smolder;

Naomi Ray Wilder - 25 - Retribution Big sister to many; little sister to none.

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

Journal [8.5-8.7]

8-5-89

I saw her again.

It sounds crazy to admit that—that I “saw” her. But here I am, hours later, still chilled to the bone.

Her face won’t get out of my head—that subtle smirk. Those eyes. The way they narrowed the more I told that cop about her, like I was betraying her.

I can’t be alone with my thoughts right now, so I’ve turned to my journals. I pulled them all out from the dusty bin in the back of my closet and spread them on the rug. I didn’t start journaling until after I got back from college, but there’s still plenty to go through. Six years’ worth, to be exact.

Larissa was only twelve when we started classes. Poring over those journals, she’s brought back to life before my eyes, bright and fierce and determined. She was full of hope in those days—maybe her situation wasn’t the best, but she was going to make it better. She had to.

I wonder what happened. When did the light die from her eyes? When did the switch flip? Or was it slow and steady, like a forest fire in a thunderstorm, determined to blaze yet doomed to fail?

The truth may lay somewhere in between, I suspect. Maybe my journals will tell me something. I can feel their presence, almost; they vibrate with importance. I’m going to take out all the pages about Larissa, line them up end to end, and read them. I hate to tear into my records like this, but information is more important than sentiment right now.

8-6-89

Funeral today. Nolan dances on my skull; my head aches.

8-7-89

Couldn’t sleep last night. I showered and slept (at home, for once) and laid in bed for two restless hours. Then, I got up and started reading.

I’ve been through ‘83- ‘87 already. I journaled less frequently then—the habit was new when I first moved back, and at times it wasn’t a habit at all. Honestly, it’s painful to read these old accounts. For instance, this one:

10-22-83

Fifth class with Larissa today. She’s a quick learner, but she’s got a long way to go. She’s enthusiastic and pretty agile, too—her love of jump-roping proves it—but she’s neither accurate nor powerful. Of course, she’s twelve, so I’m not worried about it in the long run. I guess I’m just concerned that she’s gonna hurt herself again.

We’ve been doing mostly conditioning and practicing form, but today she insisted that she get a chance on the bag. I swear, I was gonna say no, but she just gets this look in her eyes when she wants something that’s impossible to resist.

Well, long story short, she almost sprained her wrist. She was all red-faced and sniffly, but she didn’t cry—not when I showed her how to ice it properly, or when I began wrapping it up, even though I was sure it hurt. To distract her from the pain, I asked her about her week, thinking she’d mumble something about school and be done with it. To my surprise, she opened up like a flower, gushing about all the cool stuff she’d done. She was most proud of befriending this cat that lived in the park; she’d been saving bits of her lunch to feed it, apparently.

She was so animated when she told me, free arm waving as I pinned the bandage in place. Seeing her shine so brightly, I can’t help but worry. Nothing that pure can last.

I can still picture her so clearly: that bright smile, those determined eyes. But reading back on it now, I can’t help but wonder what brought her into the gym in the first place. What drives a twelve year old girl to learn to fight—independently of her parents, no less? Perhaps more importantly, why didn’t I question it sooner? Why didn’t I push harder? Why didn’t I—

Nevermind. I could keep myself here all night considering what-ifs and should-haves. I need to move on.

9-8-84

Hard to believe it’s been almost a year since Larissa started taking classes. She’s thirteen now and she’s got the attitude to prove it. Looking at her these days, I can’t help but remember myself at that age. Like Larissa, I’d always been a spitfire, and when I entered my teens, it only got more intense. I hope she’s not getting into the kinds of trouble I got into at that age.

Oh, who am I kidding—she’s a kid. Of course she’s going to get in trouble. I have to remember that it’s not my job to protect her, but to give her the tools that she needs to protect herself. She’s certainly come a long way from where she was a year ago: she actually landed a punch square to my jaw today when we were sparring. When she realized what she’d done, she threw her hands straight up and let out a holler. Naturally, I saw that she’d left her stomach open and socked her one. She fell back onto the mat, and for a moment I worried that I’d hit a bit too hard, but then I realized that she was laughing.

Her class is always my last of the day, so she helped me clean up, putting the mats back in their place and sweeping the floor. Just as I was about ready to see her off, she stopped short and spoke:

“Can we get ice cream?”

I frowned. “Shouldn’t you go with your parents?”

At that she wilted, a look I’d seen only once before, at her first class.

“They won’t care,” she said at last. The specter dancing between her eyes was gone; she turned abruptly and flounced out the door.

I’ve long suspected that Larissa has a neglectful, or at the very least ill-informed, home situation, but I don’t have anything to prove it. She clams up if I ask about it, and I wonder if it’s even my place to.

So, yeah, we got ice cream. I got a simple strawberry cone, while she went all-out with a sundae. I couldn’t help but laughing, seeing the chocolate drizzle reflected in her saucer-like eyes.

“We’re celebrating,” Larissa said, “’Cause we’ve been in class for a year. That’s a long time.”

I smiled softly. I used to think a year was a long time, too; it was only after… well… anyway, I couldn’t argue with her, because it was a long time in teenage years.

“Ms. Wilder, I’m gonna be in your class forever.”

I laughed and ruffled her hair. “Good, because there’s so much more to learn,” I said, but now, hours later, I can’t help but wonder if I jinxed it.

Again: no parents. I’ve thought about it a lot in the years since then. They were always this… blank space, I guess, this chasm in her story. I knew she had them, and I knew she lived with them, but I never once met them. Not once in six years. Normally I wouldn’t allow a child to sign up without parental approval, but Larissa had this hungry look in her eyes, or something close to it, a look that told me she wasn’t being provided for. So how could I refuse her? How could I condemn a girl to a life of neglect when I could instill in her the tools she needed to better it?

Not that it worked, but… anyway. I’m tempted to blame myself, as always, but looking back through these journals, it’s clear that there was more to the story.

3-12-86

This has been the longest six hours of my life.

I was coming back from the grocery store around seven p.m. when I passed the church. It’s still burned into my eyelids—that spire, looming high overhead. My gut lurched, but I didn’t have to wonder long to see why.

Not three blocks past the church, I saw someone walking along the side of the road. I recognized those messy blonde curls: Larissa. She carried her shoes in hand, bare feet dirty with roadside muck.

I pulled up next to her and rolled down the window.

“Larissa?”

Her eyes were red-rimmed, and I caught a glimpse of a tear before she scrubbed it away with her sweater.

I was about to hop out of the car when she opened the door and slid in.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

She sniffed. “I’m fine.”

“Larissa…”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

I started driving, my mind at work.

“I just got groceries. Why don’t we stop by the park and eat sandwiches? We don’t have to talk.”

For a moment she looked like she’d refuse, but something in her softened and she nodded, slumping against the seat.

I laid out napkins and sandwich fixings in the trunk of my car while she wandered around the park, balancing on anything she could find: tree roots, parking blocks, the little fence by the playground.

“Order up!” I called, and she came running over. Her eyes were still puffy, but she smiled as she bit into the ham sandwich. I did the same to my own, causing a bit of juice from a poorly-cut tomato to spill down my shirt. We both laughed, and for a moment I could almost forget the strange circumstances that brought us here.

We didn’t talk, in the end, choosing instead to listen to the songs of the crickets and the whisper of the wind.

“It’s about time I take you home,” I said when the sky was dark and our bellies were full.

She looked at me, and I saw It again, that looming something that stood between us.

“Can I stay in the spare room tonight?” she asked, uncharacteristically looking down at her hands. She was a stickler for eye contact.

In answering I hesitated—that was my first mistake.

“Your parents will be worried about you.”

Her lower lip jutted out. “They don’t care.”

“I’m sure they love and care about you—”

“They don’t care,” she spat. “Don’t you get it?”

Seeing her then, I’m not sure I did.

“Look… you can stay, but I just want to call them and—”

Larissa sprang up.

“Of course, you just have to play it by the book, don’t you? Did you ever think that some rules need to be broken?”

Her eyes were moist as she turned and took off for the road.

