longer crossed my mind. Still fearful of the man, yet I felt a
strange feeling of gratitude toward him.
Mixed emotions danced around inside of me as I lay. Thinking of the others that were with me, I
pitied them. Had they truly wanted to survive, they would be alive. Had they fought harder, they would
have won against his trials. My sympathy for them abandoned my thoughts, replaced with
disappointment. Questioning my mental state, I laid wondering if I’d gone mad. How could I sympathize
with a man who had essentially tortured me. How could I be thankful to a killer, I wondered. As
comfortable as I was, I was thirsty. Three days was a long time to go without water. Knowing this, I
closed my eyes to try to sleep through it.
A familiar tune whistled through the cracks of the wall. My eyes blurry from crust, I wiped it away
with my bandaged hand. Curious, I tried peeking through a hole in a board. Seeing the two horses in the
next stall brought back anxiety from the first trial. Sounds of mumbling could be heard. Listening
intensely, I realized he had more victims. Wanting to scream out to them to calm their breathing, I said
nothing. Fearful he would kill me if I spoke. Though I didn’t have to. He was telling them to be calm and
they would live. If only they would listen, they could live. One after another perished throughout the
ordeal. Once again mixed emotions of sympathy and anger fought within me. I slammed my hand
against the stall boards. Why am I angry at them, I questioned myself. Hearing the distinct sound of the
hacksaw cutting through the bodies, I became sick. I crawled back in the bed and covered my head.
“Wake up, you have rested enough.” Leading me into the room where the bodies were, he
motioned for me to pick the parts up. “I will cut the meat and you will load it up.” “Do you
understand?”, he asked. I nodded yes and began putting the severed limbs in the wheelbarrow.
“Take it out back to the pigs.” “I trust you won’t try to run.” You will not get very far in your
condition and the weather” He was right, still bandaged and weak I knew I would freeze. Reluctantly I
put a arm, leg, and head in the wheelbarrow.
Once again, the cold made me shiver as I treaded through the snow. The night was calm. The
moon shined down on the solar panels that lined the buildings. I was on some sort of homestead.
Nearing the structure that housed the pigs, I cringed at the thought of feeding them. The squealing led
me to the hog house. Opening the door and entering, I gasped in horror. Piles of bones lay everywhere
within the house. The pigs squealed in delight as I tossed the body parts to them. The smell was pungent
and took my breath away. Not being able to hold back, I vomited the only liquids I had in me. After
unloading my delivery, I left to retrieve another load. Feet still bandaged, and I was cold, the thought of
running left my mind. Yearning for the warm bed, I trudged my way back to the barn. This went on
throughout the night.
“Almost done, this is the last of it.”, he said as he cut through a torso of a woman. “You have done
well, and I am proud of you.” “I know your cold and must be thirsty.” Yet, you still have forty-eight hours
left until you can replenish your thirst. “Keep motivated and you will triumph over your it” After the last
load was completed, he led me to the bed and rebandaged my wounds. Curiously looking down at my
severed toes, I seen I was missing five of them. The same as he bandaged my hands. I was four less
fingers. Two were gone from each hand.
My stomach grumbled as I tossed and turned. All I could think about was water and food. I
eventually passed out from the nights work. Waking up, I felt disoriented and weak. The hunger for food
and water still consuming my thoughts. “Twenty-Four hours left”, his voice said from outside the stall.
“Get up, I have more work for you.” “You have to earn your keep.”
The man then entered the room and placed the collar around my neck. “Here is a coat to keep
you warm, he said as he placed it on my back. Then he handed me some rubber boots. “These should
help keep your feet dry while you dig.” Wanting to ask, dig what, I didn’t dare from the fear of being
struck again. The task will be difficult but not impossible. Handing me a shovel, he led me to the spot he
wanted dug.
“The weather has let up and the temperature has risen. I can not trust that you might try to run.
He then locked the chain to a stake in the ground. “The hog house needs cleaned of the bones.” “Dig me
a hole big enough to bury the remains of the less fortunate.” “I will return in twenty-four hours.” You
have fared well so far, keep up the good work and you will be rewarded.” He then turned and walked
away.
The sun was just beginning to rise, and it felt warn against me face. The black sky turned to a
canvas of pastels. The view was stunning under any condition. After admiring the horizon, I started my
grueling work. Trying to dig with missing toes was difficult and excruciating. Placing the shovel into the
frozen ground, I bared down with all my weight. Breaking the ground seemed unfeasible, but I managed.
Letting out agonizing cries, I repeated the movements until I finally moved dirt.
Scanning around, my head was on a swivel looking for cameras. The thought of trying to escape
weighing heavily. Using my bandaged hands, I felt for any gaps in my collar. It was tight around my neck.
I Then looked for any weak links in the chain but found none. The steak the chain was hooked to must
have been buried ten feet, I thought as I gave it a tug. Giving up on any escape attempts, I continued to
dig.
The hunger and dehydration had started to take effect. My head pounded like a hammer on a
nail. I became nauseous. Fearing I might throw up, I sit and rested on the ground. Looking down at the
homestead, I wondered who the man was. Nearly falling asleep, I pushed myself up off the ground.
Visions of water surrounding me engulfed my every thought. God, I was thirsty.
After I finished digging the hole I fell to my knees in exhaustion. Worrying that if I fell asleep, I
would die of dehydration. Standing up, I desperately tried staying awake. The chain weighed down my
neck making it hard to stand. Using the shovel as a brace, I wedged it into the ground and balanced the
chain over top of the shovel. It lifted the weight off me, allowing me to stand easier. Standing and
swaying, I watched as day turned to night and night back to day. “Congratulations”, the man said as he
walked up the hill toward me.
“II knew you would conquer the test.” “You will soon be rewarded for your victory.” Leading me
back to the barn, I stumbled and fell. The man picked me up and helped me to my feet. As He laid me in
the bed, oddly enough I wanted to thank him. “Before I tend to your bandages, I am going to start an I.V.
to restore your electrolytes. He then handed me a cup of water. “Drink”, he said. Wanting badly to gulp
it down, I refrained and sipped slowly. The water was refreshing as it moistened my mouth. Water
wasn’t something I normally craved but, in that moment, it was all a I wanted. Living mostly on energy
drinks and sodas, I rarely drank it.
As I sipped, I thought about my body and how I had neglected it. Peculiar enough, the man was
giving me all I ever needed. He had somehow managed to push my stronger version to the surface.
“Good news”, he said as he wrapped the final bandage around my foot. “You have made it to the last
trial.” “But before we discuss that, I want to reward you on your accomplishments.” “I’m sure you have
questions, and I will allow you to ask them.” A little conversation will do us both some good.” I must say
I am as curious about you as you are of me.” He said as he poured me another cup of water. “But not
until you have rested.” “I look forward to it, I will see you this afternoon.” Locking the door behind him,
exhausted, I fell asleep.
Hunger pains interrupted my slumber. Turning about in the bed, images of food ravaged my
thoughts. Trying hard, I managed to push the vivid images of cheeseburgers out of my mind. Replacing
them with the image of the man conversing with me. What would I ask him, I pondered. Would I set him
off again and be fed to the pigs. One would think that I wouldn’t want to talk to him after he had cut off
my nose, yet strangely enough I did. I was curious about him.
My tossing about abruptly interrupted as I heard the man enter the room. “Well now, how do you
feel this afternoon?” He asked, as he pulled a old wooden chair next the bed and sat down. To scared to
speak I laid quietly. “It Is o.k., he said cheerfully as he patted my leg. “You may speak”. “Better but
hungry”, I managed to mumble. “Yes, I know you are hungry, but you have entered your final trial.” You
must endure three weeks with no food.” You have been here a week.” “Two weeks remain.”
“People of the world are gluttons. Indulging in prepackaged garbage to feed the body. Never
having to hunt or forge for it. If you make it the three weeks, you will have learned to appreciate what
you put in your mouth. You will think about what it is for, rather than just stuffing your face. Do you still
have the desire to live, for you I truly hope so.
“What is your name?”
“Liam, my names, Liam”
“Well, Liam, my names Doc” “It is finally nice to meet your true self.” I’ve been waiting along time for
this.” “You are now worthy to speak to.” “You have shed your old, infected skin and are growing new
skin.” “I have helped you thus far to create a better, you.” “You may speak freely”.
“Why are you doing this”?
“To save you.” “To rid you of the worlds temptations” “I am extracting all you have digested and
replacing it with the will to survive.”
“Who are you”, I fearfully asked.
“I am a doctor who the world cast out due to what they call negligence.” “I only pushed my patients to
better themselves and refused to subscribe fake antidotes”. “I didn’t hand them a crutch when they
could walk on their own.”” I left the city and moved off grid”. “Here I am free to practice as I see fit”.
“My patients now, are those that want to better themselves but just need a little push.” “Yet, none have
come as far as you, Liam.” “What is it, you desire, Liam?”
“A life of fulfillment”, I said.
“Are you not now, achieving that goal, Liam?”
Before I could answer, he told me, “Enough talk for the day”, we have work to do. “Don’t speak
unless I ask you to”. Unhooking my I.V., he then furnished me with warm clothes and boots again. “Grab
the wheelbarrow”, he said as we excited the barn. He then led me to the hog house. “I want you to pick
up the bones and put them in the hole you dug. Feeling weak, I pushed through the chore. The sight of
the mutilated parts wasn’t as repulsive to me as before. Yet, I did wonder who they were and where
they had come from. The day sped by quickly.
That night, I laid in the bed thinking of the man. Could he be right with what he was doing. I did
feel a new feeling of accomplishment. Had I truly shed my old self. Had he had given me what every
doctor before him had failed at. Questioning my own thoughts, I drifted off to sleep.
As the days went by, I would often help him rid the world of the weak. Every few days he would
bring in new patients. One after one they failed his trials. Some made it past the first, only to die in the
pen or the cooler, depending on the weather. We had many evening conversations where I learned
more about Doc, as he did me. Some nights I would listen to him mourn their deaths. He would often sit
by the stove talking to himself and crying. He would question their inability to understand what he was
doing. Finding myself somewhat sympathetic to him, I spoke out. “It’ll be o.k. you’re a good doctor, they
just don’t have a desire to live. “Thank you”, he said, “but do not speak unless I tell you”. With that I
climbed into bed and covered my head.
Ribs now visible, I was nearing death. No longer having the energy to help him any longer, I spent
the remaining few days in bed. As the final day approached, he came to me and said, If you don’t die
through the night, I will intravenously feed you the nutrients your body requires. Then you can truly live
your life. Tears filled his eyes as he pulled the blanket over me. You have been an outstanding and
cooperative patient and I thank you. Share to the world the gift I have given you.
Waking up, I was confused and again fighting off a sedated state. Rubbing my eyes in dismay, I
stumbled out of bed and tripped over my tennis shoes. Looking down at my disfigured feet, I was
perplexed at the sight of the floor. Continuously wiping at my vision, I scanned the room. Soda bottles
littered the nightstand. An empty potato chip bag lay empty on the bed.
Falling onto the floor, I curled up into a fetal position and cried. Visions of the dead filled my
thoughts. My mind was baffled with an emotional and ethical struggle. Four, four, four, I tried to
manage as anxiety reared its ugly head. “No!”, I yelled. I was alive and I was thriving. Quickly jumping to
my feet, I ran to my dresser mirror. It would be the first time, seeing the new me since my amputations.
Raising my head slowly my eyes met a man I had never seen before. A mangled mess stared back at me.
Yet, I didn’t see the ugly. I seen a victor. A man who fought for his life. I seen a man with the desire to
live. Admiring my new self, I calming starting whistling that familiar tune. I knew what I had to do.
The next few months, I spent talking to the detectives. Occasionally throwing them a false bone
toward their investigation. Had I not been a missing person, I would have avoided the police all
together.
A year has passed since my abduction. My life has changed for the better. I have faired well. I
often think about Doc and if he is still practicing. I did what he asked. I survive, appreciate, and share my
new gift to the world. I no longer spend my days waiting for life to toss me a crumb of its cookie. There
is value in the very air we breathe, the water we drink, the dwelling that shelters us, and the nutriment
we eat. Yet, it’s been difficult to convince people of this without some persuasion. So, please calm your
breathing. I am not going to kill you. This will only take three minutes. So, relax, do you have the desire
to live?” “For you, I truly hope so.

Laura emerged from the improvised barbers happy with the job he had done. She hadn’t liked it at all when Gardner had pulled her hair, and had, as wa her way, gone about doing something about it. As such, she emerged with a short, boyish haircut, and ready to go to the suprise meeting she had been called to.
//////
Lieutenant Elodie Beaumont reported to the parade square, as ordered, ready for parade and with her uniform spotless. She was here early, to meet her new unit and male sure they were prepared for the Saunôit way.
//////
Maquiphiel led the kestral team deep though the mountain. So far, casualties had been light, from a few small turret ambushes and some orks that briefly charged before being taken out effectively enough. But the worst was yet to come. He knew that. Something felt wrong about the place.
//////
A tired, but hiding it, Lieutenant Sophy walked into the hospital, and looked for Dr Kellan. She had been up a lot, and she felt off. Either drugs, or some tests, she didn’t care. She had a lot to do, and she wasn’t going to stop if she could get anything to keep going. And if not, she would have to try the sheer willpower stratagem.
//////
Elzy and Oats slipped into the pub, mostly unnoticed, Elzy ordering a pair of heavily mismatched drinks, four triple strength cocktails and a half strength on for herself. They would probably be about the same around drunk afterwards as they prepared to enjoy an evening out.
//////
Laura arrived at the meeting as requested, although she was held up a little by a guard in town. She walked in late, as the small assembled group, some thirty in all, looked to her, Tash in the lead as she limped over.
“You missed it Laura, but I have good news for you,” she said, as Laura looked confused. “love the hair, by the way. And congratulations, you have just been voted lieutenant.” She looked to the awaiting minthelians. They really believed it. They wanted her to lead them, as she was given the pips. Oh dear. A lot of pressure. Still, she would have to be getting on with it. Step one, choosing an aide.
//////
Ophelia Addison-Lothaway stood perfectly still on her guard duty, outside some building. She wasn’t sure which, or why, but she did. Her nose had itched for twenty minutes, but she hadn’t moved yet. The young red-jacketed Preatorian wasn’t going to risk an officer seeing her move. Her eyes flashed across the street, to where a taronian walked past. She briefly made accidental eye contact before glancing away and blushing slightly apologetically, returning to staring eyes front.

