Carmen from camwithher webcam breasts

Hi, I know some of you have been interested in Joost’s written stuff, so this is one of them. It’s a short story that Joost wrote for Boekenweek voor Jongeren (Book Week for Young People) in 2019. There’s more info about it here (in Dutch) https://www.vice.com/nl/article/qvgzpv/joost-klein-schreef-een-kort-verhaal-over-een-wilde-nacht-in-berlijn and there was also this promo video for it https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wx7wxnpxps0. It's been translated from Dutch - maybe not the most perfect translation but it's readable. Original in Dutch here. Enjoy

"How come he suddenly has cash?" I looked at Gurb, but he avoided my gaze. Louis never had money and yet he was buying another round. Meanwhile, a Moby song was playing and nothing made sense. "If he has money for drinks, he can surely pay me back, right?"
Just a few hours ago, I was alone in Berlin. Now, ten hours later, I'm standing in some obscure techno club with my best friends. Loud rock music with drunken shouting. "Hey, Miss Murder, can I make beauty stay if I take my life?" I woke up that day with a mild hangover from the lonely yet people-filled night before. Perfect conditions for a 20-year-old dropout.
The Hard Rock Café was the most beautifully ugly place in Berlin. Gurb had driven for seven hours straight in his mother's car, but we didn't notice. An iconic black Mini Cooper. Your body leads your mind, the beat never stops, and you can conquer the world. Louis threw in another crazy dance move. We were happy.
"Do you want another drink, brother?" Gurb asked me, half shouting. An evening filled with rhetorical questions. He saw me dancing and already knew the answer.
Gurb always had money. Louis, on the other hand, never did. Louis was also the youngest of us three. He had just turned 18. I wouldn't call him a cunning fox. More like a jack-of-all-trades. Like the time he made a lot of money on a Wadden Island with a group of boys. They sold large blocks of hash.
"Crazy dude!" I shouted at him. He yelled something back.
"Do you remember back then?" Louis said.
"Back then? Back then? Yeah man, of course!" I had no idea what he meant. "Do you mean the party?"
"Do you mean the party, he says! This guy. When I look at you like this, it makes me happy. The exact same kid is here letting loose just like back in high school!"
We knew each other from secondary school. He joined when I was in the second grade. He was very intelligent. Too young, too much knowledge of the world. His mother is from Brazil. We often went to his mother's place to play on the Playstation Louis and I had bought together.
I lived everywhere at that time. In the crisis shelter where I stayed for a while, for example, I wasn't allowed to have a Playstation. So we set it up in an accessible place, near school. It was always fun with Louis. Going together to the Apple Store. Taking all kinds of photos with all the webcams, posting them on Hyves, and then leaving. Louis always knew how to cheer me up.
"Aaaaaaaaaa!" There was Gurb with five drinks in his hands. Gurb was wearing a blue checkered shirt. Two buttons undone. Hair slicked back. "You look good, brother!"
"You look fresh too! We all look fresh!" Gurb said enthusiastically. Louis was wearing a completely white outfit. We quickly bought this before going out. He also bleached his hair.
"You look like the Brazilian cousin of James Dean in these clothes," I said. Louis laughed. "Let me take a picture."
Suddenly, the DJ switched to some kind of techno. "Ah, here Berlin briefly takes off its mask." I was fine with it all. Louis was talking to a lady.
Voluptuous breasts, I thought to myself. He gave her one of his two drinks.
"He's with a girl and he's thinking with his dick," I said to Gurb. "Let him be, tonight Berlin is ours!"
The bass kept pounding. "I simply don't have the patience for the club," I said to Gurb. He looked surprised. Like a sweet dog, tilting his head. "I'm just waiting for tomorrow. Can't do my thing here. Don't have patience for the already known. I want adventure and I want it now!"
Gurb started laughing. "Patience is a virtue." Yes. Patience is all well and good, but I think it's a waste of my time. Gurb grabbed my shoulder.
"I think it's time for another beer."
Louis and I were walking through Leeuwarden a year ago when suddenly a red Ford Ka stopped in front of us. It was Gurb, casually driving around the city. He invited us into his car. We hopped in. Since that afternoon, the three of us were together. A few months later, Louis got a tattoo on his ribs in honor of our friendship. It was the name of our group chat. Braddar Force Indigo.
There were also days when Gurb would take me for a drive around Friesland. He reminded me how beautiful Friesland is. The world doesn't spin there. The newspapers I threw away in the Stiens forest in 2011 could still be lying in the same spot, so to speak.
Just before midnight, I found myself in line for the restroom. My eyes fell on a pair of striking shoes. Cigarette smoke invaded my nose for the fourth time. "Müssen Sie eine Zigarette haben?" a female voice spoke to me. I felt like Tom Hanks in the final scene of Angels & Demons, where the new pope first steps onto the balcony. The curtains opened. There I was, witnessing an important moment in history. I was just told how I was sent by God, but my ears didn't want to hear any of it. At least that's how I felt. My mouth was empty. I had no words left. That's when I knew for sure. Berlin might really be as crazy as literally everyone says.
Dark blond, silky hair. Was this real beauty then? She wouldn't look 40, but I think she was. A true woman. Beautiful in all her elegance. I always joked about being interested in older women, but tonight one stood in front of me. "I don't smoke," I said to her.
Someone tapped me. "Please, just go to the toilet!" He was right. I hadn't peed in a while either. My urine was cloudy. "Glomerulonephritis," I said to myself on the toilet. This is an unusual condition. It's an inflammation in the kidneys, I thought I remembered. They should never have given me access to Google.
The evening progressed, and Louis kept buying rounds. "But seriously now. How does Louis suddenly have all that money for drinks?" I asked Gurb. He was outside smoking with a group of Swiss girls. I had strategically positioned myself so that I could always leave the crime scene if necessary.
"You shouldn't ask me," said Gurb. He was laughing with the temporary girlfriend group of Louis. Gurb has a beard. A lot of chicks like that. I get it too.
As much as I enjoyed Louis and Gurb being here for me, something didn't sit right with me. It couldn't just be about the money. "What's up with him?" I heard one of the Swiss girls say to Gurb.
Those kinds of questions really tire me out. "Not much, with you?" I replied.
They all started laughing. "That's not what she meant, brother," said Gurb.
"I couldn't care less whether she meant it or not. Send that brace-face back to Switzerland. Don't drive me crazy, alright!"
Actually, I hadn't drunk that much that evening. "Two vodka Sprites, please!" It's rare for me to get just one drink. "I always get two drinks, then you have to wait shorter for the third one!" Maybe the alcohol was affecting me more than I wanted to admit. Oh well, it was still the three of us against the world.
"Nice shoes, are those Prada?" I asked a random girl at the bar.
"No, these are fake. Why would I buy real ones for 600 dollars if I could just buy these for 20?"
"..."
I'm not very good at that. Talking. To women.
Louis and Gurb were in the smoking area now. It was less blue than the dance floor itself. My clothes already stank, so a visit to the smoking area couldn't hurt. "These people are so underground!" Gurb shouted. Louis was filming him with his phone. "These people..." There was a brief pause. As if Gurb forgot the only line he had. "...so underground!" All three of us burst into laughter. The alcohol flowed through our veins as if it came from the purest mountains. People seemed doubled and the room was full. We had been in the same club in Berlin for several hours.
"Leonardo! What are you hiding from the big boss?" I sometimes called Louis ‘DiCaprio.’ "You a rich guy, now?" I said, with an accent as if I were from the Bronx.
Louis started laughing. "Eh, you know nothing. Bullshit talk."
I had to laugh too. What was I even worried about? Friends are friends, with or without money. That shouldn't matter. Louis probably just worked for that money. Maybe it wasn't as bad as I thought. Maybe he just had enough to buy rounds. But what if my gut feeling was right? That feeling was never wrong. Except for that one time at the Holland Casino in Groningen. Even the best of us have slip-ups. I was just getting worked up again. When it comes down to it, Louis is one of the sweetest guys I know. I had to let it go. After all, it's still Louis.
"I think I'm going to have sex soon, man," Louis said.
"With who?" I asked immediately.
"That one girl."
"Which one?"
"The one with the boobs."
"Oh, her. Just be careful."
"What kind of reaction is that?" Louis asked indignantly.
I'd only had four drinks, but I was acting like a mess. Louis was right. I didn't understand myself. Where was my head at? I'm here in Berlin, supposed to be having the time of my life, but here I am feeling lonely and sad again. Joost once again couldn't control his emotions.
"Sorry," I suddenly said to Louis. "Sorry for my behavior. Been acting dumb towards you all night. It's unnecessary." Sometimes I have that. Mood swings. "Know that crime is never the solution. We've talked about this so many times. Yes, it's tempting and sometimes easy money. I sometimes find it amusing too, but it's always hypothetical. Ask me for help. I can help you, even with illegal things. I'll always have your back." The dancing was kind of over.
The words I had just placed on Louis's plate came from my heart. My Frisian, irregular boys' heart.
Crying in the club. I had never seen myself like that. Crying, yes. In the club, no. I never understood the taboo around crying. Or emotions in general. I saw myself in the mirror. They weren't tears of joy. They weren't tears of sadness either. It was me letting everything go. All the emotions I had ever felt. The emotions I felt between my brother and sister and myself because they wanted to take on a parental role over me, but I was in puberty, so I pushed them away. The emotions I felt when my old neighbors were supposed to take care of my dog, but didn't tell me that he was bitten by one of their dogs. They didn't have money for the surgery, they later told me. They were ashamed of their lack of money. My dog died from this injury. Even the emotions that were all jumping at once during the retake for my swimming diploma A, I let go of.
No emotions. Just for a moment, not feeling anything. Is that too much to ask for?
"You still don’t smoke?"
It had to be the voice of the woman with the cigarettes. I looked over my shoulder through the mirror. It was her. The one with dark blond, silky hair.
"Not to be rude, but this is the men’s room," I said. She took a step closer and kissed me on my lips. It tasted like more. We started kissing. It had been a while since I had had female contact at this level. It probably didn't look good and it didn't feel good either. She started kissing my neck. Slowly, I noticed the pressure in the erectile tissues of my penis starting to increase. "I really don't have time for this!" I thought to myself. The woman with the cigarettes started to slowly sink down until she was on her knees. I didn't want this. Not now, not like this. She unraveled my penis from my Polo Ralph Lauren underwear. Her tongue was blue. It was probably from cheap shots of alcohol.
Was this real beauty then? Was this the beginning or the end of her story? And had I become the boy my parents hoped I would be? I thought about the fact that this was once someone's little daughter. Somewhere in the world, an old man might be wondering what his daughter is doing. Am I really putting pleasure above my own morals and values?
With my semi-erect circumcised penis still exposed, I lifted her up. After giving her a kiss on her forehead, I pulled up my pants and left the toilets.
It was the usual last hour in any club ever. I met Louis and Gurb at the bar. "Should we have another drink?" I asked Gurb. "I feel like having a cocktail. Something sweet. Lots of sugar. What about you?"
Gurb looked at the menu. "A cognac would go down well right now."
"A cognac? You're only nineteen!" Gurb and Louis laughed. "Two Tequila Sunrises please!" I called to the bartender. "Also, two beers! Thanks!" I also got a beer for Louis. At first, I didn't want to, but I didn't want to spoil the mood either. Besides, I didn't want to show too much that it bothered me so much.
We danced away the last minutes. The club closed, and we decided to walk with the group of Swiss girls. Apparently, they were staying nearby.
As I lagged behind the group, one of them tried to start a conversation with me. "Are you okay?" she asked kindly.
"I'm fine. Just had too much beer. Makes me sleepy." Not true at all, but I've heard people say that.
"You’re tired? The fun has only just began!" And as she said this, she pulled something out of her inner pocket. Her clenched fist, shielded by a half jacket. Who is this girl, anyway? I thought to myself. She opened her hand flat, and right in the center of her palm lay two small pills with a smiley face on them. At least, they looked like it.
"Oh, I don’t do drugs. Sorry."
"Me neither!" And she swallowed a pill. "Now it’s your turn... Or are you scared?"
Scared? Who did this crazy Swiss witch (with really beautiful eyes) think she was. With her "are you scared". I'll show her who's scared.
"Scared? I’m not scared." I picked up the remaining pill and swallowed it.
Everything went in slow motion. Was this who I had become? Was this the same boy from high school? And just before I could swallow, I spat out the pill. She was shocked. I picked up the pill again, dried it with my jacket, and put it back in her fist. "Maybe later!" I shouted, running back to the group, over my shoulder.
I have nothing to say to 9 out of 10 peers I come across. Of course, I can be social. I can also have fun with random people in random situations, but that night, it just tired me out. I also didn't understand what we were doing there. Those girls found me strange anyway. Suddenly, I was the fifth wheel.
"We know this place where they go until 7 in the morning!" The girl leader of the group spoke. I wanted to go home. "If you guys want, you can go. Don't worry about me," I said to Gurb and Louis. The boys had a brief discussion. We agreed to stay for just a little while longer for some drinks. I consented. I was thirsty. "I'll have a Fanta, Louis."
Gurb had reached the last cigarette in his pack. Louis and a girl from the group were nowhere to be found. It didn't even bother me. This guy just walks around with some cash in his pocket and all hell breaks loose. After a night full of stimuli, I understood Louis. Of course, I understood Louis. He's a young god. Handsome, smart guy. But that didn't make me any less angry. It was purely about trust for me. Something inside me said I should stop subconsciously expecting things from people too. It prevents disappointment.
"Hotel please!" I jokingly suggested to Gurb. "Should you call Louis or should I?" I added. Gurb immediately grabbed his Android smartphone and called Louis. He put the call on speaker.
"Are you ready?" Gurb asked.
"Yeah. Sort of."
"What do you mean?"
"We didn't have sex."
"That's fine, right? Tomorrow's a new day!"
"I think I'm in love, man," Louis said.
"...," Gurb said, chuckling as he let out a sigh.
Once we arrived at the girls' hostel, it was already getting light. Louis was thankfully back. There were stains on his pants, around his knees. My focus was solely on arranging a taxi. Although the boys were still flirting, I was really done now. "How are we going to pay for this taxi?" I said a bit too loudly.
There was a silence. "Don't worry. I still have cash," Gurb said.
"Yeah, I knew you would," I replied.
My words clearly hit Louis. "What do you mean by that?" he said.
It was as if time stood still for a few seconds. "Exactly what I said. Better listen." Louis pulled out a small wad of green bills from his pocket. At least 400 euros. "I don't even want to see that money," I reacted. I walked away.
I'll just order a taxi myself.
"Why are you walking away now?" Gurb said.
"Twelve hours ago, I was alone too, and I had a lot more fun then."
"Do you really want to know how I got this money?" Louis said.
Yes, I did want to know. My whole evening revolved around that damn money.
He took a second of pause before he began speaking. "The answer lies in the Mini."
What on earth could be in Gurb's mother's car? Louis was trying to get into my head. "Taxi!"
Once in the taxi, the division was clear. Gurb was upfront, chatting animatedly with the driver. All adventures ever were recounted. Louis and I in the back. One of my best friends since I was thirteen. Funny how things turn out. It was quiet between us. I was in my head, rehearsing how I would bring up the money again. It didn't add up, and he knew it himself. "I don't care, you know," I said, hoping he'd break.
"What don't you care about?"
"About that money."
"What money? You're really a crazy woozy man." Louis burst out laughing again.
On the other hand, it was silent. Gurb had started talking about the driver's family. The driver didn't appreciate it. Gurb meant well. The driver smelled of alcohol. Or was it me? His nails were polished. Maybe his wife was a specialist. I bite my nails myself. Like now.
"In the Mini, oh yeah."
"Shut up. Illegal man."
"You'll never know."
"Stop playing. Just say it!"
Louis grabbed my head, pulled himself towards me, and brought his mouth to my right ear. "Why so serious?" he whispered. He didn't want to tell me.
"But always with this damn money, huh?" I almost shouted at Louis. I broke every silence within a radius of 10 kilometers.
"I'm trying my best, bro. It is what it is. I can't make it any different," he replied. It was clearly bothering him deeply. He ran his hands through his hair. "Sometimes people have to do things. And you know that better than anyone. Sometimes they have to do things they don't really want to or aren't supposed to do."
I knew this spiel all too well. Through all the drunken haziness, I suddenly saw a small glimmer of light. A tiny spark of sincerity. Louis was serious this time.
"I'm sorry. I didn't want to involve you in this. I'm sorry," sweat dripped from his forehead.
"You're serious, huh? Damn, man. What mess have you gotten yourself into now? Worse than Terschelling?" Worse than Terschelling would mean stolen goods. Maybe even violence.
"It's not what you think."
"The Adlon Hotel, right?" the driver chimed in. Always saved by the bell, that Louis.
Suddenly I hit my head against the seat in front of me. Of course, I wasn't wearing my seatbelt. The last thing I saw was Gurb waking up in panic from his drunken stupor. One by one, I started losing my senses. It started with the feeling in my fingers. For a brief moment, everything wasn't quite black, and I could only see a vague pattern of colors repeating inside my eyelids. You could compare it to the brief moment after the commercial break before the movie starts in the cinema. The movie was about to begin.
I knew I wasn't dying. At least not yet. Not like this. Not after an overall mediocre night out in Berlin. I found comfort in the image I forced myself to see. It was all in my head. There I was, unconscious.
I saw myself in a third-person point of view. It wasn't like I was actually leaving my body. More like there was a webcam hanging in one of the upper corners of the taxi.
As a child, I used to dream a lot about death. Nights spent awake.
At some point, I developed a kind of compulsive behavior. I kept swaying my torso from left to right with my hands under my head. It became almost like a workout before bedtime. Every night.
I called it dream shuffling. Just like I had learned to shuffle puzzle pieces or playing cards. Making things a little exciting for yourself. But what I almost never told anyone was that I was scared. I was afraid of burglars, who were very agile and muscular.
Especially afraid that they would murder me. I really wanted to know what death was like. It scared me.
These fear visions originated during an all-inclusive vacation in Turkey. I was 6 years old and already in bed. There was a big old TV in our hotel room, so I could secretly watch TV from bed. Every evening, my parents sat on the balcony. Here they discussed their day while enjoying a glass of alcohol. There was a Japanese animated series on TV. In the few seconds that I watched, I saw a scary creature climbing a sort of apartment complex via the balconies. The creature had hundreds of teeth and blond hair. It quickly entered to decapitate the people, then drained them and, as a final insult, robbed them. Dozens of carcasses of dead people were scattered around the apartment complex. The complex on TV resembled the resort where we were in reality, and the TV world merged with my surroundings. I became part of it. I saw people watching. No matter how loudly I screamed for help, they didn't react. The sun became very bright, and the people turned into nothing more than shadows. As the intensity of the sun increased, something became clear to me. These were not people. They had a sort of orange skin. Where I had previously thought it was their nose and mouth, it turned out that these shadowy figures did not have such physical features. They simply had three holes in their heads. The police tried to do something, but in vain. Since then, we always kept the light on in the hallway outside my bedroom. By rocking back and forth, from left to right, I could glance fleetingly at the beam of light under the door. That bit of light, escaping from the hallway into my room, gave me an advantage. It allowed me to stay one step ahead of the burglars. Pretty smart, right?
"From Jamaica to the world!
It’s just love. Why must the children play in the street?"
It was Bob Sinclar with "Love Generation" speaking to us through the taxi's speakers. We were stationary. I was conscious again, but I didn't feel alive at all. "How long was I out?" I asked Louis.
I could tell by his expression that he was relieved. Relieved that I was back. "One minute," he almost apologized. Louis gave me a pat on the shoulder. Gurb, on the other hand, was sleeping. He slept like a baby cub.
I put my right index finger on my forehead. It felt wet, but it wasn't blood. Blood feels different. Meanwhile, I kept hearing whistling.
"Be the love generation! Oh yeah!" It was still that same song by Bob Sinclar.
The earlier scent of alcohol had now been replaced by the smell of incense. It smelled like the same incense I had in my room. Sold to me as Tibetan 39 incense. I had bought it at a coffee shop in Rotterdam. I pulled up my notes on my phone. "Who lights incense in a CAR????" I let Louis read from my screen. He took the phone from my hands and started typing as well.
"Look at Gurb >>>" Gurb was so deeply asleep that his head drooped. His seatbelt held his torso in place, but his head ended up on the driver's shoulder. The man didn't mind. He didn't move. I made eye contact with the driver through the rearview mirror, and soon I found him. He winked at me.
We arrived at the hotel. Gurb awakened from his alcoholic hibernation. "Who's going to pay for the taxi?" I asked. Clearly rhetorical. I already knew I would take this one for the team, as usual. I refused to use Louis's money. It was uncomfortably quiet. "By card please," I said.
"I'll always protect you, Louis. You really need to know that. I care about you like my own little brother. I'll always try to help you. But you have to be honest with me. Can you do that?" Louis didn't hesitate.
"Yes. Yes, I can. I'll show you. It's really in the Mini." Meanwhile, the taxi driver's card machine indicated that I had insufficient funds. That couldn't be right. Maybe I had withdrawn too much that evening.
"I have cash in the hotel room," Gurb said to me. Gurb informed the driver in broken English that he would go get his cash. The driver agreed. Money is money, whether it comes now or later. As long as it feels good in your hands.
Louis and I got out of the taxi. "You're not going to light a cigarette now, are you?" Louis wanted to smoke. "Especially for stress. That's really for people who can't handle pain. You need to feel pain. Pain needs to brand you for the rest of your life so you finally learn not to do such stupid things." It fell silent again. My blood boiled. All pots were on the stove. I felt like Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen. "Show me then. Do it."
Louis remained silent and walked around the corner of the hotel. Towards the parking lot. I followed him. "You're not going to find much," said Louis.
"Why not? Are you a magician?"
"No. Just. Not much."
"So there's suddenly magically nothing in Gurb's car?"
"Stop. Get out. Get out of my head!" Louis shouted. Louis had had enough. He was done with the parade. Normally we dealt with hypothetical stories. Only this time it wasn't a joke. I was sure now. Louis had dropped his mask. The revolution had begun. The government had fallen and the dikes had broken. The people were in charge. "You shouldn't freak out like this. Always wanting more. Sweet boy, think about yourself."
After Gurb gave the money to the driver, he came to us. He had a smile on his face, lit a cigarette, and exclaimed, "Brothers!" Once with us, he hugged me. He started laughing. "Maybe I haven't been entirely honest either." Sometimes Gurb seemed like a 38-year-old man. In a positive way. He exuded confidence in a way I didn't often see. Affectionate, with a hint of authority.
We stood in the middle of a large parking lot. "Look. We've reached a point where I might not even care anymore. You guys are teasing me." It did matter to me. Maybe more than ever. I was supposed to be two steps ahead of them, but I couldn't figure it out. "I give up."
The delightful silence returned. Louis and Gurb looked at each other. "You guys win. Apparently, I'm not to be trusted as a friend."
From Louis's expression, I could tell he disagreed with this. "Not true. Come to the car."
We arrived at the car. Louis unlocked it and searched for the trunk button. Gurb had started his third cigarette. "It's a corpse, isn't it? Say it now. I can still help you. I can still help us. I can book a ticket for you. We can get you out of here," I said to Louis.
"Just wait. Nutcase."
"Why won't you accept my help?"
Louis started laughing nervously. Or at least it seemed that way. Perhaps a sly laugh too. Had Louis killed someone? "It's not a corpse. That can't be. You wouldn't be stupid enough to use their ID. You're smarter than that. So it must be something stolen. Haven't you found that button yet?"
Suddenly, we heard a click. Louis had found the button. Somewhere, I didn't want to know. Shouldn't I just trust Louis? Wasn't that the whole point of friendship?
Finally, the moment had arrived. I placed my right hand in the slot of the rear hatch. Something in me doubted. Still. I still doubted. Louis looked dead serious. "You wanted to know, didn't you? Then you also have to be man enough to accept it." Louis was clearly not joking. Or was he acting again? "Pussy," Louis said. I looked away. "You're afraid of what's inside, huh? You're afraid of the real Louis." He began to laugh manically. "Open that thing, man. Nutcase!"
I started laughing too. Why did I make such a big deal out of it? Sweat broke out from every pore in my body. It was even a bit damp in the no man's land between my scrotum and my anus. A tropical climate. It had been quite an adventure the whole evening. I took my hand off the rear hatch and first gave Louis a hug. Not some half-hearted birthday wish. No, a real hug.
"It's okay, buddy," Louis said to me. I had no idea what he meant by that. It fit the moment though.
It was really time now. I opened the rear hatch.
"Where is it?"
"In front of you," said Louis.
"In some secret compartment?"
There was nothing in the trunk. Absolutely nothing. An empty trunk. For an empty evening, in an empty Berlin, with an empty group of guys. I didn't get it.
"You won, man," I whispered. "You finally fucking done did it."
I couldn't believe my eyes. Empty? There was still nothing in the car. Louis just stood there. Emotionally, I was a wreck. I had felt every emotion this evening. Seen every color and smelled every scent. I was done. My body was ready. No longer needed. My mission was complete.
"But why did you do this?" I asked Louis, laughing.
He scratched his chin. It felt like the end of a bad movie.
"I sold our Playstation. Wanted to tell you only after I had sorted everything out again. I terminated my lease. Had some debts, and I also wanted to have some money for once. Once not empty-handed in the club. Once not dependent on my best friends. This is not who I am... I know how much that Playstation meant to you. It was ours together. I should have just told you."
"… and how does Gurb actually make his money?"