“Larissa!” I called, panicked. I sprinted after her, but her adrenaline must have took over—she ran faster than I could hope to catch up. Doubled over on the side of the road, I recalled my groceries and my open trunk. Once I’d recovered a little, I jogged back to my car and packed everything up, then took off down the road.

I didn’t find her, though. Finally I gave up and cruised by her house, hoping to see some sign that she made it home. As I passed by, I saw that the light in her window was on and hoped for the best. I thought about asking her parents, but knew she’d never forgive me for bringing them into it. I don’t even think they know she takes classes.

I ended up just returning home. Now that I’ve had some time to reflect on it all, I wonder if I was wrong not to contact her parents earlier. Must the cost of caution be the trust of someone you care for?

Part of me thinks I was wrong not to ask about what was going on, but I know she wouldn’t have answered me. Probably would have run off sooner. Still, there’s a thread to pull here. What happened that night at the church? I should ask around, see what I can dig up.

I don’t know if I can keep reading these… I can still see the face of that young girl who first walked into the gym, her excitement when she succeeded, her fury when she failed. Through it all, she was so alive, and now she’s—

I have to move on. It’s like this clock is ticking inside me, I don’t know for what or why, but I can’t rest until I find the answer. And the answer is here. So I’m skipping forward a bit, because I remember the golden years quite well. After that first year, when she was unsteady on her feet, fire roaring but unable to direct it. No, it was after that, when she started to gain confidence but before she got jaded.

I’ve been thinking about what that cop said—maybe she intended to fight someone. Looking back, I think that maybe he was right. But it wasn’t just one person. She wanted to fight… I don’t know, the system? Her community? Everyday injustices? (Ok, don’t project, Naomi)

My head is spinning. I need to take a break.

…

Well, it was a shit day, but at least I made it through. I’m at the park because I couldn’t stand to be in my apartment for another minute. Hopefully the fresh air will help to get my investigative juices flowing.

I think my students could tell that something was off today, but it’s not like I’ve been hiding it, exactly. I cancelled all my classes after I heard the news, and today was my first day back. There was just this weird energy with them, like I was delicate. They weren’t exactly in top form, either. I think we were all just distracted and didn’t really want to be there considering the circumstances.

Whatever. No use stewing in it; if I want to get some sleep tonight, I’ve got to get through these next few years. Of course, by this time I was journaling every day, so there’s much more to go through. I have one journal for each class of hers over the past two years, except one. Can’t remember why I didn’t write that day, but there must have been a good reason. I’ll think on it and see if I can’t figure out which class that was.

As for what I do have, most of the journals read pretty much the same: summary of the class, some routine stuff about form and improvement and whatever, the odd note here or there. But there are a few that stand out, like there’s something between the lines that I can’t quite read. I won’t rest until I can.

Here’s an entry I found particularly significant re: fighting someone. Maybe that cop was on to something.

12-10-87

Larissa came in ready to pick a fight today. She half-assed her warm-ups and clearly didn’t bother to stretch. I’m not proud to admit it, but I may have escalated things a bit. I suggested we go straight into sparring since she seemed so eager to get it over with; she agreed.

When we fought, though… I’ve never seen her do it with such ferocity. Often when we’re sparring she’ll end up giggling because she’s enjoying herself so much and because, well, sparring can be funny sometimes. This time, though, she was all business. She was so focused, like this fight would decide something, though I don’t know what. And her eyes—she had this far-away look, like she was fighting someone else. I can’t help but wonder who that could be.

I tried to make small talk with her after class, which she usually goes for, but this time she aggressively brushed me off, turning her back to me like a child. I just let it happen. It’s not my business, after all, as she’d stressed to me a dozen times or more. Funny, she didn’t used to feel that way. Used to be that she was all too eager to share… or maybe it was only certain things she was sharing.

I guess what really got to me, though, is the car that came to pick her up. I’d never seen it before. Usually her brother or Jill would come pick her up, but this was some big SUV-type car, and I swear it had the brights on because it blinded me just to look in that direction.

I don’t usually do this, but I ended up accompanying Larissa out the door, hoping if I got around the lights I could see inside. But the windows were too darkly tinted for me to see anything.

I’m sure it’s fine; I’m just paranoid. Years of suspicion really haven’t gotten me anywhere, so I should probably just drop it.

This is the first occurrence of someone I didn’t know coming to pick her up. After this entry, it happened more frequently—a trickle at first, but by ’89, it was becoming more and more common. She was always cagey about it, like she didn’t want me to know who it was.

Well, it’s about time I found out, isn’t it?

This next entry is the one I kinda told the cop about, though in fewer words. I don’t need a journal entry to remember it crystal-clear, but since I’m a glutton for punishment I read it anyway.

8-17-88

Larissa came to class high today. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. I should be able to let it go, but it feels like some… contract had been broken. Larissa could say anything she wanted, but I always got the impression that she respected our time together. She was—maybe not happy, per se—but grateful to be there.

I noticed it from the first moment she walked in the door. She had a certain spring in her step, one I hadn’t seen in years, not since the early days of our classes together. I barely got to say hi before she was out the door, doing her weekly run around the warehouse to warm up. I thought about warming up with her, but she seemed like she wanted to be alone.

When she came back, we stretched together, then we moved on to bagwork. It’s something we do every class, but this time she just couldn’t get with it. The point of working with handheld pads is to train speed and accuracy, not power. But Larissa had this, I don’t know how to describe it… a manic look? She was always spirited, but this I’ve never seen before. It was like she couldn’t control herself. Her first few hits would be soft, like they should be, but they’d keep getting harder and harder until I had to stop the session and remind her of the exercise.

It wasn’t long before I had to stop the session completely because she just wouldn’t listen. I suggested that we move on to shadow boxing—no point wasting all your strength on air right?—but then she rolled her eyes at me and I kind of lost it.

I can still hear the conversation now, echoing over and over in my brain:

“Larissa, are you high?”

She gave me an incredulous look, like I’d insulted her.

“I don’t want to put you in a corner… I was just wondering if you wanted to talk about it.”

“Naomi, I’m not here to talk. I’m here to fight. You know that.”

I’d opened my mouth to say something more, but she launched herself at me, throwing a sloppy, overextended punch. It was easy to dodge, but she kept coming at me. From her mouth came this savage cry, like a wounded animal fighting for its last breaths.

The look in her eye was so wild that I’ll admit, for a moment it scared me. In the end, I had no choice but to shove her back, landing on the padding below with a thud. She looked up at me with those red-rimmed eyes and I could see her shredding me to pieces in her mind. After a silence that seemed to stretch on for ages, she scrambled to her feet and stomped toward the door.

“If you can’t train me, I guess I’ll have to find someone who can,” she spat.

“Larissa!” I cried out, but she was already gone.

And now here I am. Alone in the gym, wondering if she’ll ever come back. Wondering why it feels so important that she does. I’m not sure I’ll ever know.

Famous last words, right?