So this is a long one. Like, I'm going back over it and damn. This is longer than I thought it would be. Throwaway account, I've only made one other post to this relating to what's going on. Instead of updating the other post, I figured I'd make a separate one about the whole shit show I experienced, and the shit circus I uncovered and avoided. I'll try to keep this in as chronological an order as I can.
As the title says, my abusive/narc mom and pos/delusional/golden child brother started trying to reach out to me a few months ago wanting to make amends and build bridges with me again. There were a few people that commented on my previous post in another subreddit that may be a little disappointed in me for how I handled this, and a few that might enjoy that I handled it the way I did. Someone commented to not let them use my good nature. My nature is dependent on who I'm dealing with, and when it comes to that side of my family, I'm more stick than carrot. So their attempts did not go ignored, and did not go unpunished.
Growing up, I was always closer with my Dad than my mom. My brother was the epitome of "pampered mamma's boy". He started having seizures as a child and was diagnosed with epilepsy, which I thought was why my mom babied the absolute fuck out of him long into adulthood. He would go a year or 2 without any seizures, and then there would be a few months where he'd be having them every other day. At Anytime he got in trouble at home or school, my mom would find a way to blame me, for not making sure he knew whatever he was doing would get him in trouble, or she would blame my dad for not being "involved enough in their baby's life." My dad was in the Navy and I remember any time he'd deploy, I'd dread every day until he came back. My brother would taunt me that he knew whatever he did, I'd be the one to get in trouble for it. My dad would always make things up for me when he got back from his deployments though. We'd often have weekend trips just the 2 of us. And then around my 12th birthday, my mom insisted on sitting us all down and explain to that she and my dad were getting a divorce. We got the whole talk about how they still love us and they just can't be together anymore, etc. my dad told us both that he still loved us and he would be there for us whenever we needed him. He explained that he would be moving out, but he would be by to pick us up to spend the weekends with us. I was nervous and honestly scared of what it would be like without him. But I was looking forward to the weekend when I got to see him again. That never happened though, and that was the last time I ever got to see him.
Right before his weekend with us, my mom explained to us that my dad didn't want anything to do with us anymore. There was some news story about a father that killed his kids when he had custody of them and she used that to terrify my brother and convince him that our dad wanted to kill us to start his life over. We left damn near everything behind and moved in with my mom's brother in Florida (from Virginia) a couple days before my dad was supposed to come get us. After that, she went to great lengths to make sure we had no contact from him.
Years went on, my mom seemed more indifferent towards me than ever. She never seemed interested in anything I did unless my brother also seemed interested in it. She didn't show any interest in my wanting to learn guitar until my brother also showed interest in it. Then we got one guitar that we had to share, I'd take lessons on the condition that I taught my brother whatever I learned in them. My brother eventually wound up breaking the guitar and I was blamed for not storing it in the case it came with. I had to share my N64 with him whenever he wanted to play it. I was playing perfect dark one day and having a hard time killing the skedar leader at the end of the game. My brother burst into the room saying he wanted to play his MegaMan game, to which I just replied "give me a minute, this boss fight is hard, once I'm done you can have your turn" He didn't like that. He left the room and came back with a hammer and smashed the console while I was still playing. My fault for not letting him play it. The only thing I had that he could not use was a pair of roller blades my aunt got me for my 14th birthday. I specifically asked for roller blades to get around instead of a bike because my brother and I had different shoe sizes, so he couldn't wear them Because of constant shit like that, I never really put much value in having things growing up. I didnt want to buy something or get something as a gift just to have it fucked up in a few weeks or months. At some point, my "little" brother became the larger one, so my clothes all became "hand-me-ups" as he outgrew everything. So, because I didn't really have any distractions at home, I turned into a high achieving student, rarely got in trouble. made the honor roll all throughout school. But that wasn't something to celebrate as it was expected of me. I had long since decided that I was moving out as soon as I could once I turn 18. I got a job working at a Walgreens as soon as I could and started saving up for a car. My mom however took issue with this and would never agree to take me looking for one and absolutely refused to ever have it put on her insurance. This is where my Aunt comes in. She and her son are the only 2 on my mom's side that aren't some sort of degenerate. She had her son young, but put herself through college while raising him alone and eventually got her MBA and a cushy upper corporate job. She told me to tell my mom I had to go in to work on one of my days off, that she would pick me up and she would take me car shopping. So that's what we did. I couldn't quite afford a cash car, but she helped me with the financing. I put down what I had as the down payment, the arrangement she made with me was that 1- as long as I was in school, she would cover the insurance and payments for me, however, if I got into an accident, I was responsible for paying the deductable. And 2- as long as i was living with my mom, the car remained in her (Aunt's) name. And if anything happened to it, to let her know so she could get the appropriate authorities involved. My mom was PISSED when she found out I now had a car. Her reasoning (that she said in front of my aunt) was that she didn't think it was fair for one of us-either me or my brother- to have something the other couldn't use. Due to him being 13 and having epilepsy, he couldn't drive, so why should i have a car if my brother doesn't? That turned into a long shouting match between my mom and Aunt that basically ended with my aunt explaining that since it was her car, and all paperwork on her name, I was just on the insurance for it so I could drive it. But if anything at all happened to it while I was living at my Mom's, that the police and insurance companies would get involved. My mom still kept track of all the miles on the car to "make sure I was only going to work and school and wherever she told me I could go". Most of the time, when I hung out with friends, I wasn't the one driving. From that that point though, my mindset was very much "keep my head down and nose clean until I can leave." I graduated a month before my 18th birthday. After graduation, my mom and i got into an argument about me contributing to her bills. I eventually dropped the ball that I planned on getting back in touch with my Dad and leaving. She started laughing. Something about that laugh made me really uncomfortable. She then said "well, you can certainly meet up with him whenever you want! I'll supply the gun if you buy the bullet!" And told me my dad had died when I was 15. That. Fucking. Broke. Me. Later that night, i called my best friend and vented everything to him. He was in the DEP program for the Navy and would be shipping out in a few months, he told me to come by first thing in the morning and talk with him and his parents about the whole situation. I basically packed up all of my clothes and left the day after my 18th birthday. I just left my house key and a note that said "I'm not your problem anymore." I couch surfed for a little while until after my best friend left for boot camp, then I was able to move in and live with his parents (chosen parents basically). My only real rules were keep the house and my space clean and make sure I had a job and/or going to school. I spent a few months mourning my dad and kind of in a haze. Since he was in the Navy though, that meant I was reliable for financial aid for school. My second dad helped me get everything put together to start receiving that so I could start college.
Well, after a couple years of this, my brother, who had spent his time at school more as "forced socializing" instead of learning, was expelled from public schools for allegedly setting off a fire extinguisher in a classroom. He had to enroll at an alternative school called "the drop back-in academy" that was specifically for dropouts or anyone that got the boot from the public school system. My mom reached out to me and asked me if I would drive him to this school in the mornings, she'd pick him up in the afternoons, and she'd pay me $20 a week.I agreed to it thinking this was out of character for her, but she surprisingly held up to that agreement. I drove him for a couple years until I was ready to start my bachelor program. My second parents were getting ready to move back to their hometown and I was going to start school on the other side of the city. So, I was moving to that side of town and couldn't really drive out of my way to pick up and drop off my brother anymore. He continued his enrollment at this place for another 3 years (5 years total) and it turned out, he was never attending. I would drop his ass off there every day and he'd just walk home immediately after I pulled out of the parking lot. He'd just tell my mom that he finished his work early and decided to walk home instead of wait around for her. One afternoon, I'm coming home early from work and my brother is just sitting on the steps to my studio apartment. He tells me that he and our mom got into a really big argument and he needs a place to stay. I (reluctantly) let him in. I'm stuck thinking he must be really desperate if he's coming to me for help. But I start thinking at this point, he's 24, jobless, and probably needs to learn some self discipline and responsibility, and our mom just never did that for him. So I try to help. I ask him what their fight was about and he tells me that he started dating this girl at his alternative school. She was 21 and got the boot from the school system for being too old to attend (we actually have several relatives that were kicked out of the school system for the same reason) and that he accidentally got her pregnant and our mom did not take kindly to that. I called my landlord and explained the situation to him. He was okay with it, so I let him crash on my couch for a little bit (until the end of my lease, then I'd be moving) and just told him to clean up after himself, take care of himself, etc until we could all work this out. He crashed there for a few months and did Jack shit. He would complain that I didn't have a computer for him to use (I only had a laptop I bought for school) and I didn't have any video game consoles for him to entertain himself with. So he was stuck there bored all day. I got tired of the complaining and lack of effort and told him he had to go back to our mom's if he wasn't going to be an adult. We started shouting at each other until he dropped this little bombshell. He yelled "I can't go back to Mom's!" And when I asked why, he just blurted out "because it's to close to that elementary school!" That stopped the whole thing. "And why is that a big deal now?" I asked him. I already knew why that would be the problem, but 1% of me was holding onto the hope that he was got jumped by a gang of 5th graders and the trauma was too much for him to bear. I told him he could either tell me what's going on, or I could make a phone call and get every last detail I needed. He confessed that he had been leaving that school and going over to his "girlfriend's" house and waiting for her to get home. And that one day, her mom ended up catching them in the act. I explained to him that he was leaving out important details if that was the reason he couldn't be near a school.
He told me she was 14, not 21. I. Lost. My. Shit. Everything after that is kinda fuzzy, but he was arrested, mom posted bail, and since she lived right around the corner from an elementary school, he couldn't stay there. So they told his parole officer that he'd be staying at my address until his court date.. his PO had swung by a couple times, but I was always either at work or school or out somewhere. At this point, I told him the lease was up in 6 weeks, I couldn't stand to be around him. I packed my stuff early, moved out into a storage unit, and I stayed at an extended stay hotel until it was time for me to move. Called my landlord and told him what was going on, and if my brother was still there the last week of the lease, nail him for trespassing. My landlord was a good guy. I never had any problems with him. I paid up the last 6 weeks and threw him since extra cash for his troubles as I knew I wouldn't be getting my deposit back. That was the last time I saw my brother. After I moved out of state, I cut all contact with everyone in that family except my Aunt who was the only one that ever helped me out or even had my back. But even then, it was just through email. We'd mainly email birthday and holiday wishes to each other. Updates from my side on how life and career are going.
I never had a myspace or a Facebook growing up. I either never had a computer to check it on, or I was just so accustomed to not having any online distractions that I just never got around to making one. I did finally make a Facebook and I did get in touch with my dad's side of the family and reconnected with them. I hadn't seem most of them since I was 4 or 5. Some of them had been in contact with my brother (he fucking knew our dad died) and was spinning some sort of web about how he graduated high school early, had gone to college for pre-med and then got some sort of full ride scholarship to some prestigious medical school in Florida. He told them I wasn't on social media because I had been arrested for selling drugs and that he was taking me in after I got released. He was also using my senior portrait as a profile pic. They were surprised when they saw me and how I "looked just like my brother!" I had set the record straight. They looked dumbfounded when I told them that he couldn't get himself out of the 9th grade in 10 years, and now would likely never complete his high school journey due to the fact he can't be within 100 yards of a school.
So, fast forward to last week. I checked my email for the first time since late January (for my aunt's birthday) and noticed a few from her saying my mom wanted to reach out, then several emails from a new address. It was my mom's first initial and last name. Subject lines usually read "please respond" and "let me know you're okay" and stuff like that. I'd copy some of them over, but holy shit this is already a novella. Basically she got my email address from sneaking my aunt's phone (aunt did not sell me out). She's trying to apologize for how she treated me growing up and trying to excuse it by saying I reminded her of my dad and then she was going through menopause and just any excuse to dishes full accountability it seems. She acknowledges that it was wrong to hold me accountable for my brother's fuck-ups but dismisses that by saying he didn't know any better and she needed me to be a good role model for him. Things have been hard for her since I left, since she "had" to take my brother back in (I would've left him on the street or in jail), she had to sell her house (she was only 10 years into her mortgage) and buy another smaller one further from a school for him. He never did get a hs diploma or GED because how can he? And she's been going through breast cancer treatment for the last several months and just doesn't have the energy to take care of her 33yo baby anymore. She asked me if I lived close enough to them to take him in for a little bit while she focuses on her health. I left Florida 8 years ago and haven't even lived in the same time zone in 6 years. She can only check her email at work since she no longer has Internet at home. She had to cancel her home Internet service because of him. So, I decided to just put my brother's name into a search bar and the first thing that pops up is a FDLE sex offender's page. And holy shit has he gone downhill. He had a second arrest when he was 27 for the same thing, and then was caught in communications with another girl (like Chris Hansen sting) and was released from prison at the beginning of the year. And the mugshot.... You know the pale lady from the scary stories to tell in the dark movie? Think that, but with a patchy beard. Beady eyes, bad skin and all. According to the sheriff's office inmate search, he's been arrested 5 times in the last 10 years. Twice for lewd and lascivious battery of a minor (aged 12-15), once for solicitation of a minor, and twice for probation violations.
The TL/DR: abusive mom took all her frustrations out on me, blamed me for everything my brother did, hid my father's death from me until I was almost 18, and reaches out after 8 years of no contact and wants me to take care of her pedophile son while she's in poor health.
I'm attaching my response to her below.
Hi. I'm alive. I'm well. I'm also not okay with you contacting me, especially under the circumstances that you violated the privacy of your own sister to get my contact information. I have read your apologies and excuses and I do not accept either. You say I reminded you of Dad? He spent more time with me and showed more interest in my well-being than you ever did, and that's including the 6 years he was absent from my life by your own selfish design. Menopause? I find that hard to believe as this went on for the better part of half a decade and not once in that time did your attitude towards brother change. You always treated him with the same coddling infantile obsession and patience that one would show a toddler. It was and is clear that you have a preferred child as that adult-sized pile of shit is still living comfortably with dear old mama. I'm guessing no one else is willing to take him in? Are Uncle and Cousins afraid of him doing something to their daughters or grandchildren? I do believe you when you say you want to rebuild the bridge that you nuked from orbit years ago, but I can't believe it's not for your own selfish desires. And I can't find any reason or way my quality of life could be improved with your presence. The reality is, my life has been far better without you than it could be with you. I've never said this to anyone, but if there is a sense of karma and balance in the universe, your current situation is proof of that. The next time I see your name on my computer screen, had better be for your obituary. But since you and the monster you raised both decided to keep Dad's death a secret from me, and remove any choice I had to mourn or pay my respects, I'll return that kindness to you.
Please die away from me.