Here is my list of Florida's post Furman execution roster that I wrote for my personal death penalty project. To be clear, the dates given here are a loose timeframe of an offender's first known criminal activities (including misdemeanors and delinquent activities) to their executions, and not at all their years on death row. In a large number of death penalty cases, the offenders were committing high level felonies, even other murders in extreme cases like Ted Bundy, well before the murders that condemned them. I wanted to encapsulate the earlier known or suspected offenses in order to express the scope and scale of their crimes.
As a warning, due how the death penalty is utilized in the United States, many of the surveyed crimes are extremely graphic by nature. Please read at your own risk. On a different note, Florida is the last currently completed list. I'm still working on Texas, and as of now finished 484 entries out of the state's 587 cases to date.
As with my lists for Missouri, Virginia, and Oklahoma, reddit's character limitations forced me to split Florida's roster into two parts. Here is the link to part 2.
The currently 105 executed offenders, cases 1 to 52:
1. John Spenkelink (~1972-1979, electric chair): While on the run after escaping from a Californian prison, Spenkelink picked up 45 year old Joseph Szymankiewicz while he was hitchhiking. Like Spenkelink, Szymankiewicz was a career criminal, and had a conviction for murdering a owner of a furniture store during a robbery. They went on a nationwide crime spree together, but Spenkelink shot Szymankiewicz and disemboweled him with a hatchet while he was asleep in a hotel room. He claimed that the killing was done to protect himself from a sexual assault and being forced to play Russian Roulette, but this was rejected by the courts. Spenkelink had several previous convictions of armed robberies, some of which he was serving when he escaped from California.
2. Robert Sullivan (1973-1983, electric chair): Sullivan and his accomplice abducted 38 year old Donald Schmidt from a Howard Johnson's he managed. They bound Schmidt's hands behind his back, and drove him to a remote swamp in the Everglades. He was beaten with a tire iron and shot four times in the head. The pair then took Schmdit's watch and his credit cards from his body.
3. Anthony Antone (~1970s-1984, electric chair): Antone, a high ranking mobster, was hired by a crime boss to arrange the murder of Richard Cloud, a 33 year old private detective. He arranged for two of his associates to gun down Cloud on his own front porch. Although he wasn't directly present at the crime itself, Antone bore the harshest penalties due to his employer and one of his triggermen committing suicide in custody and the surviving triggerman agreeing to testify against him.
4. Arthur Goode III (~1960s-1984, electric chair): Goode lured 9 year old Jason VerDow into a forest, and raped and strangled him to death. The next day, he abducted Billy Arthe, a 10 year old Guatemalan immigrant, and took him on a journey to Washington D.C. On their way through Virginia, Goode kidnapped 11 year old Kenny Dawson. Both boys were sexually abused, and he strangled Dawson to death with a belt in front of Arthe. Arthe was rescued when a passing woman recognized him from the news coverages. Good was notorious for being a shameless pedophile who openly flaunted and defended his predations of young boys to any listening ears. When he acted as his own attorney during the proceedings for VerDow's murder, Goode's defense entirely hinged on pedophila apologetics and advocacy. He started victimizing younger boys in his early teens, and dealt with several accusations of sexual assault throughout high school. His execution was somewhat controversial, as Goode was cognitively disabled and had the mentality of a young child.
5. James Adams (~1962-1984, electric chair): During a burglary of a ranch, Adams beat the owner, 61 year old Edgar Brown, to death with a firepoker stick. Several of the undisclosed items Adams stole in the robbery were discovered in his wife's car. Prior to the murder, Adams had a rape conviction that gave him a 99 year sentence, but he managed to escape from prison.
6. Carl Shriner (~1962-1984, electric chair): Shriner shot and killed Judith Carter, a 32 year old clerk, while robbing a convenience store. He was involved with petty crimes since he was 8 years old, and Shriner was on parole for armed robbery at the time of the murder.
7. David Washington (1976-1984, electric chair): Washington started his crime spree by fatally stabbing a minister, 69 year old Daniel Pridgen, during a robbery of his home. A few days later, he broke into a home that had 64 year old Katrina Birk and her 3 sister in laws inside. He tied up all four women, and stabbed and shot them. Birk was killed, but her sister in laws survived with crippling injuries. The day after Birk's murder, Washington and his accomplices kidnapped 20 year old Frank Meli from a university, tied him to a bed, and tried extorting a ransom from his family. When that failed, he stabbed his captive to death. In his 10 day long murder and robbery spree, Washington stole jewelry, a car, an undisclosed amount of some money from Pridgen, and $8 from Birk and her sister in laws.
8. Ernest Dobbert Jr. (1972-1984, electric chair): Dobbert routinely tortured his children with beatings, poking their eyes with his fingers, dunking their heads in bathtubs, and burnings with cigarette lighters. Two of them, 9 year old Kelly and 7 year old Ryder, were strangled to death during one of his daily beatings and torture sessions.
9. James Henry (~1965-1984, electric chair): Henry invaded the home of Zellie Riley, a 81 year old Civil Rights activist. He tied up and gagged Riley, slit his throat with a razor blade, and stole $64. A few days later, Henry shot and wounded detective Ronald Ferguson in a confrontation. He previously shot and injured a man in one incident and non fatally stabbed a man in another, and alleged in both cases that the circumstances were self defense. However, the apparent victims made identical claims that Henry was trying to rob them.
10. Timothy Palmes (1976-1984, electric chair): Palmes used his girlfriend to lure her employer, a 41 year old furniture store owner named James Stone, to her apartment and knocked him unconscious with a hammer. Palmes and his other accomplice, Ronald Straight, bound him with wire and locked Stone in a wooden box they specifically made for him. They tortured their captive by slowly cutting his fingers off, and stabbed him 18 times with a machete and knife. The trio dumped Stone's body (which was still trapped in the box) into a river and stole his watch, car, and $2,800 from his store. Palmes tried to blame the killing entirely on his girlfriend, but she was granted immunity in exchange for testifying against him and Straight.
11. James Raulerson (1975-1985, electric chair): Raulerson and his accomplice robbed a restaurant at gunpoint, and raped one of the female employees. When the responding officers arrived at the scene, the pair engaged in a shootout with them. Both Raulerson's accomplice and a policeman, 23 year old Michael Stewart, were killed in the skirmish.
12. Johnny Witt (1973-1985, electric chair): Witt and his accomplice frequently stalked random people they could in the woods, as they were thrilled by the prospect of hunting other human beings. On a whim, the pair ambushed 11 year old Jonathan Kushner while he was riding his bike. They incapacitated Kushner by hitting him in the head with a drill star bit and gagged him. After they tossed him in the back of their truck, Kushner suffocated on the gag. Witt and his accomplice then cut the boy's stomach open to prevent bloating, engaged in intercourse with his body, and buried Kushner in a shallow grave.
13. Marvin Francois (1977-1985, electric chair): During what is now called the "Carol City massacre", Francois and two other men, Beauford White and John Ferguson, forced their way into a drug house. They tied up the 8 men and women inside (who were all between 24-45 years old), and shot them all in the head. Only two of the victims, 45 year old Johnnie Hall and 24 year old Margaret Wooden, survived. A total of $800 was stolen in the attack. Accomplice Ferguson (who was executed in 2013) also committed a series of unrelated murders that Francois wasn't involved with. These crimes are discussed in depth under Ferguson’s section (case 78) in Part 2 of this list.
14. Daniel Thomas (1976-1986, electric chair): Thomas and his accomplices, dubbed the "Ski Mask Gang" by the media, went on a rampage that involved the burglaries of 16 homes and the rapes of 5 women. The husband of one of those women, 49 year old Charles Anderson, was shot dead in an attempt to protect her. Other murders attributed to the Gas Mask Gang include 20 year old Henry Kersey (shot to death while trying to defend his wife, who was then tossed off a bridge) and 70 year old Tessie Henderson (succumbed to injuries received in a beating). Another woman was blinded after members of the Ski Mask Gang poured liquid plumber into her eyes.
15. David Funchess (1973-1986, electric chair): Fuchess was fired from a liquor store due to the owners suspecting him of stealing money. A year later, he assaulted his former workplace with a knife. He stabbed two employees, 62 year old Bertha McLeod and 52 year old Anna Waldrop, and a customer, 56 year old Clayton Ragan. Waldrop and Ragan were killed at the scene, while McLeod died from complications relating to her injuries two years after the attack. Fuchess left the store with several canceled checks that total around $6,000. He had several misdemeanors and minor felonies on his previous record that included theft, loitering, obstructing traffic, public intoxication, and disturbing the peace. Fuchess also attracted some public sympathy due to him being a Vietnam combat veteran that was diagnosed with PTSD.
16. John Straight (1976-1986, electric chair): As mentioned in Timothy Palmes' section, Straight took part in the torture murder of David Stone, and the robbery of his furniture store.
17. Beauford White (~1963-1987, electric chair): White was another participant in the "Carol City massacre" that the previously mentioned Marvin Francois was involved in. He had a lengthy criminal history dating back to the 1960s, and one of his past convictions was related to an attempted rape.
18. Willie Darden (~1970s-1988, electric chair): Darden was convicted of the shooting death of 54 year old James Turman and the non fatal shooting of a 16 year old neighbor while robbing Turman's Furniture Store. Turman's wife was also raped in the robbery. Some supporters had citied that he was tried by an all white jury, and used it to push a narrative that Darden, a black man, was condemned out of racism. He had several previous convictions, which included assault, forgery, theft, and the attempted rape of a 70 year old woman. Darden was on furlough for the latter conviction during the time of Turman's murder.
19. Jeffrey Daugherty (1976-1988, electric chair): While on a road trip with his uncle and girlfriend, Daugherty murdered at least 4 women and one man, 68 year old Carmen Abrams, 50 year old Betty Campbell, 49 year old Lavonne Sailer, 28 year old Elizabeth Shank, and 18 year old George Karns. The victims were slain through either shootings or stabbings at grocery stores, gas stations, and restaurants they worked at, but Sailer was attacked while hitchhiking. Daugherty mostly murdered for personal enjoyment, but he often stole coins, clothes, and watches from the victims.
20. Theodore Bundy (~1970s(?)-1989, electric chair): Across multiple states, Bundy kidnapped, raped, and murdered a bare minimum of ~20-36 females between the ages of 12-26. Although his true body count is uncertain and heavily disputed, most experts agree that it well exceeds official estimates. Bundy's abduction tactics were diverse, and ranged from grabbing targets by force, pretending to be a cripple in need of help, posing as emergency workers, seduction, and luring them in through hitchhiking. On some occasions, Bundy broke into the residences of victims, and assaulted them in their bedrooms. After an abduction, the victims were bound with handcuffs, raped while they were alive, and he engaged in acts of necrophila with their bodies. Most of his killing methods were strangulations with cords or beatings with tire irons and other blunt instruments. Several victims were also decapitated, and he kept their heads as trophies. Bundy disposed of corpses by dumping them in deserts, mountains, swamps, and other remote wilderness environments accessible to him.
21. Aubrey Adams Jr. (1978-1989, electric chair): Adams lured 8 year old Trisa Thomley into his car by offering her a ride home from school. He tied the girl up and dragged her to a remote forest. She was then raped and suffocated with a plastic bag.
22. Jesse Tafero (~1960s-1990, electric chair): A pair of patrolmen, 39 year old Phillip Black and 39 year old Donald Irwin (who was also a Canadian constable), found Tafero sleeping in his car with his wife, their children (which consisted of a 9 year old son and a 10 month old daughter), and a friend. What exactly occurred next is heavily disputed, but Tafero or his friend shot both officers dead, after they noticed a gun on the dashboard and asked the group to climb out. The group then fled in a police car, disposed of it, and kidnapped a man to carjack him. Tafero's execution was controversial, as his head caught on fire during the electrocution, and his supporters cited evidence of his friend (who was sentenced to life, but was released in 1994 on good behavior) being the triggerman in the shootings. He also had a long history of armed robbery, rape, and sodomy. Tafero's wife was initially condemned for the murder, but her sentence was reduced to 25 years to life on appeal in 1981, and was released with an Alford Plea in 1992.
23. Anthony Bertolotti (1983-1990, electric chair): Bertolotti enticed 46 year old Carol Ward into his home with the promise of helping her make a phone call. He held Ward at knife point, demanded money, and raped her. She was stabbed to death during the assault, and Bertolotti drove away with her car. In the trial, Bertolotti alleged that Ward offered him sex in exchange for stopping the robbery, and used it to claim that his angry girlfriend made him kill her for it.
24. James Hamblen (1984-1990, electric chair): Hamblen shot and killed 34 year old Laureen Edwards during a robbery of her store. Despite forcing Edwards to disrobe, Hamblen left he unmolested. He then fled to Texas and quickly started a relationship with 20 year old Debbie Abbott. A month later, Hamblen shot Abbott dead during a heated argument.
25. Raymond Clark (~1964-1990, electric chair): In 1964, Clark beat Marshell Taylor, his landlord's 14 year old son that he groomed and abused, to death with a pipe. After his parole at an undisclosed date in the 70s, Clark groomed another 14 year old boy into an illicit relationship. He recruited him in the abduction of David Drake, a 49 year scrap dealer. With the boy's help, he kidnapped their victim at gunpoint with the intentions of ransoming him back to his family. The pair forced Drake to write them a $5,000 check, and shot him in the head. When he wasn't able to cash in the check, Clark dropped his accomplice off at his home to avoid being charged with the boy's kidnapping, fled to California, and tried to trick Drake's family into paying his ransom. However, a series of calls was traced to his accomplice, and he implicated Clark to the police.
26. Roy Harich (1981-1991, electric chair): Harich kidnapped two teenage girls, 18 year old Carlene Kelly and 17 year old Deborah Miller, after luring them into his van from a beach. The pair were then both sexually assaulted. He shot Kelly dead, slit Miller's throat, and dumped them on a highway. Miller survived the attack and dragged herself to safety.
27. Bobby Francis (~1970s-1991, electric chair): Suspecting him of being a police informant against his drug trafficking enterprise, Francis abducted 35 year old Titus Walters. He tied him up and forcibly injected drano and battery acid into his body for a span of two hours. Despite Walters' pleas for his life, Francis shot him in the head and heart.
28. Nollie Martin (1977-1992, electric chair): Martin and his accomplice robbed a convenience store at knifepoint, stole $90, and kidnapped the clerk, 19 year old Patricia Greenfield. She was then raped and stabbed to death by her captors.
29. Edward Kennedy (~1977-1992, electric chair): In 1977, Kennedy and some partners shot and killed 33 year old Robert Brown, during a robbery of a motel. He was given a life sentence for the murder. Four years later, Kennedy escaped from prison. While on the run, he broke into a house in hopes of stealing money and guns. The homeowner, 32 year old Floyd Cone Jr. returned home with his cousin, 35 year old Robert McDermon (who worked as a state trooper), and unwittingly intercepted Kennedy. He shot them both dead, fled to a neighboring home, and took a 21 year old woman and her 4 month old son hostage. After a hour long standoff, Kennedy released his captives and surrendered himself to the police.
30. Robert Henderson (~1964-1998, electric chair): In December of 1982, Henderson went on a month long rampage across 6 states. He raped, robbed, and murdered a total of 12 people between the ages of 11-79 through shootings. Three of the victims where his wife's parents, 61 year old Ivan and 57 year old Marie Barnett, and her 11 year old brother Clifford. A few other victims were women, like 50 year old Dorothy Wilkinson, 37 year old Cheryl McDonald, 30 year old Jerilyn Stanfield, and 21 year old Lucinda Russell, that were kidnapped from their workplaces and homes and raped. A couple more were men, such as 79 year old Murray Ferderbe and 61 year old Sam Corrent, that he killed while robbing their homes and businesses. Henderson's last remaining murders were a trio of hitchhikers, 27 year old Vernon Odom, 23 year old Frances Dickey, and 18 year old Robert Dawson, that he killed together. Last but not least, Henderson bound an unidentified woman and her 12 year old daughter at gunpoint during a break in of their home. After Henderson raped the mother, he tried to do the same to her daughter. The mother then broke free from her restraints, and chased him away from her home. Contemporary media reports noted that the mother "fought harder for her daughter then she did for herself." Henderson had prior convictions of growing marijuana, assaulting officers, and stealing license plates.
31. Larry Johnson (1979-1993, electric chair): During the robbery of a gas station, Johnson shot and killed the clerk, 67 year old James Hadden. Like David Funchess, Johnson enjoyed a considerable amount of public sympathy due to him being a combat veteran of the Vietnam War.
32. Michael Durocher (1983-1993, electric chair): In 1983, Durocher made an agreement with his girlfriend, 31 year old Grace Reed, to conduct a murder-suicide pact involving her 5 year old daughter Candace and their 6 month old son Joshua. Although he shot and stabbed them all to death, Durocher backed out of his end of the pact. He later shot dead 27 year old Thomas Underwood while robbing a decorating story in 1986, and beat his roommate, 38 year old Edward Childers, to death during an argument in 1988.
33. Roy Stewart (1978-1994, electric chair): 77 year old Margaret Haizlip invited Stewart into her home. When she caught Stewart stealing a gold watch from her medicine drawer, Haizlip tried to evict him. In the confrontation, Stewart raped and strangled her to death with an electrical cord. Her body was found with 8 broken ribs, a fractured larynx, bite marks on her thighs and breasts, several contusions, and a torn vagina.
34. Bernard Bolender (~1970s-1995, electric chair): In a drug deal gone wrong, Bolender and two accomplices abducted their dealers, 39 year old John Merino, 38 year old Rudy Ayan, 33 year old Nicomedes Hernandez, and 25 year old Scott Bennett, at gunpoint, and robbed them of their jewelry. All four men were beaten with baseball bats, stabbed, and burned with heated knifes to extort an additional source of cocaine from them. Most of the hostages died in the 2 hour long torture session, but Merino was still alive when Bolender burned him and the other hostages' bodies in a car. Although most of his criminal history is murky, Bolender was heavily involved in the drug trade during the 1970s at the bare minimum.
35. Jerry White (~1962-1995, electric chair): White robbed a grocery store, and held the owner, 53 year old Alex Alexander, and a trio of customers (which consisted of 34 year old James Melson, an unidentified man, and the man's 12 year old daughter) at gunpoint. He shot and killed Melson, wounded Alexander, and tried forcing the father and daughter into a freezer. When the pair refused, White tried to shot them, but his gun misfired. The man and his daughter were able to flee with their lives and called the police, while White ran off with $338. White had 9 previous convictions, which included attempted murder, armed robbery, theft, and burglary, and was first arrested at the age of 14.
36. Phillip Atkins (1981-1995, electric chair): Atkins kidnapped 6 year old Antonio Castillo and molested him in a forest. When Castillo threatened to tell his parents about the abuse, Atkins bludgeoned him to death with a pipe.
37. John Bush (~1970s-1996, electric chair): Bush and three other men kidnapped 18 year old Frances Slater from a gas station she worked as a clerk at. They stabbed her to death and stole $100 from the register. Slater's murder attracted national attention due to her being the granddaughter and heiress of renowned singer Frances Langford and the outboard motor mongrel Ralph Evinrude. Bush's previous convictions include rape and robbery.
38. John Mills Jr. (1982-1996, electric chair): Mills and his accomplice tied up and abducted 30 year old Les Lawhon after ransacking his trailer for any valuables. They took him to a nearby abandoned airport to hideout. Lawhon then was beaten with a tire iron and shot in the head execution style.
39. Pedro Medina (1982-1997, electric chair): Medina tied up and gagged 52 year old Dorothy James in her home. He stabbed her to death and stole her car, which he was captured sleeping in by investigating police officers. His execution was a source of controversy, as Medina's head burst into flames as he was electrocuted on the chair. Medina's case and similar incidents led to Florida gradually phasing out of the electric chair in favor of lethal injection.
40. Gerald Stano (~1960s-1998, electric chair): Stano was convicted of murdering 22 women and girls between the ages of 12-35, though he admitted to 41, and is suspected of a total of 88 killings. His victims were all lured with promises of rides, payment for sexual favors, or abducted through force. The methods he used were diverse, and included drownings, shootings, stabbings, and strangulations. Most of the sources noted that none of his victims were raped, and that Stano seemed to have murdered out of an enjoyment for killing. As a child, Stano was charged with fasley pulling fire alarms at school and throwing rocks at cars. He was also fired for stealing from coworkers in one of his jobs.
41. Leo Jones (1981-1998, electric chair): Supposedly out of revenge for being brutalized by policemen, Jones was convicted of killing Thomas Szafranski, a 28 year old officer, in a sniper attack. Szafranski was driving his patrol car when he was ambushed and murdered. His execution was contested, as Jones claimed that he was coerced into confessing by investigators through beatings, and one of the apparent witnesses allegedly recounted his testimony.
42. Judy Buenoano (~1957-1998, electric chair): Over the course of 11 years, Buenoano poisoned her husband, 32 year old James Goodyear, her son, 19 year old Michael, and her boyfriend, 39 year old Bobby Morris with arsenic to collect their life insurance policies. She also made an attempt to poison another boyfriend after he was injured in a suspicious explosion, but was foiled by a police investigation. As a young girl, Buenoano assaulted her father, stepmother, and stepbrothers, and served a two month sentence for it.
43. Daniel Remeta (1985-1998, electric chair): Remeta and his accomplices shot and killed 5 people, 60 year old Mehrle Reeder, 55 year old Glenn Moore, 42 year old Linda Marvin, 29 year old John Schroeder, and 27 year old Larry McFarland, across Kansas, Arkansas, and Florida. The victims were all murdered in convenience store, restaurant, and gas station robberies.
44. Allen Davis (~1970s-1999, electric chair): Davis broke into a home with the intentions of raping 9 year old Kristina Weiler. Although no sexual assault occurred, Davis tied Kristina up and shot her in the head. He also struck her pregnant mother, 37 year old Nancy, 25 times on her head and face with his pistol, and left the body "bruised beyond recognition." When Kristina's sister, 5 year old Katherine, tried to escape, Davis shot and bludgeoned her to death. He then sacked the home for any belongings. Davis was a long time felon, and had several previous convictions of burglary, child molestation, and involuntary manslaughter. His execution caused significant controversy, as his nose bled all over his body during the fatal shocks, and he suffered burns to his legs, head, and groin. The backlash, combined with other botched incidents like Pedroa Medina and Jesse Tafero, resulted in Florida replacing the electric chair with lethal injection.
45. Terry Sims (1977-2000, lethal injection): George Pfeil, a 57 year old deputy and WW2 veteran, walked into a pharmacy that Sims and his 3 accomplices were robbing, to pick up a prescription. Upon seeing what was happening, Pfeil pulled out his gun and engaged the robbers, but was killed by them in the shootout. Although Sims was injured, he managed to escape the scene, and was captured a month later while trying to carry out another robbery in California.
46. Anthony Bryan (1983-2000, lethal injection): Bryan and his accomplice kidnapped a night watchman, 60 year old George Wilson, and used his keys to rob a bank he guarded. They drove Wilson to a remote forest and shot him in the head. The pair dumped his body in a creek and drove their car into a lake to destroy any evidence.
47. Bennie Demps (~1971-2000, lethal injection): Demps received his first death sentence in 1971 when he shot and killed a real estate agent, 54 year old Robert Brinkworth, and his client, 64 year old Celia Puhlick, while the victims were trying to engage in a house sale. He also wounded Celia's husband, 62 year old Nicholas, and stole a safe from the house. However, his first death sentence was lifted from the brief nationwide capital punishment ban from the Furman decision. Two years after his first death sentence was commuted, Demps was given a second death sentence when he fatally stabbed another inmate, 23 year old Alfred Sturgis, on the behalf of the Perjury Incorporated prison gang. Sturgis was in prison for murder, and he was targeted due to Perjury Incorporated's suspicions of him of being an informant.
48. Thomas Provenzano (1984-2000, lethal injection): In retaliation for being charged for disorderly conduct months earlier, Provenzano stormed a courthouse, and shot and killed Arnold Wilkerson, a 60 year old deputy that was a veteran of WW2, Korea, and Vietnam, on the scene. Two more policemen, 53 year old Harry Dalton Jr. and 19 year old Mark Parker, were also hit by gunfire, and they both died from complications relating to their injuries years after the attack.
49. Dan Hauser (1995-2000, lethal injection): Out of a desire to kill somebody, Huser enticed a stripper, 21 year old Melanie Rodrigues, into a motel room with the promise of payment for sexual services. After they had intercourse, he strangled her to death. Hauser was also caught stealing a truck months before the murder.
50. Edward Castro (1986-2000, lethal injection): Castro lured three homosexual men, 57 year old Austin Scott, 50 year old George Hill, and 46 year old Claude Henderson, from gay bars. The victims were all tied up and stabbed to death in their homes. After each killing, Castro left with valuables such as cars, watches, rings, money, and wallets.
51. Robert Glock II (1983-2001, lethal injection): Glock kidnapped 34 year old Sharilyn Ritchie from a mall parking lot and forced her to withdraw $100 from an ATM. He then drove Ritchie to a forest 60 miles away and shot her in the head. Ritchie's wedding ring and purse was also stolen in the attack.
52. Rigoberto Sanchez-Velasco (1986-2002, lethal injection): Sanchez-Velasco raped and fatally strangled Katixa Ecenarro, his girlfriend's 11 year old daughter. While awaiting execution for Ecenarro's murder, Sanchez-Velasco got into a fight with fellow condemned inmates, 41 year old Charles Street and 30 year old Edwin Kaprat, and stabbed them both to death. Kaprat received a death sentence for the sexual abuse and torture-killings of 4 elderly women, while Street was sentenced to death for the shooting murders of two police officers.