I have a million more questions now and no answers. My head feels like it’s splitting in two from the pressure of my unknowing. But I will know… I must. I can’t rest until I figure it out: What killed Larissa Kearney? What killed L͝ariss͘a̸ ͢Ḱe̶ar̷ney͏? What ki̸ll̀ed̢ L̶a͢r͡i̢s̡sa ҉Ke͏a͢rn͢èý?͝ Wh̀a͞ţ ̶k͞il͢l̛e̛ḑ Ļaris̷s̨a͝ ͘K͜e͘a̶rņey? W̺̻͔͎͖͚̫̕h̳̻͖a̭̲̝͈̜͢t̠ ͟k̼̖̬i͏̠̻̦̤̞l̠͇͕̼l̼͖̪͔͇e͉̘̼͟d ̩͞Ļ̺̺͔̭͚̲̳a̮̬͟r͖͎͍̤̤ḭ̛̠̫̭̝͙̜s̛̠̤̖̼̣̻̤ș͓̠̖͇͔ͅa͎̠ ͓̜̫̫̭̱̬͡K҉̬͕͇͇ͅe̫̭̱̪a̺͖̜̬̱̰r͉̺͉̳̘̙͖ņ͉̣ey͈͘?͚̤̲ W̰̠̼̼̹͞h҉̭̭a̤̮̘̲ͅt̮͔͉̭͘ ͓̭̗͇̠̣̩k̬̙̪iḽ̜̤̗̟͇̖́l͍̟̹̩̰e̬̝͖̹̦̟̕ͅd̵͖̹̩ ͓̹̞̜Ḽ͇a̢̞͔͍̜̖̯r̝͟į̜s̰͉̹s̲̫̞̘͠a̶̠͈͇̱̠ ̸̹K͜e̫̮͈̱a̸̱̦̤͕͈̠r͍͈̹̭̙̥͟ͅn̡̬̯͍͓è̤̠̰̪̟̠y̵?͔̼͞ W̲͔͖͇͖h̛̬̬̤̰̝ͅa̧̖̘̩t̳ ̠k̙͈̻i͇̲̣̪̬̯l͔̠̘l͏̦e̖̖͇͎̣̹̙d̶ ̧L̥̝͘a̶̗r̴͉̰̻̠i̫͙͝s̴̯̪̣͔̰͇s̳͚͇͢a͉͚͚͓̫̝͍ ̤̝̙̕K͇̮e҉̗͎ͅͅa̟̞͔̜̦r͢n̫̱e͖͡y҉͙̹? W̻̭̙̤̠̪ͅh̰̬̮͢a̜̯̤̼̳̩͡t͙̳̖͞ ͚̬̬̯̀k̞i̴͕̦̭͍ļ͕̹͔̺͖̩ḻ̜̙̝͙̜e͎̼̺̭͓͎d̫͚̣̺̩̀ ̤̭͚̬̝L̙̟à͕̪͕̗̖̜r̦̳̳̩̦͉i͍s͈̙͍s̀a͕ ̢̮̙̪͖̬̙̲Ḳ̫̩̹̫̻e͏̺̭̲a̶̩̱̭̤̣r͕̟͠n̡̥͈e̼̣̺̙̬͓y̰̞͙̤?͕̪̘̼̭ W̰h͓̘͙͕̰a͖͚̰͉ṭ ̴̣͎͖̗͈͙k̛̘̜̺͚̭i̭̜̝̣̝l̳̼̞͔̟̣͠ͅl͔̻̤̰̜̙e҉̝͔̯̺d̯͔ͅ ̙͎L͙a̤̤͢r̰̫̥̘̺̕ḭ̩͍͉̹̻͠ś̱̩s̖̕a ̫K̛̠̪͓̣̻ę̜̮̹a͏͓͙r̹͚̖̜n̷é͎̝̦̯̬y̖̲̕?̥̘̠ W̑̆h̨̪͎ͬ͒ͫ͊̊͆å̸̖͙̭̫̝͖̦̔ͨ͂̿́ţ̼͓̮̖̝̃͒͆ͣ̌ ͉͠k̪̘̱̯̞̻̓ͬ̋̏i̼͕̪l͉̙̻̤̾̄̓ḽ̶͔̺̠͙̻e̴ͣ̂ͣ͆͊̒d̸̬̲͈̣̹̅̓̔̈̽ͩͩ ͥ̿ͫḼ̸̟̥̖̞̽ͤ͂͌ͫ̑̅ä̭̖ͫ͛ͣr͚̼̤͓̝ȉ̵̻͕̫͚ͣ̿̔̋s͈̗̺̲̉̎̅͆͟ș̙͖̖̳̥̺̇ͨͦ͑á̛̀ͩͮ̑̄ ̳͉ͪ̍͆͛͞K̗̘͋̓̇eͧ̽ͦ̐ͥ͂̄҉͕̣͓̯͇͍̲a̫̗͙͈̓̒̎̈́̎̄r̶̫̞̮̹͕͕̞̉ͧ͑ͩ͛̑ͣn̴̠̱̗̯͇͐͌ėͣ̐͂͗̓͏͍̲̙̘̜̟͕y̻̦͔͙̪?͉͉̭̪͚͍̫̆ W̘̺͗hͦ́aͫ͒ͨ̾t͙͞ͅ ̺͙͖͍̽͂̚k͚͍̳̞̽̈ͥͬ̈i̲̦̝̗ͭ͑͆̐ͧͅll͏͖̭̫͙̰̯e̼ͬ̉̄d͙̫̼͇͖̅̈͗ͥ͆͠ͅ ̨ͦ̃̍L͇̘͇̖͉̖̳͐̒ͬ̍͊ͬ͟ā̸͈̣͚̻̜ͧ̓̂ͭr͓͋̾i̥̪̫̫̐̾̑ͥ̚s̭̮̙͐͌̊s͓̰̣̪ͧ̌͗͟a͈̦͉̗͉ͯͭ̇̂̑͆̚ ̣̟̟͙̫̏̓ͯ͡ͅK̴̬̈́ͬ̋ͥ̔ͣ̚ḛ̤̦͈̻͕̳̋̒aṛ̞ͭ̓̓͆͗ͪn̲̼̮ͮ͆̐̎̌e̸̘̟̓͊ͮ̈y̐̂̂͑̑͗̾?̭ͤ͜ Ẅ̲̠̠̘́͑̿h̄̀̆́ḁ͕͕̤͈̂ͦ͊̅̄̐ṭ̺̠̦̊͗́̏̓̒̚ ̡ͧ̒k͚̝̲̼̣̱̮ͮͨͤ̚̕i̥̖̋́l͉̰̭̪̰̀ͭͨl̅̃e͔̠͙̜̟ͭ͋̎͆̾͗d̡̈́ ̋ͦ̍Lǎ͚̰̆̅ṛ͎̲͆̈́ͯͧ̚͝i̛͍̮͈͈̫͇͖s̱̤͂̍͞s̀a͑͏̫̻̘̲̦̞ ̖͍̤̙ͬ̔ͭ͑̂̕K̊ͦ̅̃͏̱͚̭͚̳̤e̳͖̞͈͚͎ͤ̄ͥ́a̞̖̜͇̜͍͌͛̓͜r̢̖̩̻͆̇n͂҉e̿͐̀̽҉̮̲̺ͅy̜̘̠ͥ̄ͦ͂?͚͇̼̲ͧͭ W̖̥͕͚̦̖̫̯͉̍͒ͪ̆ͯͣ̕ḥ̀͌̎̾ͮ̍̃͢a̘̬̻̩̯̒ͦͩ́t͎̝̻̼̃̾͊ͦ̉ͥͅ ̛͈̬̭̤̺̾͋̿ͨ͢͞k̰̎̇͠ȋ̶̛̠̝̼̬̘̭̍̆̑̇ͮ͗̃l̺̘̜̱̭ͦ̈ͩ̔ͥ̊̒ͩ͠l̙͔̜͑̈ͬ̒͠e̝͎̰̼͍͓̦̋ͫ͑̌̌͌͗d̴̷̖̒̈́̐͌̾ͣͅ ̻̜̜̝͐͊̋ͥL̸̬̞͍̲̦̻̍͋̈̈̎̋͜ą̶̸̬̲̩̰̄̄̿r̝̫̺̝͈̮̠̖͙ͤ͑̑i̷̪͉͍̍̑̈̒ͤs̯͕͖̘̥͚ͬ̋̏̌͜s͔͈ͫͧ̌̆͒̀̚aͭ͑̚͏̼̜̪ ̸ͦ̆ͫ̄̽͏̹͈̠͔͙̙̩̳͟K̸̟͖̭͖͈̟̪͙̭̆͗̎̄͂̋͋͆͢͡e̛̜̖̬̩̱͊̓̔ͮ̽á̧̨̖̮͚͖͖͍͔ͦ̔̊̽͑̋ͨ̚ṙ̴̵͉ͥ̑͗͛n̢̮͎͕̞͊̔͗͞ȩ̰̥̖͕͖̳̬͍ͣ̿͊̀̆͂͢ÿ̸̗̙̭͎̣̖̩̭̓̒ͮ̅̉͘?