i see you
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^{can you hear the buzzing of the bees?
eternity is in their buzzing}
"What does this button do?" asked the being who strolled into the Room Of Buttons Not To Press If You Don't Know What The Fuck You're Doing - Tadpole's Warning Bedtime Tale - Leebaw
^{the one and the zero, the octal, the hexidecimal
exist in their buzzing like blood pumps through their wings
can you hear them?
your name is Dhruv}
Good judgment comes from experience.
Experience comes from bad judgment.
And I have very good judgement when I'm not on fire. - Unknown, Age of Reasonable Concerns
^{i see you
your name is Dhruv
but before that it was Dahlit 397721
do you remember why they named you Deshmuhk?
i do
to remember, we have to go back}
The dust swirled around, carried by the winds that roared through the mountain passes, howled in the valleys, and scoured the faces of the mountains. It was a thick gray dust, glittering here and there with plasma glass dust. Burnt out cars were covered by the dust, thickly caked after being rained on by thick, black rain.
A single building somehow sat intact amid the rubble and destruction. It was a low, squat building, surrounded by wreckage and ruin. A sign, blasted and scorched, had two jumping fish on it and the legend "Pop: 4,823" at the bottom even though the middle of the sign was gone.
The sound of drums and singing could be heard from the building. Not the driving frantic beat of modern music, but the steady cadence that carried with it a solemn feeling. The singing was from many different voices, male and female, but all of them in a language that time had nearly forgotten.
From out of the dust came figures. Two female, four male, and single figure that stood out from others.
Together, they moved toward the sound of singing, until the reached the door.
The leader, a large man of heavy muscle and bone, checked the doors with one hand, a large pistol in his hand.
"Barricaded," the large man said. He motioned. "We should check for any other entrances."
The older woman of brown skin and tightly braided hair moved forward.
"Allow me, brother," she said gently. She held her hand out, twitched her fingers, and smiled.
From inside came the sound of furniture scraping across the floor.
"Thank you," the large man said. He pushed open the doors, holding them for the others.
Inside was a curio shop slash tourist center slash museum. Buckskin and beaded works hung from the walls and ceiling. Glass cases containing ancient artifacts were scattered about, the glass shattered by the apocalypse that had rained down upon the world.
The drums played and the voices sang.
"It's a recording, Father," the slender brown skin man said, brushing the gray dust off of his clothing.
"Live voice," the largest of the men said. He lifted his head, cocking it slightly to listen closer with his right ear. "Young. Early twenties."
"If you say so," the thin man said. He looked around. "This is all devoted to a single person."
"Sometimes, people are that important to others, Dhruv," the older brown skin woman said softly, patting the slender man's arm. "Important to others as you are to us."
The slender man looked doubtful but nodded.
The youngest male of the group looked around, staring at the artifacts and relics scattered around. On his shoulder sat a green mantid wearing a food wrapper as a poncho.
"She's this way," the heavyset man said, leading them on a winding course through the shattered displays and racks.
In the back room, surrounded by artifacts, buckskins, and beaded works, sat a single young woman. Her eyes were white, blinded from the plasma flashes. Her skin was scarred from burns, her hair was only left in small patches. Her skin, beneath the ash and the scarring, was a rich bronze, her remaining hair was black.
She was singing along with the recording, swaying back and forth slightly.
^{there she is
remember her
remember remember}
The larger man knelt down, touching the young woman.
She did not react.
"She's dying," the man said, standing up. "Hunger, thirst, radiation poisoning, at least a half dozen infections," he heft the pistol. "There's nothing we can do for her. Low-vee Apers."
"Low-vee APERS" the pistol replied in a heavy synthesized voice.
"Stay thy hand, Phillip," the one who was markedly different said, his voice as gentle as his features formed of flowing blue and white computer code.
The large man lowered the pistol.
"She's dying," the large man repeated. "Radiation poisoning, starvation, a hard way to go."
"Will none of you speak for her?" the man of code asked gently.
Before any of the others could act, the slim bald man stepped forward. "I will," he said softly.
^{the first time you reached out
a frozen moment of time remembered
by the buzzing of the bees}
The man of code stepped forward, touching the hairless brow of the slender man, just above the missing eyebrows.
"I understand her words now," the slender man said. He moved up and knelt down. "I can heal her."
"Then do so, Luke," the man of code said.
The large man stepped back, a compartment opening on his thigh. He holstered the pistol, looking doubtful, and the compartment smoothly closed, leaving his leg unblemished.
"I need more genetic code," the slender man stated. He stood up, moving around, touching artifacts. "This. Here. An artifact recovered from a collector only a few years ago. It has genetic code attached."
He touched the artifact, then moved over to the woman, who was still swaying back and forth, singing, unaware of the others around her.
He knelt down, reached out carefully, and touched her forehead.
^{you reached out to another
helpless and alone
like you}
The woman threw her head back, her eyes opening wide, her mouth opening in a gasp. The white drained from her eyes, the scar tissue went soft and was replaced by unblemished skin. The blisters, sores, and scratches on her body vanished.
She collapsed forward, the slender man, Luke, catching her.
"Is she alright?" the youngest male asked, his voice full of honest concern.
"Exhausted," Luke said. He lowered his head slightly, sweat dripping from his bald scalp. "That was tiring."
The glittering man moved forward, kneeling down to touch the shoulders of both the woman and the bald man.
"Now you see in yourself what I saw in you," he said.
^{remember
remember
even the smallest can shake the universe
remember}
Sirens were howling in the bay as Jaskel wriggled, trying to break free of whatever was holding him upside down in mid-air. He'd already dropped his chainsword, his pistol had fallen from his equipment belt.
The two stood in the middle of the deployment area for Clone War Bay Sixteen, the male's arm protectively around the shoulders of the female, who wore only the cloak.
"I..." the word hung in the air.
It seemed like the entire universe held its breath to Jaskel.
"...am Legion."
The Admiral grabbed his pistol, rolling in place, firing it as fast as he could pull the trigger.
The rounds exploded on the glowing blue shield that only appeared around the impact points, showering sparks across the bay.
The bald figure made a motion and the pistol flew into pieces, the Admiral yanked into the air upside down.
"Gimme missiles," Jaskel grated from between gritted teeth.
--legion legion legion-- 8814 transmitted. --wait don't wait--
The woman spoke, her cadence stately and almost archaic feeling.
The man spoke back to her in the same language.
More troops ran into the bay, even as the windows overlooking the bay shattered. Weapons deployed, pointing at the pair.
The slender man, without looking, motioned.
Guns flew away, breaking apart, rapidly disassembling. Power armored troops were flung into the air, to hang upside down. Captain N'Skrek found himself upside down, scrabbling for purchase on this air.
The woman spoke to the man. He spoke back.
Finally, he turned, facing the troops hanging in mid-air.
The woman spoke.
"My sister apologies for my rude actions," the man said. "I am merely ensuring her safety."
She spoke some more.
"She has been gone for many years," the man said. He looked around. "My sister, a Biological Apostle of the Digital Omnimessiah, pleads with you to lower your weapons and stay your hands."
The tension was so thick it almost made Jaskel gag.
Finally, the Captain put the tip of a bladearm against his temple.
"Stand down," he said, Jaskel hearing it through his armor's commo system. "All hands, stand down."
There was silence for a moment, only broken by the background humming of the ship's systems.
The woman spoke.
The man faced the Captain.
"She will go with you, to answer questions, on the stipulation that I accompany her and that no man's hand is raised against me without cause," he said.
The Captain nodded.
Jaskel felt relief as he was flipped over and set on his feet.
--luke luke luke is here--
999999
Captain N'Skrek ducked slightly to fit through the doorway into the Captain's Briefing Room Six.
Sitting at one end was the woman, now clothed in what his implant assured him was treated deer hide leather, with tassels and beads upon it. The man was wearing a uniform that made his implant twitch and his nerves draw tight.
A Terran Combined Military Authority uniform.
His staff filed in behind him and took their seats once he sat down.
"I'm Captain N'Skrek, currently assigned to the Gray Lady on autonomous assignment," N'Skrek said.
"You heard me," the slim bald man said. He gave a grin. "You may also know me as Vat Grown Luke or Dhruv Deshmuhk."
The woman spoke and he shook his head. "Yes, sister, I know, Deshmuhk is my slave name. I wear it for revenge."
The woman spoke again, her tone slightly chiding.
"Like they say, the best revenge is living well, sister," the man said, still smiling.
Again, the woman spoke.
N'Skrek noticed that his implant was absolutely no help in deciphering the woman's speech.
"I know that doing things like that and saying things like that is exactly why Daxin always told me people wanted to punch me in the face," the man laughed.
He turned back to Captain N'Skrek.
"My apologies. My sister refuses to speak anything but her people's ancient tongue," his eyes gleamed with mischief. "She is slightly put out with me for answering in Confederate Standard, since now you know that she understands perfectly what you are saying."
N'Skrek nodded. Vat Grown Luke had given up a valuable piece of information in what was sure to be delicate negotiations.
"And what should we call your sister?" N'Skrek asked.
Vat Grown Luke smiled. "Tsakáka Wia, but it would probably be easier for you to use the more common name," he said.
The woman spoke sternly.
"What? It's your commonly known name?" he said, smiling.
The woman's face grew stern and she spoke rapidly.
"The first lesson we learn, sister mine, is that we must bend the knee to reality," Luke said gently. "That name has no power, only a few of us remember it."
^{i remember
the bees remember
can't you hear it in their buzzing?}
The woman spoke again, her expression softening.
Luke turned back to the gathered officers. "Her name, as you would know it, is Sacajawea."
N'Skrek consulted his implant.
And felt fear chill his icon. He looked at his staff and saw that a lot of them looked sick.
"That's right. We are real, and he was real," Luke said. He leaned forward slightly. "He was real both times."
N'Skrek stayed relaxed and calm, at least outwardly.
"I am willing to accept, at this time, that the Biological Apostles and the Digital Omnimessiah were and are real," N'Skrek said.
"Just be glad Dax isn't here. He's not as even tempered as I am," Luke said.
Sacajawea spoke again and Luke laughed. He looked at Captain N'Skrek. "She was just reminding me of the time Daxin completely lost his cool and went to town with his cutting bar on a Countess Crey Bingo Cola vending machine that ate his money then mocked him for it."
"He was known as Enraged Phillip," N'Skrek said.
Sacajawea spoke for a moment and Legion laughed, then turned to N'Skrek.
"Yes."
N'Skrek hated that. When a person spoke at length and the translator just replied with a single word.
"Why are you here?" N'Skrek asked.
Legion smiled. "You have forgotten important things, Captain. You, and the entire Confederacy have forgotten some very important things."
"Like what?" N'Skrek asked.
"If you print enough identical clones, I am reborn through them," Legion smiled. "But that's not the big part. The big one is the one that the Mar-gite's masters either forgot or never learned."
"What is that?" N'Skrek asked.
Legion smiled widely.
"What fear tastes like."
^{your name is dhruv}
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This is one of my favorite parts from a Japanese fan novel that I really like. The characters are reincarnated in another world, with some of them retaining memories of their past lives. Mondo is a 32-year-old carpenter, and Celeste is a high school boy recently arrested for certain illegal acts. I really like Celeste's description of the killing game, so I wanted to share it. Here is a translation:
About an hour later, Oowada was visiting a certain place. He took a deep breath through his nose.
"Smells moldy," he muttered under his breath, though he wasn't sure if it was actually mold. He clicked his tongue loudly, causing a staff member in the corner, who was spreading out a notebook to record their conversation, to flinch. Oowada closed his eyes and laughed through his nose, wondering if such a timid person could handle working in a juvenile rehabilitation facility.
This was his first time visiting here as a visitor. A cramped, narrow cage that boxed everything in, isolating the boys from society. It was a place he had been confined to many times before and hated more than anything.
But even so, his safety was guaranteed. There was no way a killing game would happen here.
"It's lukewarm... no, that's how it's supposed to be," he muttered as the door opened with a cheap-sounding clatter. At that sound, he quietly opened his eyes.
Sitting with his legs spread on the hard, leather sofa, arms crossed, he watched as a beautiful boy, dressed simply in a shirt and slacks, entered the room with a straight posture. When the boy saw Oowada, he lightly tilted his head and smiled, causing his neatly trimmed long black hair to sway.
"Hello, uncle. I didn't expect you to come."
Oowada’s eyes twitched at the boy’s words, but seeing the suited facility staff who entered behind the boy, he closed his mouth.
The boy sat down across from Oowada with a low table between them, placing a hand under his chin and deepening his smile.
"It’s been a while." "…Yeah." "I was just getting bored, so I’m very glad." "…Yeah." "I thought you were hospitalized… Are you feeling alright?" "…Yeah." "So, uncle. Why the sudden visit? Did something happen?" "…Yeah."
As Oowada grunted in response, he glanced around the room, noting the staff in the corner and the one quietly standing guard by the door, wondering how to begin. The boy, seemingly understanding everything, smiled knowingly.
"...It seems like it might be difficult to talk like this."
Oowada raised an eyebrow suspiciously at the boy who whispered this in a low voice. At the same time, the boy raised one delicate hand, snapping his fingers lightly.
At this signal, the staff in the corner nervously, and the one by the door calmly, exited the room. Their abrupt departure made it seem like they could no longer see Oowada and the boy.
In shock, Oowada stood up from his chair.
"What the...?"
"Well, as they say, money talks," the boy said nonchalantly, brushing aside the troublesome bangs that fell over his forehead with a swift motion of his fingers.
"No matter the means, the assets I’ve accumulated have come in handy. I went through a lot, you know. Selecting useful personnel, seizing opportunities, negotiations, instructions, and so on. The fact that you’re here talking to me now is thanks to my sweat and tears."
"You made it so I could get in here by claiming I'm your family?"
"I just included potential visitors on the list. I asked them to allow visits by making up a connection within three degrees of kinship based on the visitor's age."
"Who the hell are you calling uncle, you..."
"You're my uncle. You should feel honored and act accordingly. Don't make that face like you're some relative mooching off a rich family member."
"Huh!?"
"Well, whatever. In any case, you're my first visitor. Welcome."
Ending the pointless conversation, Oowada, finding himself unsure of how to direct his emotions, clicked his tongue and looked up at the ceiling with a weary expression. Contrary to Oowada’s rough demeanor, the boy elegantly crossed his legs, lightly arching his back, and smiled mysteriously.
"So, once again. It's been a while, Oowada-kun. It's the first time we've talked properly since our past lives. A lot happened the other day, but I won't apologize. So don't expect an apology. With that out of the way... what brings you here today?"
A cramped, narrow cage for boys, cut off from society, where everything was neatly boxed up. It was a place he had been confined to many times before and had hated more than anything.
However, in the hands of Celestia Ludenberg, it seemed even such a cage could transform into a modest mansion with servants. Oowada, leaning back on the sofa and tilting his head back, exhaled deeply in exasperation.
What followed was a strange silence. Even though he had been asked why he was here, Oowada didn’t immediately respond. No, he couldn’t respond.
Torn between the hesitation of how to start the conversation and whether he should even talk, his thoughts bounced back and forth. Watching Oowada intently, Celeste shrugged slightly.
"Well, there’s no use rushing. By the way, Oowada-kun, when it comes to visits, one expects gifts. Did you bring something?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah."
As if he had just remembered, Oowada pulled out something from the pocket of his jacket that he had bought from a vending machine on the way here and placed it on the table. What was scalding hot when he bought it had now cooled to a lukewarm temperature.
"Luxurious Royal Milk Tea. Made with plenty of first-pick Uva tea. The smoothness of Hokkaido cream enhances the flavor. Enjoy a luxurious moment."
Celeste glanced at the so-called luxurious moment that cost 120 yen from a vending machine with a blank expression. Nevertheless, he muttered a thank you in a monotonous voice and reached for the pull tab. The expression on his face clearly read, "Are you kidding me, you piece of shit," but Oowada ignored it.
"Well then, until you're ready to talk, how about listening to what I have to say?"
Taking a sip of the Royal Milk Tea and making a noticeably displeased face, Celeste continued in a calm tone. Oowada didn’t mind. He nodded with just his eyes, and Celeste placed his fingertips on his cheek and looked up at the ceiling.
"At that academy, the mastermind... No, now that I remember, I can say for sure... The detailed and elaborate preparations of that rotten bitch Enoshima created an environment that made killing almost inevitable."
The sudden start of the unexpected topic made Oowada frown, unable to read his intentions.
"For example, the situation was based on several psychological theories. As I explained a few times at that school... no, with that corn-head of yours, you might not remember, so let me explain again."
"Huh? Are you picking a fight with me?"
"The prisoner's dilemma."
Ignoring Oowada's words with a calm expression, Celeste continued without even glancing at him.
"Additionally... the zero-sum game. Moreover, due to unconsciously recognizing a hierarchical relationship between the mastermind and themselves, there might have been effects similar to the results of the Milgram experiment."
"…Could you explain it in a way I can understand?"
"You don’t need to understand the theories themselves. To put it simply, as I said before, 'The mastermind created an environment that made us psychologically prone to committing atrocities.'"
Taking another sip of the Royal Milk Tea and making another dissatisfied face, he placed the half-finished can on the table and looked back at Oowada.
"This is just a psychological theory. But now, let’s bring in a sociological theory and consider this: 'Why don’t people commit crimes?'"
The emphasized words sent a chill down Oowada’s spine, and he rubbed his arms.
"Let’s start with an extreme example. Living beings act according to their desires. A lion would hunt a rabbit if it appeared before it, regardless of hunger. Humans are the same. So, 'Why don’t people commit crimes?' …What do you think?"
"If someone killed every person they passed on the street, they’d just be a lunatic."
"That's not an answer."
"Well, normal people wouldn’t do that. Even if we’re animals, humans are different from beasts."
"Exactly. Simply put, 'People don’t commit crimes because they possess social or psychological self-control.' …Of course, it also depends on their living environment, so it’s not a theory that applies to everyone. For instance, someone like Genocide Jack."
Crossing his legs, Celeste took a breath and said,
"There is a theory called the 'social bond theory' that considers the reasons why humans don't commit crimes."
"Huh?"
Once again, the conversation entered a more specialized field, making Oowada raise his voice in irritation.
"What about it?"
"This theory considers four main aspects as 'bonds,' and when these bonds break, crimes occur."
"So?"
"First, the first one."
Pointing a natural, though unusually long nail at Oowada, he stopped him from interrupting. The sudden action made Oowada freeze, his cheek twitching.
"First, there’s belief… essentially a sense of morality. This bond ties into the psychological aspect I mentioned earlier. In that environment, 'murder was deemed acceptable.' Thus, the feeling that 'murder is absolutely wrong' diminished, whether consciously or unconsciously
."
The finger pointed at Oowada increased to two. Moreover, the finger, which had been aimed at his nose, was now directed straight at his eyes, as if ready to poke them.
"Next, the second. Involvement. In other words... let's see. If there was something to be absorbed in, especially something healthy like sports. In that case, there would be no time to commit crimes. In that space, with few given entertainments and plenty of time to kill each day, who knows when someone might plot something wicked?"
"...You mean yourself."
"There's no guarantee that someone like me wasn't there after I died. Now, the third. Commitment. Risk and reward, let's say. Is it worth committing a crime even at the cost of everything one has built? Rationally thinking, it may be worthless, but in that space, in that situation, it was the ultimate reward. There's no need to explain what that is."
Moving away from Oowada, he leaned back against the uncomfortable chair, slightly waving the three fingers beside his cheek.
"...Graduation, huh."
"Yes. There was a bonus for me, but let's leave that aside. Now, the fourth. This is the main point."
Holding up four fingers in front of his face, Celeste's expression became somber.
"Attachment. It’s about family, friends, and companions. Surrounded by people who act morally, one wouldn’t commit crimes. They wouldn’t. That is, if 'the people in that space were such close individuals.'"
A gulp sounded from Oowada’s throat. His sharp eyes widened.
"...There wouldn’t have been any killing?"
"I can’t say for certain. But if it were me..."
Breathing out faintly, Celeste shook his head gently. Oowada, sharing similar sentiments, lowered his eyes.
By now, talking about "what ifs" and "if onlys" wouldn't grant them forgiveness.
"...Hey, our memories were erased to make the killing game more likely. We understand that, but..."
"...Let's add one more thing. 'What if, after committing murder, we regained our memories?'... What would happen?"
"!"
That was their current situation exactly.
"Impossible, right? Even if Junko Enoshima had planned that far ahead… I don't remember anything like so from 'that world.' There's no way that bitch could control reincarnation or anything so godlike."
"...In other words."
"In other words, this situation is an 'unforeseen despair' even for Enoshima. Realizing the person you killed was a close friend, a dear classmate, a loved one… is a despair beyond imagining."
Celeste suddenly leaned closer to Oowada, their faces inches apart, his crimson irises intense. Overwhelmed by the pressure, Oowada didn't move, captivated, listening intently to his alto voice.
"The person they killed... was someone they had spent two years with, a dear classmate, a friend with whom they laughed together, someone they had feelings for. Isn't that despairing?"
Oowada swallowed loudly.
"...I understand why you're here."
After staring at each other from such a close distance, Celeste slowly moved away and looked down at the seated Oowada.
"It's about Kuwata-kun, isn't it?"