Hey yall. I've been reading a lot here for a long while, so in an effort of self-care I measured myself and bought the only semi-accessible bra I could based on the calculator recommendations: Glamorise Women's Magiclift Original Support Bra Wirefree #1000 in 56I
I've only worn shapeless sports bras for most of my life, and when I did wear a fitted bra - it was mostly just 'the largest one I can find' kind of thinking without any real measurements. So usually DD, sometimes DDD? But almost never actual cups, just the soft wireless. So I can't really give a lot of historical what worked/didn't work. But nothing ever worked.
However, this bra is not right (I did follow all the instructions on scoop + swoop which have been great!):

• Here are my pictures (NSFW bra pics, you know the drill): https://vgy.me/album/2tlRQoga
• there's no support (I know there is no wire and it is soft cups, but my tissue is very soft/malleable so it really feels like it's not doing a thing besides being uncomfortable)
• the straps are tightened to as short as they can be and they're still expanding to the ends of my shoulder (not necessarily falling off, but definitely needing to adjust)
• breasts themselves feel okay in the cups, fabric (of the cups at least, not the straps) feels good and like it's an okay shape?
• gore (I think that's what its called?) is 3-4 inches off my chest when sitting and from what I read that's not right
• I have a picture where I 'pull up' the bra a good 2-3 inches and its more what I want in something fitted...again, my straps are as short as I can get them and I've tried to pull the back down but it rides up again etc.
• while the band is definitely tucked right at the junction of my breast and chest fold, the fabric folds over and scrunches up inside the fold. Also uncomfortable.
• the worst part: its basically living in my armpit. I can deal with everything else knowing I am an extreme outlier of size, but not that. I feel like I want to take scissors to cut off a good 2-3 inches of fabric along my sides

Pictures (NSFW): https://vgy.me/album/2tlRQoga
My Measurements:

• Loose Underbust: 57.5
• Snug Underbust: 56
• Tight Underbust: 54
• Standing Bust: 64.5
• Leaning Bust: 66
• Lying Bust: 63.5

Calculator Recs:

• 56G/GG in UK sizing
• 56I/J in standard US sizing
• 130G/GG in Ewa Michalak in 145 D / DD
• 34H/HH in standard Australian/NZ sizing
• 130L in standard EU sizing

Shape is something I'm still struggling to understand terminology of, but I definitely think I am wide set, my first instinct was shallow - but I'm probably at least slightly projected, and have very soft and malleable tissue. Probably once I lose more weight I will go down in band and cup size, but that's for another day.
From all of my reading, I suspect I am not going to like the more full coverage bras (that seem to have more of an issue with the fabric riding up into the armpit). Also I know this is a long shot, but I really hate the super wide/thick straps that so many plus bras seem to suffer from (maybe all mainstream bras, idk - just have experience with the 'plus size' ones).
Bras I've found as possibilities, but please feel free to share more - I have looked and looked and looked for options:

• Ulla Dessous - Carmen Bra (UK 56G) - I feel like this might be more full coverage (I associate this with 'stifling', but I've never had a good bra so I am an open vessel)
• Elizabeth Valentine - their calculator (I know) recommended 56F in Lily, their sizes seem unusual (56AAAA?) which is why I used theirs to see. None of the ones on their site show 56F, though. I don't really like any of them, but willing to give them a go I guess.
• Ewa Michalak comes up a lot in the bratabase (love) - this seems most promising, but despite bratabase and the measurements calc showing 130G, Ewa's calc spit out 140 DD / E (I know we shouldn't use brand calculators, but I read that Ewa's is particular so). Anyway, I didn't look too much at all the types - but they look promising so hopefully something there?

I hope I included enough to work with - please let me know any follow up thoughts + questions! Thank yall for being so supportive and helpful. Maybe I'll find something that makes me feel a little better about myself sometimes ♥

Dear Friends,

As the sun rose on this seemingly perfect day, I couldn’t help but think of Ion Creanga’s words about his mother. His description of his mother in “Childhood Memories” was so beautifully crafted and it stirred up conflicted emotions within me. Memories of my own childhood and relationship with my mother came rushing back, both happy and painful.
“Asa era ea mama in vremea copilariei mele, plina de minunatii, pe cat mi-aduc si eu aminte. Si-mi aduc bine aminte, caci bratele ei m-au leganat cand ii sugeam tata cea dulce si ma alintam la sanu-i, gangurind si uitandu-ma in ochi-i cu drag! Si sange din sangele ei si carne din carnea ei am imprumutat, si a vorbi de la dansa am invatat. Iar intelepciunea de la Dumnezeu, cand vine vremea de a pricepe omul ce-i bine si ce-i rau.”
That’s how my mother was during my childhood—full of wonders— as far as I can remember. And I remember it well because her arms rocked me as I fed and cuddled at her sweet breast, babbling and looking into her eyes fondly! And blood from her blood and flesh from her flesh I borrowed and speaking also from her I learned. And wisdom from God I received when the time came to understand right and wrong.
Ion Creanga, Amintiri din copilarie (Childhood Memories)
There comes a time when we must stop criticizing our mothers. It seems that we never stop blaming the mothers. What I want to say today is: Can we take a break—just for one day —and show them some compassion?
Because being a perfect mother is an unattainable goal. Our expectations of mothers are unrealistic. We expect our mothers to embody Mother Mary, Mother Theresa, Superwoman, and Gaia, all at once. It’s an unforgiving standard of perfection.
May God have mercy on your mother if she ever falls short. May He have mercy on her if she is exhausted and overwhelmed. May He guide her when she doesn’t understand her kids. May He grant her strength if she has desires and longings. May He be with her in moments of terror, despair, hopelessness, confusion, or rage. May He be there for her if life disappoints her. May He support her if she struggles with addiction or a mental illness. And may we forgive her if she ever breaks down or loses control because we often brand mothers as “bad” for any mistakes they make.
Today, instead of judging mothers, let’s take a moment to show them mercy. And if you are a mother yourself and constantly scold yourself for not measuring up ...can you release that burden for just one day? Just for today. Let us show kindness and compassion towards mothers.
Love,
Carmen

For the past 27 years, I've known my friend "Bruce," and let's just say he's never been what you'd call ordinary. His social skills are, well, lacking to put it mildly. And as a result, his taste in romantic partners has always been... unconventional. I'm not talking about quirky interests like being a Doctor Who super-fan or skipping the razor, I mean more along the lines of, "Let me share intricate details about my mental health with complete strangers online" odd.
Let me give you a quick rundown of his last two partners off the top of my head: - His friend's wife, whom he ended up secretly fathering a child with, footing the bill for her breast augmentation surgery, and then promptly breaking up with. - The Malaysian girl who enjoyed watching him sleep via webcam and wanted him to send her money.
Now, onto his latest escapade. I honestly thought he was pulling my leg when he first mentioned her because, even for him, this girl sounds like she's escaped from a psycho-thriller. Here are a few tidbits about her: - She's 22 (while Bruce is pushing 30). - She has a penchant for watching him engage in unconventional activities, let's just say it involves him placing objects into spaces they wouldn't normally reside in. - She's self diagnosed with bipolar disorder and multiple personality disorder (with four personalities, only two of which even tolerate Bruce's existence). - She resides in the US (while Bruce calls England home). - Oh, and did I mention she's married? To a National Guardsman, no less, and they have a child together.
But wait, there's a silver lining! One of her personalities that didn't take too kindly to Bruce has apparently offed herself, and the remaining one that prefers her husband has decided to let them do their thing. They've already jumped the gun and consider themselves married, complete with plans for Bruce to relocate to the States and make ends meet by joining her in launching an OnlyFans page (apparently, she's had success with it before).
Normally, in situations like these, where Bruce gets swept away by some bizarre whirlwind romance with a woman he's known for less than three months but is convinced he's head over heels for, I'd offer a healthy dose of skepticism and try to talk some sense into him. But let's face it, I'm getting too old for that kind of drama, especially with kids to look after. So this time around, I've opted to play along, kept my judgments to myself, and avoided the topic whenever possible.
So, when he asked me for a ride to the airport to go stay with her for two weeks, I agreed, on the condition that he cough up some fuel money. All the while, I was almost certain this would end in one of three ways: - She doesn't show up. - She shows up but later spills the beans to her husband because she gets a kick out of the drama. - Her husband finds out and decides to take matters into his own hands.
Looking back, should I have stuck to my usual routine and tried to knock some sense into him? Maybe, if only to ease my conscience. But hey, sometimes you just gotta let people learn the hard way.
TL;DR: I drove my friend to the airport whilst being almost certain his trip was going to result in his death or injury at the hands of his deranged girlfriend’s husband.

Fuck this is hard.
So I made a MISTAKE, up until the end of last year life was perfect, I joined a side hustle as a webcam girl and ended up leaving my 9-5 to persue that and I made alot of money. I had always had a hold up about my boobs but no other guy has said anything before, they just weren't round and were flat so I went to a breast augmentation consultation I was told I had tuberous breasts either way I now realise I was beautiful the way I was and shouldn't have thiught about it, I'd never modified any part of my face or body.. So I had the implants, The moment they put them in I woke up and thought what the f? This was something I'd thought about on and off my whole life and planned for months, I was so excited, I decided after 2 months I got them removed, I have had major depression from the whole thing for the last 5 months, it's affected my confidence and my daily life, the scars, my boobs look a litte worse (although my partner says they are shaped better now after having them removed) I really miss my job as a webcam girl and I'm so nervous to go back on with the scars, what will my regulars now think or anyone think? I've always been so confident and I did amazing at it. Not always sexual with these kind of things also but I don't want to feel the awkwardness of seeing what they see when I undress.. These guys are paying so I don't want them to think oh wtf I've paid to see this. Thing is, this kinda work doesn't discriminate against how women look, anyone can do this, big, fat, old, young, etc I consider myself to be attractive and my audience is different.. Not sure that even makes sense.
This probably seems minor as fuck but as a confident, attractive 29 year old sexual women I feel like my sexuality is lost for the last time over the sake of how I look now and how ill ever have the confidence to go back to webcamming or even dressing up again, when I did so well and enjoyed it, I'm very hard on myself and I like to please.

The lack of diversity has been a problem in clinical trials makeup since the first open-label clinical trial was conducted by James Lind in 18th century and first placebo-controlled double-blinded trial in 1944. Minority groups and women have generally been underrepresented in most trials.

• According to some estimates, in the oncology trials in the United States (US), 4%-6% of participants are Black and 3%-6% are Hispanics, whereas these minority groups represent 15% and 13% of the US population, respectively.
• Lack of diversity in clinical trials has real-world consequences, e.g., researchers from UCSF showed that the front-line asthma drug albuterol does not work as well for African-American and Puerto Rican children as it does for European American or Mexican children. The difference/clues for poor response were found in the gene variants by whole-genome sequencing study. Since majority of the subjects in the trial were of European American descent, the drug was approved based on skewed data. (https://www.ucsf.edu/news/2018/03/410041/genomic-analysis-reveals-why-asthma-inhalers-fail-minority-children, https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/29509491/

FDA ACTION
FDA recognizes the importance of diversity in clinical trials and the agency has asked for more broadly applicable clinical data since 1990s, first emphasizing the importance of including demographic subgroup data in a marketing application (1998 guidance) to mandatory requirement of submitting a diversity plan no later than the start of a phase 3 trial (2022 guidance) and now imposing postmarket requirement, if needed, to obtain data on populations underrepresented in clinical trials (2023 guidance).
CLINICAL OPERATIONS CONSIDERATIONS
The Race and Diversity Plan submitted to the FDA must include enrollment goals by race and ethnicity consistent with the disease burden by the subpopulation. The Plan should also include discussion on how these goals will be achieved. Refer to required content for the document in 2022 guidance.
Last September, STAT News contributor, Nicholas St. Fleur, moderated a session at the 2023 STAT Future Summit on addressing diversity in clinical trials. The panel including Judy Sewards, head of clinical trial experience at Pfizer, Carmen Calfa, associate director of community outreach for Sylvester Comprehensive Cancer Center, and Stephanie Walker, nurse, breast cancer patient and patient advocate. The panel discussed ways to operationalize diversity goals and a report from this summit summarizes following recommendations:

• Engage with the community, e.g., seeking feedback from advocacy groups before the clinical trial study design is finalized.
• Foster trust and connect with the patients, e.g., hire clinical trial staff and nurses that look like them and speak their language, translate trial literature into language they understand, and remove jargon
• Address barriers to participation by certain patients such as finances, meals, distance, or a lack of transportation, i.e., make it easy for these patients to participate.

