I would love to get some advice and perspectives from teachers please remove this post if it’s not appropriate!
I’m a high school senior and I really love my environmental science teacher last year, she is an amazing teacher and human being. She’s been nothing but supportive, kind, and inspirational. She ended up writing my letter of rec for college. She told me I should to tell her what school I’m going to once I commit.
I committed few weeks ago and has been hesitating on telling her because I heard from my friends her mom just passed away (like just these few weeks).
She is retiring THIS year, and she said last year one of the reason she’s retiring is to spend more time with her mom. I feel really really bad for her, and I don’t know if it’s appropriate for me to write her an email and send my condolences (because technically I’m not supposed to know, she only told her student this year and she said she doesn’t want this news to be widespread).
I ran into her in the hallway today, and literally made the world’s most useless conversation possible. I just rambled a little about the school I’m going to and I’m excited and stuff. I didn’t mention her mom because I didn’t know if i should.
Should I send her an email to send my condolences? Is this over the boundary and creepy? Should I send her an email to tell her about the school I’m going to?
Any advice appreciated😭

Carrie purposely ignored the cellular call, no care in the world at all,
The last time she heard from her mother she was feeling sick in a local theatre stall,
Weeks go by only to get a knock at the door, Condolences from the neighbor on her late mother’s passing from crashing into a sidewall,
Swerved to avoid a sudden lane change from the large overhaul,
Torn, Mangled leathery skin, the officers were rather appalled,
Carrie’s substance abuse issues have been her major downfall,
While she’s out getting high, her mom’s tumor had snowballed,
She endured a stroke, and drove to the hospital near the mall,
But along the interstate, blacked out, ejected like a cheap rag doll,
She died in the ambulance in front Of city hall, Another isolated causality amongst the urban sprawl,
Carrie’s blood pressure spiked with grain alcohol, The dancing plumes of smoke like aerosol,
Crack rock the government psyop made Carrie a Neanderthal, Mix in the Codeine-Paracetamol,
Her mother raised a leader that turned into a petty criminal,
Ignorance is bliss but factual information cannot be missed,
Carrie numb to grief sensations, spiraling in an oceanic abyss,
Holy fish paste these mistakes are barnacles stacked to make your psyche tremble and back ache,
Tsunamis from friction between tectonic plates, causing eruptions of underwater earthquakes,
Carrie’s reality’s at stake, Stuffing emotions, blinding feelings, no safe space for a selfish sea snake,
The membrane expands from the pressured weight of scenario re-makes,
What ifs, and how come, or if I may change the outcome,
And pace of a fateful day, pull the emergency hand brake,
The grieving process smacking Carrie across the length of her face,
No amount of crack cocaine can replace, And no quantity of alcohol fills the need for warm embrace,
Friends and family are a blessing Carrie took for granted, such a pitiful disgrace,
To the nature of our being tribal mentality amongst our high castle’s disc space,
Love and cortisol Never get erased, Savor the moments or they’re left being chased,
Reminiscing over prior dates when you weren’t fully awake,
Life could end in an instant so I treat family dinners like they’re Christmas,
Carrie bears the burden of guilt through anxious stiffness,
Trudging solo from metropolis to isolated isthmus, Planned to quit utilizing Xanax, alcohol, and barbiturates,
The strain of her mother’s passing became psychologically vicious,
Friends suspicious of her new endeavors as they often witness,
Her depression like a terminal sickness,
She abruptly ended her goals and ambitions,
Parting ways with shame by escaping existence,
Treasure simple pleasures with loved ones banded together,
Respond to faithful family letters, to your kin remain tethered,
A cycle of thriving under immense pressure,
Left a fractured umbrella ruined in the surging stormy weather,
Nothing in this reality truly lasts forever

My oldest (15) son who is an AuDHDer, often is one of the most caring sorts.
Last night, I was writing a condolence letter to an old family friend as his wife had passed recently. They have known me since I was born. I was sitting at the desk in my small, one bedroom apartment while my son watched YouTube on the TV. I was having a moment writing the letter and had moments where I was weeping and crying in a way to not draw attention to myself. I know he was on to me as I kept getting tissues and blowing my nose. He asked if I was ok, and I took a deep breath and said, "No." And he leaned down and gave me a hug and asked what was wrong. He offered a cuddle on my bed and we talked and I let out some more tears. He has a lot of emotional dysregulation and has come a long ways. A couple years ago, he was running away from school and threatened self-harm on several occasions. He went to an immersive therapy program at a local hospital and has become a much better person. There are still some challenging days but his empath side always shines bright when he reaches out to elevate those who are caught in a moment. And though my heart is torn to pieces in this period of tragedy and grief, my son provided me with the chance to share and to voice the pain.

I just remembered one of the most embarrassing times of my life that if I could go back in time, I would stop myself.
I was used to be bullied in my primary school for the whole 6 years I have spent there. I still am processing most of those years and putting my self esteem back together. But this one incident just comes back from time to time to haunt me.
I was like 10 or 11 years old, you know the age when kids starts to have little crushes. That first crush, yeah. I was known to be the "fat" girl in school. (Later realised I was chubby and thick boned but still got bullied)
I had this crush at a boy one year below my grade, he was actually awful to me, and we went to tennis lessons after classes in the same group. But for some strange and stupid reason I was gooshing over this guy, and Valentines day was approaching in school.
This was actually one of the first ever occasion that the whole school took it seriously by introducing the Secret Crush letter service.
The point is, you had to write a love poem by yourself, put it in an envelope and with name and Grade given on the front, put it in a box.
I don't know why I did it, I was stupid and should have known that I shouldn't have done it as its just causing me problems in the long run.
One of my classmates who was bullying me here and there asked who did I write the letter for as she noticed me putting a letter into the box. I was reluctant to answer and here is where I made my mistake.
She pressured me saying "she won't tell..." Kids will be kids, so innocent. I told her, who it was and in 10 minutes the whole school knew.
The boy I had a crush on came to the classroom, had such a disgusted face saying he doesn't want a poem from me, and that I am gross. My classmates made jokes about it the whole day, and he was joining in the mockery, even laughing his arse off.
Needless to say my crush faded instantly and exchanged with hatred. The next day when he received the letter,, he didn't came to the classroom, not even after, people kept mocking me the entire month but then found something else to mock me about and forgot about it.
My past is a big part of who I became now sadly, but I can say I made progress on my life for the better. I am soon to be married (not to the guy who I wrote the poem to) to the love of my life and I can't wait to see what my future holds. I think if I was much stronger back then, I would have been able to stand up to my bullies, but I don't blame anyone anymore. Kids will be kids, some grew out of their manners, and some won't.
Thank you for reading this post, if you had similar encounters, I send you a big hug and my condolences. Keep your chins up babies!
Btw my wedding is on 11th of July this year! Wish me good luck! ❤️❤️❤️

I just want to start off by saying that any judgement to this post is unwelcome, because I have already gone through every emotion and self-judgement possible. For the sake of the story and staying anonymous, My best friend’s name will be Hannah and my boyfriend’s name will be Lucas.
Hannah and I were friends for about 2 years. I was never as close with Lucas as I was with her, but we were friends, talked sometimes and played games together in groups. Hannah and I talked everyday, had an awesome friendship and related on many subjects.
She had always struggled with her mental health. She had an abusive family and talked about committing suicide just about everyday, in the joking way that everyone does, so unfortunately everyone in her life had looked past it. I had spent countess hours comforting her, but her support that she needed from her family and professionally just wasn’t there. In late 2022, she ended up committing suicide.
I was horrified. Spent months crying in my room, barely eating, looking at old messages and photos between me and her wondering how the hell I missed the signs. I even reached out to her family, whom I’ve never talked to before, and sent condolences.
The one who told me that Hannah had passed away that night, was her boyfriend, Lucas. Even though I was feeling everything I was, I couldn’t help but feel even worse for him, because I just couldn’t fathom imagining my first girlfriend of 1 year killing herself, and the police showing up to the door to tell you.
I was there for him in the following months more than I was for myself. I never used to talk to him frequently, but we were there for each other, comforting each other through texts and calls everyday. Reminding each other to eat and drink water. Talking about how much we missed her, how we couldn’t fathom the fact she was actually gone forever, and all the pain and regrets that come with losing someone. Him and I knew her the best, and were closest with her, so we understood each other perfectly.
From what was once acquaintances turned into close friends, throughout the entirety of 2023. Lucas and I were both going through hell when it came to love, because I had just left an extremely toxic and abusive relationship, and he had lost his girlfriend to suicide. We found ourselves relating to the struggle of feeling like we could never love anyone again. We helped each other heal through this.
Then comes November 2023, and suddenly what was close friends was turning into a… “situation”. Very flirty undertones in our texts and speech. Sending each other couples posts. Basically everything we could say to each other but pass off as “oh, but in a friend way”, we were doing. That month felt very slow-burn-like. He even sent me handwritten letters and packages, filled with gifts and treats. Ordering me food regularly and loving to see me happy. The day after Christmas, Lucas confessed that he had feelings for me, and that I had “sparked feelings in him that he never thought he could feel again.” I couldn’t help but feel the same.
I went through a lot of guilt at this point for feeling this way. Wondered often if the only reason he had those feelings for me, was only because I reminded him of Hannah. But I am very confrontational, and wasn’t afraid to talk that out with him. He told me what he saw in me was completely new, and that the more he talked to me over the year, the more he grew to love me for me.
Ever since, we have had the most healthy and beautiful relationship. Lucas is the most understanding and caring man I’ve ever met in my life, and he’s absolutely everything I could hope for in a partner.
It’s also worth mentioning that being with him has helped me improve myself as a human being. I was in the same boat as Hannah before she passed, struggling with suicidal thoughts and even trying to end my own life. But being with Lucas made those feelings evaporate, because I could never, in a million years, do that to him. Seeing the pain firsthand that suicide brings to others is an experience I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, but it also makes you truly understand the depth of actually ending your own life. I’ve never even thought about it since losing Hannah.
I love Lucas. It’s definitely weird and funny, the way the world works out. You can call me whatever you want for loving him, but I think after what we both experienced through losing her, we deserve to be happy and improve as people.

Reddit Account: u/spyraxes
Discord Tag: spyraxes
Name and House: Visenya Targaryen
Age: 54
Cultural Group: Valyrian
Appearance: Visenya is a woman covered head to toe in striking features. With silver-gold hair worn braided or bound, allowing herself easy motion and vision in combat, purple eyes that stare from a harsh face with deep cheekbones and stern expressions, the Bloody Queen is a dominant figure in courtly and martial situations. Some say she bathes in blood to keep her youth, others that her rigorous training and love for battle keeps her body fit. Whatever the case, Visenya is a unique and unsettling woman.
Trait: Strong
Skill(s): Dragonrider, Swords (e), Essosi Blademaster (e)
Talent(s): Training, Glaring, Thinking Deeply About Things
Negative Trait(s): too cool
Starting Title(s): Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Lady of Mooncrest, Mother of the True King, the Bloody Queen, Wielder of Dark Sister, Rider of Vhagar
Starting Location: Opening Event
Alternate Characters: jesus christ its day 1 dont make me alt please!
Name and House: Marsella Egen
Age: 24
Cultural Group: Valeman
Appearance: Marsella is as cold-faced as her Queenly mistress, though more prone to smiles creeping through. She is tall, broad-shouldered, with a powerful build shaped by years of training and journeying the realm. Her hair is red and cut short, her face scarred and her green eyes deep-set and surrounded by scars.
Trait: Hale
Skill(s): Two-Handed Weapons (e), Brute
Talent(s): Dancing, Drinking, Gambling
Negative Trait(s): n/a
Starting Title(s): Sworn Sword to Lae Targaryen, Heir to Mooncrest, Cavalier
Starting Location: Opening Event
—

