Cut My Life Into Pieces, This Is My Last Braincell
@brain-is-a-toaster
Uh Hi. I'm Ruby. They/Them I like Etrian Odyssey, IEYTD, Ace Attorney, Persona, and Sims. I now know what Mutuals are and they're awesome, and I've been on tumblr for years, but if you wanna interact I don't mind! I like talking about Hyperfixations.
Cold take but all languages are beautiful actually. Every single one. Every single human language on earth is a collection of stories interwoven into the very fabric of the words that are spoken.
“Oh but this language sounds scary-“ have you heard a child speak it while pointing at a butterfly?
“Oh but this language sounds silly-“ have you heard someone’s grandma recite a recipe with such practiced ease it comes off as poetry?
“Oh but this language is really weird-“ and yours isn’t? Everyone’s language is weird, dumbass, it came free with your fucking humanity.
Every tongue that is spoken is a work of art. Every language a unique window into the world.
You're not gonna know who this is at ALL I don't even know if I've told you about him, but in my groups DND campaign our guild is run by this guy Terrance Puckett. And despite being the head of one of richest families in Wraithmore, he's a total sweetheart and the biggest softie. He spends a lot of time trying to return artifacts that were stolen by his ancestors, make things right, being.... Not the sharpest tool in the shed...
*flashback to the fish incident*
But he's trying.
Anyway I just think you guys would really get along.
Gem: I did see my favorite hate comment ever today though? I-I think it might be my fav-my favorite hate comment. And--it-it was that I'm turning Hermitcraft gay. (she laughs) It-it gave me a-a very good laugh. It--they, they meant it as hate, so genuinely, but I did not take it that way.
Gem: Like--(giggling) I. Find myself in situations so frequently, where the men are roleplaying kissing each other, and if I could stop them, I would, okay. I would be more homophobic, I would stop them! I can't! They keep going, I (through laughter) I don't know what it is.
Gem: But it's not me, it's-it's th--nobody's holding a knife to them right now and making them do that. (laughs)
Gem: They're just like it. I don't-it's not me. (laughs) God, it was one of my favorite comments I've gotten. I-I immediately sent it to Grian. (laughs)
Gem: (eight seconds of silence) I'll take credit, if I-if somebody has to take credit, I can. (laughs) But I don't think, I don't think it's me. (five seconds of silence, then, laughter) Entry (? she says a Twitch chatter's name here) thank you for the twenty-three months, I haven't, but I'll look into it. I have heard--well, I've heard of Project Hail Mary, actually--
Gem: I should read that, I have heard a lot about it. (six seconds of silence, then reading a comment) "It's not you." Yeah, I don't think it's me, unfor-the men are just like that. They-they're-they-they're like it. Already. I don't know. They-they came like it. I didn't--it wasn't season eight that that started.
People on Tumblr love sharing information about themselves no matter how asinine it is. And I'm the same way. Everybody tell me what the last thing you drank was.
Summary: Olivia meets a distant relative. “Distant” because no one really talks to them, and there is a reason for this.
Important Tags: Humor, AU (maybe?)
(A/N: Over with @lunar-inkclipse, discussions have proliferated of a vampire hunter OC. What was discussed led my brain to spiral and vomit up this silly fanfic. Lunar quick make something for this OC before I hijack them completely— /j)
(Oh—some minor spoilers for Murdle Jr.? Kind of? In the form of “major WHAT THE HECK moment that may be ruined if you read this before reading that” :P)
XXX
On an ordinary Saturday afternoon, the doorbell rang.
Olivia blinked, sitting up from where she’d been lying on the couch, and stared at the door with no small amount of confusion. No one visited their house. If it was a business thing, it was handled at work, and if it wasn’t a business thing—well, as her dad said, people had phones for a reason. That wasn’t even getting into how much he hated solicitors—one poor door-to-door salesman had been yelled at so loudly Olivia was pretty sure half the neighborhood heard.
Deciding she didn’t want to put whoever was at the door through that (or put herself through the embarrassment of being in the house at the time), Olivia sank back into the couch and continued messing with her phone.
The doorbell rang again.
She sat up again, now very confused—and then it rang again. And again. And again and again and again and again and—
“OH MY GOD!” her father yelled over the rapid doorbell ringing. “Olivia! Get the door! Shut them up!”
Olivia—who was getting quite annoyed at the ringing herself—shot up and sprinted to the door, yanking it open. “Sorry, we’re not buying what—” Then she actually noticed who was at the door, and temporarily lost the ability to speak.
In the doorway was a man who looked around her dad’s age, maybe a bit older, with unkempt, scraggly frizzy curls that spilled down to his shoulders and wild brown eyes like he was perpetually seeing ghosts. He wore a thick scarf wrapped around his neck and an enormous green coat to which—and this probably should’ve been the first thing Olivia noticed—he’d strapped a frankly ridiculous amount of wooden stakes, two bandoliers of water, a string of garlic (???), silver crosses, and a whole host of other items.