These and other actions should be built into the race and diversity plan submitted to the FDA.
SOURCE

• What could fix cancer clinical trials’ longstanding diversity problem? By Deborah Balthazar. STAT News. 7 September 2023 [archive]
• FDA guidance for industry. Diversity Plans to Improve Enrollment of Participants From Underrepresented Racial and Ethnic Populations in Clinical Trials. April 2022

Related: US legal and regulatory history to increase diversity in clinical trials; FDA Apr 2022 guidance and guidance snapshot; postmarketing diversity guidance; UK clinical trial diversity and inclusion plan

In the summer of 2009, he arrived at a Granada in Segunda B, which in just two years was promoted to Primera, a category it had not been in for 35 years. His goals, his assists and his old-school winger style even caught the attention of Guardiola, Barça's coach. But that dazzling rise from anonymity to stardom of Dani Benitez (April 7, 1987, Lloseta, Palma) hid miseries, rebellion and self-destruction that ended his career in the elite with only 26 years, after being punished with 24 months of sanction for cocaine use. A life of book that he details in his biography 'Mi historia la cuento yo' (Aliar Ediciones).
Written by journalist Héctor García, after an intense year of work with Dani Benítez, the soccer player was clear about the reason for this book: "After I finish writing my story, people will continue to give their opinions about me. But they will do it after knowing my life through my words. Not from other people's comments, not from headlines in the press. Then they will be able to judge me for who I really am. I just hope they don't beat me up for it, and understand my mistakes. That's what I want for myself, but also for all the people who have ever been on the deep end. I believe this world needs better people and more love. And if this book can help achieve that, I will be proud of it. I want the book to be a positive message to people who are having a hard time. A very clear message: you can get through this. But sometimes you can't do it alone, you also need help. And there you have to be with the person next to you".
-How was your childhood in Lloseta?
-It is a small village in Palma, two kilometers from Inca. My father's family lived there and my mother's family lived in Lloseta. He is from Malaga, and like so many other Andalusians had come to the island to work in tourism. My mother was born in Lloseta and that is where they met. They were working all day long and I lived almost 24 hours with my grandparents.
-What exactly did they work at?
-My father worked in the hotel business from a very young age and my mother had several restaurant and hotel businesses.
-Were you already rebellious at school?
-No way. I was a very normal kid and, in fact, I was quite good at school. What happened is that in the fourth year of ESO, at the age of 16, I was already very clear that I wanted to be a footballer and in the end I didn't even get my school leaving certificate. But I was always a kid with good grades.
-Do you have siblings?
-One. His name is Juanito, he is ten years younger than me and he works in a delivery company in Mallorca. I have always taken care of him, both personally and economically, and when I was sanctioned I came to Palma and lived with him.
-Why are you not related to your father?
-Let's see. My father is not a bad person, but he has always been very strict. I don't know now, because I don't talk to him, but he used to be. I mean, if he said red, it was red. And it couldn't be orange or any other color. In this I blame my mother a little bit because she always had me more protected, more spoiled. And my father was the opposite, very strict.
-Please continue.
-As the years went by and as I became more aware, I realized that they fought a lot. Very ugly things happened that I didn't like anymore, but I don't want to give details. So I went to my mother's side and little by little I moved away from my father. Then, when I got older, my arguments with him started until after a very big one I said enough was enough. That was the end of our relationship. I was two weeks shy of my 16th birthday and I went to live with my then girlfriend's parents. I also say mea culpa because I already had a strong character, but as a father he should have known how to manage this better and not to exceed certain limits.
-Did your father mistreat you?
-Man, he didn't beat me up so much as punch me, but, for example, I have a memory engraved in fire. I was six or seven years old and the typical thing when you go to the village flea market and I asked him if he wanted something. He kept telling me no and no, and ended up slapping me with an open hand so hard that I drew blood on my face. It was an open-handed slap, not a punch. It was one of the things that made me get a little bit angry with my father. It marked me. He had a bit of a long hand. I hated it when he slapped me and he slapped me so hard that it made my whole body tingle, but I don't consider him to have mistreated me. Now, I would be incapable of hitting my children. In life I will do it. There are a thousand ways to educate and that is not the best.
-It sounds very hard.
-Of course, it was a matter of saying, 'fuck dad, you're hitting me and hurting me'. I was little and I didn't understand it. And that was his mistake. That's why, once I grew up, I moved away from him. And I don't want to talk bad about my father. It hurts me, it really does. And it's hard to say this, but the only thing I've learned from Juan, my father, is not to be like him.
-From the age of 16 to the age of 37, which she will be this Sunday, that's 21 years.
-Yes. When my mother got sick with cancer in 2007, I went to see her all the time and it got to a point where she was so bad that one day she put me in her room and told me that she was going to die very soon. She told me to please fix the relationship with my father, that I also have a little brother and I could not lose my relationship with him. So I promised her that I would try to fix it with my father. And that's what I do when she passes away, in 2009. I was 23 years old and I asked her to forget the past and get along. Which is something that should have come from my father, not from me, but I did it for my mother. And there we were for about eight months, but it was impossible. There was no reciprocity on his part. In the end the destiny was clear: he with his life and me with mine. And that was it.
-What cancer did Antonia, your mother, die of?
-Breast cancer. She spent almost a year with chemo and radium and she got well, but after four months of being well, a very strong pain appeared in her head. She had metastasis. She had five more months to live. It was a pity, because she was a healthy woman, who neither smoked nor drank.
-Your mother dies just when you start to explode in soccer, in that Granada of Fabri that climbs from Segunda B to Primera in just two years. Even Guardiola, who was coaching Barça at the time, noticed you.
-It's just that my style of play was one of those that didn't exist anymore. I was an old-school winger and it's true that many good teams noticed me and asked.
-And at the same time that you were becoming a star, you were making a mess of things outside of soccer. That was bad business.
-As I say in the book, it's easy to explain, but difficult to understand. It was a ball that kept getting bigger and bigger, and in the end it had to explode. I had no relationship with my father, my mother, who was my great support, died of cancer when I was only 23 years old. My brother was still very young, he was only 13. And, to all this, add a character to feed me on the side. Of course, he was a bomb. On top of that, I played in the First Division, I easily earned a million euros, I didn't even know how to make a tax return and I always spent twice as much as I earned. I came from a dysfunctional family, I was a crazy goat and there was no one to draw a straight line for me. Well, that's what happened. I felt like Tyson, who once said in an interview that he got old too soon and matured too late. The same thing happened to me.
-Money, good houses, good cars, fame and a bad head.
-That's right, and the physique, which was always with me. Many times I would go to train after partying all night and the physique was there. There came a time when alcohol didn't even affect me because of all the alcohol I drank. I wasn't an alcoholic, but I could drink a bottle of vodka in one night and nothing would happen to me.
-You know that in Granada we nicknamed you 'Dani Beefeater'.
-It pisses me off that they call me that; what I used to drink was vodka, but I never drank gin. I don't like it. It really hurts me. If that nickname had been vodka.... They gave it to me when we promoted Elche to the First Division, and there is 'an hijoputa' from there who made a montage with a bottle of Beefeater and my face on top of it, and that was transferred to Granada.
-Do you still drink?
-No. I don't drink at all today. I haven't been drunk for years.
-Have you ever talked to Clos Gómez about the bottle-blow you gave him in the Granada-Real Madrid game in May 2012? (It cost you three months of suspension).
-I know it was wrong, but I don't regret it. And I'll explain why. I apologize publicly, but what did Clos Gómez want? For me to eat his balls? It turns out that the first time he whistles again after that, at the handrail, when I go to greet him, he withdraws his hand. So no, I don't regret it.
-Why did you take the car and put it at 300 km/h?
-I loved speed. And I bought high-end cars. I'd put the music on at full blast and go racing. It was a total disconnect. I would go in the evenings or on my day off. To Malaga, for example, and I would put the car at 300 km/h, and those that didn't reach that, at 290, 280... Now I don't even pass 115 km/h. What unconsciousness did. I could have been killed perfectly. Every time I did that, I risked my life.
-And that exploded on February 14, 2014. The day, and the night, of his first scratch. And also your last?
-No, not my last. After testing positive (he was the player chosen in the anti-doping control of Granada-Betis, played only 48 hours after consuming cocaine), I got a two-year ban, Granada terminated my contract and I went to Mallorca. There I separated from my ex-wife and entered a period of six, seven months fucked up, in which I consumed a lot of cocaine.
-Do you consider that he was a drug addict?
-No, I didn't have a cocaine addiction. I had a general addiction. Alcohol, cocaine, partying... I spent more than 100,000 euros in all that time and, in addition, I was cheated by the partner I had in the rental car business we opened in Mallorca.
-Did you suffer from depression?
-Yes, yes, totally, although I was not aware of it at the time. There came a time when I wanted to die.
-What annoyed you more: the friends who turned their backs on you or the lies that were told about you?
-The lies hurt, because they hurt, but the issue of friends hurt me much more. I have no dealings with almost none of the players with whom I coincided. Only something with Diego Mainz, Lucena and Íñigo López. I am happy when I see them and talk to them. But do you know how many colleagues have written to me about the book? None. Zero. I also assume my guilt. I've always been very much on my own. I have not been the typical friend who is telling you all day long that I love you.
-Were many doors closed to you after the positive test?
-All of them. And that hurts. Almost nobody in Spain remembered me after the two-year ban. There was an opportunity at Huesca that didn't work out, another one at Alcorcón but I just got injured? I ended up playing in Cyprus and from then on I did well. People don't know it or don't want to know it, but I kept playing soccer and I did good things, even though they gave me a lot of social pressure. And if you don't know how to deal with it, it's fucked up. Especially for my family. Two of my sons are now grown up...
-You have a divorce and three children, from three different wives.
-Yes. Francis, 16. Candela, 12. And Triana, 3 months old. I don't talk to Francis. I tell the details of why in the book. Candela is my ex-wife's daughter, with whom I have a very good relationship. Triana is the little one, daughter of my current girlfriend. And curiously, all three of my children's mothers are named Mari Carmen.
-How do you explain to a child all the crazy things she did?
-Candela is a very smart and intelligent child. I have talked about it with her, but I recognize that it is a very hard subject to discuss with a child. Fortunately, she sees me as a normal father. What bothers me is not having done things better so that my children would have their lives practically solved today, economically speaking. They will have to work, like their father.
-Now you continue playing soccer in Granada, in the Arenas de Armilla, a Third RFEF team, and at the same time you work as commercial director in Agrobeta, a company of fertilizers and ecological and cannabis fertilizers.
-I've been with Arenas since 2021 and every season I say I'm going to retire, but I don't. I play for pleasure, not for money. I play for pleasure, not for money. Agrobeta is where I make my living. The company belongs to my friend José Alvarado and together we have also just set up another project. We are crazy about animals. It's called Faunny, and it's a company dedicated to the welfare of horses and pets.
-Commercial director, football player and TikTok star!
-(laughs) Those are the live ones on my girlfriend's account. We fool around and people like it, but I've already told her that I'm quitting, that I don't do it anymore. I don't have time for so many things.

I was diagnosed with CPTSD and have spoken with a therapist about some (but not all) of my experiences of covert incest. From the experiences I spoke about with the therapist, she told me that CPS could have been called on my parents and that it has caused complex trauma.
I have the textbook covert incest experiences, such as both my parents coming to me for emotional support (which they still do to this day) about their relationship together, being extremely open about their sex lives, my mother walking around naked all the time, my parents bringing me along to social events that were not appropriate for a child or teen, and constantly talking about types of bodies they found sexually attractive, among other things.
My parents ran a camming site out of our home, specifically the living room and an office. Both rooms did not have a door, so I have memories of seeing my father filming my mother doing sexual webcam shows. One time, when I was three years old, I ran in front of the camera to grab something in the room, and they yelled at me to get out of the way of the camera. My mother was naked and performing.
For further context, I am AFAB and identify as a heterosexual woman. I am their only child and they are still together.
Yesterday I started thinking about these experiences that I have not shared with a therapist yet, and I was wondering if they were overt or covert incest:

• My father showed me multiple large, printed photos he had taken of my mother and a woman kissing. They were nude.
  
• The home I grew up in was covered in images of my mother nude. Along with the images of my mother, they had many statues and lamps of naked women. When I said that it made me uncomfortable to have my friends over because of those images, my parents said I was prudish. I would overhear my parents having conversations about my “prudishness,” wondering “where it came from.”
  
• My father would tickle me and would not stop if I told him to stop. He told me to “just stop thinking about it and you won’t feel it anymore. You can control it.”
  
• My father would show me Playboy, Maxim, and various men’s magazines. I felt like I needed to look at them because my dad wanted me to.
  
• My father would constantly drill me about my sexuality, telling me it was okay if I came out as a lesbian. It felt really uncomfortable, because I had only had crushes on two boys in my life at that point (11 years old), and it almost felt like I was disappointing them by being heterosexual.
  
• My parents would take me along to meet women they wanted to take sexual pictures or videos of when I was under the age of eight. They would spend the lunches or dinner showing the women nude photos of my mother.
  
• My parents constantly spoke about my mother’s bisexuality and would talk about the types of women they found sexually attractive (and how much they “loved big butts”).
  
• After puberty, both of my parents would comment on my hips, butt, breasts, and waist. My mom would make comments about “wondering where the boobs came from.” My dad would talk about how I got my mom’s hips and butt. Around age 20, my dad told me I was “skinny fat” and needed to work out.
  
• My dad left a photo of him spreading my mother’s vagina open next to his desk which was in a main part of the home that I walked by every day.
  
• They left pornography and sex toys out. Often pornography was left in the VHS player and would be playing when I turned on the TV.
  
• One time when my dad took me to lunch, the waitress thought we were on a date together. He told me and was smiling about it.
  
• When I became a teen, I always had this weird feeling like they wanted people to think I was the “third” in their relationship. They would take me to fancy dinners and experiences that felt “off” and not like a usual parent/daughter relationship.
  

There are more experiences, but I feel sick writing all this down. Trying to figure out what happened and how I can cope.

I was diagnosed with CPTSD and have spoken with a therapist about some (but not all) of my experiences of covert incest. From the experiences I spoke about with the therapist, she told me that CPS could have been called on my parents and that it has caused complex trauma.
I have the textbook covert incest experiences, such as both my parents coming to me for emotional support (which they still do to this day) about their relationship together, being extremely open about their sex lives, my mother walking around naked all the time, my parents bringing me along to social events that were not appropriate for a child or teen, and constantly talking about types of bodies they found sexually attractive, among other things.
My parents ran a camming site out of our home, specifically the living room and an office. Both rooms did not have a door, so I have memories of seeing my father filming my mother doing sexual webcam shows. One time, when I was three years old, I ran in front of the camera to grab something in the room, and they yelled at me to get out of the way of the camera. My mother was naked and performing.
For further context, I am AFAB and identify as a heterosexual woman. I am their only child and they are still together. I’m 30 years old.
Yesterday I started thinking about these experiences that I have not shared with a therapist yet, and I was wondering if they were overt or covert incest:

• My father showed me multiple large, printed photos he had taken of my mother and a woman kissing. They were nude.
  
• The home I grew up in was covered in images of my mother nude. Along with the images of my mother, they had many statues and lamps of naked women. When I said that it made me uncomfortable to have my friends over because of those images, my parents said I was prudish. I would overhear my parents having conversations about my “prudishness,” wondering “where it came from.”
  
• My father would tickle me and would not stop if I told him to stop. He told me to “just stop thinking about it and you won’t feel it anymore. You can control it.”
  
• My father would show me Playboy, Maxim, and various men’s magazines. I felt like I needed to look at them because my dad wanted me to.
  
• My father would constantly drill me about my sexuality, telling me it was okay if I came out as a lesbian. It felt really uncomfortable, because I had only had crushes on two boys in my life at that point (11 years old), and it almost felt like I was disappointing them by being heterosexual.
  
• My parents would take me along to meet women they wanted to take sexual pictures or videos of when I was under the age of eight. They would spend the lunches or dinner showing the women nude photos of my mother.
  
• My parents constantly spoke about my mother’s bisexuality and would talk about the types of women they found sexually attractive (and how much they “loved big butts”).
  
• After puberty, both of my parents would comment on my hips, butt, breasts, and waist. My mom would make comments about “wondering where the boobs came from.” My dad would talk about how I got my mom’s hips and butt. Around age 20, my dad told me I was “skinny fat” and needed to work out.
  
• My dad left a photo of him spreading my mother’s vagina open next to his desk which was in a main part of the home that I walked by every day.
  
• They left pornography and sex toys out. Often pornography was left in the VHS player and would be playing when I turned on the TV.
  
• One time when my dad took me to lunch, the waitress thought we were on a date together. He told me and was smiling about it.
  
• When I became a teen, I always had this weird feeling like they wanted people to think I was the “third” in their relationship. They would take me to fancy dinners and experiences that felt “off” and not like a usual parent/daughter relationship.
  

There are more experiences, but I feel sick writing all this down. Trying to figure out what happened and how I can cope.

After the shocking performance from Clemenza which saw ridiculous amounts of meat massacred, Chef Ramsay told Tommy he was lucky that Clemenza was so bad but to come back tomorrow and fight another day. Tommy accepted he was unlikely to win at this point but did not want to let himself down and said he wanted a strong challenge and service tomorrow. The red team celebrated their best service yet and Johnathan was ecstatic at helping the red team get a service victory after 2 losses and Leigh believed the red team were solid now and hoped the bickering was a thing of the past. The teams came back for another day and Ramsay said he was very excited as today the chefs would be facing each other with cheese dishes. Italians Will and Johnathan said they may as well give up if they fail at this challenge. Chef Ramsay and guest judge Richard Blais were awarding up to 5 stars for each dish and Mia guaranteed a perfect 10 as who doesn’t know how to make a nice cheese dish?
The red team had one extra person and both Sommer and Brynn did a ravioli but thanks to Brynn insisting that her ravioli was better they decided to serve Brynns which pissed Sommer off as she felt she had been stronger in challenges. Jonathan and Cody were first up in the battle of the calzones and Johnathan scored 9/10 to get the red team off to a great start while Cody scored 6 thanks to his calzone having not enough cheese which he noted was not the way to go on a cheese challenge. The red team continued their great start when Amber feta and pepper frittata scored 8 and Steve’s frittata was spongy and scored a miserable 3/10 and Steve admitted it was the worst dish he had ever done. Will pulled the lead back by scoring a perfect 10 with his ricotta and crab raviolis, and Brynn’s saffron and shrimp ravioli had far too much saffron and only scored with Sommer deciding her dish must have been awful if it was worse than that! Heidi did even worse and only scored 2 on lasagne thanks to it looking like a dogs dinner and Declan scored 7 to put the blue team in the lead by 4. Leigh and Carmen both scored a strong 8 with enchiladas and despite Tommy’s confidence, his au gratin had undercooked potatoes to only score 4 and Mia scored a perfect 10 with the dish of the day so far to put the red team in the lead. Motto scored 9 with his sausage and fennel cordon bleu but Melanie also scored a perfect 10 with her emmental cordon bleu to give the red team the victory!
The red team enjoyed a day of surfing while the blue team had to break down a cheese and prep both kitchens for service, and Steve said he’d have to forget about how bad that challenge was and it was time for a perfect service and Tommy who also had an awful challenge was in a jokey mood with Carmen annoyed that he wasn’t taking the punishment seriously and if he’d been more serious in the challenge today he might have done better. The red team enjoyed their day out and Melanie felt the blue team might start cracking as they were beginning to not get on as well and Mia noted that the blue team were a fair amount older so may be struggling to keep up with how fast the competition was. Chef Ramsay said on the sixth service there was no excuses to not have a great service and put Sommer on floating and said he expected to see her take control of the team if they start to sink and Sommer felt this was the perfect opportunity to come back from not having her dish tasted in the challenge.
Melanie and Amber were on appetizers together and instantly had problems when Melanie served a risotto lacking salt and then served a risotto without telling Johnathan to drop his lobster tail which caused a drag but Johnathan quickly fought back. Amber wanted to take over risotto but served a risotto burnt at the bottom of the pan and Ramsay asked very kindly for the red team to stop sending him shit! Brynn had a brain fart and tried to cook scallops in a scorching pan and had to start again before Amber then served raw pigeon for her salad thanks to not hearing the order early enough and having to rush it. Appetizers did finish but the problems continued as Mia got flustered on garnish and shouted at Heidi who told her to give accurate times and despite Heidi and Leigh serving perfect wellingtons and chicken, Mia forgot she had carrots cooking in a pan and ended up burning them and Ramsay said it was absolute BEDLAM in the kitchen. Mia continued to get behind and Sommer had to help her get organized but Johnathan then served raw halibut which he blamed on the kitchen being backed up on garnish. Ramsay told Johnathan to hurry up on the halibut and Brynn ignored Johnathan saying he wasn’t ready to serve raw halibut again and Ramsay finally had enough and kicked the entire red team out!
Motto was leading the appetizers station and felt that Tommy could be strong support as he knew he could cook and they got off to a strong start thanks to Motto’s perfect pastas and Cody serving sexy scallops. However, Tommy somehow ended up behind on salads with Ramsay saying it was insane that the kitchen were waiting on salads and his communication continued to be an issue as he gave inconsistent times on flatbreads and admitted he was confused. Tommy did fight back as the blue team moved onto entrees and Big D was confident that him and Will would soar like eagles on the meat station but Declan served an overcooked duck breast before quickly bouncing back with a refire. Carmen started getting in the weeds on the garnish station, not communicating property and serving pork garnish which wasn’t needed and Ramsay noted Carmen was not organizing her station properly and Carmen then served fries with no color and admitted she was confused what was going on. Steve and Cody both had great services on the fish station and Will tried to lead the team on a fightback but served lamb with Carmen still not ready on garnish and to add insult to injury the lamb was raw! Chef Ramsay kicked the blue team out as well with Cody furious as he was doing well and Ramsay said both teams had to come up with 2 for elimination.
Motto said the blue team were a clown show tonight and said it was painful to watch Tommy tonight and Tommy accepted he should go up for elimination but he wasn’t done yet and felt he was stronger than Carmen who had problems all night. Carmen angrily said she fought back and was the only one by herself on a station and wanted Declan to go up but was quickly shut down by Steve who said she had had the most mistakes tonight and Carmen said she wished she was back on the red team as the blue team were not solid. Johnathan and Brynn also had an argument in the dorms over the final halibut with Johnathan claiming Brynn doesn’t listen which fucked up the service and Mia claimed the issues on the fish station effected her service on garnish. This was laughed off by Amber who felt she had a good service and wasn’t going up but Melanie wondered how she felt she had a good service when she served raw pigeon. Tommy, Carmen, Mia and Amber were the 4 nominees and after sending Carmen and Mia back in line, Ramsay surprised everyone by eliminating AMBER for failing to inspire any confidence and for making silly mistakes which suggested she wasn’t in the game. Mia was pissed at going up but knew it was a tactical move to get rid of a threat and she would do the same going forward and Carmen had decided she had had enough of working with the blue team and wished someone else had left from the red team but was going to have to be a team player tomorrow.
There will be a DOUBLE elimination next service so vote HERE for a chef to leave the blue team in one and the red team in another.
https://strawpoll.com/jVyG8B1q8n7
https://strawpoll.com/poy9W56bPgJ
https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1oCqKX65qspmbNeRTq8AaicSs7sG5UBJyqXl3OJxqNMY/edit#gid=0