Bio-Timeline

• 29 BC - Visenya Targaryen is born, the first child of Aerion Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, and his wife Valaena Velaryon.
• 27 BC - Only a few years later, the boy who would later become the Conqueror, Aegon Targaryen, is born. His betrothal to Visenya is arranged almost the moment he is swaddled.
• 25 BC - Rhaenys Targaryen, youngest of the trio, joins the family. She is the last Targaryen born before the Conquest.
• 21 BC - Visenya begins to train with Lord Quenton Qoherys, Master-at-Arms of Dragonstone, and shows exceptional skill at arms. Later on, Aegon and Rhaenys both join her in practising their swordplay. Visenya always seems to get an edge, despite their shared significant skill.
• 14 BC - Between training sessions, Visenya finds herself exploring quiet places on Dragonstone. It is during one of these outings that she comes across one of the island’s non-human occupants. Vhagar, one of the smaller dragons on the island, bonds quickly with her. It takes a few months of bonding, but Visenya quickly becomes close to the beast - and soon enough she becomes its one and only rider.
• 9 BC - As arranged many years before, Aegon and Visenya wed. It is a marriage of duty, but all know Aegon holds love for his younger sister over the elder. Visenya holds no resentment. She knows duty and love cannot always intermingle, but she will do hers.
• 7 BC - Rhaenys and Aegon marry two years later in a pivot from tradition. Visenya spends more time with Vhagar and less with her siblings in the wake of it, though her love for Aegon does not dull. She remains close with the pair even with her physical distance.
• 2 BC - After a while of planning and plotting, the three Targaryens fly forth to conquer Westeros. House Stokeworth fell to Vhagar’s flames, and Duskendale knelt to the Queen after the fall of their army in Aegon’s first test. With the lands that would later become the core of Targaryen dominion secured, Aegon was crowned King of All Westeros, a crown placed atop his head by his elder sister and his title proclaimed by his younger. As the Stormlands fall to Rhaenys, and Harrenhal to Aegon, Visenya finds herself tasked with the conquest of the Vale. After destroying the region’s fleet, though not without losing a large portion of the Targaryen navy itself, Visenya circles back to Blackwater Bay, landing in Crackclaw Point and accepting the oaths of fealty of the local lords in the wake of Harrenhal’s destruction. With the Claw pacified, Visenya flies to join her siblings once more. They take a smaller force to the Reach, to meet an army of the Gardeners and Lannisters in battle. Nearly through dragonfire alone, the armies of Reach and West crumble, House Gardener nearly becomes extinct, and House Lannister kneels to the new royal house. Visenya receives an injury in the battle, taking an arrow to the shoulder, but it does nothing to hamper her skill.
• 1 BC - In the wake of the Field of Fire, Visenya retreats to the Aegonfort to recover from her injury. It does not take long for her to return to action, though, joining her siblings at the Trident to await the arrival of a Northern host led by the King of Winter. Visenya has no qualms with burning every Northman who wishes to cross the river, but Torrhen’s surrender is a move she views as wise. With the northern border secure, Visenya deals with her only loose end once and for all. On dragonback, she travels to the Eyrie as the Queen Regent of the Vale amasses an army, her attempt to arrange a marriage between herself and Aegon a failure. Visenya’s arrival is met by the young King, who sits himself up on her lap to await Sharra Arryn’s arrival. When she turns up, Ronnel asks to fly on dragonback - and that is enough to make Sharra capitulate, handing over the crown of Mountain and Vale to the dragonrider. Visenya’s act of mercy endears her to the young king and his mother, who becomes a close companion of Visenya in later years.
• 1 AC - With the Conquest brought to an end, besides the Dornish and the Ironborn homeland, the royal family fly to Oldtown to witness the crowning of Aegon I Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. To gain the sympathies of the people, the Targaryens convert to the Faith of the Seven - though Visenya holds fast to her Valyrian beliefs behind closed doors, unwilling to abandon her heritage to please those who she conquered. With Aegon’s victory, King’s Landing’s construction becomes the focus of the realm. For a while, anyway. During this initial period of peace, one attempt is made on the life of the King, with Visenya putting down the assassins. Aegon believes his guards are more than sufficient usually, and she proves him wrong by opening up his cheek with the tip of Dark Sister before any of his men can respond. Not long after, Ser Corlys Velaryon is named Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and six knights are selected to join him in an act honouring the false gods of Westeros.
  • Far from the capital, in Mooncrest, a daughter is born to Lord Lyn Egen and his wife. She is named Marsella.
• 2 AC - Once again, the peace is fractured. House Sunderland resumes their rebellion against House Arryn and the Crown, and the Ironborn continue to war with Westeros as a whole. Whilst Aegon deals with the raiders to the west, the Queen flies north and puts down Queen Marla Sunderland and her rebels, turning the hold of House Sunderland and the entire line to ash, naming House Borrell as overlords of the Sisters, and bidding them swear fealty to House Stark of Winterfell in place of the young Lord Arryn. Before returning to King’s Landing, she takes a quick stop at the Eyrie to berate the Lady Regent for her negligent handling of the situation - though she leaves with a far more forgiving stance, and perhaps a touch of regret for her harsh decision.
• 3 - 7 AC - Visenya assumes a position in the royal court enforcing Aegon’s will, assisting the Kingsguard in protecting him from attacks, and providing an intimidating presence for those who would overstep their bounds. She maintains contact with the Arryns of the Vale, letters flying back and forth to keep her friendship with the Lady Regent alive. She gives and receives advice, whiles away time writing, and promises to visit.
• 7 AC - At a feast to celebrate the seventh anniversary of the Conquest, during one of Rhaenys’ visits to Dorne, the King is attacked. Goldcloaks perform the assassination attempt in great numbers, and the force of Visenya and the Kingsguard isn’t enough to stop them from getting to Aegon and wounding him. Despite their failure to protect him, the fight ends in royal favour as Ser Malwyn Blackwood takes some of the assailants captive and Visenya tends to the fallen king. He is unresponsive but alive, and Orys promises to take care of him whilst the prisoners are interrogated. Reluctantly, the Queen agrees. It does not take long for the truth to be revealed - that House Tully of Riverrun plotted the attack, in an attempt to kill the King. It seemed unlikely that they would fail, in the end, but Visenya refused to let them see their day of victory. Only she is told, and she acts immediately, leaving the city on the back of Vhagar and heading towards Riverrun with only one objective in mind. When she reaches the castle, there is little hesitation - fire envelops the people and the structures, turning all to ash. No Tully survives, in her reckoning, and she takes the signet ring of Lord Edmyn as proof of her victory and their failure. Naming the land Aegon’s Rest, she pens a writ bestowing it upon Baelor Belaerys, a man in her husband’s service and descendant of dragonlords of old, and names Lord Lannister the overlord of the territory. She returns to King’s Landing, but her visit does not last long - when Aegon’s death is confirmed, and the Master of Laws reveals the plans to split governance three ways, she leaves for the Vale almost immediately. She only stays around long enough to have her pregnancy confirmed - an heir to the throne.
• 7 - 10 AC - It doesn’t take long for Visenya to arrive at the Eyrie, welcomed in her grief by Sharra and her children. She is visibly pregnant, and her small retinue settles in well. Most of her time is spent with the Lady Regent and the children, and the birth of her first child - who she names Laenor - is no deterrent from that. In fact, it often seems that Visenya has more affection for her host’s children than her own. She becomes almost a second mother to the Lord of the Eyrie and his three siblings. Despite her closed-off nature, she finds a constant companion in Sharra Arryn, and becomes as close to friends as she can with many others present in the castle including Lord Lyn Egen, an advisor to the Lady Regent. She splits her time between training, flying, the children, and her own heir.
• 10 AC - Ronnel Arryn comes of age, and is wedded to Serena Stark. It is an arrangement made by Rhaenys, one that infuriates Visenya to no end initially. She becomes irate at Sharra, but quickly turns around and accepts it. Their relationship remains warm and close. However, nearing the end of the year, Sharra dies. Once more, Visenya retreats into herself, spending most of the days in the sky on Vhagar’s back alone. She is convinced to return to life by the Arryn children, and continues to raise them into adulthood. Without Sharra, it is a harder task, but one she confronts all the same.
• 13 AC - Despite their devotion to the Seven, gods Visenya only considered to be hers in name, the formation of the Cavaliers brings joy to the Queen in the Mountains. She places her support behind the order, continuing her return to public life within the Vale. She takes on the duty of training the daughter of her good friend Lord Egen, teaching young Marsella how to fight. Despite their difference in weaponry - Visenya’s preference for smaller longswords versus Marsella’s for large hefty greatswords - the two get along fiercely well.
• 15 AC - When news of the tragedy in the Kingswood reaches the Eyrie, Visenya sends her condolences to the regent for the deaths under his watch. There is something cold about the way it is written.
• 16 AC - News of Dorne’s integration into the Seven Kingdoms pleases her no more than the Kingswood Catastrophe, especially when the stipulation upon which it happened is made known to her. Unwilling to dishonour the deal, Visenya ensures that she has it in writing that Laenor will one day marry the Princess of Dorne’s daughter, but she is irate over Rhaenys’ move - but also a little proud of her younger sister for outmanoeuvring her.
• 19 AC - After a long period of courting and an even longer period of talking, a wedding is held at Mooncrest between Visenya Targaryen and Lord Lyn Egen. There is jubilation, a tournament, a grand feast, and perhaps the first real smile on the lips of Visenya since the death of Sharra Arryn. It is proof that there is still a drop of the old Visenya beneath the cold, disconnected surface, that very few see. It is not the end of ceremony for the Egens in that year, as Marsella is inducted into the Cavaliers. She is sworn to protect Laenor Targaryen, too, her sibling and friend.
• 20 AC - Early in the year, after a prolonged illness, Lyn’s eldest daughter Carolei passes. There is sorrow in Mooncrest, but it is solved in part by good news. Just a year and a bit after their wedding, Visenya and Lyn’s first and only child is born, a young girl named Maegelle. She is Lyn’s third daughter, second living, and only one present in Mooncrest - Marsella left a note in the wake of her sister’s death that she was taking some time for herself in Essos and would be back when she viewed it right. Some wonder if she is participating in Orys’ plans to create closer relations with Essos, but the Egens know that is unlikely - Marsella cares little for politics and less for the enemies of her father’s wife.
• 20 - 25 AC - Visenya and Lyn remain quiet at Mooncrest and the Eyrie, engaging in politics and plotting and regular court life (moreso for the latter than the former), as Laenor becomes more and more shaped into the ruler they’re meant to become. Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, Marsella becomes more grizzled a warrior, serving with the Lost Legion before their arrival in Westeros, meeting the Blue Sails and their leader Helya Harlaw and joining them briefly, and taking on mercenary work across the Free Cities and the Disputed Lands for anyone who would pay for a Westerosi warrior. Her contact with Mooncrest is limited, bearing only a few words attached to packages for Laenor alone.
• 25 AC - As Laenor comes of age, and the realm at large is summoned to King’s Landing to celebrate the namedays of her and Rhaenys’ children, Visenya prepares for the worst - her sister will not move aside easily, and she knows well enough that Rhaenys might have to be forced. But there is no doubt in her mind that she is ready for it - she just prays the realm is to join her. From the East, Marsella returns, ready to see her kin and friends for the first time in half a decade. She is not the same woman she once was.

—

Family Tree

House Egen
House Targaryen
—

Supporting Characters

Lord Lyn Egen - b. 24 BC - Archetype: General - Wise and a touch ferocious, Lyn is a skilled commander and a protective father, ready to do whatever he can to protect his daughters and Visenya’s own child. Skilled enough with a sword but more comfortable ahorse or behind a commander’s desk, the man who served as Keeper of the Gates of the Moon during the Conquest and was ready to cut his teeth against dragonfire now acts as the most loyal and proud follower of the very Queen who conquered his lands, his own wife.
Lorra Egen - b. 6 AC - Archetype: Builder - Despite the martial inclination of much of House Egen, Laenor is not the only occupant of Mooncrest who has grasped numbers well. Lorra Egen is a skilled mathematician in her own right, left in charge of the finances of the castle when her distant step-kin isn’t there to run them, and often assisting them in doing so. She is prim and proper and prone to judgement, but she is kind at heart. No niece of Lyn Egen would survive not being so, in truth.

I went to my doctor today to see if I would be a good fit for wegovy or any other weight loss drugs. Weight loss medications are also not covered under my current insurance so I wanted to also talk to him about writing an appeal for a formulary exception / prior authorization.
My doctor is familiar with my medical history 36 (m) 5'11" 395 pounds and high blood pressure. We also talked about how and why my keto diet failed and how the gym hurts. My trainer saying it will get easier and less painful once you lose some of the initial weight. Back pain, even from brisk 45 minute walks is holding me back from really getting into the gym.
To prepare and make everything as easy as possible for my doctor to do the appeal I called my insurance and asked exactly what they needed. I also have previous work experience in insurance so I am familiar with the process. I wrote everything down that was needed (why this medication is a good fit, what we have tried, BMI, blood pressure and medical records to back it up). I made sure to get where and who to send it to, how to do the cover letter etc... I was very prepared.
When we finally got to the topic of appealing to insurance he told me that "they are just jerking you around". "No insurance is approving appeals". "They literally throw them in the trash". I emphasized that I got all the information gathered already and that I have work experience with insurance and know it can work. He said "It doesn't matter, weight loss drugs are too expensive and they get hundreds of requests a day. They approve other drugs, but weight loss drugs are different"
He did offer me condolences that weight loss is hard and also a book suggestion to read about meditating to get rid of cravings. I left with him not even attempting to appeal and no prescription. I'm pretty devastated right now, I've known this doctor for years and he has never been that blunt or unwilling to work with me. He knows the struggle I've had with weight and blood pressure.
Is this a situation where I should try a second opinion? Was my doctor out of line?
Edit: First of all thank you so much for all the responses, there is some great advice in here. I appreciate the direction, I was feeling really bummed out.
my next course of action is to talk to a specialist, possibly through the weight watchers telemed program. I already have an active account with weight watchers and it seems highly recommended by people in the comments.
I did take a look and there are compound pharmacies near me. They were closed already for the night, but I'm excited to take a look and see what their costs are.
Finally, my primary doctor did let me down really hard this time, but as others have said I should check with a specialist as he may not have time for the personal attention needed. I'm going to be sticking with him for other issues, but consider this strike one. He has been through a lot with me. He was absolutely great and on top of everything through multiple fights with cancer (2.5 years cancer free!)

if I write a song about how I think a person is horrible, write condolence letters to their family, how I hope they should die , and accuse them of being a pedophile, it gets 14 million views, and then someone else attempts to shoot that person. Am I the artist liable for inciting that violence?
Asking for a friend.

Yadavindra Singh talking about Sikhi. Some people, including myself might have different views to what he's saying, but its still an interesting read.
At the Hague, the Maharaja was working on a book of memoirs which, unfortunately, was left unfinished. He gave several sittings, speaking into a taperecorder and answering questions put by a Dutch writer. From the tape, a script was made. A few fragments from that unpublished manuscript are being reproduced here.
Speaks the Maharaja: We Sikhs do not recognize caste. Yet, if I must mention mine. I come of the Sidhu subcaste of the Jatts. Our word for subcaste is got or gotra. We are possibly the largest number among Sikhs must be about a million; maybe, even moreI am not sure. But I must first describe to you the origin of Sikhism which is my religion. We came into existence in 1469 when our First Master, Guru Nanak, came on to this earth. In Guru Nanak's simple, but dynamic teaching a new world religion took its birth the religion of Sikhs. The word "Sikh" derives from the Sanskrit shishya, a learner or disciple. Guru Nanak preached the message of unity of God and brotherhood of man. He rejected caste and image worship. He expressed himself against formalism and superstition.
It is Guru Gobind Singh who gave the finishing touch to the work started by Guru Nanak. He created the martial order of the Khalsa. He gave us this form unshorn hair and beard. But thiswas one continuous teaching, one ministry from Guru Nanak to the tenth Guru. If Guru Gobind Singh made uswarriors, he was no less emphatic in impressing the principles of compassion, charity and faith. That is how Sikh religion began in the hands of Guru Nanak; how it turned into a nation in the hands of Guru Gobind Singh and during more than a half century of fierce persecution after his death eventually succeeded establishing political sovereignty in the Punjab. Now our Guru is Guru Granth Sahib. When our Guru Dasmesh Padshah, our Tenth Master, died, he said, "I am going." He died in Nanded in Hyderabad (now in Maharashtra) and he knew, of course, that he was going to die having been stabbed by a Pathan. Then he passed the Guruship to the Holy Word as enshrined in the Guru Granth Sahib. The Guru Granth Sahib was compiled by Guru Arjan, the Fifth Guru. It was finalized by the Tenth Guru at Damdama Sahib which was in Patiala State. Guru Ram Das, the Fourth Guru, had the holy tank dug at Amritsar. His successor Guru Arjan invited the Muslim Sufi, Miari MIr, to lay the foundation of Harimandar, the Golden Temple of modern times. Why? Because of the liberal tradition which is at the very root of Sikhism. Even our Scripture, the Guru Granth Sahib, contains hymns written by Muslim saints such as Shaikh Farid and Hindu bhaktas such as Namdev. Their words, as recorded in our Book, are as sacred to the Sikhs as the words of the Gurus. Close to Anandpur is Kiratpur. Kiratpur is also sacred to the Sikhs. The town was founded by Guru Hargobind, the Sixth Guru. This was in the seventeenth century. The Guru lived here for several years. Now the Sikhs carry to Kiratpur the ashes of their dead collected on the third day of cremation. There they are thrown into the river Sutlej flowing close by. We have a 10day mourning. During this period the whole of the Guru Granth Sahib is read through from beginning to end. This is, as you might know, a large volume1430 pages. An akhandpdth or continuous reading is completed within 48 hours. In this uninterrupted reading a relay of granthis, or readers, take their turns on it. As the custom prescribes, there must not be a moment's gap in the reading nor a word missed or mispronounced. During the days of mourning, friends and relations come to condole. The head of the bereaved family receives them. All sit on the ground on durries or carpets, covered with white sheets. When my father died, I and my brothers sat and received mourners. My wife received the ladies. On the 10th day is held the prayerservice in front of the Guru Granth Sahib. Sacred hymns are recited and the concluding portions of the Guru Granth Sahib read out. The blessing of Akalpurakh, the Timeless One, is sought for the departed soul. To revert to your old question about what happens after death. Sikhism believes in transmigration. One is reborn according to one's deeds. But this cycle of birth and death can be annulled if one would understand God's Will; if one would identify oneself with it; if one would secure the Guru's grace. Guru Gobind Singh used to write letters to Sikh communities or their readers in different parts of the country. My ancestors received one such letter. It is written in old Punjabi characters. It is signed by Guru Gobind Singh with the point of his arrow. That letter had come down to me the Guru's Hukamndmd which is preserved with all the reverence due to it.
Q. "Hukamnama" is a Persian word. Ans. Yes, it means an order. Guru Gobind Singh had written to my ancestors that they should come prepared. We have a sentiment in my family and a tradition. When a lady direct in my family is expecting, we get and put Guru Gobind Singh's sword under her pillow. The child born is meant to start off his life on earth with the blessings of the Guru. These are sentiments. We carry on with them. When I was born it must have happened that way; when my sons were born, when my daughters were born, it did happen like that. The Guru's sword under her pillow this gives a sort of sustenance to the woman; tremendous sustenance, if you believe in it, if you believe in this power. Even on the birth of my grandchildren in direct line, it was like that. On both occasions we placed the sacred sword under my daughterinlaw's head.
Q. Your daughter's children? Ans. No; it does not go to the daughter. Daughters, when married, are governed by the customs and traditions of their own families. These customs, these practices have their sentimental value. These are matters of faith. Baisdkhi, the first day of the Indian month of Baisdkh. In that year of 1699, Baisakhi fell on March 30. The Sikhs take Baisakhi, as the New Year and the birthday of the Khalsa. We exchange greeting cards on that occasion a typical western custom. My battalions, the Sikh battalions in the Indian Army, always send me greeting cards on Baisdkhi.
I must really say that Sikhs are the most outstanding people in India, and there is no comparison between the others and the Sikhs. We are the least polluted religion. Older a religion farther it is from its source. Sikhism is a young religion that way youngest, in fact, of the major religions of the world, Pollution is, of course, coming in. But how much? It is, as I said, a young religion; the latest religion, now 500 years old, it has its distinctive history which gives the Sikhs some of their peculiar characteristics. Sikh women enjoy complete equality with men. Literacy among Sikh women is perhaps the highest in Indian communities. They are progressively going into the professions, especially medicine and teachingeven law. Sikh women can lead and conduct prayers and services in the Gurdwaras. In soldierly families, as husbands are out fighting, women hold the fort in their absence. They look after the household, the children and the farms. History tells of many brave Sikh women who fought in battles. My great great great grand aunt actually led our armies to defend Patiala. She was Bibi Sahib Kaur. She was the sister of Maharaja Sahib Singh. She fought the Marathas who had come up north and wanted to conquer the Punjab. When the Sikh troops discovered that their Maharani was herself fighting by their side, they threw everything into the action and repulsed the Marathas. That was the first reverse the advancing Marathas suffered. It happened just outside Patiala, very near my own farm Bahadurgarh which is about 5 miles from the walls of Patiala. The English and the French first came as traders, so did the Portuguese. Also the Dutch. It is from Surat where the Dutch started off. We were up north. The English took time reaching the Punjab. They came conquering the country by bits and parts. Eventually they set up their military cantonment at Ludhiana, on the left bank of the Sutlej.
Maharaja Ranjit Singh then ruled the Punjab across the river. My great great great grandfather, Maharaja Sahib Singh ruled in Patiala. The foundation of Sikh sovereignty in the Punjab was laid by Banda Singh. He received the rites of the Khalsa at the hands of Guru Gobind Singh before the latter died. Accompained by a few of the Sikhs, Banda Singh came to the Punjab. He started conquering territory. He sacked Sirhind where two minor sons of Guru Gobind Singh had been bricked up alive in masonry under the order of the Mughal governor. Banda Singh showed Sikhs the way to power. He himself was captured and executed in Delhi with great torture. After him the Sikhs rose wherever they could in the Punjab. That is the time when four nations were contending for power. They were the Mughals, the Afghans, the Marathas and the Sikhs. The Sikhs triumphed in the Punjab. They also suffered much persecution. But they ultimately succeeded in establishing their sway. Twelve Sikh Sardars ruled the Punjab, each in his own area. These were the twelve mislsor chiefships. One of the important misis was the Phulkiari i.e. my ancestors. After Ranjit Singh, the Lahore State began to decline. The English machinations came into full play. Sikh started fighting Sikh. That must happen. As we say, when the Sikhs have none to fight they must fight among themselves. Thanks to the Lord, Mother JitojTGuru Gobind Singh's wife had mixed sweet pdtdshds with amrit being churned with a steel khandd. Otherwise, I do not know what the Sikhs would have done to themselves. The British, however, recognized the Sikhs' spirit of courage and gallantry. Some kind of a mutual respect developed. The Sikhs took enthusiastically to western education introduced by the British. Likewise, they fully utilized the new facilities for farming created by the British. The latter had laid out a network of canals in the Punjab. This brought new prosperity to the province and to the Sikhs. The Sikhs became one of the most progressive communities in India. They also became politically very alive. They were in the forefront in India's fight for freedom. The first swadeshi (native) movement in the country was started by the Sikhs by the Kuka sect, to be more precise. Swadeshi was a word made very meaningful by GandhijI. It meant use of indigenous things, things made in India, and boycott of foreign things, things made in England. Before GandhijI, Kukas had done the same thing. They did not use millmade cloth imported from England. They wore homespun khaddar instead. They shunned English lawcourts, English schools, and so on. They would not make use of the post offices set up by the British. They had their own relay system to carry mail from one place to another. The Sikhs organized a ghadr (rebellion) group in San Francisco in 1913. Baba Sohan Singh, a Sikh peasant from Bhakna, in Amritsar district, was the president. Then Akali and Babar Akalis spearheaded campaigns against the British. Sikhs were the backbone of the Indian National Congress in the Punjab. The Indian National Army founded by General Mohan Singh during Word War II was mostly Sikh.
Q, If the British had been defeated, you would have treated them fairly. Ans. True, that would be in character with Sikh tradition Indian tradition, if you go, for instance, to Patiala, right on the Firozpur side, you will see plenty of these monuments. Somebody's monument is there, somebody's here; then there are a couple of monuments of the war. If you go over the bridge on the right hand side you will see Ferozeshah; and then you go 4 or 5 miles on the left, Mudki and other places, all marked. Communal rioting started in Hazara district of NorthWest Frontier Province (now in Pakistan) and it gradually came down to RawalpindiJehlum, to Lahore, to Amritsar and eventually to Patiala. I passed through all that.
Q. What was the reason? Ans. It was not the hatred between the Sikhs and the Muslims or between the Hindus and the Muslims. They had traditionally lived in comfort and peace, especially in Patiala. It was a different story when the politicians took overpoliticians of the communal brand. The Muslim League, determined on creating a separate country for Muslims, started it. And the trouble spread all over. Thousands upon thousands were butcheredMuslims, Hindus and Sikhs. When I heard of the mass killing of Hindus and Sikhs in Muslim dominated northwest districts, I said over the radio that the people thus threatened were welcome to Patiala. I made the announcement myself. I had said that I would look after them. They poured in an endless stream. Soon we had over 800,000 refugees in camps in the city of Patiala and its suburbs.
Q. How long did they stay there? Ans. There was such a clamour among Hindus and Sikhs of the NorthWest to reach Patiala to escape horror and torture. They came in swarms. They came jampacked in trains, huddled on trainroof, standing on footboards, clutching at the handlebars. They had lost everything they possessed. Some arrived forcibly shaven; some without their wives, their daughtersa human tragedy on an unimaginable scale. The word "refugee" suddenly acquired such reality such poignancy. They had lost everything; they felt relieved to reach Patialaat least safety. Each day we received 101520 thousand people. How they were fed, I don't know. We did our best as a Government as individuals. For me, it was my personal concern, my personal responsibility. We did all we could to feed these vast columns of uprooted humanity, to give people work to do, to rehabilitate them.

Is there some way to find information about a deceased person in California who died in 2015 or whenever? I can not find any information about my father's death through the usual routes. Nothing comes up and I can't find any answers as to why I can't...
The Long story not so short, I think I finally found one piece of information leading to the death of my IN-LINE father. I had no information indicating that he died so I thought it possible he was still alive. I've been searching for him for months (Years really). My cousin finally found a few public records having his name listed regarding court cases. A very kind lawyer pointed me to the attorney who represented him in the last case listed back in 2013. I was then able to email the lawyer who represented his case and she kindly responded with her condolences stating that my father died "about" September 6, 2015. I've asked her for more information regarding her knowledge and source if she didn't mind telling me but I haven't heard back and I don't' think I will. I've tried to get his death record once with out knowing if he even died but it was rejected for unknown reasons, probably no date listed. I'm trying to send another application with this new "about" date but would very much like to know if there's any other way to find out any information about his death before continuing to apply again. I have tried obituaries, cemeteries, written letters to supposed addresses, called many numbers etc... If anyone can help with some special (or not) search I'd be very grateful... Thank you...

[DESCRIPTION]
It's been a while since you last saw the private eye go for some ice cream. While you don't mind not having to put up with a rambler, a part of you feels a little curious about what happened to the investigator since then. Of course, the rambler returns to feed your curiosity during a time you're still trying to mind your own business.
[MONETIZATION]
I ain't making a single cent off this, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't. Just give credit where credit is due.
[AD-LIBS & ALTERATIONS]
If you think you got a tangent or slight word change that'll make the script work better, that's great! Use it! All I ask is that 1) you don't change the overall story, 2) you credit yourself for making alterations to the script, and 3) you don't make any changes that promote bigotry.
[SCRIPT NOTES]
CORNETTO CLASSICO - The Speaker
ARROZ CON LECHE - The Listener
This script was written as part of the Season of Series and is Part 2 of A Private Eye Orders Ice Cream. Part 1 can be found here.
Google Docs Version
Reddit Version (Below)
Another slow shift at Sorbet's Ice Cream Parlor. ARROZ CON LECHE is still the only employee working this shift, not that they mind. There's nobody to take orders from and the silence is filled with the royalty free Motown playing from the jukebox, which would have been perfect if the little bell on the door hadn't announced the entrance of CORNETTO CLASSICO, private eye.
I'm missing something. There has to be. What ties them all together?
Lost in thought, CORNETTO mutters to themselves as they approach the counter. The footsteps stop upon arrival. CORNETTO looks up and sees ARROZ staring at the private eye with a look of concern.
Oh! It's you again! Good to see you, kid! Any word on what happened to Sorbet?
A heart attack? If what she told me is true, I shouldn't be surprised that her mother had one. Still, if you see her before I do, can you give her my condolences and that I got an ear for her if she wants it?
Thank you.
Yeah, I'm not here just to ask about Sorbet. Same song as last time, kid. Only we're on the second verse. Any chance you can hook a P.I. like me up with chocolate ice cream of any kind? Don't need to be as fancy as the strawberry I ordered last time.
ARROZ chuckles as they begin to prepare the ice cream. It's a much simpler ice cream than the one prepared last time, only calling for a few scoops of chocolate ice cream in a cone.
It's not me feeling adventurous, my keen-eyed friend. Like the Famous 31 Flavors, I like to vary my ice creams from time to time. Chocolate just happens to be a flavor I make myself enjoy.
Simple: Chocolate ain't always ethically made. A lot of companies out there either don't know or don't care how they make it, and more often than not, they get kids to do their dirty work for dirt cheap. Then it gets packaged off to unsuspecting customers who happily eat them like a ravenous pack. They don't know better, but I do, and that unethical practice that gets used leaves a taste more bitter than the darkest chocolate I can find. It reminds me of that darkness that exists in the world, one I have to comprehend before I can unravel it.
ARROZ looks up with a face caught between disbelief and horror. Seeing this, CORNETTO takes on a more reassuring and comforting tone with their dialogue.
I wouldn't worry too much about it, kid. You ain't the one who makes the choice to get one brand over another to serve customers. Besides, some companies actually make their chocolate ethically, complete with fair wages and little to no child labor. Liking chocolate ain't the problem, so don't worry about mixing the trees for the forest.
CORNETTO sighs as ARROZ hands over the chocolate ice cream. CORNETTO's response is that of someone close to solving a puzzle, and yet not close enough to know what the picture is supposed to look like.
What's got me worried is that I'm trying to solve what I think is a glass onion. Something with layers upon layers of mystery, yet when you look directly at its center, the core of the onion is perfectly clear, and I just can't seem to see it.
See, after I got that strawberry ice cream last time, I went back to Ms. Formaggi for some questions. There was a piece of the puzzle that was not in the box she gave me, and that's keeping me from figuring out why Marzi wound up road kill. She tells me that she already told me: Marzi was supposed to meet up with her for a spice deal. I doubted that because if it was just a spice deal, why would you do it in the morning? Shady business happens in the shade because it's easier to blend in the shadows when you're surrounded by the night. At least, that's what I found in my career.
Well, after pressing further into the subject, and maybe a few pictures she wouldn't want in the wrong hands, Ms. Formaggi was kind enough to give up the big cheese: apparently, Marzi caught wind of something. What that something was is something he took to his grave, but he seemed to have planned on letting the wind out of the bag to her.
That's exactly what I was wondering. See, Marzi wasn't important the way the Formaggis and the Stagionis are. He was a delivery guy for one of them new-fangled food delivery services, Dine & Dash. Even if he was a part of a conspiracy, he would only know enough to play a part. He was a pawn at best, but the thing about pawns is that under the right circumstances, they can become the most powerful piece on the board. Marzi knew something that wasn't meant for his ears, so if I find out what he knew and how, I should be able to find out who killed him.
While I am at what seems like a dead end, it wasn't because there were no clues by the crime scene. When Marzi became roadkill, he was in front of La Gran Gata Bodega on Crocker Road. Figured that somebody got security footage of the murder, so I had a little chat with the bodega owner. Real reasonable guy. Didn't even have to get shady with him for a look at the tapes. While the tapes never gave me the face of the killer, it did show me the killer's shirt and, more importantly, what was on the back. Despite the fuzzy image, the back of the shirt had big bold letters reading "GOUTER LANES."
As right as you are, I couldn't guarantee that it was someone there without asking a few questions. After all, a good costume can make someone think you're working for someone you're not. So I pay Gouter Lanes a visit and ask around. Just a simple, "You know anybody you stopped by La Gran Gata Bodega?" Call it luck or fate, but I see a kid try to book it, so I naturally give chase.
ARROZ questions the private eye about catching the kid. CORNETTO scoffs, clearly a little offended at the question.
Of course I caught the kid! I may not win a marathon anytime soon, but I can definitely run and tackle a guy before he makes it across a good sized parking lot! So I tackle the kid and ask about the bodega, and he tells me that he was told that nobody would know he did. I ask him who told him that, and he tells me that one of the higher ups told him to. Wasn't sure who, but he was told to give the guy with an egg sandwich an accident.
Yeah. An egg sandwich. According to the order history of Dine & Dash, Marzi's last delivery was supposed to be an egg sandwich. If it was just a matter of finding the killer, I could close this case, grab a can of cola, and call it a day, but the killer wasn't the mastermind. Somebody wanted Marzi dead and I want to know who.
Closest I got was the higher ups at Gouter Lanes. Some of the managers there knew that the kid was given a special task that day, but didn't know who sent it or why. They didn't know nothing, so I decided to do a little research. You know what I find? I find myself chasing a golden goose. Gouter Lanes is owned by Merienda Enterprises, the same guys that own that Dairy Royale chain. Turns out they've been buying up local businesses all over the city.
That's the part that confuses me. I can't find the rhyme or reason behind it. Most of the locals that got bought up aren't even that profitable. They even bought the rundown lumber mill at the lake to make one of them water bottling plants. More business, I suppose, but the thing that bothers me most is that aside from the water bottling plant, every recent purchase pits Merienda against the folks running the city.
Okay, you know how we have elected officials like Mayor Chiffon and Judge Gateau that are supposed to have power over what happens here? Guess what happens when someone manages to have a say in what the higher ups do?
ARROZ thinks about it for a moment before realizing the implications.
Exactly. You get yourself a slice of that powerful pie. That's what some folks like the Formaggis and the Stagionis do. They offer elected officials a little something in exchange for a favor. Maybe it's looking the other way or sending a message to the public, but at the end of the day, both of them get something out of it. Unless you're a smart cookie, going up against the giants is only gonna get you hurt.
Now that is the question whose answer I swear is on the tip of my tongue. What's the method behind the madness? Whatever ties the purchases together will make the center of the mystery clear. Then again, this ramble might be the gobbledygook of a gumshoe obsessing over an aglet, and that ice cream's looking pretty lonely right now.
CORNETTO begins to dig into the ice cream. It's been too long since they last had some quality ice cream. As they do, a fun fact pops into their head.
You know, chocolate's actually supposed to be bitter. They slap some sugar into the stuff before shipping them out to ravenous customers. My sweet tooth ain't complaining, but I find it interesting. Some folks actually get the stuff unsweetened for health benefits, and I don't blame them. Most food these days have more sugar in them than a bear in a beehive.
CORNETTO stops for a moment. The core of the glass onion begins to become clear in their head. ARROZ asks if CORNETTO is experiencing a brain freeze.
No, no. It's not a brain freeze. It's… I gotta do a little more digging.
Before ARROZ can say anything, CORNETTO books it out the parlor. The bell rings as the door opens and closes… And opens again as CORNETTO dashes back in. They quickly bring out their wallet and start going through its contents.
Not sure how much I owe you, but here.
CORNETTO hastily slaps some cash onto the counter.
Keep the change. Or put it on my tab.
CORNETTO dashes back out of the parlor with the bell ringing again.
I promise I'll pay you back as soon as I get the chance!
ARROZ can't help but watch the private eye running out of the parlor after leaving some cash that might not cover the ice cream. The audio ends as the bell rings to indicate that a customer has left.
[MISCELLANEOUS]

1. If you decide to fill the script, I would love to hear it!
2. Constructive criticism would be very much appreciated.
3. Have a nice day!

For the longest time, the church was my beacon of salvation. When I was young and navigating the complexities of the world, I found myself in a state of vulnerability, desperation, and loneliness. It was during this time that the members of the church extended their hands to me, providing not just warmth and love, but also shelter, sustenance, and financial support. They enveloped me in a sense of belonging, reassuring me that my life held value and purpose. Coming from a challenging family background, the church offered me a glimpse of a brighter future, instilling in me the hope of eternal familial happiness.
Do you know the Mormon message video "The Hope of God's Light"? I resonated deeply with the protagonist of that video; like him, I had made regrettable choices in life, but the church became my guiding light out of despair. Since I made the decision to be baptized in high school, I resolved to devote my life to the church, recognizing its pivotal role in lifting me from rock bottom.
Since dedicating myself to the teachings of the Church, every decision I've made has been influenced by its principles. Rather than attending a typical state school, I chose BYU, believing it aligned better with my faith. Inspired by my own transformation from hopelessness to salvation, I embarked on a mission to rescue others in need of spiritual guidance.
However, during my mission, I encountered discussions about the CES letter and Joseph Smith's polygamy. Initially dismissing these as anti-Mormon propaganda, I finally succumbed to curiosity and read the letter. What I discovered shook me to my core – a web of deceit and hidden truths within the Church.
The realization that the foundation of my faith was built upon lies left me feeling betrayed and angry.
Here's what I've come to realize:
- Organized religion often exploits humanity's innate search for meaning, offering solace in exchange for profit. They impose moral teachings to control the masses while their leaders often prioritize personal gain over genuine spiritual guidance.
- I've learned that a person's character isn't defined by their wealth, education, or social status. Discovering the deception within the Church was deeply disheartening, regardless of the positions held by those involved.
- The affordability of BYU comes at a hidden cost – fueled by lifelong tithing and the indoctrination of students. It serves not just as an educational institution, but as a breeding ground for future followers and financial contributors.
- Missions, while presented as acts of outreach, also serve as mechanisms for deeper indoctrination. They target impressionable young minds, ensuring the Church's hold extends into the next generation.
My heart goes out to those in the exmormon subreddit who were born into and indoctrinated by the Church from infancy. It's a profound sorrow to imagine the challenge of confronting deeply held beliefs, especially when they're intertwined with familial and social connections. To those who've invested decades of their lives in the Church, only to have their worldview shattered, my condolences are heartfelt. It's understandable why the exmormon community is so significant – it represents the aftermath of centuries of deception and manipulation.
Understanding the pain of dedicating one's life to a lie – whether through attending BYU, going on a mission, or participating in temple marriages and Church callings – is a heavy burden to bear. I am glad that I am not alone in this journey of grappling with the emotional fallout of discovering the fradulent truth claim of the Mormon Church.