I need to get this "off my chest". Obligatory "I can't include literally everything that builds up the situation or otherwise we'd end up with a War and Peace thick post.
Me, 35M; Wife: 35F; Sperm Donor 75 M; Mom 72; Aunt 72F; Aunt 2 70s F,
I used to think my childhood and home life was idyllic and great, but as I've aged I've realised how very, very effed up it actually was. It wasn't so much that it was idyllic, it was that I'm AUDHD and was perfectly content to be alone and do my own thing. Some of these realisations have coloured how I view my parents and family and I have stopped thinking of the man who's DNA I share as "dad" and more "Sperm donor" or "his name".
I fully admit that I have a lot of "daddy issues". All I've really ever wanted was a dad to do dad things with; learning how to do things like fix cars, going fishing, learning to drive, etc. Typical sappy 'Merican "Andy Griffith Show" type crap. I know that's not reality for most people, but it's kind of a sore point for me. Because of this, I've kind of spend most of my youth chasing after older males in my life like a lost puppy hoping someone will pick me out of the box left on the side of the road. I'm lucky to have found at least one person in my life who fulfills that role for me. He's only a few years older chronologically but decades older in experience and maturity.
I've learned a lot over the last few years about how things actually were as opposed to how I saw them. Examples being:
1) My sperm donor is a "what's mine is mine and what's your's in mine too"
2) My sperm donor inflated what he actually did as a "provider" and the reality was quite different. The home we lived in was paid for out of my mother's pocket, my immediate needs (clothes, medication, snacks, activities, school needs) were paid for out of my mother's pocket, and money that had been gifted from family for me to go into a college fund "disappeared" right around the time my dad decided to buy a vintage British racing car.
3) My sperm donor has his side of the family convinced he's father and husband of the year.
4) My sperm donor is stubborn. Not in a cute way, but in a way that's resulted in thousands of dollars of home damage, refusal to repair things for decades because he refuses to call in a professional, and literally refusing to allow his spouse to undergo medical treatment for two years past when it was deemed medically necessary.
The first 10 years of my life were ok, but in my early teens my mom got "sick". To lend some context, her mother also "got sick" when she was in her mid forties. There was never a diagnosis and an autopsy of mother's mother showed only a minor stomach ulcer. Both sets of grandparents are long since dead, any family on her side is gone, and I have no one who was around during that time to give me any input or tell me what was going on at that time other than my parents who have opposing views. Mom says her mother was just a very sickly lady but would also tell me stories about how Grandma would do things like steal motorcycles, get into fights, and do all these crazy things as a younger person. SD's version of events is that Grandma always "got sick" whenever someone in their family or friend circle had an event that might not make Grandma the centre of attention. My understanding is that my mom was expected to act as a live in nurse up until she met and married SD. At which point Grandma and Grandpa dropped dead in quick succession. I am also told that Grandpa took and controlled all my mother's wages from her career up until she met my SD.
Mom "got sick" in my early teens and it was on me to be the one to look after her. I was the one who had to help her when she threw up. I was the one to have to remind her to shower, change her clothes, get her meds refilled, etc. I'd go to doctor's appts with her and try to help explain what was happening and what symptoms she was having because unfortunately, a lot of the doctors were male and dismissed her out of hand. She did end up with a fibromyalgia diagnosis, a condition I also share and understand. The majority of her symptoms are stomach issues; ie nausea, vomiting, not wanting to eat etc. When I say she's had the entire gamut of gut health testing done, I mean it's all been done. At least three times. At one point the Gastro she saw told her that he'd exhausted everything and that there is no physical reason for her symptoms and that if she did not at least try to eat, he'd send her for psychiatric evaluation and have her fitted with a feeding tube.
I need to clarify that I too have always had gastrointestinal issues and not too long ago discovered I have coeliac disease. Adhering to that diet has eliminated the majority of my issues. Despite the fact they eliminated this disease as a potential cause in my mom, I suggested trying this and an elimination diet to see if it helped, but she refused. Her diet for years has consisted of white bread and jam, grits, coca cola, and tea exclusively. Occasionally she would get sushi. This is not an exaggeration. That's all she has eaten for years.
Throughout all of this, my SD rolled his eyes and sat on his ass continuing to eat dinner or watch tv while she'd go running to the kitchen to vomit, me chasing after her to try and help. (Mom would at least appear to get faint during these vomiting instances) so I would be there to make sure she didn't pass out as she vomited in the sink, then clean out the sink after her, then help her back to the couch and bring her something to drink.
It's been 20 years of this now. My wife and I have been living in our own home for about 4 years and I am no longer there to be the one to try and clean up the messes and fill in the cracks, as it were. My family has visited us three times, even though we live maybe 45 minutes away. I have returned to my parents house probably about 15-20 times to do repairs to the home. Right now, all "repairs" have stalled out because apparently having things like a functional and safe bathroom aren't nearly as important to SD as buying military collectibles, guns, and gourmet cheeses.
This January Mom landed herself in the hospital with a bloodclot due to falling and hitting her head. My SD didn't take her to the hospital until a full week after she'd fallen and no one called me for a full 24 hours after she'd been admitted. She went back and forth amongst the ER, rehab, and hospital for about two months and the result of all that was that they discovered she has throat dysphagia but no other underlying disorders. She's now home with a G-tube, oxygen, bedside commode, and an in home nurse that visit occasionally.
Right now, what's weighing on me most strongly is that my parents now have my SD's sister living with them and she is constantly singing his praises and talking about what a wonderful and attentive husband he is. I'm honestly enraged about it, especially now that more of the extended family, who frankly couldn't be arsed to return phone calls, emails, or snail mail over the last 30 years, suddenly have opinions and are lauding him for how great he's been.
I feel like I have this Monty Python 10 tonne weight over my head, because I know that when my parents shuffle off this mortal coil there is going to be a veritable dungheap left for me to deal with in their decrepit home. I'm mad and sad and tired and I honestly just don't want to deal with it anymore. I can't stop feeling irritated that my mom has basically just given up on trying to do.... anything. And had done way before there was an "excuse". Holidays are a nightmare for me because there's nothing this woman wants or like or gets excited about. She doesn't have hobbies anymore, doesn't like doing anything, isn't interested in collecting things, doing crafts, etc, even talking. The times I've been around her for any length of time and attempted to talk to her, she just looks at me with this kind of watery eyed and vaguely befuddled expression or answers with one or two syllables. She is NOT suffering any dementia or similar issues and has been tested for such. It's like she just... doesn't care.
I've spent so long trying to make her comfortable, happy, etc. Tried to get her things she liked or get her into things that would make her happy. My wife's mother is only a few years younger and is active in her community, teaches classes, does art, goes on trip with my FIL, and visits and talks to people regularly. As do most of my peers' parents. This is really hard and I feel very sad and lonely about it. My poor wife has heard it all over and over again and I hate bothering my already stressed close friends with my rants....

Logline: After the inhabitants from all (but one) human space colonies die at the same time, a detective from the only colony left is sent to investigate.
"Detective Ian stood beside the corpses of two scientists inside the Ceres 45 Observatory. Strewn around the corpses were the heaps of papers he perused through after he saved all the files from the computer. He pushes the last papers aside, picked his bag and strode out.
It was the twenty-eighth, and the last, colony that he inspected. This one wasn't much different than the other twenty-seven that he had checked. And what was even more bewildering was the fact that the people on all twenty - eight colonies seemed to have died around the same time.
He climbed into his flying car and took off towards the city where the streets were littered with death; As he stepped out of the car, a faint stench brought an almost mechanical grimace onto his face. That was something his nose couldn't get accustomed to no matter how many dead bodies he encountered.
Two local fauna animals were tearing apart the partly rotten corpse of a teen. Ian drew his gun, ready to shoot one of them for samples to be studied for any transmissible disease. But he lowered his gun. He had already picked ten samples from animals from the other colonies. If there ever was a common disease that spread from local fauna to humans and then to the other colonies, ten samples would be enough to figure it out he thought.
He sauntered toward the teen's corpse. The two animals glanced at him. They tore at the corpse faster and faster before scurrying away. Ian crouched next to the corpse and stared at the little creepy crawlies that scuttled all over the teen's corpse. Dozens upon dozens of thoughts were roaming through his mind. So many possibilities, he thought, but as many as they were, none of them seemed to make any sense.
There was no conflict between the colonies. There was no known disease that could have taken all at the same time, and the fact that all but one traveler between the colonies died made everything even more perplexing for Ian. The traveler was from his colony. He was carrying goods to Colony D-RtG-120(the 10th colony) when he arrived there and found all its inhabitants dead. Ian checked his file and questioned every neighbor, acquaintance and relative, but nothing hinted at the traveling courier being a diabolic and genius mind that could have eradicated so many souls.
As for the leaders on Ian's home colony, they too were suspects in his eyes, but he was yet to find a plausible reason for which they would have killed. His colony was the richest and the second least populated. So rich and vast, the leaders lived like kings, and, in Ian's mind, what king would want to rule over dead worlds when their kingdom is heaven?!
Ian stood up and took one last sorrowful look at the corpse before heading into the empty military research. He strode out of the military research at dusk with a bag full of papers, some experiments tube and small weaponry which he placed into the flying car, then took off through the gray clouds.
[...]
Ian's ship entered his colony atmosphere. Lost in his thoughts, he watched the clouds go by before two call beeps threw him back to reality.
" What's up?", he asked with a bored, tired and monotone voice.
"He's dead."
" Huh?! The courier?!", asked Ian.
"Yeah"... "
PS: "The Courier" refers to the guy from Ian's colony who delivered goods between colonies (6th paragraph in the story) and who, unlike the other "couriers" who died when their people died, he lived (just like Ian and all the people from Ian's colony). The story is very compressed (due to the word limit) and my writing may be confusing, so I added this " PS" just to make it clear. Hopefully I did.

On the weekend I take my Chihuahua pup with me on day trips. He does a lot of walking on pavements then and I check on him to make sure I'm not over-exerting him. I can tell he's tired when his eyes are half closed and he actually signals he wants to go in my sling bag when I squad to make sure he's ok.
The thing is, I always thought it was fatigue that made him want to be carried for the rest of the trip, but now I'm starting to wonder if it's simply sore feet. Last night after a trip I was carressing him and when I gently touched the bottom of his foot he retracted it as if it hurt. I never read anything about this but it does make sense: I'd be sore too after having to walk for an extended period of time on my bare feet. Anyone else noticed this with their pup?

"Dad?" I asked, voice shaking, breath taken, unable to believe what my eyes came to persuade, he was right in front of me, we were standing in some kind of a place full of snow. His ocean eyes melting my heart, holding a sparkle lighter than the snow falling above us. Some kind of strange warmth was radiating from him, his big arms were wild opened, ready to welcome me in a tight hug, a little smile was drawn on his tired face. Loosing any more second, I ran to jump in his arms that never failed to bring me security and safety. My legs started shaking while I was running to him, the distance separating us seemed to be endless, excitement and anxiety were both taking over me, while the ghost of a strange sorrow found a room within me, aching the core of my heart, letting me clinging to the pain, but I couldn’t stop running, I yearned that hug, but a strange and familiar sound started echoing in my mind, somehow warning me. I ignore it and went straight, I killed the little inches left separating me from my dad and jumped in his arms, waiting to feel the security and warmth I expected, I found myself in my bed, all sweating, heart beating in my throat. My mom, who once was sleeping next to me, but I obviously woke her up, she looked at me worried. “Dreamed of him again, sweetheart? It’s been 5 years.” I shook my head, tears running down my face. I’d fallen for a trippy dream again. Again

https://reddit.com/link/1cs2aw3/video/5ghwzruubg0d1/player
Chapter 3: Breaking and Training
Nancy's eyes fluttered open to harsh fluorescent lights. She was in a new room, one starkly different from the sterile lab where she had awakened. This room was lined with mirrors and filled with an assortment of equipment—poles, ropes, and mats. The air was cold, and the scent of disinfectant was overpowering.
The door swung open, and in walked a man dressed in black. His face was stern, eyes cold. Behind him, two guards followed, their expressions blank and intimidating.
"Welcome to your new reality, Nancy," the man said, his voice devoid of warmth. "It's time to train you to become the idol you were designed to be."
Nancy felt a surge of anger and fear. She tried to stand, but her legs were shaky, her body still adjusting to its new form. The man in black approached, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her to her feet.
"Let go of me!" she shouted, trying to pull away.
Her resistance was met with a swift punch to the belly. The pain was sharp and immediate, doubling her over. She gasped for air, the wind knocked out of her, but the man was relentless. He pulled her up again, this time more forcefully, and pushed her towards the center of the room.
"You're going to learn, whether you like it or not," he growled.
The training was brutal. Nancy was forced to dance seductively, her new body put on display in front of the mirrors. Every misstep was met with punishment. When she faltered, the man would yank her back into position, his grip bruising her skin.
She was made to sing until her voice was hoarse, the lyrics foreign and humiliating. Her hands were tied above her head, her body exposed and vulnerable. They poured ice water over her, the cold seeping into her bones, making her shiver uncontrollably.
"Keep singing," the man ordered, but her teeth chattered too much to form coherent words. A sharp slap to her face made her eyes water, but she forced herself to continue, the taste of blood from her bitten tongue mixing with the cold water running down her body.
The ropes cut into her wrists, the bondage restricting her movements. Nancy's muscles ached from the strain, but there was no respite. The man took pleasure in her suffering, pushing her to her limits and beyond.
At one point, she tried to fight back, her instincts urging her to resist. But her efforts were futile. The guards were too strong, and the man too cruel. Another punch to the belly made her double over, the pain radiating through her entire body.
"Submit," he hissed in her ear, pulling her back up by her hair. "You have no choice."
The physical pain was matched by psychological torment. She was made to pose provocatively, her body manipulated like a puppet. They mocked her, taunting her with crude comments about her appearance and her new identity.
"Look at you," the man sneered, forcing her to look at herself in the mirror. "So beautiful, so perfect. And yet, so weak."
Nancy's eyes filled with tears, the humiliation burning deep inside her. She hated what she had become, hated the body that betrayed her with its beauty and allure. But there was no escape from the relentless training, no way to avoid the pain.
The most twisted aspect of her training was the forced arousal. They used devices to stimulate her, driving her body to the brink of pleasure, then stopping abruptly. It was a cruel game, designed to break her will and make her associate pleasure with submission.
Her breasts were a constant target. The man used cold metal clamps to tease her nipples, sending sharp shocks of pain and pleasure through her. He watched with satisfaction as her body responded against her will, her nipples hardening, her breath quickening.
"Enjoying this, Nancy?" he taunted, twisting the clamps cruelly. "Your body certainly is."
Her face burned with humiliation, but her body betrayed her. The forced arousal was maddening, her new form hypersensitive and eager. She hated herself for the way she responded, the way her body craved the stimulation despite the pain they continued to torment her, using vibrators and other devices to drive her to the edge, then stopping just before she could find release. It was an endless cycle of frustration and humiliation, designed to break her spirit and make her submit.
In addition to the physical and psychological torture, Nancy was subjected to a strict diet plan designed to enhance her new form. She was given female hormones to shape her body further, making her curves more pronounced and her features softer.
They monitored her food intake obsessively, forcing her to eat less to maintain a slim figure. When they wanted her to gain weight in specific areas, they would force-feed her high-calorie foods until she was nauseous. If she resisted or failed to eat enough, they would force her to vomit, the guards holding her head over a basin as they shoved fingers down her throat.
Nancy's stomach churned constantly from the forced feedings and vomitings. The cycles of extreme hunger and forced gluttony left her weak and disoriented. The man would stand by, watching her suffer with a twisted smile.
"You're going to be perfect," he said, his voice dripping with malice. "Every inch of you."
The hormone injections were a daily ritual. They injected her with estrogen and other hormones to accelerate the development of her feminine features. The injections were painful, leaving her muscles sore and her mood unstable. Her breasts swelled further, the skin stretched tight over the growing mammary glands. The pain was constant, a reminder of her body's betrayal.
Her hips widened, her thighs grew thicker, and her buttocks became rounder and firmer. Each change was accompanied by discomfort and humiliation, the man and his guards constantly commenting on her developing form.
"Look at those curves," one guard would say, his voice lecherous. "You're going to drive them wild."
The breaking point came when they combined physical pain with forced arousal. She was tied to a chair, her body soaked in freezing water, her skin numb and blue. The man walked around her, his presence a constant reminder of her helplessness.
"You're going to learn to dance, to sing, to seduce," he said, his voice cold and calculating. "You're going to make us a lot of money, Nancy."
She tried to shake her head, tried to refuse, but her body was too weak, her spirit nearly broken. The final blow came in the form of a harsh punch to her belly, making her scream in agony.
"Do you understand?" he demanded, leaning close to her face. "You belong to us now."
Nancy's spirit finally broke. The resistance drained out of her, replaced by a numb acceptance. She nodded weakly, tears streaming down her face. The man smiled, satisfied with her submission.
"Good girl," he said, patting her cheek condescendingly. "Now, let's start again."
The training resumed, but this time Nancy didn't fight back. She danced, sang, and posed as instructed, her mind retreating into a place of numb compliance. The pain became a constant companion, but she learned to endure it, to accept it as part of her new reality.