In other words, like if Van Helsing was trying entirely too hard.
Olivia stared at him, unsure what to do or say or how to tell her dad “hey, there’s a crazy person at the front door”—when the man finally seemed to notice her and let out a loud gasp.
“WHAT?!” he exclaimed, so loudly that even Olivia—who was used to overhearing her father’s tantrums—winced. “A— a small child? I checked the MapQuest, this should be Indigo’s house!”
Olivia kept staring, unsure of how to (or even if she should) explain to him that yes, this was Indigo’s house—when the man suddenly barged in, knocking her aside with a yelp. His wild eyes darted about, looking around the foyer like it would suddenly sprout teeth and eat him. “Everything looks normal—where’s the coffins hidden? This house is haunted—invaded by evil!”
“Um” was all Olivia could get out.
The man whirled on her then, and she went pale, taking a couple steps back. “You! You tiny vampiric child! Your appearance of innocence may have fooled my cousin, but it shan’t fool me!” He whipped out one of the stakes. “You shall be—!”
Olivia let out an ear-splitting shriek—and from the stairs came a panicked “Olivia?!” a blur of movement, and then with a BANG the stake had fallen to the floor and the man was sprawled against the wall groaning.
“Olivia?” Her dad had grabbed her shoulders and was shaking her, looking legitimately panicked in a way she almost never saw him. “Are you—?”
“I’m fine,” she said weakly, still staring at the stranger and trying to comprehend what the hell had just happened.
By now, the man was getting back to his feet with a groan, and her father whirled on him with a glare that promised excruciating pain—then visibly double-taked, staring incredulously before facepalming. “Oh, for crying out loud…”
“Wait—Dad, do you know him?” Olivia asked, equally incredulous—she could hardly imagine her dad spending any amount of time with this obvious lunatic.
Said lunatic froze. “Dad?” he repeated, sounding just as confused as Olivia was.
Her dad paused, then sighed, shoulders slumping. “Really hoping I’d never have to have this conversation,” he muttered, then cleared his throat. “Hawthorne—this is my daughter, Olivia. Olivia…this is Hawthorne. My…” He hesitated, then, in the tone of someone who found the word physically painful to say, grumbled, “Cousin.”
“Wait—seriously?” Olivia stared at Hawthorne, completely flummoxed (though she could actually see the resemblance a bit, mostly in the frizzy curls her father always slicked back). “You have a—?”
Hawthorne, who’d been staring at her in equal shock, whirled to her father and said, in genuine surprise, “You managed to procreate?!”
A very, very long silence followed that. Indigo’s eye twitched.
“…was that weird?”
“Extremely,” Olivia replied bluntly.
“Ah. Well—” Hawthorne reached back to rub the back of his head, scattering dandruff. “My apologies for the assumption! And nearly staking your spawn.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Indigo said flatly, voice sharp as a blade of ice.
“But anyway—” Hawthorne grinned at her, as though the past few minutes hadn’t happened. “As your father stated! I am Hawthorne. Hunter of the darkest creatures known to man.” His voice dropped low. “Vampires.”
Olivia stared at him. “Vampires don’t exist,” she said.
“Ah, but they do! They simply hide in the shadows, waiting for them to strike. It is my duty to hunt them down and slay them!”
“I’ve never seen a vampire before,” Olivia said, blinking.
“And you’re welcome, my dear…” Hawthorne hesitated, bravado losing steam. “Uh…niece? Second cousin? What does one call the child of one’s cousin—”
“What do you want,” Indigo snarled through gritted teeth, tone of voice making it clear that whatever it was, Hawthorne was not getting it.
Hawthorne missed the message. “Ah. Well. Funny story.” He cleared his throat. “I was chasing some vampires down in Colorado when—quite suddenly—one of them turned into a deer and leapt out in front of my car!”
(Olivia was pretty sure that was something deer did vampire or not.)
“Of course, I panicked and swerved the vehicle so as to not fall into their dastardly trap—but, uh.” The bravado was gone again. “I may have…crashed into a tree.”
Olivia winced. Her father made a noise like he was trying not to laugh.
“Luckily! I escaped with minimal injuries. The most harmed part of me was my left leg, and, well—” Hawthorne reached down and rolled up his pant leg, revealing silver metal. “Prosthetics heal swifter than flesh, it must be said—”
“Wait, what happened to your leg?” Olivia blurted, then blushed when she realized that might not be appropriate. (Though part of her counted it as a win that she was able to recognize what was or wasn’t appropriate now.)
“Ah, that tale…” Hawthorne cupped his chin in his hand, frowning. “I’d have been…perhaps fifteen? Your father was thirteen—anyway, I had brought him along on a thrilling vampire hunt, only for the vampires to trap me in a dumpster! I shouted for him to get help, but they must’ve knocked him out—because he says he doesn’t remember any of this—” He cast a glance at Indigo, who had an odd look on his face “—and one of them turned on the compactor and…”
He hesitated. “My leg did not survive.”