This is a bit of a long story with so many WTF moments, that you should prepare yourself. First of all, I should point out that I am of mixed races but look identical to my birth mother, who is Korean. I was raised by my dad and step-mother. I left home early on due to a lot of SA. Not a fun time in my life, but I’m grateful for the strong person I am now. But, I digress.
Another key piece of information I should point out is he does have a daughter, S, who is a special needs child because while he was in the Army and deployed, his wife at the time drank while pregnant. It was horrible and no one knew until after she was born and she abandoned them. One day she dropped S off at MIL’s house and said she’d be back and never came back. My MIL told my husband that while he was in the Army, she would keep S. Then, after he got out, she could go home with him. Spoiler alert, that did not happen.
Anyway, I met my husband and together we had a bit of a roller coaster of a relationship during the beginning. He’s a great guy but he stresses over what people, like his parents, think of him even though he tries hard to claim the opposite. I mean, the first time I met his mother was during a Christmas visit. I was already nervous because he kept telling me not to listen to anything they say. His grandmother, who lives with them, and his parents tend to be a bit racist. WTH?! What made it worse, was that he didn’t tell me until we were almost there. I was once again struck dumb because I didn’t know what to say about that. I mean, I grew up with this face and have heard terrible things said to me and about me because of how I look. That is until the next words came out of his mouth. Yes, it gets worse. He never told them he was bringing me! He almost became single at that moment. I’d like to claim I was an adult about it, but in reality, I was pissed. I was also mortified when we showed up for Christmas and no one knew I was coming. I had even shopped for them, but they had no idea about me. None. Cue really, really awkward moments over the next week. Let me tell you, it was a very long week. Normally, I love Christmas, but that was one Christmas I could have happily skipped. That’s a lie, because it gets worse. I heard so many digs about my person that whole week. As a “not yet even in recovery, people pleaser”, I took it all. I was pretty much treated like crap. It’s okay, my own family treated me like that and I survived that and I’ve survived much worse. This initiated the plan to elope, instead of having a wedding. Yes, I still married him.
Over the years, my MIL complained more and more about S and how hard it was getting to put up with her teenage attitude. Okay, so me, being the fixing people pleaser, suggested she move in with us. My husband and I talked about it and he was excited with that plan. He missed his daughter. We decided to speak with his parents about it. My FIL said it would be great because it would be less stress on my MIL and they could travel more. Win-win, right? Oh hell No. My MIL felt this was a personal attack on her and immediately began the atrocious attack. While she focused there, I was in hell. What I had to learn the hard way is that my daughter, being an autistic child with severe learning disabilities, only saw her mom-mom (This is what she called her grandmother) and my husband as the authority figure in the home. I had surgery on my wrist and S would hit it when I asked her to do something she didn’t want to do. When my husband had to leave for work out of town, it was worse. She would stand in one spot and pee and look at me and ask me what I was going to do about it. She would throw things at me, she would refuse to get dressed and would miss the bus. It was crazy and I tried not to blame her. Her teacher was a huge help and would tell me S knew what she was doing and for me to just bring her to school in her pj’s. Meanwhile, my MIL sent me a letter telling me that my husband SA’d his sister when they were younger. When I talked to my husband about it he was heartbroken that she was even alleging that because she knew about my childhood and my issues. When I told her I did not believe it, she sent another letter that looked like it was from the state of New Jersey claiming that my husband abused his sister when they were younger and they were pursuing charges against him. We called the state and they had sent no such letter.
Thinking that it was because she missed S, we decided to spend Christmas with my other stepdaughter, J, and S at my inlaw’s house. They seemed happy about it. When we arrived the day before Christmas all seemed well. S spent time with her mom-mom and J just hung out with me. All was okay. I kept them to their schedule and helped them get ready for bed and it was great. Christmas morning my husband woke up with severe pain. I ended up taking him to the ER and asked my in-laws to wait for us to get back to open our gifts we got for the girls, but go ahead and let them open the ones they got for them. My FIL said okay. That didn’t happen. My MIL made sure they opened EVERY gift. No pictures or video recording that were the norm for her. My husband had a couple of kidney stones he was in a lot of pain. Without the buffer my MIL declined and slipped into her passive aggressive self towards me. That evening I told the girls it was time to get ready for bed. J hopped up and headed upstairs. S asked me if she could come back down after to play more. I told her yes, but pj’s first. She asked again as we were walking up the stairs. I repeated myself. Then, she asked again. This time, I just pointed upstairs. She yells down the stairs to tell my MIL that I’m ignoring her. To which my MIL yelled back, “that’s because she’s mean!” I had had enough. My husband came out of the room to see what the yelling was about just as I turned around and yelled down the stairs, “Don’t tell her I’m being mean. Please!” The response that came after was, “That’s it, I want that Bitch out of my house right now!”
I did what any normal person would do, I started packing my stuff. I told my husband I could go visit my newly found biological mother, a couple of hours away. He said no. If I was leaving, we were all leaving. I helped the girls get packed up while he spoke with his father, who was trying to calm MIL down. We left and I drove a few hours toward home, we lived 12 hours away, and spent Christmas night in a hotel.
In the end, we let S go back to live with her mom-mom. My husband refused to speak with his mother again. I had to call and find out how S was doing. I’m almost finished but the final kick to the gut is coming. My MIL never even called to tell us that my FIL passed away. We didn’t hear about it until weeks later from a family friend who reached out to offer condolences to my husband.
My husband has spent his time working hard to make his parents proud, but it never made a difference. He chose me and we are still together and better than ever!

I've found an interesting livejournal entry (for those who don't know, was a late 90's early 2000's journal blog website) written a year after 9/11 in 2002, of a person who found Sneha's missing flyer poster: September 8th 2002 - Live Journal Entry and it gives an interesting read of someone being at ground zero and their recounts.
"Bob (albatross) wrote, 2002-09-08 00:00:00

Sneha

I've long considered myself a cynic and a skeptic, a hardbitten soul facing the world with a smirk of resigned amusement. But the truth of my posturing was revealed a year ago when the planes slammed into the Twin Towers. In fact, I'm not tough at all.
I had already had a week-long training session scheduled to start in New York city on September 17th when nineteen lunatics carried out their infamous plans. Upon reflection a year later, the odds of being scheduled to be in Manhattan that week seem pretty slim.
I was deeply affected by what I saw, both the normal and the exceptional. The busy streets of New York's concrete canyons were little different, although smaller than I remembered from my childhood. The pairs of armed National Guardsmen scattered on various streetcorners were exceptional. The sidewalk hucksters, nothing new. Their wares -- misspelled patriotic T-shirts and American flag pins -- were exceptional.
(I distinctly remember one T-shirt for managing to spell the same word two different ways in one sentence: "America: You may destroy our buildings, but you can never distroy our spirit!")
My friend Sager joined me in visiting Ground Zero while its hideous remains reared high over the rescuers. A very moving and painful journey. While I was there, a small, blond woman in front of me began sobbing, clutching a crumpled kerchief in her hand while she bit her knuckles and stared at the towering wreckage. I reached out impulsively and placed a hand on her shoulder. She glanced back at me, gripped my hand a moment, and squeezed it gratefully, then turned back to the scene.
Many times I could forget the tragedy, while absorbed in the minutia of a Midwesterner's visit to New York: not being run over; catching the right train; negotiating the dark alleys and bright streets.
But sometimes I'd turn a corner and be struck again with the fresh pain of the event. One day I wandered away from class at lunch in search of a camera store, and stumbled across a neighborhood pizzeria. As I left, there around the corner was a fire station, and within the open doors, a shrine to the five firefighters they had lost a week before. Portraits on the wall were surrounded by letters of condolence, and on the floor were flowers, votive candles, cards, and children's stuffed toys. Standing before their rigs, surviving firefighters spoke with people off the street about their experiences.
Most moving of all were the shrines to the missing. Every light post and building face bore dozens of posters in search of loved ones, every inch of space covered with paper and tape. Public spaces in Times Square and Union Station had sprouted spontaneously into memorials, cards and candles and flowers everywhere. In Union Station, a particularly moving scene: ten yards of flowers and candles had been subjected to rain the night before. Passersby had given up their umbrellas, and positioned them over the photos, the toys, the candles and the cards, to keep them out of the rain. Other papers, less fortunate, had fallen sodden upon the umbrellas, fixing them into the shrines in a grievous papier mache.
As the rains threatened to claim more posters one night, I made my way back to my hotel from Times Square, looking closely at the posters of the missing. Out of all the thousands of posters of thousands of victims, my eye fell upon one: a picture of a tall, vivacious, lovely woman, with the name "Dr. Sneha Ann Philip."
It seemed to me the very statement of the tragedy: beautiful, smart, successful, a woman of the East married to a man of the West, she was everything that America had to brag about. Opportunity, diversity, equality, and promise, all snuffed out in one horrible moment.
I carefully took down one of the posters, feeling ashamed as I did so -- was I being macabre? Was I removing the poster that would otherwise lead to her discovery? I didn't know, but I knew the rains would soon claim this one. I rationalized that at least I'd be saving one poster.
And so I returned home with the poster, a grim memento of my trip. And, a month later, looked online to find out what had been learned of the fate of Dr. Sneha Ann Philip.
The results were no less tragic, for all that they were unusual.
Of all the thousands of posters of thousands of victims, the one I had picked out was unique. Dr. Sneha Ann Philip was not, apparently, a direct victim of the attack on the World Trade Center. Dr. Philip had in fact disappeared from the neighborhood surrounding the World Trade Center the night before.
For her husband, this was no relief from the nightmare. Where the families of the tragedy faced one set of horrors, he faced another: that his missing spouse would be overlooked in the face of the larger nightmare unfolding around him. Several media outlets learned of his situation, and stories were run on [5]TV and in the [6]press, hoping to uncover her fate.
On the afternoon of September 10th, Sneha Philip left her apartment, and did some shopping. Witnesses, security cameras, and charge receipts trace her movements until about 5:30 p.m. When her husband returned home at 11:00 p.m., she was nowhere to be found. Less than twelve hours later, the World Trade Center collapsed. She has never been seen again.
A memorial service is planned for her, on Saturday, September 14th, 2002. To this day no one knows her fate. Was she a victim of foul play on the evening of the 10th, within blocks of the World Trade Center? Or did and her husband somehow miss each other, and then as a physician was she caught up in the tragedy of the next day? Or are other possibilities true: bitter, cynical notions too cruel to voice, but all too common?
It seems we'll never know. And so, in a new and twisted way, the lunatics of September 11th have claimed another victim. A victim whose fate may have been fulfilled before their own, but whose destiny they nonetheless obliterated.
Rest in peace, Sneha, wherever you are."

You've been wasting your time explaining your cliche, in vogue, propensity to be selective with your recollection of presidents past, precedents set and/or routinely perpetrated by Obama and Clinton, on virtually every complaint you publish.
You've written hundreds of word posts echoing all the same unsubstantiated, contextually questionable, rhetoric common to all liberals, intelligent or not.
It's not you, A****, it's the fact that you DO waste your time explaining your disdain, and you don't even have to explain it now, or ever. I'm not asking you as it's abundantly clear why you do it and why you inflate even trivial matters to be indicative of some unprecedented crisis we face with a Trump presidency.
While his supporters may be a little more quiet than "never trumps" like you, don't forget we outnumber you and sycophants like you. It's sad that many are afraid to voice their support because of maniacal liberals attacking their character and personally attacking them that's made many feel they cannot openly support their president.
It's a damned shame. And it's nothing for his detractors to be proud of. I've never seen such a coordinated effort to discredit a man who, in the opinions of the majority of voters who put him in office, is there to give us some semblance of redemption after watching our country all but disappear before our eyes for the past decade, all due to liberalism.
Racially, economically, internationally - Arab spring bullshit, ISIS a JV team, arming our enemies in Libya and literally, our diplomacy under Obama and Clinton were the main drivers which led to the creation of ISIS in the first place.
The man bowed to foreign leaders like a submissive male which I could never have imagined a leader would/could do.
Don't get me started on the global apology tour, when he traveled the globe immediately after swearing in, demonstrating those "expert orator" skills everyone who voted for him like to mention (voting for someone on account of their ability to read a speech, written by an intern, from a TelePrompTer is a perfect indication of American ignorance; not arrogance - I'd rather be arrogant than ignorant...).
He spent his first weeks in office addressing, not the hurting citizenry who had just lifted him up to "Nobel Laureate" status (because, surely he had nothing to do with earning it). Rather, he spoke to citizens around the globe, insisting his election was symbolic of a new America; that we would no longer continue to be the America for whom both he and they shared equal disdain. He apologized to the global community for the "American arrogance", interventionism, and what he called the "myth" of American exceptionalism.
American exceptionalism is no myth. It is unmitigated fact.
Obama literally said his foreign policy was to "lead from behind" while we had kids dying at War under his watch. Dying at war and he skipped the tradition of wreath laying on Memorial Day countless times. Actions like that is why we've experienced such a profound devolution of respect in this country. Of love of country and unity.
Remember when he beckoned his marine guards to hold umbrellas as if they're some sort of butlers, as the satisfaction of his obvious disdain for the military was clearly written in the smug smirk on his face (marines are forbidden to carry umbrellas in uniform by the way - probably because they're womanly and emasculating).
Men died under his watch as CiC and he had the audacity to use autopen to send a form letter with his condolences, only the name and dates changed from letter to letter. What a slap to the face of Gold Star mothers and fathers.
God all but disappeared under his watch. The DNC celebrated the disrespect of the mention of God with great joy.
Black lives matter chanted things like "kill the pigs, fry them up, roll them In a blanket" as he actually lent credence to their movement of domestic terrorism with calls for death on white cops, white citizens, and "reparations" for shit that happened while my ancestors were in Germany.
He prevented the Border Patrol and DoJ from enforcing the laws our elected representatives passed to stem the tide of illegal immigration. Promoted and rewarded sanctuary cities not to the benefit of the hardworking migrant mother and law abider, but to the benefit of criminal aliens some of whose privileges under his watch led to deaths of American born citizens. Even one death at the hands of a criminal whose deportation was halted by liberalism and Obama.
Whatever you think of Donald Trump, the man encapsulates the definition of "leader" somewhat on line with that of Reagan. They are few and far between.
The American people have spoken and it's clear we don't want a leader who goes around submitting, bowing, and apologizing to foreign royalty on our behalf.
Granting immunity to Chelsea Manning who cost American lives with his treasonous shenanigans. Obama has no respect for America or its Rule of Law.
Anyone who could think "leading from behind" as a wartime president isn't an egregiously dimwitted, incompetent, unworthy of a CiC to say can surely describe what it's like to walk upright without a spine. Unworthy of a CiC, unworthy of a library; certainly unworthy of a Nobel Prize which to this day I have no clue upon what merit that now diluted and meaningless prize was based. The Al Gore Nobel Prize for the now disproven and wrought with exaggerations and selective data, assertions disproven by the simple passage of time was bad enough to sully the Nobel brand.
But it's Trump you "waste" time on criticizing totally benign perceived slights only observed by hyperventilating liberals so obsessed with their hate, they'd rather shred the constitution and all the principles that made us great to oust him from office.
Russia is a fabricated lie, and if our astute (un)intelligence agencies have yet to come up with a single example of substantive proof in that time, it should make any free thinking individual take pause and wonder how that's possible. Could it be that the Obama holdovers are delivering false intel, illegally, to the press and the press has taken the liberty to run unsubstantiated stories and cite nonsensical sources like "someone familiar with the conversation"?
Anyways. I love our president and I wish at least the smart people I know would take some time to analyze their beef before "wasting" their time belittling him and we the people who put him there.