The red team had lost 2 services in a row and Mia felt they needed to address what was going wrong in service as she felt they had a stronger team but were not working well together and Heidi said that as soon as one thing goes wrong, the team shuts down and the rest of service goes to shit. Chef Ramsay welcomed the teams back for another day and told the red team to welcome JOHNATHAN as their new member with Leigh excited to have such a great chef on the team and Johnathan was not expecting to be working on the red team but felt this could be his chance to breakout if he gets them winning. Cody was pissed that one of the strongest members of the team had gone and Declan said it wasn't fair that they got Carmen and the red team got Johnathan. Ramsay was excited to announce the next challenge would see the chefs from each team face off with different fish and Tommy had been letting himself down on challenges so far so was desperate to prove himself as he reckoned the blue team wanted him on the red team.
The guest Judge was Ben Ford and the blue team started well when Declan beat Sommer in the battle of the dover sole and the blue team's lead continued when Clemenza and Brynn both scored on chilean seabass, and Brynn had thought she would win outright but was happy enough with a tie. Mia beat Motto with her wahoo thanks to Motto making an inedible sauce and Motto said he maybe made a mistake challenging Mia but the blue team were back in the lead thanks to Cody's barramundi beating Leigh who was also full of regret as she challenged Cody herself. Will then beat Amber in the battle of the trout to extend the blue teams lead but Johnathan pulled a point back by beating Carmen on turbot. Heidi and Steve both scored on arctic char and when Tommy beat Melanie in the battle of the black cod, the blue team won 6:4 with Tommy's dish praised as the dish of the day! Johnathan decided using his punishment pass would be a bit bad on his debut on the red team and Sommer held back as she felt the morale of the team needed to be improved. The blue team got to enjoy a day at a hotel in santa barbara while the red team had to take in potatoes as well as shift through garbage and Sommer said she hoped not using her punishment pass was worth it as this punishment was disgusting, and both Brynn and Melanie annoyed Amber by saying they were sick during the punishment and not helping.
Chef Ramsay said he hoped to see the best service yet from the red team and Mia was hoping that the blue team may be hungover from their night away. Mia on appetizers had to throw away a mushy risotto and then failed to give a proper time on the refire which meant Melanie had to drag lobster but Mia and Leigh did fight back on the appetizers station with Leigh's leadership noted by Ramsay as being exceptional and Leigh said with 2 more years experience she found leading a lot easier than season 22. Sommer was running the garnish station solo which worried Heidi but Sommer also had a great service and Heidi and Melanie on fish also were superb on entrees. Johnathan wasn't worried about working the meat station with Amber as he knew she could cook despite being nominated last service and they also had a great service with both running the station flawlessly as Ramsay said that was the red teams best service by a mile!
Carmen and Steve were on appetizers for the blue team and Carmen wanted to lead the station but Steve said he wasn't taking a backseat and served perfect risottos despite Carmen trying to interfere and it was Carmen who curdled a carbonara which got sent back straightaway and Steve said if Carmen focused more on her pastas rather than annoying him she'd do a lot better. Declan and Motto on the fish station worked well with Steve but Carmen ended up dragging on orders of capellini which led to an argument between her and Declan as she said pasta doesn't magically get cooked by shouting! The blue team did finish appetizers behind the red team and Cody on garnish was concerned about Tommy and Clemenza on the meat station especially as Clemenza was taking the lead. Clemenza sliced a wellington that he realized was rare and then with it bleeding out he put it back into the oven and Tommy then served dry chicken which confirmed Cody's fears. Clemenza then served raw pork that was still oinking and when Tommy served raw steak, Ramsay said the meat station was an absolute disaster! When Clemenza failed to give a time on refired pork, Ramsay noticed that Clemenza's station was filthy with oil and mess everywhere, and when Will jumped on to help he saw an absolute mess of overcooked wellingtons, burnt pork chops, burnt lamb chops and random duck breasts overcooked that weren't needed. Chef Ramsay was furious at the meat massacre and kicked both Tommy and Clemenza out for being the worst team on the meat station! Will and Steve took over the meat station but noted that all the pork was burnt and all the wellingtons were overcooked which sent Ramsay to his knees. Eventually the blue team finished service but Ramsay told them they had lost and to think of 2 for nomination.
The blue team easily came up with Clemenza and Tommy as the 2 nominees, despite Tommy saying Carmen should go up as he wasn't the one who overcooked entire supplys of meat. Despite Clemenza's passionate plea, Ramsay eliminated CLEMENZA for overcooking the entire supply of wellingtons and burning all the pork chops with Ramsay confused what the fuck Clemenza was doing all service. Will said he was happy that Tommy was here to fight another day but knew he was on borrowed time and Heidi was excited for the new look red team with Johnathan on board and said the blue team were gonna start sending more people home.
Vote HERE for the next 2 chefs to be eliminated
https://strawpoll.com/e2narwEqzgB
https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1oCqKX65qspmbNeRTq8AaicSs7sG5UBJyqXl3OJxqNMY/edit#gid=0

This was requested by another user and I was curious so I sorted every disease from House by speciality. Hope someone finds this useful.
Season 1:
Neurology:

• Neurocysticercosis (Rebecca Adler)
• Subacute sclerosing panencephalitis (Dan)

Internal Medicine:

• Colchicine poisoning (Brandon Merrell)
• Vitamin K deficiency, liver cancer, Wilson's disease (Lucy Palmeiro)
• Organophosphate poisoning (Matt Davis)
• Cadmium poisoning (Hank Wiggen)
• Ornithine Transcarbamylase Deficiency (Joey Arnello)
• Cushing's disease (Jessica Simms)
• Common variable immunodeficiency disease from interaction of Epstein-Barr virus with anti-seizure medication (Gary H. Wright)
• Congestive heart failure due to drug abuse (Carly Forlano)
• Rabies (Victoria Madsen)
• Small-cell lung cancer (Naomi Randolph)
• Thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura (Mary Carroll)
• Fulminating osteomyelitis (Harvey Park)
• Necrotizing fasciitis (The Farmer, Volleyball Player, Carmen Electra/Middle aged man/Gregory House)
• Acute intermittent porphyria (Mark Warner)

Infectious Disease:

• Allergic reaction to copper IUD (Sister Mary Augustine)
• Echovirus 11 (Baby Girl Hartig, Baby Boy Howson, Baby Boy Chen-Lupino)

Season 2:
Neurology:

• Pheochromocytoma (Clarence)
• Brain thrombosis (Andie)

Internal Medicine:

• Psittacosis (Alfredo)
• Nesidioblastoma (Dr. Sebastian Charles)
• Radiation induced cavernous angioma and radiation sickness (Carnell Hall)
• Myasthenia gravis, pure red cell aplasia, thymoma (Jeff Forster)
• Echinococcosis (Kalvin Ryan)
• Behcet's disease, Perforated ulcer, sepsis, liver failure, hepatoma (Kayla McGinley)
• Clostridium perfringens infection, Münchausen syndrome (Anica Jovanovich)
• Cerebral Malaria (Fletcher Stone)
• Hepatocellular adenoma (Margo Dalton)
• Serotonin syndrome (Adam)
• Testicular cancer (Alex)
• Brucellosis (Howard Hesseman)

Infectious Disease:

• African trypanosomiasis (Elise Snow)
• Naphthalene poisoning (Keith Foster)

Season 3:
Endocrinology:

• Addison's Disease (Richard McNeil)

Dermatology:

• Scurvy (Caren Krause)

Internal Medicine:

• Chimerism (Clancy Green)
• Senile amyloidosis (Ezra Powell)
• Baylisascaris (Adam Kelvey)
• Hereditary Angioedema (Tracy, Jeremy)
• Small-cell carcinoma (George)
• MERRF syndrome (Kyle Wozniak)
• Chronic granulomatous disease (Jack Walters)
• Erythropoietic protoporphyria (Alice Hartman)
• Leprosy (Gabriel Reilich)

Infectious Disease:

• Rabies (Jeremy)

Season 4:
Internal Medicine:

• Medicine interaction, delirium tremens, contraceptive pill related internal bleeding, allergic reaction to antibiotics (Liz Masters)
• Von Hippel-Lindau syndrome (Greta Cooper)
• Strongyloides (Thomas Stark)
• Ergot poisoning (Irene)
• Eperythrozoon infection (Robert Elliot)
• Heat stroke, complicated by thallium poisoning (Casey Alfonso, John)
• Lyme disease (Kenny)
• Lupus (Flynn)
• Measles (Jimmy Quidd)
• Atypical presentation of breast cancer (Maggie)

Infectious Disease:

• Blastomycosis (Robert Elliot, Dibala)

Season 5:
Neurology:

• Lepromatous leprosy (Lou)

Oncology:

• Transplanted cancerous stem cells (Apple)

Internal Medicine:

• Food Boli Bezoar (Brandon)
• Insertion of large number of pins through skull and into brain shortly after birth (Nicole)
• Sjögren's syndrome (Spencer)

Infectious Disease:

• Familial Mediterranean fever (Jerry Harmon, Samantha Harmon)

Season 6:
Neurology:

• Fabry disease (Vince Pearson)

Cardiology:

• Intracranial berry aneurysm of the brain stem (Donny Compson)

Internal Medicine:

• Vibrio vulnificus and hemochromatosis (Jordan)
• Crohn's disease (Hank Hardwick)
• Thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura and multiple accessory spleens (James Sidas)
• Acute lymphoblastic leukemia (Tucker)
• Paraneoplastic syndrome secondary to melanoma (Daryl)

Infectious Disease:

• Whipple's disease (Frankie)

Season 7:
Neurology:

• Trauma-related syringomyelia (Alice Tanner)

Internal Medicine:

• Side effects of risperidone; schizophrenia (Margaret McPherson)
• Pulmonary embolism secondary to lung cancer and melanoma (Abbey)
• Hereditary melanoma (Kayla)

Infectious Disease:

• Rickettsialpox (Julie)

Season 8:
Endocrinology:

• Mastocytosis (Nick)

Pulmonology:

• Eosinophilic pneumonitis (Two lungs in a box)

Orthopedics:

• Plummer's disease (Benjamin Byrd)

Rheumatology:

• Hyperviscosity syndrome secondary to rheumatoid arthritis (Thad Barton)

Cardiology:

• Kawasaki disease (Bob Harris)

Infectious Disease:

• Syphilis and Jarisch-Herxheimer reaction (Ben Parker)
• Diphtheria (Tommy)
• Varicella (Jack)
• Variegate porphyria (Driscoll and Landon Parks)

Psychiatry:

• Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (Nadia)
• Dissociative identity disorder (Iris)
• Steroid-induced psychosis (Bill Koppelman)
• Psychopathy secondary to Wilson's disease (Valerie)
• Persistent stapedial artery (Derrick)

DC Next Proudly Presents:

THE NEW TITANS

In Shadow of Kestrel
Issue Six: Tipping the Scales
Written by GemlinTheGremlin, PatrollinTheMojave & AdamantAce
Edited by dwright5252
 
Next Issue > Coming Next Month
 
 
The volcanic elemental T’Charr travelled the mind-bending hallways of the Chaos Domain, seat of the Lords of Chaos. A locus of such magical power, it stirred with agitation. It gave T’Charr a sinking feeling as he approached the assembly, hot magma leaking from his chitinous, rocky skin. The hallway broadened into an atrium. His fellows were arrayed in booths all around, boring into him with their eyes.
“T’Charr.” A voice spat, drawing out the ‘r’ with palpable disgust. It belonged to a living husk of a man, his skin pallid and muscles atrophied. A thick scar encircled his neck, binding his head to his shoulders with bulbous, reddish skin. The speaker was T’Charr’s superior, in power if not rank, though there was little difference in the Chaos Domain. T’Charr bowed his head and waited.
“The spawn of Trigon has been located. She hides on the wretched hive of Earth, spending most of her time within the most peopled metropolis.”
“That explains why she’s evaded you,” T’Charr sniped. He was glad he didn’t display his satisfaction so obviously, unlike some of his fellow lords.
“Until now. T’Charr, Chaos Lord, Immolator…” He waxed. “Does it surprise you to learn the spawn’s powers are not developing as they should?
“Well… Earth is under the protection of Nabu–”
“Do not speak his name!” He spat. Scandalous whispers ignited across the chamber. As they calmed, he continued. “Though you are approaching the truth. An aura of peace envelops the child, stunting her apotheosis. Our mission of decades to return the so-called Father of Darkness to us is delayed not by the Assembly of Order, but by sabotage. Sabotage of your design, T’Charr. This council is aware of your champion. Your dove has captured our raven.”
“No!” T’Charr rose. “I remain as committed to our cause as ever!”
“And you demonstrate your loyalty by allowing one who was meant to be our adversary to empower a champion of Order! You have loyalty, it seems, but to Terataya before this council.”
“I empowered a champion of Chaos alongside him!” T’Charr argued. “This council recognised the importance of balance when I began this experiment and has no grounds to revoke my privileges now.”
“Balance. Compromise. Unity.” The speaker ejected the words from his mouth like refuse. “You’ve been subverted, T’Charr. Where is your champion of Chaos now? A true champion would not allow our designs to be despoiled so.”
T’Charr shrunk back, stepping towards the hallway while facing the rest of the chamber. “My champion was killed in battle. The process of selection is ongoing.”
“Ongoing indefinitely, it seems.” The husk glanced around the chamber, gauging the support of his fellows. Not enough, it seemed, because he continued with a veneer of pleasantry. “There can be no more delay. Kill the Dove and end your dalliance with the Lord of Order, or find some other way to restore this balance that you find so precious before I have reason to summon you again, Lord of Chaos. And do not forget that any here would gladly see your molten blood spill to herald the return of the Father of Darkness to our conclave.”
“My lords–”
“Leave!” The husk boomed. At once, he pulled a dagger from his side and threw it at T’Charr. The soft metal barely chipped T’Charr’s igneous carapace, but the message was clear enough.
“At once.”
 
○○ Ⓣ ○○
 
Conner walked along North Orleans Street, a windbreaker and a scarf on to beat the chilly winds. Winter was almost over, with the early mornings bright once again. He wasn’t a fan of the cold, even if he had spent enough time in the Arctic visiting Clark’s Fortress of Solitude years ago. He didn’t like it then, and he didn’t like it now.
He took his phone out of his pocket and checked his directions - not much further to go. Of course, he could have flown his way to his destination but, considering where he was going, he wanted enough time to psych himself up before he arrived.
Conner loved the city of Chicago, and as he strolled through River North he was reminded of one of the many reasons why. Out here, he could enjoy the cosiness of a slower, more serene small town in a setting much like the home he once found in Smallville, while only a stone’s throw from the action and excitement of the city.
When he arrived at the hotel he found the way to the rented conference room. However, Conner couldn’t help but notice the figure that had been following him for the last block or two also walking through the sliding doors of the lobby.
“Tim?” Conner asked brusquely. “What’s the deal?”
Tim, dressed in a navy blue peacoat, closed the distance to Conner and held up his hands. “If you can believe it, I was on my way here too. Was wondering what people had to say.”
They were both smart enough to keep their conversation quiet enough to go unnoticed as they faced off in the lobby, a few feet apart. “And you didn’t say anything? Saw me and just followed like a creeper?”
Tim nodded slowly. “Yeah… I can see how it would come across like that.”
A silence fell over the two of them. Conner wanted to be more upset about being followed, about being surveilled, even if only for a few blocks. More, he expected to be more upset. Instead, he felt the uncomfortable prickle of gratitude. Perhaps, considering what was waiting in the conference room ahead, he felt grateful to have a friend.
“Well? They’re probably starting soon, we should go,” said Conner. Tim nodded and the two moved along.
In the dimly lit hall, Conner and Tim sat among a dozen others in a circle. Those assembled were each grappling with the Kryptonian attack on Chicago in their own way, all here to share in a sense of togetherness.
“I was at work when it happened,” a middle-aged man – ‘Thomas’ – began, his voice steady but his hands trembling. “The building next to mine collapsed. I made it out, but... I can't sleep anymore, not without seeing it all over again.”
‘Janie’ – a young woman – followed, clutching a photograph close to her chest. “My sister... she wasn’t even supposed to be in the area. We thought she was safe, working from home. But she went into the city for a meeting that day.” Her voice broke, the weight of her loss silencing her further words.
Then, an older gentleman, his posture poor but his voice strong, shared, “My wife and I, we've lived here fifty years. Never seen anything like it. Our home's still standing, thank God, but we don’t feel safe anymore. But then we can’t imagine leaving our city behind either.”
Amid the chorus of heartache, a young man found the courage to speak. His name tag read ‘Sebastian’. “Our apartment was destroyed in the chaos,” he said, his voice a soft echo of despair. “My mother and I have been sleeping on friends’ couches since. With how rents are these days, it feels like we're being punished all over again. Even before the attack. And it’s not just in Chicago. It's the Reawakened. They're causing this, driving up prices, making it impossible for us to find a new home.”
So far, Conner had stuck to staying silent; pledged to bear witness to the stories of the people affected by the tragedy. But while he understood Sebastian’s ails just as well as everyone else’s so far, he couldn’t let that comment go. So when Sebastian took his seat again, Conner stood to speak, addressing him.
“I’m sorry, Sebastian,” he began gently, trying his best not to impose. “But rent prices are influenced by a lot of factors. There’s little evidence to suggest the Reawakened are any significant cause.”
Sebastian met his gaze, undeterred. “You haven't been looking in the right places. I’ve seen the data; I'll send it to you,” he offered, but Conner declined.
It was an awful situation. After all, the Cadmus clones were, by all accounts, Reawakened. And here was a room full of people inside a city full of people who were their victims. But the actions of a few was not justification to judge all those who had been displaced from their home universe. Fortunately, it seemed not all shared Sebastian’s sentiments, but as more and more voices broke out and overlapped, it was clear many had something to say about the greater phenomenon and how it had affected them.
“There’s a guy down my hall who says he’s from a world where it’s still the Old West,” one man scoffed with ridicule. “I didn’t have a problem with it ‘til he started using it as an excuse to track mud and horseshit into our hall!”
Then one of the women - ‘Carmen’ - interjected. “And don’t get me started on Guardian.”
This was it. This was what Conner had feared. He immediately locked eyes with Tim - sitting opposite him in the circle - who was clearly deeply concerned for what she would say next on Conner’s behalf. Conner steeled himself with the reminder that one of his main motivations for being here was hoping to find out what Chicagoans still thought of him, good or bad.
“I used to feel so much safer knowing he was watching over us,” Carmen continued. “But he’s just as bad as all these Reawakened, hiding who he is. He could be anywhere, or anyone. Just like them, including those Reawakened brothers of his!”
It cut Conner deep. Worse were the nods from others in the circle. He found no comfort in just how few agreed - only two or three. They had confirmed his fears: they and who-knew-how-many others associated him with the Reawakened clone attackers, and he had lost their trust.
Emboldened by the few that identified with her, Carmen continued. “Nobody wants to be the one to say it, but who are they - the Reawakened, aliens, metahumans - to hide among us when they are a threat to our safety?” She gritted her teeth, “There ought to be a list.”
Conner looked across the circle to Tim again, desperate for him to come to his defence. But Tim could only frown, with nothing helpful to say to help this delicate and fraught situation. He wanted to curse him for turning away in this time of need, but Conner too was floundering for a response, stunned and overwhelmed.
But then the anonymous older man stood again, driving his cane into the ground to lift himself out of his seat. “Some of you aren’t old enough to remember when these superheroes were new. Everyone and their dog was spouting these same fears,” he explained, impassioned. “But we trusted them, and we allowed them to keep their identities secret, if they so chose. And in the decades since, they’ve been our saviours, not our jailers.”
Sebastian scoffed. “Then what do you say about all the villainous metahumans, and other dangerous super-criminals who have robbed, destroyed, and killed for just as long?”
Thomas shot up from his seat. “So you just want to put the bad metas and the bad Reawakened on this list of yours?” There was a righteousness in his voice of clear cause, looking to the past.
“How are you going to decide who the bad ones are?” the older man added. “Who’s going to decide? Because I know I wouldn’t want to.”
The woman beside Carmen, presumably her friend, shook her head. “We all know who the bad guys are. Captain Cold robs banks, Joker tortures and kills.”
“Yeah,” Thomas scoffed, “And your neighbour tracks mud into your hallway.”
A long silence followed. One where those on both sides of the argument searched for their next scathing retort. The facilitator - who had been silent for much longer - was flush white and too stunned to make much of a move at all. Then, while the booming debate did not continue, grumbles and whispered remarks broke out as they cursed themselves and each other. Two, no, three got up to leave, including Sebastian.
Before he could make it to the door, Tim shot up and intercepted Sebastian. Conner watched from his chair, puzzled, as Tim endeared himself to the man, slowing down and extending his hand. He used his super-hearing to make sure he could listen in over all the bickering.
“Hey! ‘Sebastian’, was it?”
“Yes.”
“You talked about data? About the Reawakened? About ‘looking in the right places’?”
“Yes,” Sebastian nodded. He was clearly emotionally wounded. Conner was feeling much the same. “I have plenty of sources, even if they are ones that dark-haired quarterback would just flat-out dismiss!”
“Well… not me!” Tim smiled. Conner knew him well enough to know he was acting. He watched as Tim reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pen. He reached into his pants and retrieved what looked to be a bunched up receipt. “If you wouldn’t mind…” He began to scribble on the receipt before handing it to Sebastian. “...could you email them to me? Maybe some links? I didn’t know there was such a problem, and I want to learn more.”
Conner studied Sebastian’s face as he, in turn, studied Tim’s for a moment. Then Sebastian nodded, taking the receipt. “Always happy to pay it forward. We all have to learn from someone.”
“Right, yeah…” For a flash, Tim shot a glance at Conner. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Don’t want to be here when the real fight breaks out.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Sebastian shook his head. “This has happened every week. I think they like to get it out of their system.”
“Hmph. Right… bye.” And Tim shot Conner one last quick look before disappearing through the doors. Then, while Sebastian took the long way around back to his seat, Conner followed Tim out.
It was seconds before Conner caught up with Tim in the hallway. “What was that?”
Tim didn’t stop, and Conner beside him. “The guy shows more than enough signs of falling down a rabbit hole of Reawakened conspiracy theories,” Tim explained. “And I’m hoping if we can look into wherever he’s getting this drip-fed from, it could lead us to whoever’s pushing this anti-Reawakened agenda the hardest.”
And the penny dropped. “This could lead us to the Delta Society!” Conner exclaimed.
“My thoughts exactly.”
 