ͤ̀͐̋͛̀̄̏͏͕̣̘̭͎̞̀ Ẅ̵̡̺̫͚͙̞̬́ͭ̾͠h̘̣̻̄̉̌̏̀a̶͈̫̞ͣ̊ͮ́ͫ͌͗̀̕t̴̢͉̪̫̩͒͑̊̀͒̈́̋ ̛̗͖̞̮̍ͮ͑́̚͘k̟̠̞̞̭ͧͣ̈̀͊̿ͮ͆ͨ͠͝iͮ̊ͤ̅̊ͨ̃ͦ̀́҉̮͓̻̩̣̭̮l̷̰͔̞ͤͥl̴̞͔̘̘̫̠͉͋ͬͩͨ͋͒͌͞ȇ̠̼ͩͩ̉̄͂͑́ͅḑ̬͔̳͈͍̋̉ͣ̚͜ ̨͚̑̔͌ͬ̚Ḻ̵̟̯̲̩̱ͦ͆͒̎̊͊̂ͫã̜̮͚̝͚̙̻̃ͦ͘͜͡r̴̰̱̘͍̲̻͆̓ͤ̽̑̽́̎͊i̠͔̜̙̝̪̠̭ͩͫ̀͟s̱̳͕̯̬ͬͦ̓̍̽͊ͮş̗͉̼̟͚̻ͫ͌̆̽͑̒ͬ̚͘a̧̢̘͓͒͐̅̾͑͋͐͞ ̶̬͕̮̺͂ͧ̍̒K̗̯̜̠̔̎͞e̯̹͇͉͇͎͙̞̾ͬ̃́̌̌̏ͫa̦̖̖̪̒̓̊̒̄̄̚ȑ̶͓̪͉̤͍̳͛n̢͍̭̤̣̪̯̳͈͖ͤ͋̉ͥ̊ͪ́eͥ͏̗̖̹͜y̨̮͙͎̳ͥͧ̽ͤ̅ͨ̈́̿͂́?̪̣͎͌ͬ̈̀͂͛  W̷̪͕̪͔͗̃̔ͮ̈͆h̢͔̮͔̿ͪ̄ͫ̆aͬ͗ͨͩͧ̽ͨ͏̵̼̠t̵͙͍͖̬̼͖̊͆̽ͭ̈͠ ̨̪̲̥̾ͧ͊ͤͭ̅͌̀͞k̭ͪ̍̎̓̐͋͘͜iͪͦͧͧ̾ͪ̏҉̥̘̝̣͖̝ͅͅl̻̟̹̜͉̮̩̟͉̉̋̉l͆҉̷̤ȩ̶̱̤͈͍̹ͤ̇d͇̞̯̳̼̃ͫ̄ͦ̔͋ ̮̰̘̥̹͉̱̈ͩ̓̏͂̀̉ͪL͋ͦͣ̐ͥ͑̒͊͘͏̫̠̖̻̼̠͉ạ̾̈ͨ̋̎̀͠ȑ̡̬̯̪̫͎͌͂̌̔ͬ̿̋̈́i̸̺̮̲͖̓ͮ͒śͪͬͫ́͏̳̟ś̈͑͗͌ͭͧ҉̫̩͔̹̺͢ȧ̵͖͓̤̗͉̜͗͒͑̂̿ͯ̀ ̰̘̅̾̓͜K͇̞̝̑̈́͋͛e̩̦̖͉̣͈͔̽̎̓̅́͂̀̄̀̚͜ͅa̶̔ͥ̏ͨ͂̉̏ͧͩ҉̩̟̝̹̘͇r̴̾ͣͬ̌҉͙̹͓̱̬n͈̣̹̣̪̻̝͛̃ͮͧ͟ͅę̴̲͗̽̚y̲̲̟̤̣̜̺ͯ̓ͤ͢?̷̨̢̖̹͓͇̺̉͋ͤͯ W̸̩͎̥̲ͨ͗ͧ̀͟h̤͈̣͇̭̪̟ͥ͑ͣͣ̚̕͟͡ͅȧ̠̮̗̭͒̃̓̉ͤ͊̕t̵̨̧̺̙̟̖̀̀̉ͬ̎ ̡̘̖͊̈́ͧ̒ͭ̓͝k̰͚̫̯ͥ͆͋̈ͮ̊̏̑͒i̞̖̿̂͌ͩ͟l̶͉̮̟͈̱͙ͧͨ̒̓̉́͝l̄̍͊͒ͩͥ̀͏̪̀͢ͅeͩ͑ͥͧ̂͗ͧ͏͈̞d̯͓͕̮͈̔ ̭ͯͫͬ̄̄̂ͧ̿̈L̸̺̬̫̗̝ͪ̉͂̓̀̅́ȃ̩͉͔̯͍̼̯̮̎͂r̖͎̘͛̽́̔͗ͮ͂͟î̖̺̝̩̞̓̈͋̄̉͊͛͘s̴̷̉ͩ͏̜̳͙sͥ̋ͮ͘͏҉͈̞̗̼͔̬ͅa̫̤͇͉ͬͫ̅̀̾̊̈́͞ ̶̗͙͔͇̏͂K̫͋̈͌͒͗̅̚̚͢͡e͇̘̫̠͚̺̼̊ͩͩ͊̆̑ͪḁ̸̯̈͗ͤ̅ͦͮͦ̊r̀̉̃ͣ̂͊ͫ̂҉͓̯͖̀͝n̮̟̩̫̘͈ͮ̎̉͑̾͊͛͘̕e̴̷̺̠̜͚̮̼ͥ͛̌͑͋͢ͅy̛̺̯̹͉͚͓̩̅̌̎̑͒ͪ̔̓͐̀?͓͒ͧ̽͠͠ W̍̑̑̈́̊̀͏̠̯h̷̛͈̥̙͕̊̊à̡͆̆ͣ̈́̒̐͏̶͍̹t̵̼̯̺̺̞͈̻̫̃ͣ͊͝ ͎̄̌ͣ͗ͬ͜͠k̡̺̮̲̟̪̗͔̿̾͆̌ͯ͋́ͣ̕͜i̻͈͖̣̪ͭ̊͌ͨ̂ͩ̐͑̔l̨͍͎̻̫̝̟̻̝͋͗ͥ́ḻ̵̥͚͎̙̮̻̗̃ͥͤ͊̍ͩ̈͗͛͘͞e̶͓͎̣͖̝̗͆ͫ́̋͐̆̓͂͛̀͠d̢̨̦ͯͯ̄ͮ̈́̈ͫͥ̚͜ ̶̶̧̯̥͂̿ͮL̥̫̠͍̟̹͔͚̻̀͒̇̄̂̚͞a͆̃̑̾ͪ͛̃ͬ҉̼͙̺̜̯̺r͓̼̤̖̬̼̞̎̊̑̎̅i̼͓̹͎̬̲͒̃̊͆͒̋̑̆́s̫͒̐͂̓͟s̵̵̼̗̮̪̥̽ͭͨ̌̎̑̌͝a̩̥̳̤̝ͫ̒͊̾͞ ̟͉̟̟̱̬̪̱ͭͬ̂̊̂́̌̎Ǩ̺̭ͩë́̏͒ͨ͂̊҉͈̯̞͘a̜̱͓͓̣͆ͦͮ̅̽̚͝͝r̼̲̱̺͖̯̪̮̂ͮ̅̀͋͐n̜͑̈͒ͬ̏̿̓̚̚͘ȩ͍̫̺̫̼̼̣͚̔̃͡y̪͓̥̻͙̬͇ͯ̀͑̓̾͑̉ͤ?̷̫͔̠̼͈͖̋͑̔ͣ W̨̞̝͕̜̹̞̮̱̟͇̦̭̭̗̩̬̰̑͛̀́ͦͣͤ͒ͯ̌͂ͭ̉ͬ́̊̾͒ͭ̀̀ͅḩ̴̳̖̰̦̗͉̲̝̺̳̩̣̹̲͔̊̓̿͋̀ͅa̵̷̻͓͔͔̦̣͕̺̙͔̜͓͕͇ͭ͗̌̔͒̑̅̊̇ͦ͆͘͢t̵̟̘͍̯͐̑͛̊ͣ͛̈́̈͢ ̸̸̡̧̬̮͇͇̪͎̩̝̣͈̦͚̲̥͍ͦͥ̌̀̊ͯͬ͋ͧ̍͊͋̏ͪͦ́̀ͬͅkͫ̅ͤͮ̆̀͐̐͐ͤ̋̍̏̚͜҉̵̴͇̱̱̤̭͇̩̱̩̹̩̻̰̼͎i͛̅ͬͦ̓ͩ͗̉҉̼̫̞̮͙̲̣̖̺̗͈̖͉͍̻̳̭͉̤͟l̵̡̤̯͕͕̩̘͖̟̤̻̰̝̭̝̭̻̤̾̔̌ͭ͑̏ͭͧ̌̃ͪ̏͒̏͝ͅl͖̳̳̝͉͍̲̼̫̭̙̠̠͇̦̟͚̹̇ͣ̿ͬ̌̀͋̈ͬͫ͊͛̄́͟e̡̧̛̫̤̯̬̰͓̤͔̭̲̤̞̰͈̣̦̿ͩ̎͑̈́́̚ͅͅd̸̴͆̄ͦ̽̍ͥ҉̵͔̘̠͕͙͓̗̹͢ͅ ̸̶̸̗͚̝͎̘̳͍͉̹̫̻̬͚̞̻̐̓̿̒͆͑̓͑̍̋̏̋̈́ͨ͠L̶͉͉̙̯̬̬͚͕̃́ͧ͋͒͌͊̓͑͗ͬ̅͊͒͞ą͚͖̞̱̟̰̗͈̙͓̣̦ͣ͆̏ͭͬͪͬ͒̾ͮͦͦ̽́r̲̻̰̟̳͇̭̙̝̺̪̠͔͇͖ͦ̾̇͗ͦ͊͌ͨ͘͟͟͝͞ͅͅi̵̶̦̲͚̞̭̮̱̲̩͍̹̟ͪͮ̅́͟͝s̻̳͔̝͙̤͎̣̻͖̜̯̞ͭ͗͛ͭͩ̋̈ͥ̃̓̇̇̓͗ͫ̋̊̚͠s̾͊͋̿ͥͮ́͒̏ͣ̈̓ͬ͑͋̆̋̚͢͏̢̯̹̻̣͓̗̘̩͎̗̻̠͉͉̬̤͓̕͢a̸ͮ̎ͯ̅͊ͯ̀̅̒̌̄́͋͑́͏̭͍͇̬͖̖͍ ̨̼͇͍̯̯͉͇̮̖̪̼ͧ͛̈͊͌͛̂ͬ̈͒̚K̸̷͍̠͍̺̤͔̬̼̹͉̱̠̭̗ͫ̂̅̅͊̔̅ͯ̋̔̒̒͌ͩ̓̚ͅe̅ͥͪͯ̂ͥͮ̋̎̋ͣͫ̓̒̊̅҉̴̯͎̩͔̙̱͕̪͚̪̘̺͎̖̟̯͞ã̷̆ͭͬ̈́́̾̆̔̔̎̍͋ͥͩ̚҉̭̭̞͖͕̹̗͍͇͝r̡̨̞̝̜͉͕̗̙̩̭͖̠̦̪ͯͮ̒̄̏̂ͮ͢͝n̵̞̰̠͕̹̗̹̘̩̮͍̰̝͔̮͈̥̯ͣ̑́ͮ̀̀̀̚͘e̷̸̻̺͈͓̫̼̠̟ͫͮ͆̓̇̓ͫ͑y̡̛̛̰̱̹̮͓̙̜̙͈̝͌ͪ͂ͦͨ͗̃̒ͬ͆͂̌͋ͣ̽̇̂̆͂?̭̘̫̲͚̥̖̣̮͔͍̝̞̥̯̯̦̭̱̐͐ͭ̃͊͟͢ W̡̖̘̹̙̟̖̺̗̥̟̘̮̯̠͕̞͔͛͒͂͗ͪ̂̊̃ͫ͊͗̇͌̆͐́͗̀͜͠h̯͓̙̹̖̬͎͚̦̙͎̟̅̾ͫ́͊ͣͣ̓̾͘͝ȃ̘̖̰̲͇̲͈͙̝̲͇̎ͩ̉́t͂̒̾̒̃̌̇ͪ̆̽́ͮ̐ͧ́͏̰̮̪̙̖̜̹͖͙͕͇͈̣͍̗ͅ ̨̧͚̪̼͕̍̈́ͫͭ̅ͭ̆ͯ̀ͩͮ͊́́k̆̊ͨͪ̓͑̓ͣ͆̐̔͂́̊ͪ͗͗̏͏̷̢̨̡̳̫͇̹͔̟̗̯̘̝̮̱i̐ͯ͊̏̄̚͡͏̵̬̟̪̥͈͇̗̫̘̺͝l̛̛̠̲̭̯̮͎̝͉͙̱̫͔̫̘̼̼ͤͥͧͪͯ͒̐͒ͩͧ͛́͒̋̌̋̊̽ͭl̶̡̙͈̪̱͎̿ͩ̆̊͒̅ͫ͂ͨ́̚̕͜eͧ̈́͒͑̿́̾ͤͨ̍̈ͫ͆ͪ̉̍҉̴̛̹̞͓̞͇͍̰d̸̍̊͐͗͡͡͏̲̙̮̘̼̫̤̼̪̝ ̧̧̨̛̜͉̟̮̗̠͖͍̪͈͎̺̹̙̤͎̑̍̓͂ͨͩ͗͛ͨͭ͑͑̋ͮͮ͌͆͡L̵̸̛̮̟͖̮̝͙̟̳̳̙͇͍ͦ̑̋͌͋͗͌͛͌ͫ͟͠ȃ̡͉̗̻̥̻̮͓͊͊͋ͣ͐̉ͨͧ͊̇ͨ̽̍̓͝r̸͓͍̙̠͒̾̑̍ͤ̕͜i̡̛̩̖͉̥͕͈͇̳̥̹̦͖͉͇̮̟̍̍̂͗̓ͥ̒̔̅ͤ͛ͮ̑͑̅͟͡s͗̅̐́̋͒ͮ͑͌ͥͬͤ̈͋̔͟͏̧̨̥̣̖͎͚͈̟̝͍̭͚̘̘̼̳̰̟͉s̴̨̥̳̱͚̱̘̱͛̀ͨ̇̂͂ͣ͡a̦̯̠̝͂̀̋̈ͬͫͪ̐ͫ̆ͬ̿͜͜ ̐͋ͯͫ̋̂͒ͦ̾̅ͨ͛͌̇͌͒͏̀҉̯͕̼̹͙̬̦̘̫K̄ͦ̊͐͛̔ͧͦ̇̌ͪ̔͊̐ͣ҉̡̻̫̹͖̪̕͞͠e̴̷̢͋̄͊ͭͣ͋ͨ͏̪̘̹̼̙͚å̸̤̠̩̘͕̼͗̓ͪ̑̅͝͞͝r̳̮̤̹̪̖̗͓͍͕̋̈́ͦ̅̃̊͒̆̃͛̾̔͂̕͢͠͝n̉͋ͬ͗͂҉̵̵͠͏̦͍͇͔̫̝e͙̭̭̫̞͙͉̟̝̳͓̹͇̬̪̾̃̈́̃͐̀͟͠ͅͅy̙̖͙̮̖͇͆̈́́ͧ̃̅̋ͦ̚͘̕͡?̵̢̰͍͈̰͎̰ͥ̐̀̀́ͬͨ̀̈́͑̾ͧ̃ͤͬ͛̐͆ͦ̀͡ W̴ͩ̎̇̒͑́̌ͬͣ̏͆̉͐̐ͣ҉̧͚̝̰̗̣̫̤̘̟͉͔̫͕̰͎͘h͐̓ͣ̀͋̏̃͐ͯ̒ͮ͂͑̌̐̐͏̸̖̹̬̺̘a̶̳̮̗̭̔̏͆ͧ̓͆ͦͣͮ̕͜ț͇̜̹̭̘̰̦̭͈̯̯ͧ̆ͬ̂ͭ͒̓͊̀́̚͜ ̴̡̛̠͎̫̟̿̋ͦ͐̓ͮͮͬ͛ͣ̽̀ͥ̔̔̎ͩ͜ͅk̴̮̝̱̟̤̭͕͚̊̔̓͊ͤͭ͊̊̔̕͝į̸͖̲͇̟͉̭̤̩̖̬̺͍̪̝̩̽̒͐͗ͮ̌̅ͨ̈͋ͨ͝ͅl̢̧͎̼̜͎̙̜̤͕̭̻̻̟̮̎̐͌̀̎̿̔̍͌͛̈́̐̓̽͞ͅlͫ̊̆̿͗ͧͪͦ̓ͤ́̾̃͐̽̒̚͏҉̺̻̫͇ė͛̎̀ͪ̃ͭ͆̋͒̆̎̾ͯ̍͜͏̠̗͍̠͉̞͉d̢̗̥͍̠͙͍̮̳̫̞͚ͨ̈ͭͧͪͮ̈ͪͫ̽̓̀͟͠͠ ̷͕͚̮̘̯̯̰̎ͧ̏ͯͨͨͧͣ͋ͯ͘͟͜ͅͅL̴̸͇̹̤͓̱̱̻̱̘̰̻͎̤̦̖̊̅̑̐̐̓̓ͦ̕ą̷̞̦͉̲̒ͭ̓ͥ̄͆̌̽̏ͧ͒͑͟͡ŗ̵̖̟̤͚̹͔̠̯̖ͣͤ͑̈́ͬ͑ͯ̑͗̇̚̕î̴̓ͮ̑̈́ͣͮͫ҉̫̯̪̹͓̱̖̹͉͉̞ͅͅs̷͇̞̪̫͕̤̳̫̑̒͆̄͑͝ͅş̹͉͙̦̦̝͈̼̱͇̗͇̞̒̓ͦ̋͗̽̆ͪ͒́̽͆͝͠ͅa̷̶̷̛̰̦͍͉̜͕̻̣̤̫̞ͫ̌̉̃ͨͯ̌͟ ͇̯͈̼̟̘ͦͪ͑̔ͥ̾̋ͬͮͧ̌̾̌͆̀͘Ḳ̷̛̛̮̘̖̙̓ͨ̂̎́̾̃ͥ̃̑ͯ̅́̚͡e̛̔̒ͯ́̂ͤ͊̔ͬ̈̄ͥ͌ͯͧ̔̒͠҉͇̹̺͚͉̗͕̠͙͍̲a̵̢̡̞̩̺͎̖̻͉̜̙̟͔͖̅̊̂̍̃͆̈̑̓͆ͩ̃̈́͋͗ͧ̚͡ͅr̠̠̬͍̲͖͈̣͕̹̎ͦ̔̈́͛͋ͮ͌̀́͞͡ͅñ̵̒̍͊͌͋̒̋̿̊̾҉̷̨͙̲̞͎̜͎̼̪̣͙͇̙̭e̸̞͔̥͔̯̰̻̮͍̳̜̮ͣ̔̋̃̆̈́͊̐̅̏̆͐̀ͯ̂̀́̚͢ỳ̸̨̍̌ͧ͒̔͜҉͚͍̗̱̯͖̖̲̪̱͓͙̗͖?̧̨͔̼̹̮̑ͭ͗̓͒̍̄̔ͭ̋͆ͧ͆̐̿͢͞͝ͅ