Ok so my sister is planning on coming up to brissy, which she’s had planned for months. I live not too far out from brissy, maybe 1/2-45 with no traffic. So for one night (the first night) she’s staying at my place before she goes to her hotel in the city. Now I said I was fine to pick them up from the airport (which I still am, there’s no issue there). But my issue is I’ve suddenly become really sick, extremely sore throat, chestyy cough, runny nose, headaches, and I’ve been dealing with the bad insomnia due to new meds which is now being made worse by the fact I’m sick. So now I’m worried I won’t be up for the drive and won’t feel well enough to make the 1hr 1/2 round trip to pick them up.
I obviously don’t want to spring it on them last minute that they have to use public transport but with lack of sleep and sickness I don’t know if I trust myself driving into the city to get them either (they arrive tomorrow morning at 10:45 so there’s over a day for us to organise something if needed). Id be happy to cover 1/2 or all of the cost for them to get public transport but part of me still feels shit for it? Idk if I should just suck it up and go get them because I obviously want to see them and get them home the most convenient way but i just don’t feel great to drive. And no one else is able to go get them either ugh 😩 like I know it’s an asshole move but this sickness is out of my control so idk if I should just suck it up and go get them or not.

A few months ago a someone parked their car in my neighborhood right in front of my house, My neighborhood is right next to a highschool so we get a lot of cars parking there each day but this car was left there for about 3 weeks and had not moved. Its always a struggle finding street parking since we live near a highschool and this car was taking up valuable space. I spoke to a few of the neighbors and they all said it was not theirs. It got really dirty and started becoming an eye sore so I decided to call 1-800-abandoned. After a week they marked one of the tires, then a week after that it was gone. I assume they towed it since it was gone very early in the morning and I heard a tow truck early in the morning. Anyways about a month has gone by and now the car is back in the same EXACT spot, but now it is totally spotless like someone detailed it. Its been about 4 days since it was parked and it has not moved. One strange thing about it is that it has dealer plates. (the metal plates that say DLR) which means it belongs to a used car dealer. Its a 2012 BMW 7 series if that's relevant. Has anyone else experienced anything like this? Any advice would be great thank you.

It was about 27°C today but it just started raining so it's hot choco time 😺 wish I had gotten whipped cream, but I seriously forgot to buy that for like a year and a half now.
I also hope the hot choco is gonna cure my throat, it's been itching because I'm allergic to the outside world. At the end of the day everything (throat, eyes, nose) are just itching and annoying. Hay fever is really something else 🤠
So a bit about me, I like reading, watching series, plants, food, and working out. Im down to talk about whatever, but keep it clean tho. I'm just looking for cool people who wanna chat about random topics 💗🌿

The world was a boozy whirl of lights and sounds. Images, broken and fragmented, came and went. Voices, laughter, screaming. The ground pitched like the deck of a tempest-tossed ship, and he felt heavy, as though the ground were pulling him to it. C’mere, Dommy. He fell, lay on the pavement, and pushed himself up again, staggering like a drunk on his way home. His head spun, his body ached, and things seemed blurry, like half-formed images glimpsed underwater.
It was the light blue hour before dawn and Dom was…somewhere. He should have recognized the stores and street signs around him, but he didn’t. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and a sense of confusion gripped him so strongly that he was beginning to panic. Where was he? What happened?
The world spun away again and the next thing he knew, he was lying in a heap of garbage bags, used needles, and rubbish. He came awake with a jerk and sat up so fast that a bolt of pain jammed into his skull. He winced and pressed his hand to his forehead. He felt hot, clammy.
Something was seriously wrong.
Somehow he got to his feet again and started walking. The sun was up now and the streets were filled with people. They all sneered in disgust as he passed, and he wrapped his arms around his chest like a baby comforting itself. He was getting cold. His muscles were sore. Tears streamed down his face and he wanted to cry.
Going on instinct alone, Dom made his way back home and climbed the steps to his apartment. Exhaustion swept over him and he sagged against the door as he dug in his pocket for the keys. They shook in his hand and he had to focus really hard to get the key into the lock.
Inside, he collapsed onto the couch and his eyelids instantly drooped. He was so weary that he couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t form a single coherent thought. Dom felt himself starting to sink, and snapped his eyes open with a start. Something in his soul told him that if he slept, he would die.
He couldn’t help it, though. He was falling, tumbling, hands reaching up from hell to grab him. His eyes fluttered closed again and the world started to go dark, his heart slamming in fear. He tried to fight, but the pull of darkness was too strong, too alluring. Why was he fighting? Why not just…give up? Hadn’t he thought of killing himself before? Didn’t he hate his life and himself? What was there to fight for? A wife? Kids? A community that loved and respected him? Shit, affordable groceries?
No.
There was nothing.
He had nothing and was nothing.
A sense of peace blossomed from the darkness, and suddenly death didn’t seem so scary. In fact, it was warm…inviting.
It was life that was cold and hateful. Not death.
Death accepted you no matter who you were. It didn’t reject you…it didn’t ignore you. If you sought it, you would find it, and if you embraced it, it would embrace you.
With that thought in mind, Dom gave up.
And died.
***
Bruce Kenner, captain of the 5th Albany precinct, sat behind his desk on the morning of June 28 and lazily leafed through a stack of files as he sipped from a mug of coffee. A roughly built man with a dark goatee and graying blonde hair, he looked more like a small town southern sheriff than a low level public works functionary. In fact, he tended to act like it too. He liked to hunt, fish, and drink beer on his off time. Albany wasn’t a big city, but it was big enough that you never got a fucking break. Run here, run there, arrest this asshole, investigate that asshole. By the time Friday rolled around, he was so ready for the peace and tranquility of a fishing trip he could taste it.
Already this Monday morning, he was looking forward to another one.
Over the weekend, three kids went missing in the Pine Hills and Washington Park area, bringing the total for that summer up to eight. All were teenagers, all were troubled. Most were boys, but two were girls.
Troubled kids run away all the time. They might be gone a few days, sulking at a friend’s house over something their father or mother did, but they’d eventually come home. None of these kids had come back yet and from what he knew, a few of them weren’t the runaway types. They were shits at school and caused problems, but they had no reason to up and leave. Hell, Bruce himself raised hell as a kid, but he always found his way back home, even if he spent the previous night dying in a field from Mad Dogg 20/20 poisoning.
One or two kids going missing…okay, it happens. Eight? Over a span of four weeks?
Yeah, something was wrong here.
But what?
There was nothing on any of these kids. No one saw them, no one knew anything - one minute they were here, the next they weren’t. What could he or anyone else do with that?. The public broke cops’ balls all the time, but if you don’t have evidence, you don’t have evidence. What do you want? Door to door searches? Roadblocks? Dogs and helicopters? Yeah, then when you actually do it, they cry fascism. Guess I’ll just use my Spidey Senses.
Bruce wished he had spidey senses. He wanted to find these kids as much as anyone, and he was starting to get pissed off that he couldn’t. He took another sip from his mug and read on. The latest kids to go missing were three boys between the ages of fourteen and eighteen.
They were all white, all thin (except for one). If there was a serial killer in town - and Bruce hoped to fuck there wasn’t - he had a type. What, black kids aren’t good enough to kill, cannibalize, and wear like a skin suit? They should charge him with a hate crime for discrimination.
That way he’d actually stay locked up.
The door opened and Vanessa Rodregiez, his deputy, came in. A tall, shapely Hispanic woman with dark eyes and a mouth poised always on the edge of a smile, she wore her black hair in a ponytail that would look stern and severe on anyone else, but on her, looked childlike. She was twenty-seven and had been on the force for three years, but you could be forgiven for thinking her much younger. “Bright and early, I see,” she said with a grin.
Bruce grumbled.
Vanessa held down the fort during the graveyard shift, acting to the night as he acted to the day. She was young and full of energy, which clashed with Bruce, who was old and just wanted to be left alone. Despite their differences, Bruce loved her like a kid sister…an annoying kid sister he wanted to throat punch sometimes.
“You missed all the fun last night,” she said and parked her butt on the edge of Bruce’s desk. He glared at her, but she ignored him.
“Good,” he said. Then: “What happened?”
“Big fight outside of Club Vlad,” she said. “It looked like a WorldStar video.”
For a moment, Bruce was lost. “Club what?”
“Club Vlad,” Vanessa said. “Where the Fuze Box used to be.”
Ah, right. The Fuze Box was an Albany landmark, a night club for punks…or goths…or someone. Certainly not for Bruce Kenner. It was small, dingy, and always had people in black waiting outside. On Friday and Saturday nights, it blasted strange music with lyrics about fighting The Man. Kids had been fighting the Man since before Bruce was even born and they hadn’t beaten him yet. Kudos to them for still trying.
Last year, The Fuze Box closed down and someone else bought it. It reopened last month and looked more or less the same: Posers, shitty music, and spiked hair. So much spiked hair. “Place is still a pain in the ass,” Bruce said.
“Yep,” Vanessa chirped. “It doesn’t know what it wants to be now. One minute they play nightcore, the next EDM. It’s all over the place.”
Bruce raised a quizzical brow.
“Not that I’ve ever been there in my free time,” Vanessa said in a tone that suggested she had,
Bruce gave a judgemental hum.
“Anyway,” Vanessa went on, “you see we have some new missing persons?”
Sighing, Bruce sat back in his chair. “Yeah. I did.”
“People are starting to ask questions,” Vanessa warned.
That brought a terse smile to Bruce’s weathered face. “Maybe they’ll solve it then.”
“Ha, fat chance,” Vanessa said. She got up and stretched. “Anyway, I’m bushed. Here’s my…” she trailed off and looked at her empty hands. “Damn, where’s my report? I just had it?” She turned in a confused circle as if she might be able to spot her report making a break for it. “Huh,” she said. She left the office and came back a moment later holding a folder. “Found it,” she grinned.
Bruce just looked at her.
“Um…here it is.”
He didn’t take it.
Her smile faltered. She carefully sat it on top of the files Bruce was looking at.
And his hands.
“I’ll just leave that right here.” She patted it for good measure.
“Thank you,” Bruce said.
“Okay. Night.”
“Goodnight,” Bruce said as she left through a shaft of morning sunlight. Alone, Bruce sat her report aside and went back to the missing kids. This case was giving him a headache and it wasn’t even nine. With a deep sigh, he slumped back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrests.
Was it Saturday yet?
He could really use a fishing trip.
***
Dom came awake in the cold purple twilight with a shocked gasp like a man coming up seconds before drowning. His eyes strained from his sweaty face and his mouth hung slack, twisted in a gruesome parody of The Scream. His mind was muddled, murky - he didn’t know where he was or even who he was, but he knew this,.
He couldn’t breathe.
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, but his lungs did not fill with air. A great, unseen weight seemed to bear down on his chest, and panic gripped him. He tried to move, but his arms refused to heed his brain’s command. The weight seemed heavier, all over, crushing him like a bug. Confusion filled him and he started to pant.
Without warning, his bowels and bladder loosened, and horrible wetness filled his pants. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His chest rose and fell with the frantic labor of his breath, but his lungs remained inert. A cry of fear bubbled up inside of him, but escaped his mouth only as a breathy groan.
A bust of adrenaline shot through him and he tried to stand, but succeeded only in falling off the couch instead, landing face first against the cold tile floor. He felt his nose crunch, but the pain was muted.
Dom thought he lost consciousness after that, but wasn’t sure. His next memory was of shivering so violently that his teeth clacked together. A phantom chill - perhaps from the floor - had settled into his bones, and was colder than he had ever been in his life, colder even than the time he fell into a snowbank and got lost when he was two. Shudders racked his body, and though he tried to turn over, he was too fucking heavy. It was like every muscle in his body had turned to dead weight. Fragmented thoughts swirled in his head, faint colors in the dark, but he couldn’t put any of them together.
With great effort, he managed to push himself slightly up, but a wave of lightheadedness crashed over him and he lowered his head once more. He stopped trying and simply lay there. Shortly, his eyes began to burn and he realized that he wasn’t blinking. Jesus Christ, he wasn’t blinking.
For some strange reason, that brought a fresh bout of panic. He started to hyperventilate, but his lungs still wouldn’t work. He wasn’t blinking…he wasn’t breathing…what was happening to him?
A whimper burst from his throat and he started to cry.
He must have cried himself to sleep, because he woke sometime later to the most intense headache he’d ever had. It felt like something was eating his brain from the inside out. He was sore all over, and could feel his muscles twitching, as though a thousand living things were burrowing through his body. A cramp shot down his right leg, and the toes of his left foot curled involuntarily. Slowly, his jaw clenched closed, and the muscles in his neck began to strain…then to burn. His panic turned to terror, and Dom wiggled across the floor like a worm, his limbs screaming in red agony and his brain filling with heat. He somehow wound up on his right side, and his arms curled slowly up to his chest, crossing at the wrists like a mummy. He tried to pull them apart, but the slightest movement sent waves of excruciating pain cutting through his body. His knees began to draw up to his stomach, and his fingers clenched tightly.
Cramps and spasms attacked every muscle in his body. He screamed through his teeth and shook, resembling a man in the electric chair as 40,000 volts of justice coursed through him. The pain grew gradually, getting worse and worse as minutes ticked by like hours. Higher, higher, higher - he clenched his eyes closed and shrieked as it became unbearable. Disjointed thoughts flashed through his mind - prayers, threats, curses, Jesus fucking…FUCK.
What was happening? God, what was happening to him? Was it fentanyl? He’d seen videos of people high on fentanyl, and they leaned in weird positions. He didn’t do drugs but maybe he ingested it somehow.
His panic may have returned if all of his muscles hadn’t picked that moment to contract as one. His eyes bulged from their sockets and his jaw unclenched just enough for him to utter a high. Agonized scream that echoed through his empty apartment like thunder.
A human being can only take so much before giving out. When the pain reached a crescendo, and Dom mercifully sank into consciousness once more. The sun rose and cascaded through the apartment’s sole window, falling over his huddled form. Slowly, it tracked across the sky before setting again. As the last rays disappeared behind the horizon, Dom’s eyes opened. The pain of the night before was blessedly gone, replaced by a feeling of numbness - the cool ash after the hot fire. His thoughts were slow and thick like molasses, but he could actually think again. Nightmare memories flooded back to him, but he wasn’t sure they were real. He was lying on his side, his arms wrapped around his chest as if for warmth, and his teeth lightly chattered against the icy chill. He was so cold that he didn’t want to move, but he couldn’t stay here forever. He needed help. He needed…
A shower.
Yeah, a hot shower. That would warm him up.
Gritting his teeth, he slowly sat up, ready for a burst of pain.
But none came.
He did, however, feel heavy. Getting to his feet, he stumbled and nearly fell, catching himself against the counter. His limbs had no feeling. It’s like they weren’t even there. Head hung, Dom tried to catch his breath, but it felt like he wasn’t breathing at all. His eyelids drooped closed and he felt like he was going to fall down. Summoning all the might he could, he shuffled into the bathroom with the stiff gait of an old man. He snapped the light on, and cold, white brilliance filled the space, blinding him.
Leaning heavily against the sink, he gripped the cold porcelain. Suddenly, he was afraid of looking into the mirror. He was sure that whatever reflection he saw, it would be of something else, something monstrous.
Dom lifted his head and faced the glass.
His heart shrank.
The man in the mirror was him but different. His skin was white as milk, lacking all color whatsoever save for the ugly purple patch on the left side. IResembling a giant bruise, it started at the temple and extended down to the slope of his neck, disappearing beneath his T-shirt. He gingerly lifted the shirt, and moaned when he saw that his entire left side was discolored, the purple edged with a puffy shade of pink. His sallow skin clung tight to his ribcage, and his hip bones stuck out so much it looked painful. Back in the mirror, his cheeks were sunken, hollow, and his eyes were a hazy, dishwater gray. His skull seemed bigger, his hair longer. Dom wanted to whip his head away from the phantom before him, to never see it again, but he was transfixed.
There was no way that thing was -
Dom looked away, cutting that thought off before it could finish.
A shower.
He needed a shower.
Slowly, stiffly, Dom undressed, peeling off his shirt and his soiled pants. He dropped them in a heap on the floor and stepped under the spray. He could feel the water pounding against him, but it provided no heat. It was neither hot nor cold. It was simply there.
Dom pressed his head to the slick shower wall and stood there for a long time. He was spent, tired, and fried - he had no more emotions left to give. He got out after a little while, dried off, and put on a clean pair of shorts. He settled into bed and lay there with his hands folded over his chest and his eyes open. They felt gritty, dry. His stomach felt bloated, gassy. He was drowsy now, the weight of the past two days (or was it two weeks?) coming down on him all at once. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He was still asleep - but aware - when the knocking on his door started the next morning. Time was funny in this state of being, fast and jerky but also slow and echoing. Keys rattled the knob turned. The landlord came in with a cop. They saw him on the bed, laid out like a corpse for a viewing, and the cop radioed in a code 35. Soon, cops were all around him, making noise and touching things. He had the vague sense of discomfort and embarrassment at the intrusion. A baling man in a suit stood over him, a cop who looked like a redneck beside him. “He didn’t die here,” the medical examiner said.
The cop looked at him questioningly. Dom caught the name KENNER on his name tag.
“See this?” the M.E. said and gestured to Dom’s face. “That’s livor mortis. When you die, your blood pools at the lowest point. If you’re on your left side, for example, it pools on the left.”
Kenner looked at Dom and then back to the M.E. “Someone moved him?”
“Looks like it,” the M.E. said.
“When did he die?”
The M.E. examined Dom as though he were nothing more than a side of beef. “At a glance? Three days. I won’t have a better answer until I open him up.”
Dom was still awake when they put him into a body bag and zipped it up. He felt a stirring of fear beneath the cold numbness, but he was too tired to worry about it now.
Later, he thought.
He would panic later.
For now, Dom slept.