“We need to talk, Ella.”
That was the last thing Alex ever said to me.
Five years ago, via text, before he cut me out of his life.
Now he wasn't answering his fucking phone.
“Hey, you've reached Alex!”
I met Alex Locke in the fifth grade.
I suffered from chronic headaches as a kid, and Alex lost time a lot, sometimes blanking out whole days. According to Alex, it was like being switched off.
Due to his condition, the boy fell asleep a lot, sometimes tumbling down the stairs during his episodes, which meant he was always in the nurse’s office with a head injury, or curled into a ball snoozing. I wasn't as sick as Alex, but I liked to sleep off my headaches in the nurse’s office and would wake to Alex playing Pokémon on the bed next to mine.
Other times, he would be sitting on the observation bed with his knees drawn to his chest. Alex wasn't a fan of shots.
I discovered that when I was torn from a headache induced sleep to his blood curdling wails.
I thought for sure he was dying, until I glimpsed the shot in Nurse Golding’s hand. Initially, I wasn't surprised the kid was screaming, she was trying to stab the thing into the back of his head.
Though, after reassuring me it was part of Alex’s treatment, she calmly told me to distract the boy while she administered his daily shot.
I panicked and attempted a puppet show with my hands. Alex was so confused by whatever I was trying to do, he stopped screaming, frowning at me like I had grown a second limb.
It worked! Kind of. Nurse Golding was ruffling his hair and calling him brave, when Alex’s eyes widened, his hand going to the back of his head. He started wailing again, but this time I was pretty sure it was for attention.
Alex definitely had his eyes on the tub of candy the nurse kept on her top shelf.
Alex made me feel better about my headaches. I found his company comforting, and we became sick-buddies. Sometimes, his other friends would slip into the nurse’s office to prod him and tease him, and I felt a little left out. The two of them paid no attention to me, focusing on annoying Alex.
Growing up, we both got progressively better. Alex’s episodes decreased to one a month, and my headaches were easier to tolerate. The two of us still ended up in the nurse’s office, but for different reasons. I accidentally shoved a needle through my finger during arts and crafts, and was too shocked to cry.
Alex had fallen over during gym, and had the tiniest scratch on his leg, which set off the waterworks.
When Nurse Golding was trying to rip the needle out of my finger with tweezers, Alex was demanding she replaced his bandaid.
Starting middle school, the two of us came face to face with Nurse Jane.
She was terrifying, as well as completely incompetent. There was no candy in her office, and her solution to a girl in my class breaking her arm, was “Put a wet piece of tissue paper on it”
Alex tried the, I'm sooo sick! thing, and Nurse Jane spent half an hour lecturing him about healthy food.
He returned to class miraculously cured, looking paler than he did before visiting her.
Neither of us dared enter Nurse Jane’s office, unless we were really sick.
We were ten when Alex threw a ball of paper at me, hitting me in the face.
I was about to throw it back, when the boy twisted around in his seat and motioned for me to unravel the paper.
He had scribbled a funny picture of Nurse Jane being blown up into a balloon.
Underneath, written in bright red crayon:
DO YOU WANT TO PLAY WITH US?
YES [ ]
NO [ ]
At first, I was hesitant.
I told him I'd think about it, so he came straight to my house himself.
I didn't even know he knew my address.
“Why don't you want to play?” Alex asked through a mouthful of chocolate chip cookies. Mom had given him a plate to take up to my room.
Hiding behind him were his two friends, Lucy Conrad, a curly haired brunette with ribbons in her pigtails, and Ki Jacobs, the foreign exchange kid from Australia. The three of them already seemed like a tight knit group in class, sending each other notes and giggling.
I wasn't sure I wanted to be the odd one out in their little gang.
Still though, Alex was insistent that I join them.
So, I did. The three invited me to the town’s summer festival, and I had so much fun I forgot why I was scared of ruining their friendship. Ki choked on his Coke float, which shouldn't have been funny, but it was his over-reaction that sold me. The rest was history.
Initially, I was kind of hesitant, only hanging out with them on select days, making sure not to be too invasive.
Mom warned me that joining an already established friendship group was dangerous, on account of me potentially being left out. She had horror stories from her own teenagehood, where she was the fourth member in a group of girls, who turned on her for their own entertainment, inviting her to slumber parties for the sole purpose of bullying her.
But that wasn't what we were. Mom’s warning scared me and I waited for Alex to start teasing me about my big nose, or my overly large front tooth.
He didn't even notice my tooth until I told him, so he opened his mouth and prodded at his own molars, teasingly calling them horse teeth. Alex said he didn't care what I looked like.
Eventually, the barriers I had built began to crumble, and I started to see these kids as real, proper friends.
I was invited to play every day, the four of us venturing across town to swim in the lake or hunt for buried treasure with a map Ki definitely didn't print off of Google. Mom was wrong.
I was never left out. If I didn't turn up to our secret spot in the forest, the three of them would walk straight through my front door— and when I was a little older, Alex grew brave, climbing through my bedroom window, dragging me out of bed himself. When I was sick with the flu, the three insisted on sitting with me (keeping a safe distance) and watching Disney movies with me all day.
They all got sick too, so eventually, the three crawled into bed with me.
With my Mom’s words still haunting the back of my mind, part of me expected them to blow me off one day.
In the summer before seventh grade, Ki invited me, along with the others, to his parent’s house in Thailand.
I think that is when it started to hit me.
The four of us getting stupidly drunk and lying on the beach, exchanging ghost stories that weren't remotely scary, sending us into fits of hysteria.
This wasn't whatever Mom talked about. I don't think Mom had friends.
This was best friends.
Entering teenagehood, we made that declaration, on my fifteenth birthday, drinking milkshakes at the diner and trying to hide our tipsy giggles from the booze Ki had taken from his father’s drinks cabinet. We went skinny dipping in the lake, and I had my first kiss.
I went to summer camp, returning to town three weeks later, not to my mother (who had forgotten I was coming home) but to my three idiot friends who made me promise I would never leave for camp ever again.
I wasn't planning on it. The other kids called me Wobbly Legs because I couldn't balance on the tree swing, and two campers were suspended for inappropriate behavior in the lake.
Mom and Dad treated the others like their own children, even giving them each a house key (so Alex didn't have to brave tumbling through my window).
He hit his head once, knocking the back of his skull on my new makeup table, and my Mother almost had a panic attack.
This didn't stop him, though.
I think my best friend had grown accustomed to slipping through my window at midnight, armed with a flashlight and my favorite candy bars.
I thought we were going to last forever, until we were old, reminiscing our childhoods under a late setting sun.
But that wasn't the real world.
Halfway through my senior year, I lost my parents to a seventeen year old drunk driver.
Jason Chatham, who already went to juvie for intentionally running over a cat, was the mayor’s son, so Jason got a reduced sentence and four weeks of community service. He gave me a bullshit ‘apology’ and was forced to beg for forgiveness, despite the fucker smirking through the whole court trial.
Jason was sent abroad to college, and my parents’ funeral wasn't even an open casket.
Apparently, there wasn't much left to bury. I couldn't even afford the fucking funeral, it was the town that paid.
I had no other relatives. There was just me, Mom, and Dad.
Alex, Lucy, and Ki stayed by my side the whole time, but I barely talked to them. I was numb, my body felt detached and wrong, like it didn't exist.
Time moved far too slowly. I was burying my parents, a shovel stuck in my clammy hands, and then it was pitch black, and I was sitting in a random alleyway, my head spinning, halfway through a bottle of whisky.
It tasted like poison, but it also stopped me thinking for a while.
Alex found me, still in his funeral attire. I wasn't sure why he had his tie wrapped around his head, though. He didn't hug me or tell me it was going to be okay.
Alex snatched the booze, took a long swig, and then threw it over his shoulder. I don't know why I found the sound of the bottle splintering on the ground so funny, but I burst into hysterical giggles that felt real and a relief. I didn't cry like I expected.
I stood up, throwing out my arms to keep my balance.
“You're a loser.” I told him, trying not to slur my words.
Alex nodded at my dress. Lit up in the glow of a nearby streetlight, I realized my best friend’s eyes were red from crying, his lip wobbling. The idiot was trying so fucking hard to pretend we were okay, and failing miserably.
His blondish brown curls were sticking up everywhere.
I could tell he had been running his hands through it.
Alex was far too empathetic, sucking up my emotions.
“And you're covered in barf.”
His voice was shaking, but Alex was still smiling.
He held his hand out for me to grab, and I hesitated, just like when I was a little kid. But I needed him. I knew that, even in my unstable mind full of black and white and a slowly spreading numbness threatening to swallow me whole. Mom and Dad were gone, and he was all I had.
The town would go back to their day-to-day lives, and I would break apart. I considered following them in a brief episode of psychosis. The only people who could pull my head from the fog were my friends. So, I grabbed Alex’s hand, clinging onto him for dear life like I was going to lose him too.
I expected the whole, I'm so sorry for your loss bullshit I had been suffocating in all day, but Alex talked about birds instead. I don't know why, and it's not like he was making any sense, trying to unsuccessfully name different kinds.
But it was enough.
Alex’s stupid rant about birds distracted me from drowning myself in poison.
He took me back to his place, ordered my favorite pizza, and pretended I didn't just lose my parents.
Ki and Lucy joined us, and at first it was awkward and I was still drunk, still demanding he give me back my whisky.
Then, though, the night devolved into our usual antics, and for the first time since my parent’s death, I was laughing.
That night ended however, and once the hysteria had died down and my hangover was gone, reality hit like a wave of ice water. The world bled into black and white, and not even pills could help, so shut myself away.
I finished my senior year with my diploma sitting in my mailbox with a letter from the school expressing how sorry they were for my loss. I tore it up, setting fire to the remnants. I was so fucking SICK of sorry. The word condolences didn't even sound real anymore.
Leaving town seemed like the best idea for a fresh start. The night before I left, I crept through Alex’s bedroom window.
I did tell him and the others I needed space, drunkenly shouting at them to leave me alone when they found me sleeping in our old childhood tree house. That night, I woke him up, wrapping my arms around him and thanking him for being my friend.
Alex was half asleep, mumbling at me to join him, and I did, keeping a tight hold of him all night.
It was supposed to be a goodbye. I wasn't planning on coming back to a town that had murdered my parents.
And protected their killer.
But it's hard to say a real goodbye.
When I left for college, Alex and the others promised they would text and call every day. Lucy expected daily updates, and Ki was obsessed with my roommate's secret hamster she was hiding under her bed.
We stayed in touch, initially.
I couldn't just let them go. I was planning on inviting them for drinks, and having one last memory.
I facetimed them during the campus tour, showing them my room and exploring the city.
I was waiting to declare some kind of friendship ending speech, but, I guess moving away was a natural killer.
I started ignoring calls, responding in one word answers to their texts.
Two months into college, I had new friends, new experiences, and I wasn't the girl who's parents died.
Alex proposed in a long paragraph text that they come visit and stay in my room, and I had to keep making excuses as to why it was a bad idea.
Listen, I was the bad friend.
I know that now. I don't blame them for being pissed, but ignoring me for five (5) years was taking it too far.
Presently, I had called Alex a grand total of 35 times.
He wasn't picking up the phone, and I was left to a robot voice telling me to leave a message, after Alex’s voice from five years ago called me a donut.
“Hey, you've reached Alex! Don't expect me to answer the phone. It's not 1993. Just text me!”
Which was ironic considering my texts weren't being delivered.
I had zero choice but to go down the boomer route.
Initially, I knew what I was going to say and how I was going to say it, but by the fifth attempt, my voice was shaking.
“Hey, me again.” I said through gritted teeth, kicking through leaves. “You probably didn't get my last, uh, thirty four calls, because you're busy, or…whatever…”
I trailed off, clenching my phone tighter.
“Anyway! How have you been? Uh, we’re both adults now, but I figured we should maybe, uhhh, talk… maybe?”
Alex was surely ignoring me.
Again, I didn't blame him. We were adults with our own lives. The problem was, I had zero idea what Alex had been doing the last five years because he was MIA. Alex’s social media hadn't been updated in years, and I was pretty sure he'd just made new ones.
The same went for Ki and Lucy.
His last text, (We need to talk) didn't even make sense without a follow up, and now I was back home in a town I didn't want to be in, stuck in a dead end job I hated, trying to pick up the splintered pieces.
I was aware of my colleague yelling my name, dropping my cigarette and stomping on the cinders. “I really need to talk to you,” I didn't realize I was crying until I was swiping at my eyes.
Sometimes, life doesn't always work out the way you planned it.
“I know it's been a while since you uh, stopped texting me or whatever…” I let out a choked cough. “Which is my fault, by the way,” my chest was aching,
“But I've actually come home!” I tried to laugh, but it was more of a sob. “Yeah, it turns out NY wasn't really my scene.”
That was a lie, though Alex was probably used to me lying.
Sometimes, life doesn't work out.
After graduating college, I was offered a job in New York, only for it all to fall through when depression hit. The world turned black and white, and I rotted in bed all day. I quit my part time job, packed up my stuff, and came home.
I had been staying in the motel on the edge of town for a while, planning to move back into my parents house.
But knowing my friends were still in town, and intentionally ignoring me, I was taking my time.
I wanted to hear his voice.
Five years was a long time.
“I'm staying at my parents' old house, so maybe come see me sometime?” I blurted out, studying the sky above me.
Cotton candy clouds we used to pretend to eat.
“You've still got the key my Mom gave you, right?”
It was unusually cold for April. I had to keep pulling my jacket around me.
“Alex, I really fucking miss you.” I whispered. I wanted to tell him that I needed him, just like when I was seventeen. That he was the only thing keeping me afloat. “I miss you, Ki, and Lucy, so call me, okay?” I paused. “I know you're mad, but we can talk it out, all right? Just text me, and I'll be there.”
“Eleanor.” My colleague was grumbling behind me, “Your break is over.”
I tapped my screen impatiently. “I’m coming,” I said, “Alex, I've got to go, all right? Call me when you get this.”
When the line went dead, I shoved my phone in my pocket and resumed selling coffee to dead eyed customers.
I recognised Mrs Morris, the lady who lived opposite Mom and Dad. She offered me a smile, but her eyes were so sad.
I could practically sense her knee-jerk reaction to say, I'm sorry for your loss.
I handed the woman her usual, a black coffee, trying to ignore the way she clasped her wrinkly hands around mine, squeezing for dear life.
Maybe her husband died….
“Have you seen Alex anywhere?” I asked, wiping down the counter.
The woman's expression crumpled. “I'm sorry, who, dear?”
“Alex.” I said, “Alex Locke? You used to give us candy when we were kids.”
Mes Morris inclined her head. There was something odd about her expression. “Oh, the Locke’s moved away a long time ago,” she hummed, “I haven't seen them in years, tweety pie.”
The nickname brought back memories. Mrs Morris used to call me Tweety Pie.
I nodded, pouring her a refill. “Is Alex still in town, though?”
“Hm?”
“Alex.” I said, growing slightly impatient, “Their son, Alex Locke?”
Her eyes darkened, suddenly hollow, like I was talking to a memory. She was looking straight through me like we were back at my parent’s funeral. Mrs Morris wore a rose in my Mom’s honor.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said softly, “It was… so terrible what happened,” her expression seemed to twitch, and a shiver creeped down my spine. “God rest their beautiful souls.”
I had grown accustomed to tuning out condolences.
“Yes, I miss them,” I said dismissively, leaning over the counter. “But have you seen Alex? What about Ki and Lucy? I've been in town for a while, but I can't get in touch with them.”
Instead of answering, the corners of her mouth curved into a small smile. “You look so much like your mother, Eleanor.”
“Thanks.” I gave up, forcing a smile.
“Eleanor.” her face crumpled, “Such a bright young girl.”
My stomach knotted. “No, Mrs Morris, you mean my Mom.”
She blinked, sipping her coffee. “Hm? Oh, yes, yes! My condolences!”
I got the same response from patrons I used to know.
Townspeople blatantly ignoring my question, throwing me a fucking pity party for a loss I hadn't exactly gotten over, but over time, the pain was getting easier to deal with.
Grief never leaves you, but time can force you to move forwards instead of dwelling on the past.
Halfway through my shift, my colleague plonked a basket of flowers on the counter, where I was trying and failing to perfect a foam heart for a teenage girl who was definitely judging my ‘art’ skills.
The basket of flowers was full of roses, my mother’s favorite.
Alex planted them in her yard when we were thirteen, surprising her for her birthday. There was a little card attached to the flowers, and I ripped it off, my heart beating out of my chest.
To my dismay, though, it wasn't Alex’s handwriting.
Unless Alex had taken up calligraphy in his five year absence.
Eleanor,
I'm so happy to see you again in town! I hope you like the flowers. I know they were your sweet late mother’s favorite. I have left a surprise for you inside your parents house. It's not a lot, of course, but I want you to know you are never alone, sweetheart. I will always be here.
Enjoy your surprise. You will never be alone again.
With so much love, and much needed hugs.
A friend.
“Who sent this?” I asked, re-reading the note. To my confusion, there was a box of headache pills. I hadn't suffered from headaches since I was a kid, but it was when I was sliding my fingers over the box, a dull thrum pounded across the back of my skull. I trashed the pills, dumping the basket in my work locker.
My colleague shrugged. “I dunno. Someone left it on one of the tables.”
“So, it wasn't a guy?” I said, gingerly rubbing my forehead.
He shrugged. “I don't know what they looked like, I didn't even see someone coming in.”
That night, following the note’s instructions, I returned home to an empty house, letters for repossession piled on the floor.
I broke down somewhere between walking into the kitchen and seeing five year old milk sitting on the counter, and exploring my childhood room, the marks I scratched into the wall to track my height progress. It was so cold.
So empty.
Without Mom and Dad, there was no light.
The house was just one dark, empty memory of what had been. Switching on the lights, I tried to make it at least a little homely. I ordered pizza and ate it staring at my phone, waiting for a text from Alex. When my phone did vibrate, I almost jumped out of my skin.
Just the Uber Eats guy requesting a tip, which I'm pretty sure wasn't allowed.
I was unpacking in my room when a voice came from downstairs.
“Ella! Holy shit, you didn't tell us you were coming home!”
Alex.
The crumpled pair of pants I had been folding slipped out of my hands.
I felt like I couldn't breathe, stumbling downstairs.
His voice sent pinpricks through me.
“Alex?”
The hallway was empty, a chill grazing my cheeks.
“Ella! I'm so glad you're home! Don't ever go away again!”
I froze.
“Where are you?” I managed to get out.
“We’re down here!”
The voice was coming from the basement.
It was when I was slowly making my way down the stairs, my phone vibrated with a text. I was reaching for it, when it vibrated again, and again, and again, buzzing in my pocket.
Pulling it out, I found myself staring at a multitude of text messages.
05/07/2019: We need to talk, Ella. Did you get my last text?
05/07/2019: I've been feeling weird lately. Like I did as a kid. I keep switching off, Ella. There's something wrong. I don't know what it is, but we need you here.
05/07/2019: Ella, please. The cops are brushing us off, but there's something going on. We need you here. NOW.
05/13/2019: Can you call your local sheriff department? Anyone?! STOP IGNORING MY CALLS!
05/16/2019: Ella, you're fucking killing me. Do you not care? Are you really going to abandon us?
05/16/2019: Ella, are you there? I'm really cold.
05/16/2019: It's dark.
05/16/2019: It's so dark, I can't see I don't understand what's happening Please can you come and help me? I'm so cold and it's dark and I can't can't I need you to take me home Ella please
06/05/2020: I like that you're so close to me. It's not cold when you're here.
06/05/2020: Sshshhh! She's coming! Act natural Sit up straight No, not like that Like this!
06/05/2020: wait where did you go? Ella where did you go Ella where did you go Ella where did you go Ella
For a moment, I was hypnotised by the texts, my hands trembling.
Alex did send follow up messages.
But I never got them.
“Ella, we’re wait... ING. Come on, we’ve missed you so much!”
Alex’s voice should have made me happy.
But I recognised it, phantom bugs creeping down the exposed flesh of my arms and filling my mouth.
Prom night, junior year.
He was standing at the bottom of my stairs wearing a suit and tie. Ella, we’re waiting!” was from that night.
When my phone flashed again, I ignored it, forcing my legs to move down the stairs.
My basement was exactly how I left it, a mess of boxes and my old bike.
Except, sitting in the corner were three figures drowned in shadow. There was a light, something illuminating the dim.
But I was already stumbling over to my friends, who looked exactly the way I left them, frozen at eighteen years old.
Their skin was pale, papery thin and wrong.
“There… you… are!”
Alex lifted his head, half lidded eyes finding mine. “Aren't… you… happy to see… us?”
His lips were barely moving. I glimpsed the start of decomposition melting into his face, eating away at his flesh, tiny holes where maggots had burrowed inside him. His hair was matted with old blood, where someone had tried and failed, and then tried again to violently force a device inside his head, long orange wires sticking from his spine.
I could see where he'd struggled, rusted handcuffs still coiled around his wrists, an unnatural light illuminating his iris.
Something warm crept up my throat.
The glow illuminating the room was emanating from his eyes. I could see straight through him, his body more of a science experiment where his skull had been forced open, an electronic device woven inside the dead flesh of his brain.
Whoever did this to him saw Alex as nothing more than arts and crafts, flesh and bone to cruelly mould.
I was too numb to scream, my body stiff.
He lifted his head, blinking at me, like he was still alive.
“Fi…nally,” he choked through a mouthful of oozing black, “You're…home.”
I knew his voice that had been cruelly stitched and knitted together.
He greeted me when I came back from summer camp with the exact words.
“Finally!” Alex had cried, wrapping his arms around me. “You're hOme!”
I could hear where his words had been cut and sliced, glued to each other to sound like a coherent fucking sentence.
“I've… been… wAiting for… you.”
The boy’s lips stretched into a grin. “For… you… tO see yoUR… big… sur…prise!”
Every word had been handpicked directly from his memories.
I took slow steps back, tripping over something on the ground.
A Macbook.
There was a sticky note attached.
Here's another surprise! There's a USB wire on the floor somewhere, sweetie! I forgot to update them, so feel free! I hope you enjoy your surprise as much as I enjoyed making them!
Feeling sick to my stomach, I switched the laptop on.
The USB was across the room. I could see the end stained vivid scarlet.
There were three folders.
2019.
2020.
2021.
There was another separate folder.
2007.
I clicked into it, a list of names coming up.
I was loading into Alex’s name, when Lucy spoke.
“What… are… you… waiting… for?”
Her giggle was half human, and half not, a crackle of laughter and static.
I knew her voice, and it fucking hurt.
My 12th birthday, Lucy stood at the table in front of a giant chocolate cake. “What are you waiting for?” she teased. “Blow out your candles!”
When she did lift her head, my best friend’s face was bruised and battered.
Ki’s grinning lips were skeletal, his head split in two, held together with duct tape. The way he was slumped, swaying back and forth, his head of thick curls glued to his head, made me sick to my stomach.
“UPDATE…us.”
Ki’s words had been ripped straight from years ago, when he yelled at me for annoying him to play Minecraft.
My computer is UPDATING! Jeez, be patient!”
Whoever did this to them made my friends suffer.
I cupped Alex’s cheeks, and his skin was ice-cold.
“Who did this to you?”
He responded with a smile.
“Not…telling...y–”
”I'm not telling you!” I remembered his tone from back in school. I begged him for answers to the chemistry test.
It was like talking to not just a corpse, but the corpse of a memory too.
I pulled out my phone to call the cops, when my phone flashed again.
Unknown number
Update them! I can assure you, if you don't, I will happily add you to my collection, Eleanor. This time I won't let you go. Check the second folder.
They were watching me.
I glimpsed a single red light blinking on the ceiling.
Taking the laptop, I left my friends, and called the cops.
“No, that's not how this is going to go.”
The voice was sugary sweet through my phone, intercepting the call.
I recognised her.
Nurse Golding, from Kindergarten.
“Update your friends,” she told me in a shrill laugh, “I made them very specially for you, Eleanor. I worked tirelessly, every day and night to make sure you came back to your friends.”
She paused.
“You're not lonely anymore, are you? Of course, if you don't want to be grateful, I can always revert you back–”
I ended the call, throwing up everywhere.
Somehow, I found myself back in the basement, my breaths heavy.
I planned to destroy the laptop, and set fire to the house, when something caught my eye.
I didn't notice until I was fully looking at my friends.
There were three of them, and four chairs against the wall.
Four rusted handcuffs.
I think I've been here before, but how? When?
How can I not remember it?
I keep thinking back to my childhood. Alex was losing time.
Is that what happened to me?
Edit: since writing the above, six townspeople have told me to update my friends. All of them are the older residents in the diner. I keep coming down here, but I can't fucking do it.
I can't do this.
The USB goes directly inside their heads. How does this thing even work?!
Please help me. Can this be reversed? What did Alex’s texts mean?
I don't know what to do!