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

a torrent untethered

date: 8.9.89 time: midday partner: @moodyconnor

Rain pounded sideways against the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the far side of the gym. Naomi sat cross-legged in front of them, eyes firmly shut. It was the first time she’d sat down since she arrived. Since she’d arrived that morning, she’d busied herself with the weekly care the gym required: sweeping the floors, cleaning machines, reracking weights, and the million things that came up along the way.

When it started raining, however, she couldn’t resist the pull to stop for a moment and look. The even timbre of rain on glass convinced her to stay awhile. Now she meditated, inhaling as deep as she could, releasing her worries from her mind. One by one she untethered them and watched them float off into some unknown ether. They would return, of course, but for now, just for now, she could be free of them.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. An exhale, and her journals didn’t exist. Another, and Larissa was but an afterthought. A third, and she was nothing, no one, just a vessel through which the world was processed.

A fourth, and a tap on the glass door stirred her. Her eyes flew open, and all thought returned.

Well, it was nice while it lasted.

Rising to her feet, she drew closer to the door and gasped when she realized that it was the boy the other night. It raised goosebumps on her arms just thinking about it, so she tried not to.

“Come in,” she said as she opened the door, ushering him in. “Sorry–you must be freezing! Let me get you a towel.”

She dashed over to the counter and pulled a fresh hand towel from the cubby.

“So, what can I do for you?” she asked as she handed him the towel, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach.

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

salvation by starlight

date: 8.8.89 time: late evening partner: @ji-yoon-jack

Naomi was fraying at the edges.

Her emergency reserves had been depleted to nothing; she’d drawn and drawn and drawn from them ‘til there was nothing else, and then she’d drawn a bit more. She was pretty sure there wasn’t an ounce of goodwill left in her, not a single smile she could offer the whole world.

She needed a break. Or sleep. Or booze.

Hmm, now there was an idea. Not booze specifically, but the face that came to mind when she thought of it. She wondered if Jack would resent the comparison, decided she wouldn’t.

She was parking at the diner before she knew it, her body acting on autopilot when her brain failed to give adequate commands. Before she went in she peered through the window, scanning for customers, and was relieved to see but one man seated at a booth in the back.

The familiar bell above the door tinkled as she entered. Jack was where she always was, behind the counter, polishing a dish and scowling about it.

Naomi sat down on a barstool right in front of her. To her surprise, she did have one smile left, and she used it on Jack, though it quickly faltered.

“Jack,” she said, her face slumping into her hands, “I need to get out of here.” She met Jack’s eyes. “I need to get out of here.”

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

abelstthomas‌:

I was her self-defense teacher. 

At first, Abel wanted to laugh at the irony of it. But surely, surely she must know. From the look painted on her face after, he could see that she could, and the sinking stomach in his feeling returned. It seemed like everyone he talked to was blaming themselves for a certain thing, for not being enough. But Abel knew more than most people did. How can you run from something everyone else runs to in their time of need? How could you run from, protect yourself from, something that felt so much bigger than yourself? 

He knew who had done it, Calder knew who had done it, they could feel it in their heart, from their own experiences and from experiences they knew Larissa had. But no one else knew- how could they? It was never talked about. And if it was talked about, it was never believed. 

They walked up to the counter and he stood a bit baffled at Naomi’s order, his brow raising for only a second before he ordered his black iced coffee. They picked it up from the counter, and picked a seat outside. Per Abel’s request. 

“I’m Abel St. Thomas. I work at the bookstore down the street.” He didn’t mention the greenhouse, didn’t want to think about what awaited every day when he went to work, didn’t want to make his stomach sink even further than it had already had. 

His eyes wandered down to the papers that were now drying in the sun. “What are these from?” 

Though it was noon now, the air hadn’t quite warmed up to its full summer swelter. Naomi took a deep breath as soon as she was outside. She enjoyed the smell of coffee, but there was something about the fresh breeze that penetrated the fog wrapped round her mind, clearing space for her thoughts. Maybe it would help her navigate through this improbable situation that she’d found herself in.

As they sat down, she shifted back and forth in her chair at the table that this kid—Abel, he said—had picked out. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear that the seat was spiked. She simply couldn’t get comfortable.

It’s all in your head, she thought, and forced her muscles to relax. (It didn’t help.)

“Nice to meet you,” she said at last, and she sounded damn sincere about it, too.

The silence stretched between them. She took a sip of her drink, wrinkling her nose at the taste. About once a week she got something sugary as a kind of treat for herself, but today it didn’t appeal at all. She hadn’t eaten yet; it would probably give her a stomachache. Figured.