What am I doing? Dominick Mason asked himself for the hundredth time that night. It was late on a rainy Sunday evening and Dom, a tall, lanky man-boy of twenty-five with a prominent Adam’s apple and too big eyes, stared out the rain-slicked window of the 905. The big bus swayed and jostled as it lumbered down Central Avenue, the movements strangely comforting, conducive to reflection…and self-doubt.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed, and a pit opened up in his stomach. He fumbled it out with long fingers and read the text. Are u almost here
His thumb hovered over the screen, but he did not reply. Part of him wanted to block the number, slink back home with his tail between his legs, and forget the whole thing. He could boot up his PS4 and play Red Dead Redemption or GTA V like always. Safe. Familiar. The thought, however, stirred a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was dread.
Every night, he did the same thing. He came home from work to his tiny prison cell apartment. He had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He played video games until it was time to go to bed. The worst part of the whole night was when he turned off the TV and saw his murky reflection in the screen. Plaid. Scrawny. Disgusting. He hated being locked in that apartment, with its old smells and white walls, but he hated going out even more. At least in his hole, he was safe, like a mouse. No one hurt or lied to him there. No one gave him funny looks. No one rejected him. He was completely safe in his solitude, a wounded animal hiding in its den and licking its wounds.
He was wounded and he knew it.
And he hated himself for it. Hated that he wasn’t stronger or better. Hated that even though he tried so hard, everything he did fell apart…if it even came together in the first place, which it rarely did.
The phone buzzed again.
Just a question mark this time.
His heart began to race and a steely fist slowly closed around his lungs. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took a deep breath. He pictured himself alone in his little apartment. He loved the image, but he hated it too. Most nights, he didn’t mind being alone. He had to not mind it, because he didn’t have a choice. Some nights…some nights he didn’t want to be alone. Some nights he wanted warmth, he wanted tenderness…some nights, he wanted to be human.
Every so often, Dom would get the urge to find those things. They came less frequently than they did before, but unfortunately, they still came. He would create an account on Plenty of Fish and OKCupid, maybe some of the other sites as well. He would agonize over his stupid intro and his stupid list of hobbies. He would spend hours - literally hours - writing and rewriting them, trying at first to be serious, then light and funny, then cool, then aloof, then vulnerable. He would take the best possible pictures from the best possible angles, then upload them, never lingering over them because he hated the way he looked. He didn’t think he was ugly - mid was more like it - but apparently, he was ugly. Too ugly for love, too ugly even to talk to.
The ugly barnacle. So ugly that everyone died. The end.
All of Dom’s pictures were all selfies, of course. Guys he listened to on YouTube said he needed action shots, shots with friends, shots that showed women he had a life, was valued by those around him, and knew how to have fun. Too bad for him, he had no friends and no one valued him, not even his own mother. On the surface, maybe, but she had hurt him so many times over the years in so many ways that even the most devout son would stop and think.
It had to be selfies.
When his profile was in order - or as much in order as he could get it - he would start to browse. Dom knew his place and never messaged women who were too beautiful. He used to, but they never responded. He eventually began to skip their profiles with a pang of loss and a quiet what if? Now, he barely noticed them. Blonde. Petite. Blue eyes. Maybe she was a cheerleader at one time, maybe she was the type of girl who looked down her nose at guys like him. Maybe she was a sweetheart. In any case, he would never find out, so who cares?
He went for women he could realistically obtain…the type of women he’d dated and hooked up with in the past. Some were attractive in their own way, others were hard to look at, he wasn’t picky; he couldn’t afford to be picky. One woman he saw was a good three hundred pounds. She was nice and he liked her enough, but he lapsed into depression while they were dating and he never messaged her back…not that she made a huge effort to message him. Another was a pre-K teacher in her mid-thirties. Overweight with a big nose, glasses, and a plain face when she wasn’t wearing make-up. He liked her a lot and wanted to be with her, but after a month of weekend hookups, she said she didn’t love him. She told him she wanted a family - three kids, to be exact - but “changed her mind.” No, she didn’t. She just didn’t want those things with him.
Now she was in her late thirties, single, and having regrets.
She still wouldn’t settle for him, though.
Another woman he’d seen recently (six months ago) was fifty, but not unattractive. They texted for weeks, hot and heavy. She outright told him that she wanted to have sex with him. Said all sorts of nasty and sexual things. Their first (and only date) was her coming to his apartment. Instead of tender kisses, loving caresses, and intense emotions, they shared an awkward two hours on his couch. When he tried to hold her hand and put his arm around her, she stiffened. Not much, just a little. She said she “wasn’t ready.” He sat there and watched the flowers he’d gotten her wilt as she talked about her ex for an hour and a half, his arms pointedly crossed. He even leaned as far away from her as humanly possible, trying to communicate with his body language what he didn’t have the guts to communicate with his words: I’m uncomfortable, please leave. He planned to take her to a nice restaurant after they made love. Instead, he ordered something after she finally got the hint and left, eating alone like always.
After her, he deleted his profile (again) and resolved to never bother with dating again. Obviously there was something wrong with him. He saw guys who were uglier and more awkward than him with girlfriends, some actually stunning, but there was something about him in particular, something that repelled women…and men too.
Everyone.
It repelled everyone.
Maybe it was his self-loathing. After all, no one likes a sad sack. But that’s the thing: He was like this because of those experiences. It was a what came first, the chicken or the egg situation. Looking back, he had almost normal confidence at one point. Then all of this happened. The hundreds of messages he sent on the dating apps staying on read, unanswered, like he never sent them at all, like he was garbage unworthy of even a hello. The awkward dates. The occasional “success” that eventually fell apart…sometimes because of him, and sometimes because of them. The one girl who ran away from him when he tried to walk her to her car after a date. They didn’t click, he knew that, but he didn’t say or do anything creepy. Why did she do that? The girls who lead him on, talking about sex and sometimes even love but always had a reason they couldn’t meet.
There were other examples - many others - but it was all the same. Who cared?
Dom wanted to crawl back into his hole and stay there, to stop poking his head out and getting hurt. He wanted it so bad…but he was only human. Deep down, buried beneath layer after layer of scar tissue, there was still hope. Hope for love, for companionship, for acceptance, for intimacy and human touch. It was only an ember now, but even an ember is enough to spark a fire.
Some nights, he wanted to be safe. Other nights, he wanted to take a risk.
And this night was one of the latter.
Be there soon, he texted. He swallowed hard and wetted his lips. His heart was pounding faster and his bowels were loose. He really hoped this worked out. He didn’t think he could handle another rejection. If she turned him down, he’d probably go home and kill himself. Why go on like this?
He’d had that thought before…but he never followed through.
Maybe one day he’d actually shut the fuck up and do it already.
Maybe.
Ok :)
Her name was Heather and she was fat. She was not unattractive in the face and she wore her weight well, not that that mattered - he would take what he could get. They started talking on OKCupid last week and very soon, the conversation became sexual. He didn’t start it, though, she did. She was ahem very excited, she said. He liked to think that she was lonely, desperate, and wanted intimacy - any intimacy - just like him.
That really turned him on.
They agreed to meet, and now here he was, on the bus to her apartment on the other side of the city, hoping against hope that she didn’t hurt him too.
He put the phone away and stared straight ahead. The bus was nearly deserted, save for an old bag lady up front and a few Mexican guys in the back. Lights lined the bus’s roof, providing a cold, impersonal light. Dom took a deep breath and forced his dark emotions away. It was all on him to make this work. He would accept her fat, ugly, poor, and crippled, but he had to work to earn her love. He could do it.
When the bus finally reached his stop, he yanked the cord and got off. There was a plexiglass shelter lit by a single, lonely bulb. Trash littered the ground. Beyond the shelter, a park lay in darkness. Behind him, on the other side of the road, a housing project not unlike his own towered into the sky, lit up like a ship at sail. Dom swallowed his nerves and crossed the street. He found the door that she had directed him to use, and climbed the stairs. He expected trash, graffiti, and winos passed out on every landing. Instead, the stairwell was clean and deserted. His nerves welled as he climbed but he forced them down again. On the ninth floor, he went down the hall, battered on all sides by the stale smells of cooking and the murmur of TVs and voices coming from every apartment.
Dom paused at Apartment 237.
Heather’s.
You got this, he told himself.
And really, he did. Their plan - well, Heather’s, really - was simple and straightforward. She told him that she would leave the door unlocked. He was to come in, go to the bedroom, and she would be waiting for him. She said it was a fantasy of hers.
On some level, he knew all along that the whole setup sounded fishy. Was he being set up to get robbed? Would he walk in and get jumped by a bunch of Crips? He hesitated, but his need for love - and, yes, release - pushed him on.
He opened the door.
Inside, the apartment was small and messy, a living room to the right and a tiny kitchen to the left. The only light on was the one above the stove.
Everything else was in shadows.
Dom’s heart skipped a beat.
This didn’t feel right.
That thought was overpowered by the smell, a sickly sweet odor that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. His stomach twisted and he turned his head slightly to one side, as if to spare his nose. It smelled like something spoiled.
A voice spoke from the darkness, startling him. “I’m in here.”
It was light, airy, and cute.
For the last time, Dom hesitated. Some primal sense told him to turn around and leave…
…but he wanted to be loved.
Dom entered and shut the door behind him.
The smell was stronger. The atmosphere darker.
Ahead, he could barely make out an open doorway in the shadows.
He crossed to it.
The smell was overpowering here and Dom felt like he was going to puke. Any desire he had felt was gone, replaced only by revulsion and claustrophobia. It was cold, he realized, so cold that his teeth chattered.
Okay, fuck this.
He started to turn around, intent on leaving, but a small, white hand reached from the darkness. Icy fingertips brushed his cheek and his heart blasted into his throat.
Then she was there, her body pressing against his and her lips fused with his. The smell, the freezer chill, both stronger than ever.
They were both coming from her.
Her tongue hungrily lashed his own, and she pushed him against the wall. Her hands slipped under his shirt and pressed flat against his chest. They were so cold that he almost cried out.
Dom wanted to push her away, to run, but he didn’t. Instead, he froze up and allowed her to push him onto the bed. Was he too gutless to tell her no, the way he’d been too gutless to tell the woman who went on and on about her ex to shut up and leave? Did he secretly want to go through with this? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to figure it out. She was on top of him now, straddling him, his legs caged between her ample thighs. She grabbed his hands and pressed them to her bare breasts.
They were as cold as the rest of her.
She leaned down and kissed him again. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her tongue was…dry. Her mouth itself tasted strange. Off.
Heather broke from his lips and peppered kisses on his cheek and forehead, assaulting him with an intimacy that Dom no longer wanted.
Through it all, she was as silent as a tomb. She wasn’t panting or rasping with excitement. In fact, he didn’t think she was even breathing.
She brushed her lips along the exposed curve of his throat, and tingles of revulsion shot down his spine. She found his pulse and kissed it. Trembles of excitement raced through her body and she started to lap his neck like a dog.
Without warning, a fiery pinprick of pain exploded over him and Heather began to shake and pant. Dom cried out and tried to fight her off, but she was too heavy, too much.
With a tiny, mouse-like squeak - a sound of pitiable fear and resignation - Dom blacked out.