Good morning everyone! Once again I return bearing this little conglomeration of words called a short story based inRalt’s universe. If you missed the First Part, or the last part, you might be a little confused. Happy Thursday! We’re almost to the end of the week, and getting that much closer to the weekend. I’m lookin forward to it. I’m also looking forward to the combat in the next few chapters, as I’m sure people will enjoy it.
——————————————————
“The empty space we jumped into was almost like the quiet before the storm. Staring at the radar screen felt like an eternity. My job was simple in concept. Wait for the enemy to pop up, command myself and the picket ships in defense, while Commodore Bannon stayed in the formation with our sister ship, the Wings of Security, as backline defense. I can’t say I wasn’t nervous commanding the old gal so soon after my mission onboard the Caerus, but I had the same marine commander as my XO, and 434 was standing by at damage control.
We had plenty of information to send, and we planned to sit as long as possible to send as much Intel as we could. As a backup plan, if we got all the Intel out we’d send as many pictures as we could, then we’d send crew letters and condolences. Normally those would be sent in a message torpedo, which had been confirmed that FleetCom was on the lookout for torpedos thanks to us receiving said coordinates by torpedo. However that was a backup plan, while the primary plan was to use the Needlecast system to transmit the huge amount of data we had. We were still planning on sending the data in message torpedos from the station as a backup, although it would have to be at least three thanks to the data storage amounts.
As it was, we hated the fact that we were sitting ducks for that long. The crews were all restless as we started sending data. Minutes ticked by at the rate of hours. The count up timer hit thirty-three minutes. The normal response force that should have engaged us didn’t show. Thirty-four. Pilots got restless. Thirty five. Still nothing. In my gut, I knew something was wrong.
I told my navigator to spool up and set coordinates for the Caerus and it’s statio, as I got on the wireless and radioed to Bannon. It had to be a setup. The light defenses at home would be a great target while we were out on this. He agreed, and without hesitation I asked to return with my small force on the off chance they hit both of us. Our fighter patrols landed in preparation for the jump, thirty six minutes on the timer.
Refueling was haphazard; all fighters ready by the thirty eight minute mark. I gave the order. Jump, and then launch all fighters.
Unfortunately for Commodore Hanson and the station, I was right. Fortunately, we jumped in right as the defenses and picket fleet opened up on our attackers with all they had, which admittedly wasn’t much. The small collection of ships had concentrated around the Caerus, in a tight half circle. Each ship was arrayed broadside to get as many guns on line toward the enemy while our ships fired on the move into the circle. The Caerus’s four Viper squadrons had positioned themselves underneath the four defending Manticores to add what fire they could. What started as a hopeless defense against the second largest swarm of Mar-gite we had engaged thus far, turned into a heated delaying conflict. The guns aboard my ship fired as fast as would allow, as fighters swarmed the Mar-gite clusters.
Vipers swarmed into a haphazard defensive wall, point defense rounds and KEW flak rounds passing inches away from them as we fired through the formation to add to the fire from the Viper’s twin fast firing cannons. I got on the wireless to get the ships I commanded into some semblance of a coordinated formation as I sent a message Raptor back to Bannon. If he couldn’t make it back, then we’d have to come to him. Then, the power flashes began.
The real enemy had begun to jam us. Any response not sent by Raptor would never reach us, and even then radio was full of static if sent from Viper or Raptor. We were effectively cut off, hoping for a response which would only arrive once the Raptor landed. I didn’t have the time to worry about that issue. I had too many other problems I was managing, including the dilemma of what to do with the Caerus. With the issues hanging over my head, time slowed to a crawl. Every second mattered, and my brain knew it.”
Excerpt from “‘Fighting on a Confederate Battlestar’ A recounting of the events of the 3rd Mar-gite war.”
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Colonel Mountjoy had an appointment in India that kept him there permanently. Consequently he was constrained to send his two daughters to England when they were quite children. His wife had died of cholera at Madras. The girls were Letice and Betty. There was a year's difference in their ages, but they were extraordinarily alike, so much so that they might have been supposed to be twins. Letice was given up to the charge of Miss Mountjoy, her father's sister, and Betty to that of Lady Lacy, her maternal aunt. Their father would have preferred that his daughters should have been together, but there were difficulties in the way; neither of the ladies was inclined to be burdened with both, and if both had been placed with one the other might have regarded and resented this as a slight. As the children grew up their likeness in feature became more close, but they diverged exceedingly in expression. A sullenness, an unhappy look, a towering fire of resentment characterised that of Letice, whereas the face of Betty was open and gay. This difference was due to the difference in their bringing up. Lady Lacy, who had a small house in North Devon, was a kindly, intellectual, and broad-minded old lady, of sweet disposition but a decided will. She saw a good deal of society, and did her best to train Betty to be an educated and liberal-minded woman of culture and graceful manners. She did not send her to school, but had her taught at home; and on the excuse that her eyes were weak by artificial light she made the girl read to her in the evenings, and always read books that were standard and calculated to increase her knowledge and to develop her understanding. Lady Lacy detested all shams, and under her influence Betty grew up to be thoroughly straightforward, healthy-minded, and true. On the other hand, Miss Mountjoy was, as Letice called her, a Killjoy. She had herself been reared in the midst of the Clapham sect; had become rigid in all her ideas, narrow in all her sympathies, and a bundle of prejudices. The present generation of young people know nothing of the system of repression that was exercised in that of their fathers and mothers. Now the tendency is wholly in the other direction, and too greatly so. It is possibly due to a revulsion of feeling against a training that is looked back upon with a shudder. To that narrow school there existed but two categories of men and women, the Christians and the Worldlings, and those who pertained to it arrogated to themselves the former title. The Judgment had already begun with the severance of the sheep from the goats, and the saints who judged the world had their Jerusalem at Clapham. In that school the works of the great masters of English literature, Shakespeare, Pope, Scott, Byron, were taboo; no work of imagination was tolerated save the Apocalypse, and that was degraded into a polemic by such scribblers as Elliot and Cumming. No entertainments, not even the oratorios of Handel, were tolerated; they savoured of the world. The nearest approach to excitement was found in a missionary meeting. The Chinese contract the feet of their daughters, but those English Claphamites cramped the minds of their children. The Venetians made use of an iron prison, with gradually contracting walls, that finally crushed the life out of the captive. But these elect Christians put their sons and daughters into a school that squeezed their energies and their intelligences to death. Dickens caricatured such people in Mrs. Jellyby and Mr. Chadband; but he sketched them only in their external aspect, and left untouched their private action in distorting young minds, maiming their wills, damping down all youthful buoyancy. But the result did not answer the expectations of those who adopted this system with the young. Some daughters, indeed, of weaker wills were permanently stunted and shaped on the approved model, but nearly all the sons, and most of the daughters, on obtaining their freedom, broke away into utter frivolity and dissipation, or, if they retained any religious impressions, galloped through the Church of England, performing strange antics on the way, and plunged into the arms of Rome. Such was the system to which the high-spirited, strong-willed Letice was subjected, and from which was no escape. The consequence was that Letice tossed and bit at her chains, and that there ensued frequent outbreaks of resentment against her aunt. "Oh, Aunt Hannah! I want something to read." After some demur, and disdainful rejection of more serious works, she was allowed Milton. Then she said, "Oh! I do love Comus." "Comus!" gasped Miss Mountjoy. "And L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, they are not bad." "My child. These were the compositions of the immortal bard before his eyes were opened." "I thought, aunt, that he had dictated the Paradise Lost and Regained after he was blind." "I refer to the eyes of his soul," said the old lady sternly. "I want a story-book." "There is the Dairyman's Daughter." "I have read it, and hate it." "I fear, Leticia, that you are in the gall of bitterness and the bond of iniquity." Unhappily the sisters very rarely met one another. It was but occasionally that Lady Lacy and Betty came to town, and when they did, Miss Mountjoy put as many difficulties as she could in the way of their associating together. On one such visit to London, Lady Lacy called and asked if she might take Letice with herself to the theatre. Miss Mountjoy shivered with horror, reared herself, and expressed her opinion of stage-plays and those who went to see them in strong and uncomplimentary terms. As she had the custody of Letice, she would by no persuasion be induced to allow her to imperil her soul by going to such a wicked place. Lady Lacy was fain to withdraw in some dismay and much regret. Poor Letice, who had heard this offer made, had flashed into sudden brightness and a tremor of joy; when it was refused, she burst into a flood of tears and an ecstasy of rage. She ran up to her room, and took and tore to pieces a volume of Clayton's Sermons, scattered the leaves over the floor, and stamped upon them. "Letice," said Miss Mountjoy, when she saw the devastation, "you are a child of wrath." "Why mayn't I go where there is something pretty to see? Why may I not hear good music? Why must I be kept forever in the Doleful Dumps?" "Because all these things are of the world, worldly." "If God hates all that is fair and beautiful, why did He create the peacock, the humming-bird, and the bird of paradise, instead of filling the world with barn-door fowls?" "You have a carnal mind. You will never go to heaven." "Lucky I—if the saints there do nothing but hold missionary meetings to convert one another. Pray what else can they do?" "They are engaged in the worship of God." "I don't know what that means. All I am acquainted with is the worship of the congregation. At Salem Chapel the minister faces it, mouths at it, gesticulates to it, harangues, flatters, fawns at it, and, indeed, prays at it. If that be all, heaven must be a deadly dull hole." Miss Mountjoy reared herself, she became livid with wrath. "You wicked girl." "Aunt," said Letice, intent on further incensing her, "I do wish you would let me go—just for once—to a Catholic church to see what the worship of God is." "I would rather see you dead at my feet!" exclaimed the incensed lady, and stalked, rigid as a poker, out of the room. Thus the unhappy girl grew up to woman's estate, her heart seething with rebellion. And then a terrible thing occurred. She caught scarlet fever, which took an unfavourable turn, and her life was despaired of. Miss Mountjoy was not one to conceal from the girl that her days were few, and her future condition hopeless. Letice fought against the idea of dying so young. "Oh, aunt! I won't die! I can't die! I have seen nothing of the pomps and vanities. I want to just taste them, and know what they are like. Oh! save me, make the doctor give me something to revive me. I want the pomps and vanities, oh! so much. I will not, I cannot die!" But her will, her struggle, availed nothing, and she passed away into the Great Unseen. Miss Mountjoy wrote a formal letter to her brother, who had now become a general, to inform him of the lamented decease of his eldest daughter. It was not a comforting letter. It dwelt unnecessarily on the faults of Letice, it expressed no hopes as to her happiness in the world to which she had passed. There had been no signs of resignation at the last; no turning from the world with its pomps and vanities to better things, only a vain longing after what she could not have; a bitter resentment against Providence for having denied them to her; and a steeling of her heart against good and pious influences. A year had passed. Lady Lacy had come to town along with her niece. A dear friend had placed her house at her disposal. She had herself gone to Dresden with her daughters to finish them off in music and German. Lady Lacy was very glad of the occasion, for Betty was now of an age to be brought out. There was to be a great ball at the house of the Countess of Belgrove, unto whom Lady Lacy was related, and at the ball Betty was to make her début. The girl was in a condition of boundless excitement. A beautiful ball-dress of white satin, trimmed with rich Valenciennes lace, was laid over her chair for her to wear. Neat little white satin shoes stood on the floor, quite new, for her feet. In a flower-glass stood a red camellia that was destined to adorn her hair, and on the dressing-table, in a morocco case, was a pearl necklace that had belonged to her mother. The maid did her hair, but the camellia, which was to be the only point of colour about her, except her rosy lips and flushed cheeks—that camellia was not to be put into her hair till the last minute. The maid offered to help her to dress. "No, thank you, Martha; I can do that perfectly well myself. I am accustomed to use my own hands, and I can take my own time about it." "But really, miss, I think you should allow me." "Indeed, indeed, no. There is plenty of time, and I shall go leisurely to work. When the carriage comes just tap at the door and tell me, and I will rejoin my aunt." When the maid was gone, Betty locked her door. She lighted the candles beside the cheval-glass, and looked at herself in the mirror and laughed. For the first time, with glad surprise and innocent pleasure, she realised how pretty she was. And pretty she was indeed, with her pleasant face, honest eyes, finely arched brows, and twinkling smile that produced dimples in her cheeks. "There is plenty of time," she said. "I shan't take a hundred years in dressing now that my hair is done." She yawned. A great heaviness had come over her. "I really think I shall have a nap first. I am dead sleepy now, and forty winks will set me up for the night." Then she laid herself upon the bed. A numbing, over-powering lethargy weighed on her, and almost at once she sank into a dreamless sleep. So unconscious was she that she did not hear Martha's tap at the door nor the roll of the carriage as it took her aunt away. She woke with a start. It was full day. For some moments she did not realise this fact, nor that she was still dressed in the gown in which she had lain down the previous evening. She rose in dismay. She had slept so soundly that she had missed the ball. She rang her bell and unlocked the door. "What, miss, up already?" asked the maid, coming in with a tray on which were tea and bread and butter. "Yes, Martha. Oh! what will aunt say? I have slept so long and like a log, and never went to the ball. Why did you not call me?" "Please, miss, you have forgotten. You went to the ball last night." "No; I did not. I overslept myself." The maid smiled. "If I may be so bold as to say so, I think, Miss Betty, you are dreaming still." "No; I did not go." The maid took up the satin dress. It was crumpled, the lace was a little torn, and the train showed unmistakable signs of having been drawn over a floor. She then held up the shoes. They had been worn, and well worn, as if danced in all night. "Look here, miss; here is your programme! Why, deary me! you must have had a lot of dancing. It is quite full." Betty looked at the programme with dazed eyes; then at the camellia. It had lost some of its petals, and these had not fallen on the toilet-cover. Where were they? What was the meaning of this? "Martha, bring me my hot water, and leave me alone." Betty was sorely perplexed. There were evidences that her dress had been worn. The pearl necklace was in the case, but not as she had left it—outside. She bathed her head in cold water. She racked her brain. She could not recall the smallest particular of the ball. She perused the programme. A light colour came into her cheek as she recognised the initials "C. F.," those of Captain Charles Fontanel, of whom of late she had seen a good deal. Other characters expressed nothing to her mind. "How very strange!" she said; "and I was lying on the bed in the dress I had on yesterday evening. I cannot explain it." Twenty minutes later, Betty went downstairs and entered the breakfast-room. Lady Lacy was there. She went up to her aunt and kissed her. "I am so sorry that I overslept myself," she said. "I was like one of the Seven Sleepers." "My dear, I should not have minded if you had not come down till midday. After a first ball you must be tired." "I meant—last night." "How, last night?" "I mean when I went to dress." "Oh, you were punctual enough. When I was ready you were already in the hall." The bewilderment of the girl grew apace. "I am sure," said her aunt, "you enjoyed yourself. But you gave the lion's share of the dances to Captain Fontanel. If this had been at Exeter, it would have caused talk; but here you are known only to a few; however, Lady Belgrove observed it." "I hope you are not very tired, auntie darling," said Betty, to change slightly the theme that perplexed her. "Nothing to speak of. I like to go to a ball; it recalls my old dancing days. But I thought you looked white and fagged all the evening. Perhaps it was excitement." As soon as breakfast was concluded, Betty escaped to her room. A fear was oppressing her. The only explanation of the mystery was that she had been to the dance in her sleep. She was a somnambulist. What had she said and done when unconscious? What a dreadful thing it would have been had she woke up in the middle of a dance! She must have dressed herself, gone to Lady Belgrove's, danced all night, returned, taken off her dress, put on her afternoon tea-gown, lain down and concluded her sleep—all in one long tract of unconsciousness. "By the way," said her aunt next day, "I have taken tickets for Carmen, at Her Majesty's. You would like to go?" "Oh, delighted, aunt. I know some of the music—of course, the Toreador song; but I have never heard the whole opera. It will be delightful." "And you are not too tired to go?" "No—ten thousand times, no—I shall love to see it." "What dress will you go in?" "I think my black, and put a rose in my hair." "That will do very well. The black becomes you. I think you could not do better." Betty was highly delighted. She had been to plays, never to a real opera. In the evening, dinner was early, unnecessarily early, and Betty knew that it would not take her long to dress, so she went into the little conservatory and seated herself there. The scent of the heliotropes was strong. Betty called them cherry-pie. She had got the libretto, and she looked it over; but as she looked, her eyes closed, and without being aware that she was going to sleep, in a moment she was completely unconscious. She woke, feeling stiff and cold. "Goodness!" said she, "I hope I am not late. Why—what is that light?" The glimmer of dawn shone in at the conservatory windows. Much astonished, she left it. The hall, the staircase were dark. She groped her way to her room, and switched on the electric light. Before her lay her black-and-white muslin dress on the bed; on the table were her white twelve-button gloves folded about her fan. She took them up, and below them, somewhat crumpled, lay the play-bill, scented. "How very unaccountable this is," she said; and removing the dress, seated herself on the bed and thought. "Why did they turn out the lights?" she asked herself, then sprang to her feet, switched off the electric current, and saw that actually the morning light was entering the room. She resumed her seat; put her hands to her brow. "It cannot—it cannot be that this dreadful thing has happened again." Presently she heard the servants stirring. She hastily undressed and retired between the sheets, but not to sleep. Her mind worked. She was seriously alarmed. At the usual time Martha arrived with tea. "Awake, Miss Betty!" she said. "I hope you had a nice evening. I dare say it was beautiful." "But," began the girl, then checked herself, and said— "Is my aunt getting up? Is she very tired?" "Oh, miss, my lady is a wonderful person; she never seems to tire. She is always down at the same time." Betty dressed, but her mind was in a turmoil. On one thing she was resolved. She must see a doctor. But she would not frighten her aunt, she would keep the matter close from her. When she came into the breakfast-room, Lady Lacy said— "I thought Maas's voice was superb, but I did not so much care for the Carmen. What did you think, dear?" "Aunt," said Betty, anxious to change the topic, "would you mind my seeing a doctor? I don't think I am quite well." "Not well! Why what is the matter with you?" "I have such dead fits of drowsiness." "My dearest, is