Abel spoke, and she looked at him for but a moment before her gaze returned to the rumpled papers sandwiched between the table and her palms. They were still damp; the need to spread them out to dry itched like a mosquito bite, throbbing and insufferable.

Naomi dared to look again. Earnest brown eyes—tousled blonde hair—lips parted just slightly, hungry for something to gnaw on, til the bone split and all the marrow came pouring out.

She knew the feeling.

With careful fingers she pried away the damp leather binding of her journal, revealing the topmost entries. One by one she laid the coffee-stained pages on the table (facing herself, of course). Sure, she did want to dry them out, but there was only so far she was willing to go. Her journals were just that—hers—and no one else had ever read them, not even Heather. Far be it from her to air her business out for strangers to see.

“I keep a journal,” she said. “Well, journals. Six years’ worth, actually. I document anything and everything, including my classes. And I taught Larissa once a week, so…”

She wondered if he’d connect the dots. How could she possibly explain what she was doing? Poring over relics of years gone past, looking for an answer, a sign, a reason why why why; desperate for anything that even slightly resembled a conclusion, to assign logic to a chaotic and random universe.

So basically, she was grasping at straws.

Looking in those eyes though, she wondered if he might be reaching for a few of his own.

“I’m looking for… something. An explanation, I guess. I don’t know. I have to do something. I can’t just sit at home all day thinking about La—about it.” She smiled, but her eyes didn’t. “So here I am. Searching.”

[hclpinghand]

WHEN: august 11th, 1989 WHERE: nolan naomi’s gym WHO: closed to @firsthandfirecracker

Jill hadn’t noticed the bruising around her knuckles and arm until it’d been pointed out.

 ‘ nasty fall ? ’ it was mr. tucker, who lived close by, who had asked. jill had frowned at him, unsure as to what’d made him think that.

‘ yes. just clumsiness, ’ she’d replied innocently.

  but that hadn’t been the case. the marks had been gifts from naomi, reminders of their last training session. they continued to ache and itch, as if there were small fires burning under the layers of flesh. the blotches stood out like traces of lavender and cardinal paint. but she didn’t mind – she’d never do. 

   after all, the ring was the only place where she felt at ease. there was too much despair everywhere – everywhere but there. at first, every inch of her refused to go in, the memory of having dropped larissa off right at the gym’s doors too engraved in her mind. it throbbed with guilt and confusion, so much so that jill couldn’t bear to drive past the establishment. but now, much to her dismay, the ring was among the few spots in town where she felt safe. 

   there, where the air reeked of sweat and copper, her limbs seemed to loosen their tight grip, the tension then poured onto every punch and dodge. there, she’d find comfort knowing she’d be grazed by nothing but naomi’s fists.

   a sense of comfort and familiarity flooded her as she walked in through the doors, her eyes scanning for its owner. 

   “ naomi? ” she asked, following the sounds of leather against leather, solid against solid.

 “ crap, sorry. i thought i’d forgotten something from the last time i was here. ” jill blushed, forgetting what she’d been looking for in the first place. “  i thought you would be home by now… i didn’t mean to interrupt. ”

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday.

Thwack!

Five days she’d had, and what did she have to show for it? A bunch of ruined notebooks, a million questions, and a goddamn headache.

Thwack!

Why did she even bother? She wasn’t a police officer, nor was she a detective. What the fuck was she even doing?

Thwack!

Nothing she did was of consequence. No matter how hard she tried to help, she had no hope of making a difference.

Thwack!

From her throat rose an animal’s cry, rough and ripped and roaring. Her strikes became faster and faster, muscles ablaze, knuckles screaming, sweat paving trails down her spine. The pain in her body was nothing compared to her roiling mind, crammed full to the brim with sharp-edged thoughts. If she moved a little faster, hit a little harder, maybe she could quiet it, or at least stop the cuts from hurting so badly—

Thwack!

A crack in the skin, like a seam ripping. Warmth throbbing at her fingertips.

Thwack!

Useless—worthless—hopeless—

Thwack!

A sound. Not cloth-on-leather, but something else. The creak of a well-worn hinge.

Thwack!

“Naomi?”

Ice up her spine, blood at her cheeks. Caught.

She knew that voice, but she turned anyway, chest still heaving, skin soaked in sweat.

“Jill,” she said, her voice cracking. The shift was nigh instantaneous: her back straightened up, hands fell to her sides. Non-threatening.

“It’s okay… I probably needed to be interrupted.” Truth be told, she’d give anything to keep wailing on that bag, but even she could admit that it wasn’t really helping.

A bead of sweat tickled at her brow and she lifted a hand to wipe it. What she saw, however, was a blood-soaked bandage, deep dark concentrations at her knuckles; she hadn’t realized she was bleeding. Or maybe she’d just chosen to ignore it.

“So, uh, what are you doing here? Can I help you find something?” she said awkwardly, trying to be casual as she slid her hands behind her back. With any luck, Jill hadn’t noticed, but that was disingenuous of Naomi. Jill was the observant sort—of course she noticed.

Nice one, Naomi. Real role model you are.

[francavillarts]

CLARESSA SHIELDS

Started #BlackHistoryMonth w a boxing legend, Jack Johnson, so it was fitting to end it w a modern boxing champion. Claressa is the 1st American woman to win an Olympic gold medal in boxing & the 1st American boxer female or male to win consecutive Olympic medals. #Day28

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

abelstthomas‌:

Normally, it was difficult for Abel to accept the help of strangers, especially monetary help. He didn’t make much, and because of that couldn’t afford nicer things like the other people he knew, but he made enough to be comfortable with Calder. Enough to save up a little bit every week to finally get his own place. Although, thinking about it now, he wondered how he would even survive living alone. 

He had spent his whole life with Calder, his whole life in a room that had other people there. He never had time to himself, by himself, it wasn’t something he was used to. 

But as she asked him, he already knew he couldn’t say no. That there was something they needed to figure out together, or more so, that there was something common between them that neither of them would say out loud. 

Maybe it was the look in her eye. Or maybe it was the way she interacted with him that filled him with an odd sense of familiarity. 

So he nodded at her suggestion, looking down at his shirt and wondering if Mr. Forester would mind that much if he was late. Sure, it would make him anxious, but what was that to someone who was anxious all of the time? “I went to school with her. We were in the same confirmation class. I think we were friends.” He crossed his arms over his stomach, if to do nothing but hold himself together. 

They started walking to the counter after Abel realized they were blocking other people from coming in, the barista giving them looks from the other side of the counter. “How do you know her?” 

This wasn’t how Naomi had seen her day going, standing in line for coffee with a perfect stranger. From the deepest depths within herself she willed affability to the surface, shoving down the frustration and sleeplessness. The times she’d had to put on a friendly face in class when she felt totally the opposite were countless—she’d gotten good at hiding what was underneath. Still, she knew the two classes she had in the afternoon would suffer from her withdrawing her secret stash of goodwill now.

She peered over at the blonde boy beside her. From what little he’d said, she guessed that he knew her pretty well, or at least in a different capacity than she had. Kids were always different around their peers, after all. She hated to think of this chance meeting as transactional, but after the night she’d had, it was all she could think about. Hey, at least the kid was getting coffee out of it, right?

… Coffee that she had spilled. Nice try, Naomi.

He’d crossed his arms, but she had a feeling that it wasn’t the stain he was trying to hide. Everything about him suggested the desire to curl inward, to fade into the wallpaper, to observe without the onus of participating. Naomi didn’t envy that, but she came close. With her wild hair and even wilder personality—especially in her teens—it had been impossible to blend in. She took turns thinking of it as a blessing or a curse. Today… well, today she’d just have to see.

“I was her self-defense teacher,” she said. What a joke. Failure burned on her lips like a brand; shame dripped in acidic rivulets down her insides. But what was done was done, and opportunity didn’t wait for you to stop feeling bad about yourself, so she pressed on.