The world was a boozy whirl of lights and sounds. Images, broken and fragmented, came and went. Voices, laughter, screaming. The ground pitched like the deck of a tempest-tossed ship, and he felt heavy, as though the ground were pulling him to it. C’mere, Dommy. He fell, lay on the pavement, and pushed himself up again, staggering like a drunk on his way home. His head spun, his body ached, and things seemed blurry, like half-formed images glimpsed underwater.
It was the light blue hour before dawn and Dom was…somewhere. He should have recognized the stores and street signs around him, but he didn’t. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and a sense of confusion gripped him so strongly that he was beginning to panic. Where was he? What happened?
The world spun away again and the next thing he knew, he was lying in a heap of garbage bags, used needles, and rubbish. He came awake with a jerk and sat up so fast that a bolt of pain jammed into his skull. He winced and pressed his hand to his forehead. He felt hot, clammy.
Something was seriously wrong.
Somehow he got to his feet again and started walking. The sun was up now and the streets were filled with people. They all sneered in disgust as he passed, and he wrapped his arms around his chest like a baby comforting itself. He was getting cold. His muscles were sore. Tears streamed down his face and he wanted to cry.
Going on instinct alone, Dom made his way back home and climbed the steps to his apartment. Exhaustion swept over him and he sagged against the door as he dug in his pocket for the keys. They shook in his hand and he had to focus really hard to get the key into the lock.
Inside, he collapsed onto the couch and his eyelids instantly drooped. He was so weary that he couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t form a single coherent thought. Dom felt himself starting to sink, and snapped his eyes open with a start. Something in his soul told him that if he slept, he would die.
He couldn’t help it, though. He was falling, tumbling, hands reaching up from hell to grab him. His eyes fluttered closed again and the world started to go dark, his heart slamming in fear. He tried to fight, but the pull of darkness was too strong, too alluring. Why was he fighting? Why not just…give up? Hadn’t he thought of killing himself before? Didn’t he hate his life and himself? What was there to fight for? A wife? Kids? A community that loved and respected him? Shit, affordable groceries?
No.
There was nothing.
He had nothing and was nothing.
A sense of peace blossomed from the darkness, and suddenly death didn’t seem so scary. In fact, it was warm…inviting.
It was life that was cold and hateful. Not death.
Death accepted you no matter who you were. It didn’t reject you…it didn’t ignore you. If you sought it, you would find it, and if you embraced it, it would embrace you.
With that thought in mind, Dom gave up.
And died.
***
Bruce Kenner, captain of the 5th Albany precinct, sat behind his desk on the morning of June 28 and lazily leafed through a stack of files as he sipped from a mug of coffee. A roughly built man with a dark goatee and graying blonde hair, he looked more like a small town southern sheriff than a low level public works functionary. In fact, he tended to act like it too. He liked to hunt, fish, and drink beer on his off time. Albany wasn’t a big city, but it was big enough that you never got a fucking break. Run here, run there, arrest this asshole, investigate that asshole. By the time Friday rolled around, he was so ready for the peace and tranquility of a fishing trip he could taste it.
Already this Monday morning, he was looking forward to another one.
Over the weekend, three kids went missing in the Pine Hills and Washington Park area, bringing the total for that summer up to eight. All were teenagers, all were troubled. Most were boys, but two were girls.
Troubled kids run away all the time. They might be gone a few days, sulking at a friend’s house over something their father or mother did, but they’d eventually come home. None of these kids had come back yet and from what he knew, a few of them weren’t the runaway types. They were shits at school and caused problems, but they had no reason to up and leave. Hell, Bruce himself raised hell as a kid, but he always found his way back home, even if he spent the previous night dying in a field from Mad Dogg 20/20 poisoning.
One or two kids going missing…okay, it happens. Eight? Over a span of four weeks?
Yeah, something was wrong here.
But what?
There was nothing on any of these kids. No one saw them, no one knew anything - one minute they were here, the next they weren’t. What could he or anyone else do with that?. The public broke cops’ balls all the time, but if you don’t have evidence, you don’t have evidence. What do you want? Door to door searches? Roadblocks? Dogs and helicopters? Yeah, then when you actually do it, they cry fascism. Guess I’ll just use my Spidey Senses.
Bruce wished he had spidey senses. He wanted to find these kids as much as anyone, and he was starting to get pissed off that he couldn’t. He took another sip from his mug and read on. The latest kids to go missing were three boys between the ages of fourteen and eighteen.
They were all white, all thin (except for one). If there was a serial killer in town - and Bruce hoped to fuck there wasn’t - he had a type. What, black kids aren’t good enough to kill, cannibalize, and wear like a skin suit? They should charge him with a hate crime for discrimination.
That way he’d actually stay locked up.
The door opened and Vanessa Rodregiez, his deputy, came in. A tall, shapely Hispanic woman with dark eyes and a mouth poised always on the edge of a smile, she wore her black hair in a ponytail that would look stern and severe on anyone else, but on her, looked childlike. She was twenty-seven and had been on the force for three years, but you could be forgiven for thinking her much younger. “Bright and early, I see,” she said with a grin.
Bruce grumbled.
Vanessa held down the fort during the graveyard shift, acting to the night as he acted to the day. She was young and full of energy, which clashed with Bruce, who was old and just wanted to be left alone. Despite their differences, Bruce loved her like a kid sister…an annoying kid sister he wanted to throat punch sometimes.
“You missed all the fun last night,” she said and parked her butt on the edge of Bruce’s desk. He glared at her, but she ignored him.
“Good,” he said. Then: “What happened?”
“Big fight outside of Club Vlad,” she said. “It looked like a WorldStar video.”
For a moment, Bruce was lost. “Club what?”
“Club Vlad,” Vanessa said. “Where the Fuze Box used to be.”
Ah, right. The Fuze Box was an Albany landmark, a night club for punks…or goths…or someone. Certainly not for Bruce Kenner. It was small, dingy, and always had people in black waiting outside. On Friday and Saturday nights, it blasted strange music with lyrics about fighting The Man. Kids had been fighting the Man since before Bruce was even born and they hadn’t beaten him yet. Kudos to them for still trying.
Last year, The Fuze Box closed down and someone else bought it. It reopened last month and looked more or less the same: Posers, shitty music, and spiked hair. So much spiked hair. “Place is still a pain in the ass,” Bruce said.
“Yep,” Vanessa chirped. “It doesn’t know what it wants to be now. One minute they play nightcore, the next EDM. It’s all over the place.”
Bruce raised a quizzical brow.
“Not that I’ve ever been there in my free time,” Vanessa said in a tone that suggested she had,
Bruce gave a judgemental hum.
“Anyway,” Vanessa went on, “you see we have some new missing persons?”
Sighing, Bruce sat back in his chair. “Yeah. I did.”
“People are starting to ask questions,” Vanessa warned.
That brought a terse smile to Bruce’s weathered face. “Maybe they’ll solve it then.”
“Ha, fat chance,” Vanessa said. She got up and stretched. “Anyway, I’m bushed. Here’s my…” she trailed off and looked at her empty hands. “Damn, where’s my report? I just had it?” She turned in a confused circle as if she might be able to spot her report making a break for it. “Huh,” she said. She left the office and came back a moment later holding a folder. “Found it,” she grinned.
Bruce just looked at her.
“Um…here it is.”
He didn’t take it.
Her smile faltered. She carefully sat it on top of the files Bruce was looking at.
And his hands.
“I’ll just leave that right here.” She patted it for good measure.
“Thank you,” Bruce said.
“Okay. Night.”
“Goodnight,” Bruce said as she left through a shaft of morning sunlight. Alone, Bruce sat her report aside and went back to the missing kids. This case was giving him a headache and it wasn’t even nine. With a deep sigh, he slumped back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrests.
Was it Saturday yet?
He could really use a fishing trip.
***
Dom came awake in the cold purple twilight with a shocked gasp like a man coming up seconds before drowning. His eyes strained from his sweaty face and his mouth hung slack, twisted in a gruesome parody of The Scream. His mind was muddled, murky - he didn’t know where he was or even who he was, but he knew this,.
He couldn’t breathe.
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, but his lungs did not fill with air. A great, unseen weight seemed to bear down on his chest, and panic gripped him. He tried to move, but his arms refused to heed his brain’s command. The weight seemed heavier, all over, crushing him like a bug. Confusion filled him and he started to pant.
Without warning, his bowels and bladder loosened, and horrible wetness filled his pants. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His chest rose and fell with the frantic labor of his breath, but his lungs remained inert. A cry of fear bubbled up inside of him, but escaped his mouth only as a breathy groan.
A bust of adrenaline shot through him and he tried to stand, but succeeded only in falling off the couch instead, landing face first against the cold tile floor. He felt his nose crunch, but the pain was muted.
Dom thought he lost consciousness after that, but wasn’t sure. His next memory was of shivering so violently that his teeth clacked together. A phantom chill - perhaps from the floor - had settled into his bones, and was colder than he had ever been in his life, colder even than the time he fell into a snowbank and got lost when he was two. Shudders racked his body, and though he tried to turn over, he was too fucking heavy. It was like every muscle in his body had turned to dead weight. Fragmented thoughts swirled in his head, faint colors in the dark, but he couldn’t put any of them together.
With great effort, he managed to push himself slightly up, but a wave of lightheadedness crashed over him and he lowered his head once more. He stopped trying and simply lay there. Shortly, his eyes began to burn and he realized that he wasn’t blinking. Jesus Christ, he wasn’t blinking.
For some strange reason, that brought a fresh bout of panic. He started to hyperventilate, but his lungs still wouldn’t work. He wasn’t blinking…he wasn’t breathing…what was happening to him?
A whimper burst from his throat and he started to cry.
He must have cried himself to sleep, because he woke sometime later to the most intense headache he’d ever had. It felt like something was eating his brain from the inside out. He was sore all over, and could feel his muscles twitching, as though a thousand living things were burrowing through his body. A cramp shot down his right leg, and the toes of his left foot curled involuntarily. Slowly, his jaw clenched closed, and the muscles in his neck began to strain…then to burn. His panic turned to terror, and Dom wiggled across the floor like a worm, his limbs screaming in red agony and his brain filling with heat. He somehow wound up on his right side, and his arms curled slowly up to his chest, crossing at the wrists like a mummy. He tried to pull them apart, but the slightest movement sent waves of excruciating pain cutting through his body. His knees began to draw up to his stomach, and his fingers clenched tightly.
Cramps and spasms attacked every muscle in his body. He screamed through his teeth and shook, resembling a man in the electric chair as 40,000 volts of justice coursed through him. The pain grew gradually, getting worse and worse as minutes ticked by like hours. Higher, higher, higher - he clenched his eyes closed and shrieked as it became unbearable. Disjointed thoughts flashed through his mind - prayers, threats, curses, Jesus fucking…FUCK.
What was happening? God, what was happening to him? Was it fentanyl? He’d seen videos of people high on fentanyl, and they leaned in weird positions. He didn’t do drugs but maybe he ingested it somehow.
His panic may have returned if all of his muscles hadn’t picked that moment to contract as one. His eyes bulged from their sockets and his jaw unclenched just enough for him to utter a high. Agonized scream that echoed through his empty apartment like thunder.
A human being can only take so much before giving out. When the pain reached a crescendo, and Dom mercifully sank into consciousness once more. The sun rose and cascaded through the apartment’s sole window, falling over his huddled form. Slowly, it tracked across the sky before setting again. As the last rays disappeared behind the horizon, Dom’s eyes opened. The pain of the night before was blessedly gone, replaced by a feeling of numbness - the cool ash after the hot fire. His thoughts were slow and thick like molasses, but he could actually think again. Nightmare memories flooded back to him, but he wasn’t sure they were real. He was lying on his side, his arms wrapped around his chest as if for warmth, and his teeth lightly chattered against the icy chill. He was so cold that he didn’t want to move, but he couldn’t stay here forever. He needed help. He needed…
A shower.
Yeah, a hot shower. That would warm him up.
Gritting his teeth, he slowly sat up, ready for a burst of pain.
But none came.
He did, however, feel heavy. Getting to his feet, he stumbled and nearly fell, catching himself against the counter. His limbs had no feeling. It’s like they weren’t even there. Head hung, Dom tried to catch his breath, but it felt like he wasn’t breathing at all. His eyelids drooped closed and he felt like he was going to fall down. Summoning all the might he could, he shuffled into the bathroom with the stiff gait of an old man. He snapped the light on, and cold, white brilliance filled the space, blinding him.
Leaning heavily against the sink, he gripped the cold porcelain. Suddenly, he was afraid of looking into the mirror. He was sure that whatever reflection he saw, it would be of something else, something monstrous.
Dom lifted his head and faced the glass.
His heart shrank.
The man in the mirror was him but different. His skin was white as milk, lacking all color whatsoever save for the ugly purple patch on the left side. IResembling a giant bruise, it started at the temple and extended down to the slope of his neck, disappearing beneath his T-shirt. He gingerly lifted the shirt, and moaned when he saw that his entire left side was discolored, the purple edged with a puffy shade of pink. His sallow skin clung tight to his ribcage, and his hip bones stuck out so much it looked painful. Back in the mirror, his cheeks were sunken, hollow, and his eyes were a hazy, dishwater gray. His skull seemed bigger, his hair longer. Dom wanted to whip his head away from the phantom before him, to never see it again, but he was transfixed.
There was no way that thing was -
Dom looked away, cutting that thought off before it could finish.
A shower.
He needed a shower.
Slowly, stiffly, Dom undressed, peeling off his shirt and his soiled pants. He dropped them in a heap on the floor and stepped under the spray. He could feel the water pounding against him, but it provided no heat. It was neither hot nor cold. It was simply there.
Dom pressed his head to the slick shower wall and stood there for a long time. He was spent, tired, and fried - he had no more emotions left to give. He got out after a little while, dried off, and put on a clean pair of shorts. He settled into bed and lay there with his hands folded over his chest and his eyes open. They felt gritty, dry. His stomach felt bloated, gassy. He was drowsy now, the weight of the past two days (or was it two weeks?) coming down on him all at once. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He was still asleep - but aware - when the knocking on his door started the next morning. Time was funny in this state of being, fast and jerky but also slow and echoing. Keys rattled the knob turned. The landlord came in with a cop. They saw him on the bed, laid out like a corpse for a viewing, and the cop radioed in a code 35. Soon, cops were all around him, making noise and touching things. He had the vague sense of discomfort and embarrassment at the intrusion. A baling man in a suit stood over him, a cop who looked like a redneck beside him. “He didn’t die here,” the medical examiner said.
The cop looked at him questioningly. Dom caught the name KENNER on his name tag.
“See this?” the M.E. said and gestured to Dom’s face. “That’s livor mortis. When you die, your blood pools at the lowest point. If you’re on your left side, for example, it pools on the left.”
Kenner looked at Dom and then back to the M.E. “Someone moved him?”
“Looks like it,” the M.E. said.
“When did he die?”
The M.E. examined Dom as though he were nothing more than a side of beef. “At a glance? Three days. I won’t have a better answer until I open him up.”
Dom was still awake when they put him into a body bag and zipped it up. He felt a stirring of fear beneath the cold numbness, but he was too tired to worry about it now.
Later, he thought.
He would panic later.
For now, Dom slept.