○○ Ⓣ ○○
 
Slade squinted as he examined the plastic container in his hands. He turned the container, trying to find a spot where the light caught it to illuminate the quality of the mushrooms inside. Shoppers around him bustled by, occasionally squeezing by to reach the produce behind him, but none stopped to look at him. The dull sounds of the supermarket droned on as a sickly sweet pop song pumped out of tinny speakers. He tugged on the brim of his hat, pulling it lower over his face, as he placed the container in his shopping cart.
As he started on towards the checkout, Slade felt something shift beneath his feet. It was incredibly unlikely, bordering on impossible, for Chicago to experience an earthquake, and yet the earth was noticeably - audibly - rumbling. Others started to notice too, looking to their fellow shoppers for instructions or reassurance, but nobody had either to give. A brief moment passed before another sound could be heard; a surge of noise, almost akin to a riot, coming from just outside the store.
Slade pushed his cart to one side and sprinted for the front door. As soon as he emerged, the shouting intensified, and he watched as dozens of people whipped past him, each of them calling for others to join them. Slade did not break stride, bursting through the crowd, fighting against the strong current of terrified Chicagoans. Collateral damage was abundant but thankfully minor; Slade took note of the odd damaged vehicle, the occasional broken fire hydrant, and silently hoped that was the worst of it. Catching odd snippets from the crowd, he was able to piece together a rough idea of what he was to expect. If he heard right, the Titans were engaged in a fight against a towering beast of a man clad in violet and black.
As he turned a final corner, he got his confirmation.
The man in question was slashing wildly at Starling, who adeptly dodged his attacks, finally swooping high above him to avoid his firing line. Slade drew closer to the fray and cursed himself for being caught without any equipment. As he closed the gap between himself and the Titans, the assailant landed a harsh blow on Rook, who skidded backwards along the ground, his staff clattering away from him. In one fluid motion, Guardian swept down from above, hovering just above the ground, and tossed the staff back towards the buffeted Rook, before closing in on the attacker. The man’s gloves bore razor-sharp talons, capable of doing some gruesome damage if someone were to be caught on the wrong side of them.
Conner tanked a jab from the purple-clad man, catching a second with his two hands and, leaving himself open, the man let out an animalistic roar and sunk his claws into Guardian’s side. Conner winced, pushing the man’s arm away from him with intense force and sending him careening across the sidewalk, into the outstretched fist of Starling. The man grunted as her attack hit him and he stumbled to catch his balance. Then, as the masked man steadied himself, Mar’i landed a few hits of her own, striking him with blow after blow.
Tim and Slade closed on the attacker simultaneously, with the latter serving a swift kick to the man’s masked face while the former batted him backwards with the end of his staff. The beastly man utilised his momentum and toppled backwards, falling into a backwards roll and landing on all fours. Raven surged forwards, preparing an attack, but before she could reach him, the brute roared once again and pounced towards Slade, his claws outstretched.
His attack winded Slade, and he felt his back hit the ground hard, his baseball cap miraculously still in place. The attacker gritted his teeth, pounding his fist into Slade’s stomach once– twice– thrice– until Slade finally caught his arm. Slade drove his head into the purple mask in front of him, his forehead making contact with jagged teeth. The man reeled back, still straddling Slade, before bearing his claws once more. His fangs, now slick with his own blood, remained gritted; his jaw clenched and strong.
At that moment, Slade felt a wave of realisation wash over him, which melted away into horror. The man’s posture, his strong jaw, his build, even elements of his armour - Slade had almost completely missed them all. His fighting style was vastly different, more wild and animalistic, but Slade knew that there was no mistaking him anymore. As Slade faltered for just a second in a moment of pure shock, Hank Hall slashed into his torso, exposing the tender flesh beneath his clothes.
Slade choked back an agonising cry, with barely enough time to concentrate on it before the thought-deceased Hawk was blasted sideways by a bolt of inky blackness, its wielder - Raven - sprinting towards him. Her feet pounded against the ground until they slowly melted away, dissolving into thick black mist, her outstretched arms transforming into ichor-black wings. Slade watched as the shadowed silhouette of a raven barreled towards the knocked-prone Hall. The avian adversary recoiled as he slashed at the raven, his hands pouring through the shadow like air. Raven’s Soul Self flew triumphantly above him, beating its wings in a swift rhythm. As Hall reached up to the apparition once more, attempting to grapple it, it screeched loudly in the man’s face, the sheer power of the sound forcing him backwards until his head was flat against the ground.
Slade clambered to his feet, looking to the rest of the Titans. Rivulets of blood snaked up and down his torso, staining his shirt a deep red. This fight had clearly been going on for some time. “Am I the only one who didn’t know she could do that?” Slade asked, bewildered.
The silence that followed for a moment gave him the answer he needed.
What remained of Hank Hall was enraged, apoplectic, as he lashed out at Raven once more. Starling soon rocketed over to her aid, allowing the shadowy figure to transform once more and slip away safely. The young Titan released a jet of green energy at the rabid man, who dodged the attack. The other Titans closed in on Hall once again, with Rook in pole position. The former Hawk’s strength was no match for Tim’s agility; parrying his attacks with his staff, he was able to allow an opening for Guardian, who surged forwards with his fist outstretched.
The assailant growled as he was struck by the young man, but in his rage he found the strength to bat Tim away and turned to face Conner. He swiped at the young man, his claws slashing wildly, as if fueled by a new fire, and as Hank Hall tore away flesh, soon he felt his knees buckle from under him, his arms bloody.
Attempting to distract him, Slade rushed in, launching into a running kick against the man’s back, but to no avail, sending him falling backwards. He watched Mar’i run to Conner’s aid, shoving the young Kryptonian sideways and out of the assailant’s range. The masked man slashed down at her, his claws piercing into her silver gloves. The man reeled back with his fists held high above his head, roaring loudly once more. Only this time, his roar was hoarse and raucous. A scream of blood-curdling fury. Mar’i screwed her eyes shut tight, holding her arms above her head to block the incoming attack.
She heard the sound of the impact, even felt the slight quake of the earth as it landed, but she did not feel the pain. As Mar’i opened her eyes, she saw a dark figure standing between her and the attacker, her arms crossed firmly in front of her chest. She had managed to block Hank’s attack.
Donna looked back at her young charge. “Quick - go!”
Mar’i and Conner both followed the instruction, escaping from under Donna’s protection and running to flank her. Hank escaped her grasp, using his forward momentum to grapple Donna around her shoulders, sending the two of them catapulting backwards. They came to a stop against a brick wall. Donna grunted from the impact and launched into a barrage of strikes against the man’s chest. Each appeared to do little against the berserker. Hank grabbed Donna’s shoulders and slammed her against the wall again and again, forcefully enough for cracks to spiderweb through the brick.
Hank tossed Donna to the ground, but instead of falling, she launched back towards the man, striking at him with her leaf-shaped blade in-hand. The weapon slashed against his arm and as he faltered, grimacing from the pain, a second blow landed. Before a third could reach him, he caught the weapon with a gloved hand, pulling Donna forwards and - with his other hand raised high - savagely ripped into her face with his jagged claws.
Donna stumbled backwards, feeling the trickle of blood run down her face and drowning the pain in adrenaline. She once more thrusted forwards with her xiphos, the sharpened point boring into the attacker’s abdomen. He let out a cry, followed by loud panting, as he gripped the bladed edges of the weapon between his hands. Donna watched as blood started to drip through his gloves. Then, in one fluid motion, the former Hawk thrusted the weapon forwards with great force, a loud shhhhnk sounding out as he removed the weapon from his wound, throwing a weakened Donna backwards with it. Still reeling from her wound, she collapsed to the ground.
His movements started to slow. Then, as he looked over his opponents one last time, each of them wearing a look of utter defeat, he rolled his neck and began walking away down the street. The Titans looked to each other, then to Slade. It was over.
“Donna!” Raven called out, approaching her with trepidation. Raven was still trembling with the collective dread of all assembled along with the shock of discovering new possibilities with her Soul Self. But there was another feeling inside of her, too: she could feel Donna’s pain.
Donna looked up at her, blood pouring from her cheek and brow, her fists bruised from pounding against the man’s armour. Raven looked back at the other Titans and Slade. Each of them were nursing substantial wounds of their own, most notably Slade, who clutched at his bloodied chest with both hands, huffing for breath.
“We…” Mar’i muttered, looking up at Raven. “We need to get out of here.”
 
 :
Next: Fight to minimise the damage in The New Titans #7
 

We know Hillary faked most of her pregnancies other than Carmen, and then faked her bounce back. I’m just refreshing the memories of old pepinos and informing the new ones that “Hillary/Hilaria was never a super fit and skinny woman, not before Carmen and not after Carmen.
She had a pudgy belly before she even got married to Alec. She was slim, but she was not tight and fit. Her yoga videos had a stomach hanging over her pants. After Carmen, she had trouble losing weight. Pictures outside wearing spanx under her leggings in the heat of the summer with bulges coming out from her thighs and waist. The interview with her and Alec, where you can clearly see her post pregnancy body and the weight it naturally was retaining. She was…normal. I’m not body shaming, but I’m just using this as an example, that even the body she has today is fake.
You see, I have had a tummy tuck and know what it looks like. Hillary had a tummy tuck. Not just horrible lopsided breast implants, but she had what appears to me, to be a mini tuck. That involved a little lipo and then pulling her belly skin tight and down. That’s why she has the tell tale belly button. That’s why she tried to cover it by piercing her belly button as an adult and then pretending the belly ring was an ancient Spanish heirloom from her grandparents.
Hillary basically got all her results, in particular, the flat stomach SHE NEVER had, with surgery. And it happened pre-Rafa based on the pictures of her having just delivered Rafa 2 weeks prior. That is a plastic surgery tummy tuck belly. Super duper flat and tight (different from a regular flat stomach), sad little weird belly button, zero muscle definition.
So that is all. Just a little reminder for those who forgot and a little “now you know” for those who didn’t.
(Cue “the more you know music” from those old NBC commercials)