Olivia winced. Indigo’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smirk.
“But!” Hawthorne shook his head. “That was then. This is now! As I said, I escaped with minimal injuries. The car…did not. And getting a new one sort of…blew all of the funds I had.”
An awkward pause followed.
“…so can I stay for a bit?” Hawthorne asked, bravado gone in favor of something infinitely more awkward. “You’re rich, you can afford guests, right?”
Indigo had stopped smiling by this point, mouth pressed in a thin line and eye twitching like mad, and Olivia winced again—she knew the signs of an impending explosion when she saw one. “You’re asking to stay,” he said, voice carefully controlled. “You are asking. To stay. In my house.”
Hawthorne seemed to realize at this point he’d made a poor decision. “…yes?” he squeaked out.
That particular action proved terminally stupid.
“GET THE HELL OUT!” Indigo yelled, chasing him out with his own stake as Hawthorne shrieked and scrambled out the door. “AND DON’T YOU DARE COME BACK TO MY DOOR YOU COMPLETELY MORONIC LUNATIC—!”
The door slammed shut. Indigo huffed, tossing the stake over his shoulder. “Didn’t even let me finish my threats.”
A long, awkward silence followed.
“…so,” Olivia said. “I saw your face, when he talked about his leg—what, exactly…?”
“Oh, that!” Her father visibly brightened, lips curving in a smug smile. “He’d dragged me off to stalk some random woman, and I’d gotten sick of him screaming. So I turned the compactor on to shut him up and left. He had to crawl all the way back to the house, it was hilarious.”
An even longer silence followed, Olivia staring in absolute shock.
“…what? He lived.” Indigo scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You really gotta learn to enjoy schadenfreude, hon.”
“…message received,” Olivia squeaked out.
And that was the end of their visit.
XXX
(A/N: I picked Hawthorne because it was a color, and because “Vampire Hunter Hawthorne” rolls off the tongue very well. A joke I could not squeeze in and am very sad I couldn’t: Hawthorne asking Indigo where the wife is and Indigo saying “a werewolf ate her”. Both because he does not like admitting he got ditched and because Hawthorne going on a wild goose chase would be funny to him :P
Also, no one in this family has any volume control. They just all express it in different ways :P
Alright I have been enabled so I’m gonna say somethings.
Fatalistic sarcasm is a thing, however, it usually hides deep feelings of insecurity, and whether you consciously recognize this or not, it validates them. Seriously, I used to constantly make jokes about how other people’s work was better than mine, and it did nothing for my self-esteem, it was a tool to deflect from my own feelings of inferiority and it actively worked against me thinking critically about my own and other people’s work. If it was a joke I could put myself down instead of analyzing why someone’s work was better and trying to incorporate that into my own
As someone who took creative writing courses I was constantly surrounded by other brilliant people, if I hung my head in shame every time I read something as good or better than mine I never would have lifted it.
As someone who has watched a lot of writers with very good idea’s crash and burn I mean it when I say you either develop a healthy sense of respect for your own work or you stop writing.
There’s three things I really wish more people consider
1. Do you think their work is better because it’s a different style, one that you like? There’s an element to ‘the grass is greener on the other side’, I have seen people work in some amazing styles that I wished to god I could replicate, some I managed, some I never did, but there’s nothing wrong with either. having a different style Is Not the same as having a bad style, each has their own strengths and you can admire one without putting yours down
2. Knowing someone who is a better writer is a blessing and if they knew you were using their work to bring yourself down they would not be happy, mooch off that friend, analyze their work, ask them to edit your shit, as long as you’re not annoying them be shameless about it. the best thing creative writing did for me was give me the confidence to ask people to critic my work and shamelessly better each other for that sharing
3. People need to normalize being confident in their work, the quality of your work has literally nothing to do with your worth as a person, the quality of your work has nothing to do with your worth as a writer. You can write something really shitty and the only thing I’d say to you is that your trying and I respect you for that
This is my half of “Unhealthy”, an essay comic double header with the lovely and talented Sarah Winifred Searle. She and I both wrote about our personal experiences as overweight ladies with eating disorders, and her story is breathtaking! You can buy a physical copy of the book here: https://topatoco.com/collections/abby-howard/products/ah-unhealthy
Or buy a digital PDF here: https://abbyhoward.itch.io/unhealthy
Time to re-up this one. Virtual hugs to everyone out there who has been told they shouldn’t live unless they are ashamed of being fat. You should. Please, live.
Everyone should take the time to read this- but especially thin allies in the body positivity movement to end fatshaming who sympathize but haven’t experienced fatphobia directly. Great insight into the mindset of fat people who want to be healthy, but have bad relationships with food that have been pushed on them by society.
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