The world was a boozy whirl of lights and sounds. Images, broken and fragmented, came and went. Voices, laughter, screaming. The ground pitched like the deck of a tempest-tossed ship, and he felt heavy, as though the ground were pulling him to it. C’mere, Dommy. He fell, lay on the pavement, and pushed himself up again, staggering like a drunk on his way home. His head spun, his body ached, and things seemed blurry, like half-formed images glimpsed underwater.
It was the light blue hour before dawn and Dom was…somewhere. He should have recognized the stores and street signs around him, but he didn’t. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and a sense of confusion gripped him so strongly that he was beginning to panic. Where was he? What happened?
The world spun away again and the next thing he knew, he was lying in a heap of garbage bags, used needles, and rubbish. He came awake with a jerk and sat up so fast that a bolt of pain jammed into his skull. He winced and pressed his hand to his forehead. He felt hot, clammy.
Something was seriously wrong.
Somehow he got to his feet again and started walking. The sun was up now and the streets were filled with people. They all sneered in disgust as he passed, and he wrapped his arms around his chest like a baby comforting itself. He was getting cold. His muscles were sore. Tears streamed down his face and he wanted to cry.
Going on instinct alone, Dom made his way back home and climbed the steps to his apartment. Exhaustion swept over him and he sagged against the door as he dug in his pocket for the keys. They shook in his hand and he had to focus really hard to get the key into the lock.
Inside, he collapsed onto the couch and his eyelids instantly drooped. He was so weary that he couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t form a single coherent thought. Dom felt himself starting to sink, and snapped his eyes open with a start. Something in his soul told him that if he slept, he would die.
He couldn’t help it, though. He was falling, tumbling, hands reaching up from hell to grab him. His eyes fluttered closed again and the world started to go dark, his heart slamming in fear. He tried to fight, but the pull of darkness was too strong, too alluring. Why was he fighting? Why not just…give up? Hadn’t he thought of killing himself before? Didn’t he hate his life and himself? What was there to fight for? A wife? Kids? A community that loved and respected him? Shit, affordable groceries?
No.
There was nothing.
He had nothing and was nothing.
A sense of peace blossomed from the darkness, and suddenly death didn’t seem so scary. In fact, it was warm…inviting.
It was life that was cold and hateful. Not death.
Death accepted you no matter who you were. It didn’t reject you…it didn’t ignore you. If you sought it, you would find it, and if you embraced it, it would embrace you.
With that thought in mind, Dom gave up.
And died.
***
Bruce Kenner, captain of the 5th Albany precinct, sat behind his desk on the morning of June 28 and lazily leafed through a stack of files as he sipped from a mug of coffee. A roughly built man with a dark goatee and graying blonde hair, he looked more like a small town southern sheriff than a low level public works functionary. In fact, he tended to act like it too. He liked to hunt, fish, and drink beer on his off time. Albany wasn’t a big city, but it was big enough that you never got a fucking break. Run here, run there, arrest this asshole, investigate that asshole. By the time Friday rolled around, he was so ready for the peace and tranquility of a fishing trip he could taste it.
Already this Monday morning, he was looking forward to another one.
Over the weekend, three kids went missing in the Pine Hills and Washington Park area, bringing the total for that summer up to eight. All were teenagers, all were troubled. Most were boys, but two were girls.
Troubled kids run away all the time. They might be gone a few days, sulking at a friend’s house over something their father or mother did, but they’d eventually come home. None of these kids had come back yet and from what he knew, a few of them weren’t the runaway types. They were shits at school and caused problems, but they had no reason to up and leave. Hell, Bruce himself raised hell as a kid, but he always found his way back home, even if he spent the previous night dying in a field from Mad Dogg 20/20 poisoning.
One or two kids going missing…okay, it happens. Eight? Over a span of four weeks?
Yeah, something was wrong here.
But what?
There was nothing on any of these kids. No one saw them, no one knew anything - one minute they were here, the next they weren’t. What could he or anyone else do with that?. The public broke cops’ balls all the time, but if you don’t have evidence, you don’t have evidence. What do you want? Door to door searches? Roadblocks? Dogs and helicopters? Yeah, then when you actually do it, they cry fascism. Guess I’ll just use my Spidey Senses.
Bruce wished he had spidey senses. He wanted to find these kids as much as anyone, and he was starting to get pissed off that he couldn’t. He took another sip from his mug and read on. The latest kids to go missing were three boys between the ages of fourteen and eighteen.
They were all white, all thin (except for one). If there was a serial killer in town - and Bruce hoped to fuck there wasn’t - he had a type. What, black kids aren’t good enough to kill, cannibalize, and wear like a skin suit? They should charge him with a hate crime for discrimination.
That way he’d actually stay locked up.
The door opened and Vanessa Rodregiez, his deputy, came in. A tall, shapely Hispanic woman with dark eyes and a mouth poised always on the edge of a smile, she wore her black hair in a ponytail that would look stern and severe on anyone else, but on her, looked childlike. She was twenty-seven and had been on the force for three years, but you could be forgiven for thinking her much younger. “Bright and early, I see,” she said with a grin.
Bruce grumbled.
Vanessa held down the fort during the graveyard shift, acting to the night as he acted to the day. She was young and full of energy, which clashed with Bruce, who was old and just wanted to be left alone. Despite their differences, Bruce loved her like a kid sister…an annoying kid sister he wanted to throat punch sometimes.
“You missed all the fun last night,” she said and parked her butt on the edge of Bruce’s desk. He glared at her, but she ignored him.
“Good,” he said. Then: “What happened?”
“Big fight outside of Club Vlad,” she said. “It looked like a WorldStar video.”
For a moment, Bruce was lost. “Club what?”
“Club Vlad,” Vanessa said. “Where the Fuze Box used to be.”
Ah, right. The Fuze Box was an Albany landmark, a night club for punks…or goths…or someone. Certainly not for Bruce Kenner. It was small, dingy, and always had people in black waiting outside. On Friday and Saturday nights, it blasted strange music with lyrics about fighting The Man. Kids had been fighting the Man since before Bruce was even born and they hadn’t beaten him yet. Kudos to them for still trying.
Last year, The Fuze Box closed down and someone else bought it. It reopened last month and looked more or less the same: Posers, shitty music, and spiked hair. So much spiked hair. “Place is still a pain in the ass,” Bruce said.
“Yep,” Vanessa chirped. “It doesn’t know what it wants to be now. One minute they play nightcore, the next EDM. It’s all over the place.”
Bruce raised a quizzical brow.
“Not that I’ve ever been there in my free time,” Vanessa said in a tone that suggested she had,
Bruce gave a judgemental hum.
“Anyway,” Vanessa went on, “you see we have some new missing persons?”
Sighing, Bruce sat back in his chair. “Yeah. I did.”
“People are starting to ask questions,” Vanessa warned.
That brought a terse smile to Bruce’s weathered face. “Maybe they’ll solve it then.”
“Ha, fat chance,” Vanessa said. She got up and stretched. “Anyway, I’m bushed. Here’s my…” she trailed off and looked at her empty hands. “Damn, where’s my report? I just had it?” She turned in a confused circle as if she might be able to spot her report making a break for it. “Huh,” she said. She left the office and came back a moment later holding a folder. “Found it,” she grinned.
Bruce just looked at her.
“Um…here it is.”
He didn’t take it.
Her smile faltered. She carefully sat it on top of the files Bruce was looking at.
And his hands.
“I’ll just leave that right here.” She patted it for good measure.
“Thank you,” Bruce said.
“Okay. Night.”
“Goodnight,” Bruce said as she left through a shaft of morning sunlight. Alone, Bruce sat her report aside and went back to the missing kids. This case was giving him a headache and it wasn’t even nine. With a deep sigh, he slumped back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrests.
Was it Saturday yet?
He could really use a fishing trip.
***
Dom came awake in the cold purple twilight with a shocked gasp like a man coming up seconds before drowning. His eyes strained from his sweaty face and his mouth hung slack, twisted in a gruesome parody of The Scream. His mind was muddled, murky - he didn’t know where he was or even who he was, but he knew this,.
He couldn’t breathe.
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, but his lungs did not fill with air. A great, unseen weight seemed to bear down on his chest, and panic gripped him. He tried to move, but his arms refused to heed his brain’s command. The weight seemed heavier, all over, crushing him like a bug. Confusion filled him and he started to pant.
Without warning, his bowels and bladder loosened, and horrible wetness filled his pants. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His chest rose and fell with the frantic labor of his breath, but his lungs remained inert. A cry of fear bubbled up inside of him, but escaped his mouth only as a breathy groan.
A bust of adrenaline shot through him and he tried to stand, but succeeded only in falling off the couch instead, landing face first against the cold tile floor. He felt his nose crunch, but the pain was muted.
Dom thought he lost consciousness after that, but wasn’t sure. His next memory was of shivering so violently that his teeth clacked together. A phantom chill - perhaps from the floor - had settled into his bones, and was colder than he had ever been in his life, colder even than the time he fell into a snowbank and got lost when he was two. Shudders racked his body, and though he tried to turn over, he was too fucking heavy. It was like every muscle in his body had turned to dead weight. Fragmented thoughts swirled in his head, faint colors in the dark, but he couldn’t put any of them together.
With great effort, he managed to push himself slightly up, but a wave of lightheadedness crashed over him and he lowered his head once more. He stopped trying and simply lay there. Shortly, his eyes began to burn and he realized that he wasn’t blinking. Jesus Christ, he wasn’t blinking.
For some strange reason, that brought a fresh bout of panic. He started to hyperventilate, but his lungs still wouldn’t work. He wasn’t blinking…he wasn’t breathing…what was happening to him?
A whimper burst from his throat and he started to cry.
He must have cried himself to sleep, because he woke sometime later to the most intense headache he’d ever had. It felt like something was eating his brain from the inside out. He was sore all over, and could feel his muscles twitching, as though a thousand living things were burrowing through his body. A cramp shot down his right leg, and the toes of his left foot curled involuntarily. Slowly, his jaw clenched closed, and the muscles in his neck began to strain…then to burn. His panic turned to terror, and Dom wiggled across the floor like a worm, his limbs screaming in red agony and his brain filling with heat. He somehow wound up on his right side, and his arms curled slowly up to his chest, crossing at the wrists like a mummy. He tried to pull them apart, but the slightest movement sent waves of excruciating pain cutting through his body. His knees began to draw up to his stomach, and his fingers clenched tightly.
Cramps and spasms attacked every muscle in his body. He screamed through his teeth and shook, resembling a man in the electric chair as 40,000 volts of justice coursed through him. The pain grew gradually, getting worse and worse as minutes ticked by like hours. Higher, higher, higher - he clenched his eyes closed and shrieked as it became unbearable. Disjointed thoughts flashed through his mind - prayers, threats, curses, Jesus fucking…FUCK.
What was happening? God, what was happening to him? Was it fentanyl? He’d seen videos of people high on fentanyl, and they leaned in weird positions. He didn’t do drugs but maybe he ingested it somehow.
His panic may have returned if all of his muscles hadn’t picked that moment to contract as one. His eyes bulged from their sockets and his jaw unclenched just enough for him to utter a high. Agonized scream that echoed through his empty apartment like thunder.
A human being can only take so much before giving out. When the pain reached a crescendo, and Dom mercifully sank into consciousness once more. The sun rose and cascaded through the apartment’s sole window, falling over his huddled form. Slowly, it tracked across the sky before setting again. As the last rays disappeared behind the horizon, Dom’s eyes opened. The pain of the night before was blessedly gone, replaced by a feeling of numbness - the cool ash after the hot fire. His thoughts were slow and thick like molasses, but he could actually think again. Nightmare memories flooded back to him, but he wasn’t sure they were real. He was lying on his side, his arms wrapped around his chest as if for warmth, and his teeth lightly chattered against the icy chill. He was so cold that he didn’t want to move, but he couldn’t stay here forever. He needed help. He needed…
A shower.
Yeah, a hot shower. That would warm him up.
Gritting his teeth, he slowly sat up, ready for a burst of pain.
But none came.
He did, however, feel heavy. Getting to his feet, he stumbled and nearly fell, catching himself against the counter. His limbs had no feeling. It’s like they weren’t even there. Head hung, Dom tried to catch his breath, but it felt like he wasn’t breathing at all. His eyelids drooped closed and he felt like he was going to fall down. Summoning all the might he could, he shuffled into the bathroom with the stiff gait of an old man. He snapped the light on, and cold, white brilliance filled the space, blinding him.
Leaning heavily against the sink, he gripped the cold porcelain. Suddenly, he was afraid of looking into the mirror. He was sure that whatever reflection he saw, it would be of something else, something monstrous.
Dom lifted his head and faced the glass.
His heart shrank.
The man in the mirror was him but different. His skin was white as milk, lacking all color whatsoever save for the ugly purple patch on the left side. IResembling a giant bruise, it started at the temple and extended down to the slope of his neck, disappearing beneath his T-shirt. He gingerly lifted the shirt, and moaned when he saw that his entire left side was discolored, the purple edged with a puffy shade of pink. His sallow skin clung tight to his ribcage, and his hip bones stuck out so much it looked painful. Back in the mirror, his cheeks were sunken, hollow, and his eyes were a hazy, dishwater gray. His skull seemed bigger, his hair longer. Dom wanted to whip his head away from the phantom before him, to never see it again, but he was transfixed.
There was no way that thing was -
Dom looked away, cutting that thought off before it could finish.
A shower.
He needed a shower.
Slowly, stiffly, Dom undressed, peeling off his shirt and his soiled pants. He dropped them in a heap on the floor and stepped under the spray. He could feel the water pounding against him, but it provided no heat. It was neither hot nor cold. It was simply there.
Dom pressed his head to the slick shower wall and stood there for a long time. He was spent, tired, and fried - he had no more emotions left to give. He got out after a little while, dried off, and put on a clean pair of shorts. He settled into bed and lay there with his hands folded over his chest and his eyes open. They felt gritty, dry. His stomach felt bloated, gassy. He was drowsy now, the weight of the past two days (or was it two weeks?) coming down on him all at once. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He was still asleep - but aware - when the knocking on his door started the next morning. Time was funny in this state of being, fast and jerky but also slow and echoing. Keys rattled the knob turned. The landlord came in with a cop. They saw him on the bed, laid out like a corpse for a viewing, and the cop radioed in a code 35. Soon, cops were all around him, making noise and touching things. He had the vague sense of discomfort and embarrassment at the intrusion. A baling man in a suit stood over him, a cop who looked like a redneck beside him. “He didn’t die here,” the medical examiner said.
The cop looked at him questioningly. Dom caught the name KENNER on his name tag.
“See this?” the M.E. said and gestured to Dom’s face. “That’s livor mortis. When you die, your blood pools at the lowest point. If you’re on your left side, for example, it pools on the left.”
Kenner looked at Dom and then back to the M.E. “Someone moved him?”
“Looks like it,” the M.E. said.
“When did he die?”
The M.E. examined Dom as though he were nothing more than a side of beef. “At a glance? Three days. I won’t have a better answer until I open him up.”
Dom was still awake when they put him into a body bag and zipped it up. He felt a stirring of fear beneath the cold numbness, but he was too tired to worry about it now.
Later, he thought.
He would panic later.
For now, Dom slept.

Don't get me wrong. Pay is great, work is steady depending on where you work in the facilities, breaks are nice (again depending where you work, i hear horror stories from the cashiers), and generally? not a terrible vibe on third shift which is a god-send from the normal rabble.
What makes the job awful, much like any location, is the management. We've got several managers, much like any store, and of course they have their "favorites" who get away with everything barring murder. Some that walk around doing nothing all day, some that just sit in the wrong departments chatting, leaving the customers without help, some that ignore the customers asking for assistance as a whole, even a few that due the famous "U-turn" where they go back and forth from the bathroom and breakroom all night before clocking out. Everything we say about these individuals; in one ear, out the other. whether it's to HR, CXM, mod, directly to the individual in question or the boss of the store. Due to the crazy loops and mountain of paper-trailing required, the damage is already heavily implemented before anything can be freaking done about them, making the job twenty times harder than it needs to be.
Then you got the workers who bust their butt to make ends meet getting treated worse than the dirt you stand on because of these headaches. This goes on for every shift, but i need to focus on my own experiences through the third shift stress and tension as it has been getting extremely volatile. Between the problems above and a hard-headed manager interested in rushing to complete tasks over the safety of the worker, and the lack of stable workers since only 3 of us are full time + 2 part timers who do, essentially, full time hours, the strain on the night crew is insane. What sent me over the edge though wasn't the work.. oh no. I can handle the work load because whatever we don't get done is still there the next night. It's not hard to pick up where we left off and by the end of the week 99% of the time everything is done.
Below in the spoiler will be a pretty hefty rant of my experience involving what finally made me register my hard work means nothing. That we're simply replaceable fodder, and that our safety, no matter how much they plaster it as their priority, means nothing.

Back in January the area i live in experienced a pretty big storm. Didn't think much of it at the time, i've ridden my E-bike (my only source of transport) in storms before, even in the snow! But, unlike usual this storm had caused flash flooding. I had reached a particular point in the ride where I couldn't progress. The roads that legally allowed my bike to travel out of where I live had become flooded by nearly 6 inches of high speed water, with spots going as deep as a foot and more due to road conditions. Roads surrounding my route were also being slowly closed off as the storm continued and ubers were cancelling in the area (or outright rejecting rides due to the dangerous conditions.), making it progressively harder to get around. It was 10 minutes til work, and i still had 20 minutes to ride, and a 15 minute ride back home if something went wrong.
I pulled over at this intersection that was flooded and checked the news for the area. Local news networks labeled it a "local emergency", so i called it in, told my boss at night i wouldn't be able to make it due to the unsafe driving conditions and progressively worsening weather closing down major roads. He 'understood', told me it would not effect my points as it was a weather situation, and that several others were calling for similar problems. I returned home now soaked and the bike had to be carefully serviced to avoid any lasting damage from the heavy storm. Not a huge issue but annoying none the less.
Fast forward two weeks and i get brought into the office where the CXM and my boss are... and asked the famous line. "Do you know why you're back here?"
I truly had no idea, so i joked it off, I had won a recent raffle for 3 board-games, so I made the comment it was because I hadn't brought those home yet.
The CXM smiled, then said it was because i had received my 4th point for calling out without sick time. Now, mind you, I have no idea what's going on at this point. I knew i had missed 3 days (once in September, 2 times in october from bike issues leaving me on the road without a way in due to the battery dying.). So i asked where this 4th point was coming from. He mentions the day of the flood, my boss, who is keeping his mouth shut, looks away from me when he says this. At this point I sit down, rather miffed at this point because i was assured that it was okay due to it being a safety concern, and that others were calling out with similar issues without a problem.
I'm stunned at this point. Taking a seat at the wall, the night assistant manager closes the door behind me and the cxm begins to lay into me the normal spiel, about how they expect all workers to be punctual and that this was a writeup, and how i "needed to understand what was being said". The whole time he's smiling, I wasn't. I told him what I was told on the phone, that I was cleared due to the weather conditions and that a point wasn't on my record the last time i checked (which i was checking regularly the first week because i truly expected something like this to happen, and stopped checking 4 days prior to the meeting. This happened 2 weeks later on a Wednesday.) -The cxm says it doesn't matter what i'm told on the phone. And that I should have called an uber. -I told him that ubers were cancelling rides due to the roads closing. -He tells me to order a taxi instead then. Now. I'm getting riled up at this point. My leg it tapping, i'm clearly not happy, and the way the cxm is talking to me is actively pushing for a response like this as he continues to smile and REPEATS "do you understand why you're getting this write-up" over, and over, and over again. -The night shift boss is still not making eye contact with me. -So, I stare straight at the cxm and respond to his question. "I understand that I have 3 points, but the 4th point I do not agree with. I was told that I was okay, and that the local news had declared it an emergency. I do not agree with that fourth point." -They both look at me, and I continue to look directly at the cxm. I'm still pretty relaxed at this point even if i'm agitated mentally and tapping my foot. I just want to get back to work at this point because I know the cxm is on a power-trip based on his body language and how much he's smiling. However, it really shown when that smile went away at me saying that comment. The cxm folded his hands, his smile gone and said "look, you want me to be blunt? I don't care what you agree with, you just need to understand you're being written up for 4 points of missed work. I can't let you leave until you agree."
THAT shifted my whole mood. I went from calm, to alert. My foot stopped tapping, I sat back in the chair and I was glaring at the cxm at this point. I was LIVID. The night manager STILL wouldn't look at me, instead he was watching the cxm. So i stayed focused on him as well. I folded my arms, and gave my full attention to him.
He repeated "Do you understand why you're being given this formal write-up?" again, and I, again, said I didn't agree with it. He AGAIN said he didn't care what I agreed or thought was right. and he just needed me to agree with it. So. I said what he wanted me to say. "I understand i'm being written up for a point I don't agree with"
As if MOCKING me, he again repeats "do you understand you can't keep missing days like this?"
I stayed DEAD SILENT at this point, and he leaned forward and looked at me with a big ol' smile. and told me to "stop staring at me with that death-glare, it's not working on me, buddy"
I was fuming. I was NOT going to be treated like a tool like that for taking my own safety into consideration during a local emergency for the job to tell me I was still in the wrong TWO WEEKS AFTER the event happened.
I was forced to agree, because I was sick and tired of staring at him and getting nowhere. So i repeated the comment like a good little drone and left. God i wish i knew i could have commented in that signing page that i signed under protest, course I was so pissed off i doubt i'd have even realized where to write it if i had known. I signed the "admission of guilt" crap, and immediately went to speak to the main boss of the store. Took two more weeks to get ahold of him, and he agreed it sounded very unusual. Main boss went to HR with clarification on how to handle it because even he wasn't too sure on it.
Two weeks after that, i touched base with the main boss. AND HE AGREED THAT I HAD NOT DESERVED THAT POINT OR THE WRITEUP. HR had come back to him about it coming down to the manager who handles the call-out (in my case the night shift boss), and a second manager who confirms the callout. My only assumption is that my boss agreed and acknowledged it as a weather related incident, and the second manager, the cxm in this case, decided to over-rule that decision.
Every other manager I spoke to thought that point was bogus. THE MAIN BOSS said it was bogus, and HR agreed that it was a case-to-case issue due to their system not having anything concrete for localized weather emergencies (they only have it for snow/ice, and state emergencies.) but even our HR contact agreed that safety takes priority! So here I am, 3 months into this crap I didn't even deserve, all because this dude decided to swing his big-boy stick. Taking the proper channels to have it addressed, complaint sent in about the manager in question, and trying to do things by the book did nothing but hit me with a "well you didn't act fast enough so we can't fix it" response, because it took over a month to get it processed. On the plus side, since I explained the entire incident to the main boss of the store (including the response from the manager who was handling the write-up), He gave me his direct line and told me that if i EVER got caught in a major storm like that to let him know, and he'd be sure to clear the incident himself. So while it happened, the store boss pulled through and assured me it won't happen again since it was a situational decision based on whoever got the call-out to handle. The problem is that the one who made this a problem in the first place is still in a position to do said problem. And that, unfortunately, I am unable to address directly like this. It was untouched for almost 2 weeks, sent in as a point right at the end of the 2 week "edit" period, and then I'm written up a week after that, ensuring I had no way to fight it. This was, in all purposes, an abuse of power. But, i'm a drone. I'm only as strong as the voice of the rest of this cacophony, and that's why they keep everyone at eachothers' throats.

Like I said. It's a rant, so only pop it open if you want to see what triggered this message to begin with. It's the biggest frustration I've had in the many years working here that firmly got under my skin due to the way it was handled and how long it took to get properly addressed, for no other reason than to tell me it was too late to do anything about it. We're just numbers in this machine, readily replaceable and easily used to kick around in the name of "fun" for those in a position of power. Where the rules and regulations are waived so long as you're buddies with the other management, and those working hard and keeping to themselves are an easy source to dump the blame and pressure or exercise someone's "authority".