He loves receiving mail. He likes to think that a letter someday will change his life. Checking his mailbox is practically the only reason why he leaves his apartment. He works at home as a software developer. His preferred way to communicate with the outside world is chatting over the internet. Online meetings involving audio are a necessity imposed by his business, but he never turns his webcam on; he keeps it cautiously covered with a nerdy sticker. He does his shopping online. The only goods he is not able to get delivered to his doorstep are his medications, but the pharmacy is just across the street from his apartment building.
He lives on the sixth and highest storey. When he needs a renewed prescription, he just has to text his psychiatrist, who will gladfully send him a copy via email. On those days when he has to go to the pharmacy, however, no matter how many drops of bromazepam he ingests, anxiety haunts him like a ghost.
He needs to reach the ground, and by no means he is going to enter the elevator. He has to cross the road: easy enough as long as no vehicle is driving through. Once his storage is replenished with his favorite antidepressant, anxiolytics, and mood stabilizers, he will not need to cross that road for the next month at least.
Today, the newest issue of his favorite heavy-metal magazine awaits him in the mailbox. It is not that life-changing letter he likes to think one day he will receive, but it is more than enough to change his mood. While he climbs the stairs back up, he unwraps the magazine and quickly browses through it until he reaches the album reviews section. He skips the body of the reviews themselves and focuses on the "for fans of" suggestions: if at least one of the three, four mentioned bands is of interest to him, then he will listen to the album via some streaming service, and, if he likes it, he will eventually order the CD online.
She looks him in the eyes from the third page of the album reviews section: green-yellow eyes penetrating his defenses, blood-red lips on snow-white skin leaving him unarmed. A picture emanating an aura he cannot do anything but be fatally attracted to. He cannot care less about the "for fans of" suggestions.
The review is about an album that her partner published posthumously: she had died of a tumor a few years before.
She had a partner.
It takes him what seems to be a lifetime to process this piece of information: the thought seems to trigger some sort of reaction – jealousy? – deep down in his belly. How can he possibly feel something for her?!
Through Google to Wikipedia, it is a matter of keystrokes and he knows everything about the album, and most of all, about her. She and he were born on the same year. They would be the same age, if she were not gone.
The album is love at first listening! The tracks exist between two opposites: the wall of sound produced by the distorted guitars, and her almost whispered singing. This is heavy-metal at its best according to his taste: power and harmony, distortion and lyricism, anger and acceptance.
He resumes working while playing the songs at impossible volume – fuck the neighbors! He soon realizes he cannot focus on the code he is trying to write, although the algorithm is pretty simple. It is the music. He is distracted by it. The sound breaks through his barricades.
A chat message notification catches his attention: the project manager is requesting his opinion. The message goes Where the hell are you?! He switches from the code, which still consists of two lines only, to the chat application, and he realizes the PM had sent him the first message almost three hours before, and since then, he had repeatedly tried to get an answer. This cannot be! I mean I have just... I went downstairs to collect the mail like five minutes ago... No: more than three hours have passed since he went down. And the album is still playing on repeat. What the fuck?! He calls his PM apologizing.
1:00 AM: time to go to bed. He is currently reading four or five books. He does so until one gets the grip on him, and then he focuses on that one only. He picks one of them: a horror novella most likely candidate to be completed in this round. He picks up his phone too and his Bluetooth headphones. He lies on his bed with his back raised to an almost upright position by a bunch of pillows. He presses the play button on his phone and starts reading. The album restarts playing from the beginning. He soon forgets about anything outside his body. His mind is filled by the words he slowly picks from the book. The music is stealing his focus. Hours pass while he tries to process one paragraph, but he does not realize it. He eventually falls asleep. It is 4:00 AM.
He wakes up feeling a compelling need to piss. He had left the nightlight on. He sits on the foot of the bed for he does not know how long. Then he slowly starts walking to the bathroom. He empties his bladder and flushes the toilet. Then moves to the sink to wash his hands and looks at himself in the mirror, the bedroom in the background. She is sitting on the foot of the bed, her green-yellow eyes set on him. He suddenly turns around. No one is there of course. He turns back to the mirror: the bedroom is empty, or at least the foot of the bed is, which is what he can see from the bathroom.
He washes his hands in a hurry and walks back into the bedroom. She is lying on his bed, a lovely smile wrinkles her blood-red lips, dense with empathy. He glances the harmonious curves of her slim naked body through the one layer of bedsheets.
Are you mine?
The question bounces ear to ear in his skull.
He wakes up – this time for real. The bedsheets are soaked in sweat. What the fuck?! He picks up the phone: dead. Light is pushing its way through the shades. What time is it?! He gets up and frantically walks to his office and wakes up the computer: 11:00 AM.
He logs in, sends a message to his PM and takes the day off. He does not have to provide a reason: this is one of the perks of being a freelance. Then he connects to the website of a record store in town. This place is amazing! He wishes he could find the strength to visit it in person one day. If an album is in stock and you place an order before 1:00 PM, they guarantee the delivery within the same day. He looks up the title: available both on vinyl and CD. He immediately orders a copy of the CD.
He decides he will spend the rest of day, while waiting for the CD, lying on the sofa reading the horror novella on top of his to-be-read list. Leaving the studio toward the living room, he has to turn left in the corridor. At the opposite end, a full-size mirror is hanging on the wall. He looks right into it. He would love and hate and long and fear to see her reflection in the mirror. There is nothing but himself, the corridor, the door leading to his bedroom, the bookshelves aligned along the wall, the light entering from the large window in the living room. He retrieves the book from the bedroom and goes straight to the sofa, too afraid to look back at the mirror.
Time goes by. It is around 5:00 PM when the doorbell rings and startles him. He finds himself in a limbo between wake and sleep. He knows what has just awaken him, but he is confused. He barely knows where he is. He looks at his phone to understand at least what time it is. He is about to close his eyes again when the doorbell shakes him even more violently than before. He suddenly stands up and automatically walks toward the door. He unlocks it and meets the gaze of the small, thin delivery guy, so shy he cannot even say hello.
After locking himself in, he leaves the door behind, gets rid of all the packaging stuff and looks at the CD, still wrapped in its protective coating. He knows that if he breaks the seal, there will be no going back. He is aware of the price he will have to pay if he accepts the rules of this game, although this is barely believable. He has always known what he would do in this situation anyway: he unwraps the CD, presses the open/close button on his stereo, carefully lays the CD on the tray, presses the close/open button once more, and eventually presses the play button.
He is still kneeling in front of his stereo when he feels her hand on his right shoulder, among the sound wall of the distorted guitars and the whispers of her singing. He closes his eyes and focuses on whatever real he can rely on: the wooden floor under his knees, the volume responding to him rotating the knob, her hand undeniably resting on his shoulder.
He accepts reality or whatever he is perceiving.
Too many times during the evening, while she is talking, he cannot focus on anything else but those splendid eyes, moving too fast to be intercepted, animated by a contagious joy. Two luminous spheres rotating surrounded by a world rotating around them. So many times, too many not to feel embarrassed, he has had the feeling that whatever question she asked him, he could only reply: Fuck! You're beautiful!
He introduces the question pretty straightforwardly: What are your plans for the night?
She responds triggering in him that extremely rare feeling that things are going where you would like them to go.
I don't have plans for the night; I would gladly spend it with you.
The concept she expresses is simple, the communication direct, no workarounds, one neat sentence pronounced in a self-conscious and serene manner, not even slightly impudent, indeed tinged with a very gracious sense of decency.
He gets up from the table and walks toward the stereo. He skips a few songs, her songs, searching for the one he dreams of listening to when the dream comes true, the one that is yelling from deep inside of him: Where are you? Now that I am looking for you. Now that I want you. Now that I need you.
Then, trying to hide the effort to act natural, he turns toward her and starts walking slowly, savoring each step. He does not know what awaits him at the end of those few steps that separate him from her.
He knows what he wishes for and hopes she shares his wishes. He has not caught any signal that makes him feel the opposite, but he cannot hold on to any certainty. He can only hold on to his courage and his power to dream.
One more step and the fear creates a void in his chest. For an instant he feels the discomfort he would feel if she rejected him. He hears the noise of a glass plate detaching from the window frame through which he is watching his dreams unraveling. The plate shatters at his feet, scattering shards all around, leaving wounds on him. He is not afraid of the pain caused by the shards penetrating his flesh: this is very bearable if compared to the pain caused by the desire that gnaws you from the inside and consumes you forever.
He finds the strength to take one more step. While he walks around the table his heart is thumping, not only fast but also intensely, in a rhythm synchronized with his steps: three beats, one step; four beats, one step; seven beats, one step.
She is beautiful, in that graceful pose, like a model giving herself to her artist. He dares rest his hands on her hips. He feels her delicate, light, slender body moving within his hands while she turns toward him.
He cannot look into her eyes. Not yet, but he knows that he will hold her gaze and will bask in it, when he will have gained some more confidence. Now he needs confirmations. He needs to feel that he is not about to crash into a wall, that he is not falling into the void; he needs to ensure that a dependable hand will hold his, and welcoming arms will hold him tight. He needs to feel that he is not alone anymore.
He gets his confirmation when their lips touch.
An instant of complete confusion: smells, tastes, visions of lights invade his mind.
He loves to indulge on the details, kissing the whole surface of her mouth and its shape, touching every bit of skin, their tongues exploring every possible corner.
He would like to move slowly, but she overwhelms him and he cannot not do anything but second her movements.
Her legs are suddenly all around him. He perceives them everywhere.
Slim legs, incredibly long, preternaturally graceful, whose velvety skin he would never caress and kiss enough.
They wrap him, surround him, swirl all around him.
They erect like columns to build a temple dedicated to his muse.
The temple and the muse are the same thing, and he dwells in there; he is the priest of that Venus to whom he dedicates his existence in this instant, which he wishes will never end.
She calls his name, moaning sweetly. She whispers his name.
He has never recognized himself in his name like when she pronounces it.
His name now only exists for her to pronounce it.
He himself only exists to adore his muse, giving her the pleasure that belongs to her.
He does not feel the impulses of his own body, but of hers. He cannot take pleasure without giving pleasure to her. He is hers.
He moves as she wishes; he cannot resist.
Waves originate from her and incarnate in him. He feels his abdominal muscles contracting according to her will, not his.
She possesses him. She makes him move as she pleases.
She begs him not to stop, whispering his name. He could not stop even if he wished so: his body, as well as his name, belong to her.
He is left with his emotions only, but those revolve around her too, collapsing and expanding rhythmically, like dust produced by explosions repeating at regular intervals, while, between an explosion and the next one, the dust is sucked in by the explosive core.
The rhythm increases. She breathes his name. The shockwaves shake him. His muscles contract. She draws him inside of her with the air she breathes in, inside that temple of beauty erected around him.
The temple collapses, smaller and smaller, the columns constricting him from every side in a composed and graceful fashion.
Everything around him becomes smaller and smaller until he cannot be contained anymore, until everything stops.
And then, slowly, the temple expands, thins, vanishes.
He is not sure he can hear her words, but a harmony of sounds conveys sensations from her to him.
He has not wished to possess her, but to give himself to her, and, although he has not come, he has never been so satisfied. She has come, and her pleased smile shows she could not wish anything else.
In that moment a vague concern seizes him.
While they lie abandoned, breathing heavily, their bodies covered with sweat, for the first time he realizes his status: she possesses him. He is hers. However, if this is the way it has to be, so be it! He could not prevent it anyway. He has got neither the strength nor the will to fight it.
When he wakes up, the sun penetrates the fissures in the shades, permeating the room with a suffused light. She is sleeping, lying on her breasts, without any pillow, the right arm gracefully bent under her head. The bedsheets have slipped aside to allow his world to admire her.
The tattoo on the back of her shoulder, framed by waves of black hair, depicts the profile of the naked body of a winged woman. The curve of the breasts harmonically opposing the curve of the hips. She floats with grace, adorned, not supported, by light wings; inertly abandoned to the flow; drawn into a never-ending dance.
He rests his lips on her skin, being extremely careful not to wake her up. He closes his eyes and delicately kisses the fairy and her tattoo. He would like to hold her tight in his arms, keep her with him, never let her go away, but he knows that she will soon spread her wings and fly far, far away. So, he inhales deeply, filling his heart with her perfume, trying to separate from her. You cannot prevent a fairy from flying.
He picks up his phone and remotely connects to the stereo. He presses the stop button. Her body vanishes instantly, the bedsheets delicately falling on the mattress like a deflating balloon.
After a frugal breakfast he unsuccessfully tries to focus on his work, and soon decides to allow himself another day off, the reason of the lack of concentration being the state of pleasant numbness in which he has basked since he woke up clinging to a beautiful woman who has so naturally disappeared when he had stopped her music.
In this state, his mind is crossed by questions like a summer sky is crossed by shooting stars. He struggles to grasp them, but he cannot pretend he does not see their trails. The fact they shoot without him being able to assess them might mean that the time is not ripe. However, honoring his impatient and impulsive nature, he tries to catch some of these meteors and imprison them in order to share them with her when he will be ready to play the CD once again, because these celestial bodies originate from her and around her revolve.
***
It is hard to accept as real something that your mind has been trained to reject as even possible. He wonders if this is a subjective perception or if anyone else can at least see her. The more time they spend together, the weaker he feels, although he burns with passion and pleasure during that very time. It feels like she knows what he likes and uses his passions as if they were nourishment to her.
He tries to show her the door and leave her out of his world. For a few days he hardly succeeds. But when she knocks from inside of him, then he cannot resist: he plays the CD and opens his arms wide to let her in.
During the time he spends with her, she is an endless source of inspiration to him, a creative drive, a productive force: his fantasy runs at full power, he dreams, he writes.
On the contrary, during the days he pushes her away, he feels dull, he even falls sick, but, as soon as he plays her music and welcomes her back to his world, the sore throat and the cold abandon him and the will to create, to produce, to write is suddenly back.
He wakes up. He has completely lost the sense of time. Based on the supposed position of the sun, deduced by the light penetrating the shades' fissures, he believes it is early afternoon. He walks into the bathroom and turns on the light. It's blinding. He protects his eyes by raising a hand. The man in the mirror does not do that. Once his eyes adapt to the brightness, he can see the man in the mirror shaking his head in disapproval. The man in the mirror starts the conversation:
– You are losing your grip on reality!
– I am going to play the CD!
– She is not real!
– I have to tell her how I feel!
– You have already told her! If she were real, she would have understood!
– I feel this constant impulse to share my whole world with her!
– She is suffocating! You have to allow yourself time! Space! See what you have done? You have spent too much time with her and now you are addicted to her!
– I have done nothing but being earnest to myself!
– Right, and what have you got? You fell for a byproduct of your sick imagination!
– She is real!
– As much as you need your medications!
– This is the best thing that happened to me since I was born!
– Ok, let us pretend she is real. Do you realize she is testing you?! She is trying to persuade you that this is not just a flash in the pan, a flame dying a couple of weeks after it sparked for the first time. Do not let her fool you: you are just a one-night stand to her! She likes you, but she does not mean to go anywhere with you!
– It might be so...
– She is as free as a bird! Do you really think you are the only one who ever listened to her album?! This is how it works: she does not feel like being alone, and she materializes in one of her listeners' life, like she has done with you, and then thank you and goodbye!
– She is not that kind of woman! And there would be nothing wrong anyway! She certainly knows what she wants!
– If she knows what she wants, why does not she tell you?
– What do you expect her to tell me?
– That she is just having some fun with you!
– What makes you think this is the case? Maybe she is just as scared as I am.
– Yeah, right! Except you talk too much and she barely talks at all!
– We are just different: she is shy; I am the kind of person who throws up on everyone his emotions and sensations!
– You said so: you are throwing up on her, and she does not like it!
– I do not know... This thing transcends me...
– There is more!
– What?
– What if she had someone else. Someone like you, who started listening to her music, in whose life she has materialized, and whom she is currently playing with, just like she is doing with you?
– .....
At dusk the light penetrating the fissures in the shades permeates the room with a suffused orange red light. Those shades have never been opened since he moved in.
The music is playing and so she is: she is playing with him like a cat plays with a mouse before putting an end to its meaningless life.
He has given her everything, she has given nothing in return: she has been feeding on him.
She might not exist in the real world, but, in his world, she is very much real, and she rules it.
It is time for him to open those shades and look out at the real world. He turns his back to her and walks toward the large window. He presses a button and the burning orange red light progressively pervades the room. He looks back at her just to be sure she is still there.
Once the shades are completely gone, he drags one of the window panes open and, for the first time, steps out on the terrace. The sky is burning, orange, red. He wishes the sunlight burned his body before it touches the ground.
The sun goes down on his corpse. The sun is up on half the world, and half the world is waiting for someone they can hold. Every time she leaves, one life goes too. And half the world is still waiting for her.

He loves receiving mail. He likes to think that a letter someday will change his life. Checking his mailbox is practically the only reason why he leaves his apartment. He works at home as a software developer. His preferred way to communicate with the outside world is chatting over the internet. Online meetings involving audio are a necessity imposed by his business, but he never turns his webcam on; he keeps it cautiously covered with a nerdy sticker. He does his shopping online. The only goods he is not able to get delivered to his doorstep are his medications, but the pharmacy is just across the street from his apartment building.
He lives on the sixth and highest storey. When he needs a renewed prescription, he just has to text his psychiatrist, who will gladfully send him a copy via email. On those days when he has to go to the pharmacy, however, no matter how many drops of bromazepam he ingests, anxiety haunts him like a ghost.
He needs to reach the ground, and by no means he is going to enter the elevator. He has to cross the road: easy enough as long as no vehicle is driving through. Once his storage is replenished with his favorite antidepressant, anxiolytics, and mood stabilizers, he will not need to cross that road for the next month at least.
Today, the newest issue of his favorite heavy-metal magazine awaits him in the mailbox. It is not that life-changing letter he likes to think one day he will receive, but it is more than enough to change his mood. While he climbs the stairs back up, he unwraps the magazine and quickly browses through it until he reaches the album reviews section. He skips the body of the reviews themselves and focuses on the "for fans of" suggestions: if at least one of the three, four mentioned bands is of interest to him, then he will listen to the album via some streaming service, and, if he likes it, he will eventually order the CD online.
She looks him in the eyes from the third page of the album reviews section: green-yellow eyes penetrating his defenses, blood-red lips on snow-white skin leaving him unarmed. A picture emanating an aura he cannot do anything but be fatally attracted to. He cannot care less about the "for fans of" suggestions.
The review is about an album that her partner published posthumously: she had died of a tumor a few years before.
She had a partner.
It takes him what seems to be a lifetime to process this piece of information: the thought seems to trigger some sort of reaction – jealousy? – deep down in his belly. How can he possibly feel something for her?!
Through Google to Wikipedia, it is a matter of keystrokes and he knows everything about the album, and most of all, about her. She and he were born on the same year. They would be the same age, if she were not gone.
The album is love at first listening! The tracks exist between two opposites: the wall of sound produced by the distorted guitars, and her almost whispered singing. This is heavy-metal at its best according to his taste: power and harmony, distortion and lyricism, anger and acceptance.
He resumes working while playing the songs at impossible volume – fuck the neighbors! He soon realizes he cannot focus on the code he is trying to write, although the algorithm is pretty simple. It is the music. He is distracted by it. The sound breaks through his barricades.
A chat message notification catches his attention: the project manager is requesting his opinion. The message goes Where the hell are you?! He switches from the code, which still consists of two lines only, to the chat application, and he realizes the PM had sent him the first message almost three hours before, and since then, he had repeatedly tried to get an answer. This cannot be! I mean I have just... I went downstairs to collect the mail like five minutes ago... No: more than three hours have passed since he went down. And the album is still playing on repeat. What the fuck?! He calls his PM apologizing.
1:00 AM: time to go to bed. He is currently reading four or five books. He does so until one gets the grip on him, and then he focuses on that one only. He picks one of them: a horror novella most likely candidate to be completed in this round. He picks up his phone too and his Bluetooth headphones. He lies on his bed with his back raised to an almost upright position by a bunch of pillows. He presses the play button on his phone and starts reading. The album restarts playing from the beginning. He soon forgets about anything outside his body. His mind is filled by the words he slowly picks from the book. The music is stealing his focus. Hours pass while he tries to process one paragraph, but he does not realize it. He eventually falls asleep. It is 4:00 AM.
He wakes up feeling a compelling need to piss. He had left the nightlight on. He sits on the foot of the bed for he does not know how long. Then he slowly starts walking to the bathroom. He empties his bladder and flushes the toilet. Then moves to the sink to wash his hands and looks at himself in the mirror, the bedroom in the background. She is sitting on the foot of the bed, her green-yellow eyes set on him. He suddenly turns around. No one is there of course. He turns back to the mirror: the bedroom is empty, or at least the foot of the bed is, which is what he can see from the bathroom.
He washes his hands in a hurry and walks back into the bedroom. She is lying on his bed, a lovely smile wrinkles her blood-red lips, dense with empathy. He glances the harmonious curves of her slim naked body through the one layer of bedsheets.
Are you mine?
The question bounces ear to ear in his skull.
He wakes up – this time for real. The bedsheets are soaked in sweat. What the fuck?! He picks up the phone: dead. Light is pushing its way through the shades. What time is it?! He gets up and frantically walks to his office and wakes up the computer: 11:00 AM.
He logs in, sends a message to his PM and takes the day off. He does not have to provide a reason: this is one of the perks of being a freelance. Then he connects to the website of a record store in town. This place is amazing! He wishes he could find the strength to visit it in person one day. If an album is in stock and you place an order before 1:00 PM, they guarantee the delivery within the same day. He looks up the title: available both on vinyl and CD. He immediately orders a copy of the CD.
He decides he will spend the rest of day, while waiting for the CD, lying on the sofa reading the horror novella on top of his to-be-read list. Leaving the studio toward the living room, he has to turn left in the corridor. At the opposite end, a full-size mirror is hanging on the wall. He looks right into it. He would love and hate and long and fear to see her reflection in the mirror. There is nothing but himself, the corridor, the door leading to his bedroom, the bookshelves aligned along the wall, the light entering from the large window in the living room. He retrieves the book from the bedroom and goes straight to the sofa, too afraid to look back at the mirror.
Time goes by. It is around 5:00 PM when the doorbell rings and startles him. He finds himself in a limbo between wake and sleep. He knows what has just awaken him, but he is confused. He barely knows where he is. He looks at his phone to understand at least what time it is. He is about to close his eyes again when the doorbell shakes him even more violently than before. He suddenly stands up and automatically walks toward the door. He unlocks it and meets the gaze of the small, thin delivery guy, so shy he cannot even say hello.
After locking himself in, he leaves the door behind, gets rid of all the packaging stuff and looks at the CD, still wrapped in its protective coating. He knows that if he breaks the seal, there will be no going back. He is aware of the price he will have to pay if he accepts the rules of this game, although this is barely believable. He has always known what he would do in this situation anyway: he unwraps the CD, presses the open/close button on his stereo, carefully lays the CD on the tray, presses the close/open button once more, and eventually presses the play button.
He is still kneeling in front of his stereo when he feels her hand on his right shoulder, among the sound wall of the distorted guitars and the whispers of her singing. He closes his eyes and focuses on whatever real he can rely on: the wooden floor under his knees, the volume responding to him rotating the knob, her hand undeniably resting on his shoulder.
He accepts reality or whatever he is perceiving.
Too many times during the evening, while she is talking, he cannot focus on anything else but those splendid eyes, moving too fast to be intercepted, animated by a contagious joy. Two luminous spheres rotating surrounded by a world rotating around them. So many times, too many not to feel embarrassed, he has had the feeling that whatever question she asked him, he could only reply: Fuck! You're beautiful!
He introduces the question pretty straightforwardly: What are your plans for the night?
She responds triggering in him that extremely rare feeling that things are going where you would like them to go.
I don't have plans for the night; I would gladly spend it with you.
The concept she expresses is simple, the communication direct, no workarounds, one neat sentence pronounced in a self-conscious and serene manner, not even slightly impudent, indeed tinged with a very gracious sense of decency.
He gets up from the table and walks toward the stereo. He skips a few songs, her songs, searching for the one he dreams of listening to when the dream comes true, the one that is yelling from deep inside of him: Where are you? Now that I am looking for you. Now that I want you. Now that I need you.
Then, trying to hide the effort to act natural, he turns toward her and starts walking slowly, savoring each step. He does not know what awaits him at the end of those few steps that separate him from her.
He knows what he wishes for and hopes she shares his wishes. He has not caught any signal that makes him feel the opposite, but he cannot hold on to any certainty. He can only hold on to his courage and his power to dream.
One more step and the fear creates a void in his chest. For an instant he feels the discomfort he would feel if she rejected him. He hears the noise of a glass plate detaching from the window frame through which he is watching his dreams unraveling. The plate shatters at his feet, scattering shards all around, leaving wounds on him. He is not afraid of the pain caused by the shards penetrating his flesh: this is very bearable if compared to the pain caused by the desire that gnaws you from the inside and consumes you forever.
He finds the strength to take one more step. While he walks around the table his heart is thumping, not only fast but also intensely, in a rhythm synchronized with his steps: three beats, one step; four beats, one step; seven beats, one step.
She is beautiful, in that graceful pose, like a model giving herself to her artist. He dares rest his hands on her hips. He feels her delicate, light, slender body moving within his hands while she turns toward him.
He cannot look into her eyes. Not yet, but he knows that he will hold her gaze and will bask in it, when he will have gained some more confidence. Now he needs confirmations. He needs to feel that he is not about to crash into a wall, that he is not falling into the void; he needs to ensure that a dependable hand will hold his, and welcoming arms will hold him tight. He needs to feel that he is not alone anymore.
He gets his confirmation when their lips touch.
An instant of complete confusion: smells, tastes, visions of lights invade his mind.
He loves to indulge on the details, kissing the whole surface of her mouth and its shape, touching every bit of skin, their tongues exploring every possible corner.
He would like to move slowly, but she overwhelms him and he cannot not do anything but second her movements.
Her legs are suddenly all around him. He perceives them everywhere.
Slim legs, incredibly long, preternaturally graceful, whose velvety skin he would never caress and kiss enough.
They wrap him, surround him, swirl all around him.
They erect like columns to build a temple dedicated to his muse.
The temple and the muse are the same thing, and he dwells in there; he is the priest of that Venus to whom he dedicates his existence in this instant, which he wishes will never end.
She calls his name, moaning sweetly. She whispers his name.
He has never recognized himself in his name like when she pronounces it.
His name now only exists for her to pronounce it.
He himself only exists to adore his muse, giving her the pleasure that belongs to her.
He does not feel the impulses of his own body, but of hers. He cannot take pleasure without giving pleasure to her. He is hers.
He moves as she wishes; he cannot resist.
Waves originate from her and incarnate in him. He feels his abdominal muscles contracting according to her will, not his.
She possesses him. She makes him move as she pleases.
She begs him not to stop, whispering his name. He could not stop even if he wished so: his body, as well as his name, belong to her.
He is left with his emotions only, but those revolve around her too, collapsing and expanding rhythmically, like dust produced by explosions repeating at regular intervals, while, between an explosion and the next one, the dust is sucked in by the explosive core.
The rhythm increases. She breathes his name. The shockwaves shake him. His muscles contract. She draws him inside of her with the air she breathes in, inside that temple of beauty erected around him.
The temple collapses, smaller and smaller, the columns constricting him from every side in a composed and graceful fashion.
Everything around him becomes smaller and smaller until he cannot be contained anymore, until everything stops.
And then, slowly, the temple expands, thins, vanishes.
He is not sure he can hear her words, but a harmony of sounds conveys sensations from her to him.
He has not wished to possess her, but to give himself to her, and, although he has not come, he has never been so satisfied. She has come, and her pleased smile shows she could not wish anything else.
In that moment a vague concern seizes him.
While they lie abandoned, breathing heavily, their bodies covered with sweat, for the first time he realizes his status: she possesses him. He is hers. However, if this is the way it has to be, so be it! He could not prevent it anyway. He has got neither the strength nor the will to fight it.
When he wakes up, the sun penetrates the fissures in the shades, permeating the room with a suffused light. She is sleeping, lying on her breasts, without any pillow, the right arm gracefully bent under her head. The bedsheets have slipped aside to allow his world to admire her.
The tattoo on the back of her shoulder, framed by waves of black hair, depicts the profile of the naked body of a winged woman. The curve of the breasts harmonically opposing the curve of the hips. She floats with grace, adorned, not supported, by light wings; inertly abandoned to the flow; drawn into a never-ending dance.
He rests his lips on her skin, being extremely careful not to wake her up. He closes his eyes and delicately kisses the fairy and her tattoo. He would like to hold her tight in his arms, keep her with him, never let her go away, but he knows that she will soon spread her wings and fly far, far away. So, he inhales deeply, filling his heart with her perfume, trying to separate from her. You cannot prevent a fairy from flying.
He picks up his phone and remotely connects to the stereo. He presses the stop button. Her body vanishes instantly, the bedsheets delicately falling on the mattress like a deflating balloon.
After a frugal breakfast he unsuccessfully tries to focus on his work, and soon decides to allow himself another day off, the reason of the lack of concentration being the state of pleasant numbness in which he has basked since he woke up clinging to a beautiful woman who has so naturally disappeared when he had stopped her music.
In this state, his mind is crossed by questions like a summer sky is crossed by shooting stars. He struggles to grasp them, but he cannot pretend he does not see their trails. The fact they shoot without him being able to assess them might mean that the time is not ripe. However, honoring his impatient and impulsive nature, he tries to catch some of these meteors and imprison them in order to share them with her when he will be ready to play the CD once again, because these celestial bodies originate from her and around her revolve.
***
It is hard to accept as real something that your mind has been trained to reject as even possible. He wonders if this is a subjective perception or if anyone else can at least see her. The more time they spend together, the weaker he feels, although he burns with passion and pleasure during that very time. It feels like she knows what he likes and uses his passions as if they were nourishment to her.
He tries to show her the door and leave her out of his world. For a few days he hardly succeeds. But when she knocks from inside of him, then he cannot resist: he plays the CD and opens his arms wide to let her in.
During the time he spends with her, she is an endless source of inspiration to him, a creative drive, a productive force: his fantasy runs at full power, he dreams, he writes.
On the contrary, during the days he pushes her away, he feels dull, he even falls sick, but, as soon as he plays her music and welcomes her back to his world, the sore throat and the cold abandon him and the will to create, to produce, to write is suddenly back.
He wakes up. He has completely lost the sense of time. Based on the supposed position of the sun, deduced by the light penetrating the shades' fissures, he believes it is early afternoon. He walks into the bathroom and turns on the light. It's blinding. He protects his eyes by raising a hand. The man in the mirror does not do that. Once his eyes adapt to the brightness, he can see the man in the mirror shaking his head in disapproval. The man in the mirror starts the conversation:
– You are losing your grip on reality!
– I am going to play the CD!
– She is not real!
– I have to tell her how I feel!
– You have already told her! If she were real, she would have understood!
– I feel this constant impulse to share my whole world with her!
– She is suffocating! You have to allow yourself time! Space! See what you have done? You have spent too much time with her and now you are addicted to her!
– I have done nothing but being earnest to myself!
– Right, and what have you got? You fell for a byproduct of your sick imagination!
– She is real!
– As much as you need your medications!
– This is the best thing that happened to me since I was born!
– Ok, let us pretend she is real. Do you realize she is testing you?! She is trying to persuade you that this is not just a flash in the pan, a flame dying a couple of weeks after it sparked for the first time. Do not let her fool you: you are just a one-night stand to her! She likes you, but she does not mean to go anywhere with you!
– It might be so...
– She is as free as a bird! Do you really think you are the only one who ever listened to her album?! This is how it works: she does not feel like being alone, and she materializes in one of her listeners' life, like she has done with you, and then thank you and goodbye!
– She is not that kind of woman! And there would be nothing wrong anyway! She certainly knows what she wants!
– If she knows what she wants, why does not she tell you?
– What do you expect her to tell me?
– That she is just having some fun with you!
– What makes you think this is the case? Maybe she is just as scared as I am.
– Yeah, right! Except you talk too much and she barely talks at all!
– We are just different: she is shy; I am the kind of person who throws up on everyone his emotions and sensations!
– You said so: you are throwing up on her, and she does not like it!
– I do not know... This thing transcends me...
– There is more!
– What?
– What if she had someone else. Someone like you, who started listening to her music, in whose life she has materialized, and whom she is currently playing with, just like she is doing with you?
– .....
At dusk the light penetrating the fissures in the shades permeates the room with a suffused orange red light. Those shades have never been opened since he moved in.
The music is playing and so she is: she is playing with him like a cat plays with a mouse before putting an end to its meaningless life.
He has given her everything, she has given nothing in return: she has been feeding on him.
She might not exist in the real world, but, in his world, she is very much real, and she rules it.
It is time for him to open those shades and look out at the real world. He turns his back to her and walks toward the large window. He presses a button and the burning orange red light progressively pervades the room. He looks back at her just to be sure she is still there.
Once the shades are completely gone, he drags one of the window panes open and, for the first time, steps out on the terrace. The sky is burning, orange, red. He wishes the sunlight burned his body before it touches the ground.
The sun goes down on his corpse. The sun is up on half the world, and half the world is waiting for someone they can hold. Every time she leaves, one life goes too. And half the world is still waiting for her.