that to be wondered at with this racketing about; balls and theatres—very other than the quiet life at home? But I will admit that you struck me as looking very pale last night. You shall certainly see Dr. Groves." When the medical man arrived, Betty intimated that she wished to speak with him alone, and he was shown with her into the morning-room. "Oh, Dr. Groves," she said nervously, "it is such a strange thing I have to say. I believe I walk in my sleep." "You have eaten something that disagreed with you." "But it lasted so long." "How do you mean? Have you long been subject to it?" "Dear, no. I never had any signs of it before I came to London this season." "And how were you roused? How did you become aware of it?" "I was not roused at all; the fact is I went asleep to Lady Belgrove's ball, and danced there and came back, and woke up in the morning without knowing I had been." "What!" "And then, last night, I went in my sleep to Her Majesty's and heard Carmen; but I woke up in the conservatory here at early dawn, and I remember nothing about it."This is a very extraordinary story. Are you sure you went to the ball and to the opera?" "Quite sure. My dress had been used on both occasions, and my shoes and fan and gloves as well." "Did you go with Lady Lacy?" "Oh, yes. I was with her all the time. But I remember nothing about it." "I must speak to her ladyship." "Please, please do not. It would frighten her; and I do not wish her to suspect anything, except that I am a little out of sorts. She gets nervous about me." Dr. Groves mused for some while, then he said: "I cannot see that this is at all a case of somnambulism." "What is it, then?" "Lapse of memory. Have you ever suffered from that previously?" "Nothing to speak of. Of course I do not always remember everything. I do not always recollect commissions given to me, unless I write them down. And I cannot say that I remember all the novels I have read, or what was the menu at dinner yesterday." "That is quite a different matter. What I refer to is spaces of blank in your memory. How often has this occurred?" "Twice." "And quite recently?" "Yes, I never knew anything of the kind before." "I think that the sooner you return to the country the better. It is possible that the strain of coming out and the change of entering into gay life in town has been too much for you. Take care and economise your pleasures. Do not attempt too much; and if anything of the sort happens again, send for me." "Then you won't mention this to my aunt?" "No, not this time. I will say that you have been a little over-wrought and must be spared too much excitement." "Thank you so much, Dr. Groves." Now it was that a new mystery came to confound Betty. She rang her bell. "Martha," said she, when her maid appeared, "where is that novel I had yesterday from the circulating library? I put it on the boudoir table." "I have not noticed it, miss." "Please look for it. I have hunted everywhere for it, and it cannot be found." "I will look in the parlour, miss, and the schoolroom." "I have not been into the schoolroom at all, and I know that it is not in the drawing-room." A search was instituted, but the book could not be found. On the morrow it was in the boudoir, where Betty had placed it on her return from Mudie's. "One of the maids took it," was her explanation. She did not much care for the book; perhaps that was due to her preoccupation, and not to any lack of stirring incident in the story. She sent it back and took out another. Next morning that also had disappeared. It now became customary, as surely as she drew a novel from the library, that it vanished clean away. Betty was greatly amazed. She could not read a novel she had brought home till a day or two later. She took to putting the book, so soon as it was in the house, into one of her drawers, or into a cupboard. But the result was the same. Finally, when she had locked the newly acquired volume in her desk, and it had disappeared thence also, her patience gave way. There must be one of the domestics with a ravenous appetite for fiction, which drove her to carry off a book of the sort whenever it came into the house, and even to tamper with a lock to obtain it. Betty had been most reluctant to speak of the matter to her aunt, but now she made to her a formal complaint. The servants were all questioned, and strongly protested their innocence. Not one of them had ventured to do such a thing as that with which they were charged. However, from this time forward the annoyance ceased, and Betty and Lady Lacy naturally concluded that this was the result of the stir that had been made. "Betty," said Lady Lacy, "what do you say to going to the new play at the Gaiety? I hear it very highly spoken of. Mrs. Fontanel has a box and has asked if we will join her." "I should love it," replied the girl; "we have been rather quiet of late." But her heart was oppressed with fear. She said to her maid: "Martha, will you dress me this evening—and—pray stay with me till my aunt is ready and calls for me?" "Yes, miss, I shall be pleased to do so." But the girl looked somewhat surprised at the latter part of the request. Betty thought well to explain: "I don't know what it is, but I feel somewhat out of spirits and nervous, and am afraid of being left alone, lest something should happen." "Happen, miss! If you are not feeling well, would it not be as well to stay at home?" "Oh, not for the world! I must go. I shall be all right so soon as I am in the carriage. It will pass off then." "Shall I get you a glass of sherry, or anything?" "No, no, it is not that. You remain with me and I shall be myself again." That evening Betty went to the theatre. There was no recurrence of the sleeping fit with its concomitants. Captain Fontanel was in the box, and made himself vastly agreeable. He had his seat by Betty, and talked to her not only between the acts, but also a good deal whilst the actors were on the stage. With this she could have dispensed. She was not such an habituée of the theatre as not to be intensely interested with what was enacted before her. Between two of the acts he said to her: "My mother is engaging Lady Lacy. She has a scheme in her head, but wants her consent to carry it out, to make it quite too charming. And I am deputed to get you to acquiesce." "What is it?" "We purpose having a boat and going to the Henley Regatta. Will you come?" "I should enjoy it above everything. I have never seen a regatta—that is to say, not one so famous, and not of this kind. There were regattas at Ilfracombe, but they were different." "Very well, then; the party shall consist only of my mother and sister and your two selves, and young Fulwell, who is dancing attendance on Jannet, and Putsey, who is a tame cat. I am sure my mother will persuade your aunt. What a lively old lady she is, and for her years how she does enjoy life!" "It will be a most happy conclusion to our stay in town," said Betty. "We are going back to auntie's little cottage in Devon in a few days; she wants to be at home for Good Friday and Easter Day." So it was settled. Lady Lacy had raised no objection, and now she and her niece had to consider what Betty should wear. Thin garments were out of the question; the weather was too cold, and it would be especially chilly on the river. Betty was still in slight mourning, so she chose a silver-grey cloth costume, with a black band about her waist, and a white straw hat, with a ribbon to match her gown. On the day of the regatta Betty said to herself; "How ignorant I am! Fancy my not knowing where Henley is! That it is on the Thames or Isis I really do not know, but I fancy on the former—yes, I am almost positive it is on the Thames. I have seen pictures in the Graphic and Illustrated of the race last year, and I know the river was represented as broad, and the Isis can only be an insignificant stream. I will run into the schoolroom and find a map of the environs of London and post myself up in the geography. One hates to look like a fool." Without a word to anyone, Betty found her way to the apartment given up to lessons when children were in the house. It lay at the back, down a passage. Since Lady Lacy had occupied the place, neither she nor Betty had been in it more than casually and rarely; and accordingly the servants had neglected to keep it clean. A good deal of dust lay about, and Betty, laughing, wrote her name in the fine powder on the school-table, then looked at her finger, found it black, and said, "Oh, bother! I forgot that the dust of London is smut." She went to the bookcase, and groped for a map of the Metropolis and the country round, but could not find one. Nor could she lay her hand on a gazetteer. "This must do," said she, drawing out a large, thick Johnston's Atlas, "if the scale be not too small to give Henley." She put the heavy volume on the table and opened it. England, she found, was in two parts, one map of the Northern, the second of the Southern division. She spread out the latter, placed her finger on the blue line of the Thames, and began to trace it up. Whilst her eyes were on it, searching the small print, they closed, and without being conscious that she was sleepy, her head bowed forward on the map, and she was breathing evenly, steeped in the most profound slumber. She woke slowly. Her consciousness returned to her little by little. She saw the atlas without understanding what it meant. She looked about her, and wondered how she could be in the schoolroom, and she then observed that darkness was closing in. Only then, suddenly, did she recall what had brought her where she was. Next, with a rush, upon her came the remembrance that she was due at the boat-race. She must again have overslept herself, for the evening had come on, and through the window she could see the glimmer of gaslights in the street. Was this to be accompanied by her former experiences? With throbbing heart she went into the passage. Then she noticed that the hall was lighted up, and she heard her aunt speaking, and the slam of the front door, and the maid say, "Shall I take off your wraps, my lady?" She stepped forth upon the landing and proceeded to descend, when—with a shock that sent the blood coursing to her heart, and that paralysed her movements—she saw herself ascending the stair in her silver-grey costume and straw hat. She clung to the banister, with convulsive grip, lest she should fall, and stared, without power to utter a sound, as she saw herself quietly mount, step by step, pass her, go beyond to her own room. For fully ten minutes she remained rooted to the spot, unable to stir even a finger. Her tongue was stiff, her muscles set, her heart ceased to beat. Then slowly her blood began again to circulate, her nerves to relax, power of movement returned. With a hoarse gasp she reeled from her place, and giddy, touching the banister every moment to prevent herself from falling, she crept downstairs. But when once in the hall, she had recovered flexibility. She ran towards the morning-room, whither Lady Lacy had gone to gather up the letters that had arrived by post during her absence. Betty stood looking at her, speechless. Her aunt raised her face from an envelope she was considering. "Why, Betty," said she, "how expeditiously you have changed your dress!" The girl could not speak, but fell unconscious on the floor. When she came to herself, she was aware of a strong smell of vinegar. She was lying on the sofa, and Martha was applying a moistened kerchief to her brow. Lady Lacy stood by, alarmed and anxious, with a bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. "Oh, aunt, I saw——" then she ceased. It would not do to tell of the apparition. She would not be believed. "My darling," said Lady Lacy, "you are overdone, and it was foolish of you tearing upstairs and scrambling into your morning-gown. I have sent for Groves. Are you able now to rise? Can you manage to reach your room?" "My room!" she shuddered. "Let me lie here a little longer. I cannot walk. Let me be here till the doctor comes." "Certainly, dearest. I thought you looked very unlike yourself all day at the regatta. If you had felt out of sorts you ought not to have gone." "Auntie! I was quite well in the morning." Presently the medical man arrived, and was shown in. Betty saw that Lady Lacy purposed staying through the interview. Accordingly she said nothing to Dr. Groves about what she had seen. "She is overdone," said he. "The sooner you move her down to Devonshire the better. Someone had better be in her room to-night." "Yes," said Lady Lacy; "I had thought of that and have given orders. Martha can make up her bed on the sofa in the adjoining dressing-room or boudoir." This was a relief to Betty, who dreaded a return to her room—her room into which her other self had gone. "I will call again in the morning," said the medical man; "keep her in bed to-morrow, at all events till I have seen her." When he left, Betty found herself able to ascend the stairs. She cast a frightened glance about her room. The straw hat, the grey dress were there. No one was in it. She was helped to bed, and although laid in it with her head among the pillows, she could not sleep. Racking thoughts tortured her. What was the signification of that encounter? What of her strange sleeps? What of those mysterious appearances of herself, where she had not been? The theory that she had walked in her sleep was untenable. How was she to solve the riddle? That she was going out of her mind was no explanation. Only towards morning did she doze off. When Dr. Groves came, about eleven o'clock, Betty made a point of speaking to him alone, which was what she greatly desired. She said to him: "Oh! it has been worse this last occasion, far worse than before. I do not walk in my sleep. Whilst I am buried in slumber, someone else takes my place." "Whom do you mean? Surely not one of the maids?" "Oh, no. I met her on the stairs last night, that is what made me faint." "Whom did you meet?" "Myself—my double." "Nonsense, Miss Mountjoy." "But it is a fact. I saw myself as clearly as I see you now. I was going down into the hall." "You saw yourself! You saw your own pleasant, pretty face in a looking-glass." "There is no looking-glass on the staircase. Besides, I was in my alpaca morning-gown, and my double had on my pearl-grey cloth costume, with my straw hat. She was mounting as I was descending." "Tell me the story." "I went yesterday—an hour or so before I had to dress—into the schoolroom. I am awfully ignorant, and I did want to see a map and find out where was Henley, because, you know, I was going to the boat-race. And I dropped off into one of those dreadful dead sleeps, with my head on the atlas. When I awoke it was evening, and the gas-lamps were lighted. I was frightened, and ran out to the landing and I heard them arrive, just come back from Henley, and as I was going down the stairs, I saw my double coming up, and we met face to face. She passed me by, and went on to my room—to this room. So you see this is proof pos that I am not a somnambulist." "I never said that you were. I never for a moment admitted the supposition. That, if you remember, was your own idea. What I said before is what I repeat now, that you suffer from failure of memory." "But that cannot be so, Dr. Groves." "Pray, why not?" "Because I saw my double, wearing my regatta costume." "I hold to my opinion, Miss Mountjoy. If you will listen to me I shall be able to offer a satisfactory explanation. Satisfactory, I mean, so far as to make your experiences intelligible to you. I do not at all imply that your condition is satisfactory." "Well, tell me. I cannot make heads or tails of this matter." "It is this, young lady. On several recent occasions you have suffered from lapses of memory. All recollection of what you did, where you went, what you said, has been clean wiped out. But on this last—it was somewhat different. The failure took place on your return, and you forgot everything that had happened since you were engaged in the schoolroom looking at the atlas." "Yes." "Then, on your arrival here, as Lady Lacy told me, you ran upstairs, and in a prodigious hurry changed your clothes and put on your——" "My alpaca." "Your alpaca, yes. Then, in descending to the hall, your memory came back, but was still entangled with flying reminiscences of what had taken place during the intervening period. Amongst other things——" "I remember no other things." "You recalled confusedly one thing only, that you had mounted the stairs in your—your——" "My pearl-grey cloth, with the straw hat and satin ribbon."Precisely. Whilst in your morning gown, into which you had scrambled, you recalled yourself in your regatta costume going upstairs to change. This fragmentary reminiscence presented itself before you as a vision. Actually you saw nothing. The impression on your brain of a scrap recollected appeared to you as if it had been an actual object depicted on the retina of your eye. Such things happen, and happen not infrequently. In cases of D. T.——" "But I haven't D. T. I don't drink." "I do not say that. If you will allow me to proceed. In cases of D. T. the patient fancies he sees rats, devils, all sorts of objects. They appear to him as obvious realities, he thinks that he sees them with his eyes. But he does not. These are mere pictures formed on the brain." "Then you hold that I really was at the boat-race?" "I am positive that you were." "And that I danced at Lady Belgrove's ball?" "Most assuredly." "And heard Carmen at Her Majesty's?" "I have not the remotest doubt that you did." Betty drew a long breath, and remained in consideration. Then she said very gravely: "I want you to tell me, Dr. Groves, quite truthfully, quite frankly—do not think that I shall be frightened whatever you say; I shall merely prepare for what may be—do you consider that I am going out of my mind?" "I have not the least occasion for supposing so." "That," said Betty, "would be the most terrible thing of all. If I thought that, I would say right out to my aunt that I wished at once to be sent to an asylum." "You may set your mind at rest on that score." "But loss of memory is bad, but better than the other. Will these fits of failure come on again?" "That is more than I can prognosticate; let us hope for the best. A complete change of scene, change of air, change of association——" "Not to leave auntie!" "No. I do not mean that, but to get away from London society. It may restore you to what you were. You never had those fits before?" "Never, never, till I came to town." "And when you have left town they may not recur." "I shall take precious good care not to revisit London if it is going to play these tricks with me." That day Captain Fontanel called, and was vastly concerned to hear that Betty was unwell. She was not looking herself, he said, at the boat-race. He feared that the cold on the river had been too much for her. But he did trust that he might be allowed to have a word with her before she returned to Devonshire. Although he did not see Betty, he had an hour's conversation with Lady Lacy, and he departed with a smile on his face. On the morrow he called again. Betty had so completely recovered that she was cheerful, and the pleasant colour had returned to her cheeks. She was in the drawing-room along with her aunt when he arrived. The captain offered his condolences, and expressed his satisfaction that her indisposition had been so quickly got over. "Oh!" said the girl, "I am as right as a trivet. It has all passed off. I need not have soaked in bed all yesterday, but that aunt would have it so. We are going down to our home to-morrow. Yesterday auntie was scared and thought she would have to postpone our return." Lady Lacy rose, made the excuse that she had the packing to attend to, and left the young people alone together. When the door was shut behind her, Captain Fontanel drew his chair close to that of the girl and said— "Betty, you do not know how happy I have felt since you accepted me. It was a hurried affair in the boat-house, but really, time was running short; as you were off so soon to Devonshire, I had to snatch at the occasion when there was no one by, so I seized old Time by the forelock, and you were so good as to say 'Yes.'" "I—I——" stammered Betty. "But as the thing was done in such haste, I came here to-day to renew my offer of myself, and to make sure of my happiness. You have had time to reflect, and I trust you do not repent." "Oh, you are so good and kind to me!" "Dearest Betty, what a thing to say! It is I—poor, wretched, good-for-naught—who have cause to speak such words to you. Put your hand into mine; it is a short courtship of a soldier, like that of Harry V. and the fair Maid of France. 'I love you: then if you urge me farther than to say, "Do you in faith?" I wear out my suit. Give me your answer; i' faith, do: and so clap hands and a bargain.' Am I quoting aright?" Shyly, hesitatingly, she extended her fingers, and he clasped them. Then, shrinking back and looking down, she said: "But I ought to tell you something first, something very serious, which may make you change your mind. I do not, in conscience, feel it right that you should commit yourself till you know." "It must be something very dreadful to make me do that." "It is dreadful. I am apt to be terribly forgetful." "Bless me! So am I. I have passed several of my acquaintances lately and have not recognised them, but that was because I was thinking of you. And I fear I have been very oblivious about my bills; and as to answering letters—good heavens! I am a shocking defaulter." "I do not mean that. I have lapses of memory. Why, I do not even remember——" He sealed her lips with a kiss. "You will not forget this, at any rate, Betty." "Oh, Charlie, no!" "Then consider this, Betty. Our engagement cannot be for long. I am ordered to Egypt, and I positively must take my dear little wife with me and show her the Pyramids. You would like to see them, would you not?" "I should love to." "And the Sphynx?" "Indeed I should." "And Pompey's Pillar?" "Oh, Charlie! I shall love above everything to see you every day."