He loves receiving mail. He likes to think that a letter someday will change his life. Checking his mailbox is practically the only reason why he leaves his apartment. He works at home as a software developer. His preferred way to communicate with the outside world is chatting over the internet. Online meetings involving audio are a necessity imposed by his business, but he never turns his webcam on; he keeps it cautiously covered with a nerdy sticker. He does his shopping online. The only goods he is not able to get delivered to his doorstep are his medications, but the pharmacy is just across the street from his apartment building.
He lives on the sixth and highest storey. When he needs a renewed prescription, he just has to text his psychiatrist, who will gladfully send him a copy via email. On those days when he has to go to the pharmacy, however, no matter how many drops of bromazepam he ingests, anxiety haunts him like a ghost.
He needs to reach the ground, and by no means he is going to enter the elevator. He has to cross the road: easy enough as long as no vehicle is driving through. Once his storage is replenished with his favorite antidepressant, anxiolytics, and mood stabilizers, he will not need to cross that road for the next month at least.
Today, the newest issue of his favorite heavy-metal magazine awaits him in the mailbox. It is not that life-changing letter he likes to think one day he will receive, but it is more than enough to change his mood. While he climbs the stairs back up, he unwraps the magazine and quickly browses through it until he reaches the album reviews section. He skips the body of the reviews themselves and focuses on the "for fans of" suggestions: if at least one of the three, four mentioned bands is of interest to him, then he will listen to the album via some streaming service, and, if he likes it, he will eventually order the CD online.
She looks him in the eyes from the third page of the album reviews section: green-yellow eyes penetrating his defenses, blood-red lips on snow-white skin leaving him unarmed. A picture emanating an aura he cannot do anything but be fatally attracted to. He cannot care less about the "for fans of" suggestions.
The review is about an album that her partner published posthumously: she had died of a tumor a few years before.
She had a partner.
It takes him what seems to be a lifetime to process this piece of information: the thought seems to trigger some sort of reaction – jealousy? – deep down in his belly. How can he possibly feel something for her?!
Through Google to Wikipedia, it is a matter of keystrokes and he knows everything about the album, and most of all, about her. She and he were born on the same year. They would be the same age, if she were not gone.
The album is love at first listening! The tracks exist between two opposites: the wall of sound produced by the distorted guitars, and her almost whispered singing. This is heavy-metal at its best according to his taste: power and harmony, distortion and lyricism, anger and acceptance.
He resumes working while playing the songs at impossible volume – fuck the neighbors! He soon realizes he cannot focus on the code he is trying to write, although the algorithm is pretty simple. It is the music. He is distracted by it. The sound breaks through his barricades.
A chat message notification catches his attention: the project manager is requesting his opinion. The message goes Where the hell are you?! He switches from the code, which still consists of two lines only, to the chat application, and he realizes the PM had sent him the first message almost three hours before, and since then, he had repeatedly tried to get an answer. This cannot be! I mean I have just... I went downstairs to collect the mail like five minutes ago... No: more than three hours have passed since he went down. And the album is still playing on repeat. What the fuck?! He calls his PM apologizing.
1:00 AM: time to go to bed. He is currently reading four or five books. He does so until one gets the grip on him, and then he focuses on that one only. He picks one of them: a horror novella most likely candidate to be completed in this round. He picks up his phone too and his Bluetooth headphones. He lies on his bed with his back raised to an almost upright position by a bunch of pillows. He presses the play button on his phone and starts reading. The album restarts playing from the beginning. He soon forgets about anything outside his body. His mind is filled by the words he slowly picks from the book. The music is stealing his focus. Hours pass while he tries to process one paragraph, but he does not realize it. He eventually falls asleep. It is 4:00 AM.
He wakes up feeling a compelling need to piss. He had left the nightlight on. He sits on the foot of the bed for he does not know how long. Then he slowly starts walking to the bathroom. He empties his bladder and flushes the toilet. Then moves to the sink to wash his hands and looks at himself in the mirror, the bedroom in the background. She is sitting on the foot of the bed, her green-yellow eyes set on him. He suddenly turns around. No one is there of course. He turns back to the mirror: the bedroom is empty, or at least the foot of the bed is, which is what he can see from the bathroom.
He washes his hands in a hurry and walks back into the bedroom. She is lying on his bed, a lovely smile wrinkles her blood-red lips, dense with empathy. He glances the harmonious curves of her slim naked body through the one layer of bedsheets.
Are you mine?
The question bounces ear to ear in his skull.
He wakes up – this time for real. The bedsheets are soaked in sweat. What the fuck?! He picks up the phone: dead. Light is pushing its way through the shades. What time is it?! He gets up and frantically walks to his office and wakes up the computer: 11:00 AM.
He logs in, sends a message to his PM and takes the day off. He does not have to provide a reason: this is one of the perks of being a freelance. Then he connects to the website of a record store in town. This place is amazing! He wishes he could find the strength to visit it in person one day. If an album is in stock and you place an order before 1:00 PM, they guarantee the delivery within the same day. He looks up the title: available both on vinyl and CD. He immediately orders a copy of the CD.
He decides he will spend the rest of day, while waiting for the CD, lying on the sofa reading the horror novella on top of his to-be-read list. Leaving the studio toward the living room, he has to turn left in the corridor. At the opposite end, a full-size mirror is hanging on the wall. He looks right into it. He would love and hate and long and fear to see her reflection in the mirror. There is nothing but himself, the corridor, the door leading to his bedroom, the bookshelves aligned along the wall, the light entering from the large window in the living room. He retrieves the book from the bedroom and goes straight to the sofa, too afraid to look back at the mirror.
Time goes by. It is around 5:00 PM when the doorbell rings and startles him. He finds himself in a limbo between wake and sleep. He knows what has just awaken him, but he is confused. He barely knows where he is. He looks at his phone to understand at least what time it is. He is about to close his eyes again when the doorbell shakes him even more violently than before. He suddenly stands up and automatically walks toward the door. He unlocks it and meets the gaze of the small, thin delivery guy, so shy he cannot even say hello.
After locking himself in, he leaves the door behind, gets rid of all the packaging stuff and looks at the CD, still wrapped in its protective coating. He knows that if he breaks the seal, there will be no going back. He is aware of the price he will have to pay if he accepts the rules of this game, although this is barely believable. He has always known what he would do in this situation anyway: he unwraps the CD, presses the open/close button on his stereo, carefully lays the CD on the tray, presses the close/open button once more, and eventually presses the play button.
He is still kneeling in front of his stereo when he feels her hand on his right shoulder, among the sound wall of the distorted guitars and the whispers of her singing. He closes his eyes and focuses on whatever real he can rely on: the wooden floor under his knees, the volume responding to him rotating the knob, her hand undeniably resting on his shoulder.
He accepts reality or whatever he is perceiving.
Too many times during the evening, while she is talking, he cannot focus on anything else but those splendid eyes, moving too fast to be intercepted, animated by a contagious joy. Two luminous spheres rotating surrounded by a world rotating around them. So many times, too many not to feel embarrassed, he has had the feeling that whatever question she asked him, he could only reply: Fuck! You're beautiful!
He introduces the question pretty straightforwardly: What are your plans for the night?
She responds triggering in him that extremely rare feeling that things are going where you would like them to go.
I don't have plans for the night; I would gladly spend it with you.
The concept she expresses is simple, the communication direct, no workarounds, one neat sentence pronounced in a self-conscious and serene manner, not even slightly impudent, indeed tinged with a very gracious sense of decency.
He gets up from the table and walks toward the stereo. He skips a few songs, her songs, searching for the one he dreams of listening to when the dream comes true, the one that is yelling from deep inside of him: Where are you? Now that I am looking for you. Now that I want you. Now that I need you.
Then, trying to hide the effort to act natural, he turns toward her and starts walking slowly, savoring each step. He does not know what awaits him at the end of those few steps that separate him from her.
He knows what he wishes for and hopes she shares his wishes. He has not caught any signal that makes him feel the opposite, but he cannot hold on to any certainty. He can only hold on to his courage and his power to dream.
One more step and the fear creates a void in his chest. For an instant he feels the discomfort he would feel if she rejected him. He hears the noise of a glass plate detaching from the window frame through which he is watching his dreams unraveling. The plate shatters at his feet, scattering shards all around, leaving wounds on him. He is not afraid of the pain caused by the shards penetrating his flesh: this is very bearable if compared to the pain caused by the desire that gnaws you from the inside and consumes you forever.
He finds the strength to take one more step. While he walks around the table his heart is thumping, not only fast but also intensely, in a rhythm synchronized with his steps: three beats, one step; four beats, one step; seven beats, one step.
She is beautiful, in that graceful pose, like a model giving herself to her artist. He dares rest his hands on her hips. He feels her delicate, light, slender body moving within his hands while she turns toward him.
He cannot look into her eyes. Not yet, but he knows that he will hold her gaze and will bask in it, when he will have gained some more confidence. Now he needs confirmations. He needs to feel that he is not about to crash into a wall, that he is not falling into the void; he needs to ensure that a dependable hand will hold his, and welcoming arms will hold him tight. He needs to feel that he is not alone anymore.
He gets his confirmation when their lips touch.
An instant of complete confusion: smells, tastes, visions of lights invade his mind.
He loves to indulge on the details, kissing the whole surface of her mouth and its shape, touching every bit of skin, their tongues exploring every possible corner.
He would like to move slowly, but she overwhelms him and he cannot not do anything but second her movements.
Her legs are suddenly all around him. He perceives them everywhere.
Slim legs, incredibly long, preternaturally graceful, whose velvety skin he would never caress and kiss enough.
They wrap him, surround him, swirl all around him.
They erect like columns to build a temple dedicated to his muse.
The temple and the muse are the same thing, and he dwells in there; he is the priest of that Venus to whom he dedicates his existence in this instant, which he wishes will never end.
She calls his name, moaning sweetly. She whispers his name.
He has never recognized himself in his name like when she pronounces it.
His name now only exists for her to pronounce it.
He himself only exists to adore his muse, giving her the pleasure that belongs to her.
He does not feel the impulses of his own body, but of hers. He cannot take pleasure without giving pleasure to her. He is hers.
He moves as she wishes; he cannot resist.
Waves originate from her and incarnate in him. He feels his abdominal muscles contracting according to her will, not his.
She possesses him. She makes him move as she pleases.
She begs him not to stop, whispering his name. He could not stop even if he wished so: his body, as well as his name, belong to her.
He is left with his emotions only, but those revolve around her too, collapsing and expanding rhythmically, like dust produced by explosions repeating at regular intervals, while, between an explosion and the next one, the dust is sucked in by the explosive core.
The rhythm increases. She breathes his name. The shockwaves shake him. His muscles contract. She draws him inside of her with the air she breathes in, inside that temple of beauty erected around him.
The temple collapses, smaller and smaller, the columns constricting him from every side in a composed and graceful fashion.
Everything around him becomes smaller and smaller until he cannot be contained anymore, until everything stops.
And then, slowly, the temple expands, thins, vanishes.
He is not sure he can hear her words, but a harmony of sounds conveys sensations from her to him.
He has not wished to possess her, but to give himself to her, and, although he has not come, he has never been so satisfied. She has come, and her pleased smile shows she could not wish anything else.
In that moment a vague concern seizes him.
While they lie abandoned, breathing heavily, their bodies covered with sweat, for the first time he realizes his status: she possesses him. He is hers. However, if this is the way it has to be, so be it! He could not prevent it anyway. He has got neither the strength nor the will to fight it.
When he wakes up, the sun penetrates the fissures in the shades, permeating the room with a suffused light. She is sleeping, lying on her breasts, without any pillow, the right arm gracefully bent under her head. The bedsheets have slipped aside to allow his world to admire her.
The tattoo on the back of her shoulder, framed by waves of black hair, depicts the profile of the naked body of a winged woman. The curve of the breasts harmonically opposing the curve of the hips. She floats with grace, adorned, not supported, by light wings; inertly abandoned to the flow; drawn into a never-ending dance.
He rests his lips on her skin, being extremely careful not to wake her up. He closes his eyes and delicately kisses the fairy and her tattoo. He would like to hold her tight in his arms, keep her with him, never let her go away, but he knows that she will soon spread her wings and fly far, far away. So, he inhales deeply, filling his heart with her perfume, trying to separate from her. You cannot prevent a fairy from flying.
He picks up his phone and remotely connects to the stereo. He presses the stop button. Her body vanishes instantly, the bedsheets delicately falling on the mattress like a deflating balloon.
After a frugal breakfast he unsuccessfully tries to focus on his work, and soon decides to allow himself another day off, the reason of the lack of concentration being the state of pleasant numbness in which he has basked since he woke up clinging to a beautiful woman who has so naturally disappeared when he had stopped her music.
In this state, his mind is crossed by questions like a summer sky is crossed by shooting stars. He struggles to grasp them, but he cannot pretend he does not see their trails. The fact they shoot without him being able to assess them might mean that the time is not ripe. However, honoring his impatient and impulsive nature, he tries to catch some of these meteors and imprison them in order to share them with her when he will be ready to play the CD once again, because these celestial bodies originate from her and around her revolve.
***
It is hard to accept as real something that your mind has been trained to reject as even possible. He wonders if this is a subjective perception or if anyone else can at least see her. The more time they spend together, the weaker he feels, although he burns with passion and pleasure during that very time. It feels like she knows what he likes and uses his passions as if they were nourishment to her.
He tries to show her the door and leave her out of his world. For a few days he hardly succeeds. But when she knocks from inside of him, then he cannot resist: he plays the CD and opens his arms wide to let her in.
During the time he spends with her, she is an endless source of inspiration to him, a creative drive, a productive force: his fantasy runs at full power, he dreams, he writes.
On the contrary, during the days he pushes her away, he feels dull, he even falls sick, but, as soon as he plays her music and welcomes her back to his world, the sore throat and the cold abandon him and the will to create, to produce, to write is suddenly back.
He wakes up. He has completely lost the sense of time. Based on the supposed position of the sun, deduced by the light penetrating the shades' fissures, he believes it is early afternoon. He walks into the bathroom and turns on the light. It's blinding. He protects his eyes by raising a hand. The man in the mirror does not do that. Once his eyes adapt to the brightness, he can see the man in the mirror shaking his head in disapproval. The man in the mirror starts the conversation:
– You are losing your grip on reality!
– I am going to play the CD!
– She is not real!
– I have to tell her how I feel!
– You have already told her! If she were real, she would have understood!
– I feel this constant impulse to share my whole world with her!
– She is suffocating! You have to allow yourself time! Space! See what you have done? You have spent too much time with her and now you are addicted to her!
– I have done nothing but being earnest to myself!
– Right, and what have you got? You fell for a byproduct of your sick imagination!
– She is real!
– As much as you need your medications!
– This is the best thing that happened to me since I was born!
– Ok, let us pretend she is real. Do you realize she is testing you?! She is trying to persuade you that this is not just a flash in the pan, a flame dying a couple of weeks after it sparked for the first time. Do not let her fool you: you are just a one-night stand to her! She likes you, but she does not mean to go anywhere with you!
– It might be so...
– She is as free as a bird! Do you really think you are the only one who ever listened to her album?! This is how it works: she does not feel like being alone, and she materializes in one of her listeners' life, like she has done with you, and then thank you and goodbye!
– She is not that kind of woman! And there would be nothing wrong anyway! She certainly knows what she wants!
– If she knows what she wants, why does not she tell you?
– What do you expect her to tell me?
– That she is just having some fun with you!
– What makes you think this is the case? Maybe she is just as scared as I am.
– Yeah, right! Except you talk too much and she barely talks at all!
– We are just different: she is shy; I am the kind of person who throws up on everyone his emotions and sensations!
– You said so: you are throwing up on her, and she does not like it!
– I do not know... This thing transcends me...
– There is more!
– What?
– What if she had someone else. Someone like you, who started listening to her music, in whose life she has materialized, and whom she is currently playing with, just like she is doing with you?
– .....
At dusk the light penetrating the fissures in the shades permeates the room with a suffused orange red light. Those shades have never been opened since he moved in.
The music is playing and so she is: she is playing with him like a cat plays with a mouse before putting an end to its meaningless life.
He has given her everything, she has given nothing in return: she has been feeding on him.
She might not exist in the real world, but, in his world, she is very much real, and she rules it.
It is time for him to open those shades and look out at the real world. He turns his back to her and walks toward the large window. He presses a button and the burning orange red light progressively pervades the room. He looks back at her just to be sure she is still there.
Once the shades are completely gone, he drags one of the window panes open and, for the first time, steps out on the terrace. The sky is burning, orange, red. He wishes the sunlight burned his body before it touches the ground.
The sun goes down on his corpse. The sun is up on half the world, and half the world is waiting for someone they can hold. Every time she leaves, one life goes too. And half the world is still waiting for her.