Damon Lannister

Casterly Rock
212 AC
It wasn't often that Damon himself penned a letter, but after everything that happened he owed her at least that.

Dearest Princess,
We have just received word of King Aemon’s passing. I would like to offer my condolences first and foremost. I know that you were close to him, and this must be a tough time for you.
I've thought on how things were handled in Casterly Rock earlier this moon and I would like to apologize, I wish I could use the delirium from the milk of the poppy as an excuse, and while I can say without a doubt it was a contributor, most of it was me simply being foolish. Too focused on other things when I should have focused on you. Too... Paranoid.
I will be coming to King's Landing, I plan to leave tonight. I will send word when I arrive, and I hope you will have time to summon me.
Yours,
Damon

He'd hoped the lack of titles and his family name would set the proper tone for the letter. For once in his life he wasn't politically posturing. For better or for worse, Alyssa was her betrothed and her grandsire had died. He hoped she was okay.
He'd set out at once.

I guess I'll tell my story. My wife and I divorced 6 months ago. We had three kids together and we share custody. We parted ways and we get along, and we are both really focused on the happiness of our kids. So, that's going well. But when we were together, we were never compatible in bed. She absolutely hated sex and was never really interested in ever trying to understand why, or how to maybe get over that, or anything. As a guy, I tried everything I could to build her up, be patient, be caring, supportive, etc. We didn't get divorced because of the lack of intimacy, although that always bothered me, but it was always a factor. Going a decade married without literally ever having a positive experience intimately together was a lot to deal with.
A previous girlfriend of mine reached out to me with her condolences when she found out. We were high school sweethearts and we continued to date for a year after high school. Dating her back then was incredible. We bonded so much. Things didn't work out, and I never really knew why. She ended up getting married like a year after we broke up, but the guy she married turned out to change overnight and became abusive towards her, so she divorced him less than a year into their marriage. I learned later that he was really insecure about me, because he found out that she still cared about me, and he accused her of thinking about me when they were together. She contacted me after their divorce and we started writing to each other. We always loved writing letters. After awhile she made it seem like she wanted to give it another go with me, but I friendzoned her. I regret that and always have, but I was young and I didn't like the idea of dating her since she was divorced. A couple of years later, both of us were married to other people.
So when she reached out after my divorce, we started messaging each other a lot on Facebook. She dealt with a lot of trauma from her first marriage and the dirt bag who was abusive toward her, and she was helping me cope with my own divorce. Her husband, according to her, was fine with it at the time, but we quickly bonded once more and a lot of our old feelings resurfaced. We fell for each other. I was vulnerable from my divorce, and she was vulnerable because it turned out her husband was not treating her well, not helping at all with the house and kids, and completely focused on his career and would get back late every night. Then on weekends he would just relax and not help her. She had to learn how to exist and cope alone. So, we became companions for each other, both dealing with our loneliness and our pain from past and current relationships.
To make a long story shorter, we eventually met up and spent two amazing days and nights together. It was incredible. We were both so compatible. After going a decade with the worst intimate relationship ever, it was a breath of fresh air to be with someone who wanted me, who responded to me, who loved being with me. We both cherished our time together.
And then we got caught like immediately. Her husband logged into her Facebook and snooped and found her messages to me and read a good portion. Everything blew up in our faces. He was crushed and angry, obviously. She was devestated that she hurt him. They have four kids together.
For a long while it looked like they might divorce, but they eventually decided to stay together, mostly for the kids. That stung, because I knew she wanted to be with me, but she is too scared of contention and change and judgement from friends and family, and she is mortified of hurting her kids. It's all understandable. We cut off contact for a few weeks, but she reached out again to me and we began messaging again but on Signal this time. That lasted for awhile, but she eventually got caught again by her husband. This time he actually called me and grilled me for information about how long we were talking and demanded I stop talking to her. I shouldn't have even taken the call, but I did. He threatened me and hung up. All understandable. I had slept with his wife. It makes sense.
So, we cut off contact again, and this is hard. I miss messaging her all the time. I miss opening up with her. We could always share anything with each other, and now I don't have that. I'm wondering if she will reach out again in a few weeks, or if she won't. It's a tough place to be in.

I have a theory that I haven’t seen anyone else post but would line up chronologically if Eloise’s story is season 4 or even Season 5 of the show.
Marina dies about a year before Eloise runs away from home and meets Sir Phillip in person. In the book she tries to commit suicide, is unsuccessful and then dies soon afterwards from related causes. In some stills, where Pen appears sad and/or crying, I think it would be more convincing that she is mourning Marina and her decision to put her in the LW column, rather than crying over Colin as has been suggested elsewhere. Pen will always wonder whether Marina’s attempted suicide was caused by her social humiliation.
Perhaps Penelope hear’s the news from her mother, since they are supposed to be cousins in the show (if not in the books) and being so upset Pen isolates herself in her room. In one of the earliest stills released of Pen for S3 she is wearing a light colored dress, sitting by the window looking out, and looks like she’s been crying. I think she’s crying for the sad circumstances of Marina’s pregnancy, for causing her more pain by outing her to the ton, and for the social demonization of a desperate woman. I think that’s why we don’t see this dress again, at least in other S3 pics. Her wearing it is now connected to her tremendous guilt, regret and grief.
In this scenario, this news might harden Penelope’s resolve to move past Colin, even if they’ve already kissed, because she feels so guilty about what has happened to Marina. She mentally puts Colin behind her because she can’t help but associate him with what she can only feel was a huge mistake, ending in the death of a friend. To make matters worse, Eloise may have somehow heard what happens and out of anger and resentment, places blame on Pen as well. But, even if El doesn’t blame Pen, the news is still what inspires her initial letter to Sir Phillip, expressing her condolences. In this way, one of the next love stories is set in motion, since El and Phillip’s romance is started by letter in the books.
The show will have to tie up this loose thread for Polin, if not this season than before or during Philoise’s story. If the fallout is this season perhaps Colin gets the news from Phillip himself, since he visited with them in Season 2 and there is some speculation he might be in London (based off stills from S3).
Sometime after Colin discovers Pen and LW are one and the same and he gets the news of Marina’s death, he rushes out to find Pen, not to confront her, but in seeking to protect her from what he knows will be devastating news. The release of S3’s banner with Colin’s hand on Pen’s back may support this. Not only does Colin support Pen’s career as LW, Colin knows Pen well enough that he understands she will take responsibility for Marina’s death. Perhaps he finds her in a garden (explaining why Pen looks so distressed in some early clips). He wants to console her himself and reassure Pen that he still cares for her. Colin regrets the circumstances of Marina’s death, but he cannot regret Pen revealing Marina’s secret and ruining the elopement to Gretna Green, mostly because he realizes his love for Pen. That thought of having almost been married without ever realizing his love for his friend was more than platonic is terrifying to him. Now that Debling is in the picture he feels he can waste no time in making sure Pen knows how he feels.
Colin sees that Marina might have committed suicide no matter who she married, because she was still really in love with the father of her children, George. Or, in a more interesting and more modern twist, Marina suffers from post-partem depression on top of depression she inevitably experienced after the conclusion of her season in London. I was disappointed by the characterization of Marina as a “weak person” because of her mental illness in “To Sir Phillip With Love.” Then again, if Quinn was being historically accurate, maybe this is how she would’ve been viewed in the Regency Era.
Either way, the experience of depression (if that is what the writers use for Marina’s story) and of desperate, unwed mothers, requires deeper examination by Bridgerton. And since Bridgerton is already breaking boundaries in so many other ways, why not let LW’s column become more than just a gossip column? Let it grow into an active political and cultural commentary on the lives of the ton and the reality of life for everyone outside of it? In it’s best version of itself could be an instrument for social change. Cue Sophie’s story as a dark skinned woman relegated to life as a servant, the child of an unwed mother, subject to the ridicule, prejudice and violence of the meanest members of society because she has no means of representation or defense.