“I’m Naomi, by the way. Naomi Wilder. I own Nolan’s Gym, or ‘The Ring,’ depending on who you ask.”

They had at last reached the front of the line. Naomi ordered something sugary and frivolous, then gestured her new coffee-covered acquaintance. “Go nuts.”

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

heatherzareen‌:

The breath caught inside of Heather’s chest as Naomi’s fingers wrapped around hers. So much of her was telling her to pull away from the contact and all that it brought with it, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to let go. For a brief moment all of the arguments about not letting Naomi back in her life were gone. The implications of what their relationship would mean about her, the fear of letting herself rely on anyone too much, the cracks that had been hastily plastered over when Heather’s world unraveled. None of it meant more than the warmth of holding on.

So instead of thinking about any of that, she focused on the words Naomi was saying. “Naomi, I haven’t seen or done anything,” she said with an uncomfortable half-laugh. “I sell Beatles albums and tell middle-aged moms that their kid is progressing nicely on the trumpet even if they suck.” Her shoulders hunched up into a shrug and she tore her gaze away from Naomi to look out at the street filled with cars of mourners.

“I saw Larissa at a minimum of four days a week. I spent so much time talking to her and listening to her. And I didn’t save her.” The words were almost there, an admittance of what she hadn’t managed to tell anyone. It would be so incredibly easy to confess it to Naomi, probably easier than anyone else in the world. “Look, I believe that if anyone can help these kids, it’s you. And I’ll do whatever you need me to do to make that happen. Just, I’m gonna need you to tell me what that is.”

Typical Heather, underestimating herself. It warmed Naomi’s heart a little: most things had changed, but a few had stayed the same. Somewhere beneath all the pain and strife and bullshit, they were still the same people. That gave her hope, if only for a moment, and a moment was all she needed.

“Do you hear what you’re saying? A minimum of four times a week. I saw her once a week and I still feel like I got to know her pretty well.” More words were ready to tumble from her lips, about her efforts to help Larissa, her six years of training, her hopeless failure at all of it. But this wasn’t about her. For once, she would be the one doing the comforting. Heather had already done that enough for a lifetime.

“Look… I don’t know what happened between you guys, but this is not your fault. I don’t know exactly what Larissa was into, or how she got into it, but you know how she was. Asking her not to do something made her do it more. We did as much as we could with the resources we have, and that’s more than some people did.”

Listening to herself, she almost laughed. Where was this peppy Naomi this past week when she needed her, when the self-blame was so great that she could do nothing but punish herself, over and over and over? When would she stop being such a damn hypocrite?

She gave Heather’s hand a squeeze before letting it go, though her skin cried out at the loss.

“I—I don’t have a plan, which is terrifying to admit. But maybe that’s… okay. Maybe we don’t need all the answers. We’re taking the first step, here, now, together. That’s more than we’ve done in years. For now—just for now—it’s enough. It has to be.”

[antrivieres]

Date: August 7, 1989 Time: 12:30pm Location: Coffee Shop Availability: for @firsthandfirecracker

When Abel went to church growing up, his favorite part had always been the Homily. There was something about it, when he would get to hear someone speak the words of God in language he could relate to himself. He hated Father Green, and he hated St. Cecilia’s, but he always loved church. There was something in one of his Homilies that he said that struck a chord with him, something about how important routine was to someone who was in emotional pain. And Abel, always being in some kind of pain, clung to that idea. He had a routine, and were he not able to follow it one day, it would throw everything else off for him. So he tried his best to, only breaking it when he absolutely had to. 

It seemed there was someone else in town who had a similar routine to him. Or at least, they always started their days off in the same place. But recently, he hadn’t seen her around. Not since the events of the week prior. He wondered how she knew Larissa, or if that was even why she wasn’t around. Despite it feeling like it, he had to realize that not everyones’ lives revolved around this girl. 

As he turned around to head out of the door with his drink, someone else walked in, causing a collision, which caused half of his drinks to get on himself, and on the papers she was carrying. He looked down before he even saw who she was, a feeling of panic causing his chest to tighten as he shot down to organize the papers that had fallen. “I’m so sorry,” he said, until his eye caught a name. Larissa, covered in his morning dark roast. He looked up and saw the girl who he had been wondering about. His assumption was right. She did know Larissa. He got up off of the ground with the papers and handed them to her. “I’m sorry.” Just as he was about to end it there, walk away and not turn back, he didn’t. Something felt important, something kept him there. “I don’t want to…make you uncomfortable…but…what are you writing about Larissa Kearney?” 

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

Naomi woke up sprawled out on the floor of her living room. She sat up with a groan, wrinkling her nose at the small dark spot her drool had left on the carpet. For a few blissful moments, she stretched out languidly, feeling the life restoring to her limbs. But then her eyes landed on the journal entries sprawled out over her coffee table and it all came crashing back: the figure in the river. Furiously rinsing the mud off her body. Tearing journal entries out methodically.

She’d only managed to make it through 1987, she griped to herself, as if she could have possibly read any faster than she’d been doing. Unable to sleep, she’d stayed up the whole night, until… until…

“Shit!” She made the mistake of looking at the clock: noon. How long had she been asleep? She had class later and needed to get through these journals before then, fuck fuck fuck—

Scrambling into the bathroom, she brushed her teeth and did her best to tame her hair, which was all sticking out to one side. She paused only for a moment to survey herself: sleeplessness smudged beneath her eyes, sweat beading at her brow, and those damned fake teeth, still slightly discolored even after all these years.

Well, it wasn’t gonna get any better than this, she guessed. She splashed some cold water on her face and scooped the journal entries into a folder, then was out the door. She was on autopilot as she drove to the café, sleep still clinging to her eyelids. She needed coffee, and badly. Her usual place had always appealed because everyone there was so friendly—she knew all about the baristas and even some of the regulars, too. This time, though, she hoped that she could get in and out without having to socialize.

Naomi could smell the coffee in the air as she slammed her car door, journals tucked under her arm, and raced for the door. Throwing it open, she stepped over the threshold and—

Collided directly into someone. Stunned, she dropped her folder, causing some of the entries to come loose.

“Crap!” She leaned just in the door and grabbed some napkins out of the dispenser. Crouching down, she blotted carefully at the papers, chest tightening when she saw the guy’s fingers curling over her journals. Even so, she accepted them from him with a smile, or what she hoped was a smile.

“It’s okay,” she said, even though it wasn’t. She looked him over and realized he was a regular; she didn’t know his name, but they’d talked occasionally while waiting for their coffee. They had similar schedules, she supposed. But when he asked about the journals, her hackles raised immediately.

Chill out, Naomi, she told herself, measuring her breathing. It wasn’t his fault that they collided, and he probably was being genuine. They were classmates, maybe, or acquaintances. Nothing to get worked up about.

“Look, I… let me get some coffee and then we can talk about it. Can I buy you one? To make up for, you know—” She gestured to his soaked shirt. Then, because she couldn’t help herself: “How did you know her?”

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

A Sunset, A Shade

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

moodyconnor‌:

Connor flinches. He knows she’s just scared; he’s seen the way people curl their lip at this kind of talk, but her tone still makes him recoil. Buried in the shadows lurking in the corners of his mind, something slithers towards Connor’s heart. It wraps around the fluttering muscle, which beats, quick and feeble, like a bird trapped in a predator’s hungry mouth. It dribbles cool dread into his veins and freezes his muscles, which tense and ripple with tremors. That something whispers an echo in his ear.  “Fag!” “Kick him in the nuts!” “Yeah, like he has any. Shall we check?” “Grab him– hey! Hold him down!”

Sticky fingers pin him to dusty floorboards. He can hear them creak and squeak under his struggling form. He feels small, barely five, his limbs tiny caricatures of what they’ve grown into. There’s a cry of terror unravelling in his throat, but it stays there, trapped. Someone’s reaching for his pants, yanking–

Connor blinks. He can see the girl’s lips moving but he can’t hear what she’s saying. There’s a sheen of cold sweat entrenching him in his panic, and the feeble lungs resting, shrivelled, in his chest, constrict more and more to the point that he reaches up to rub at his throat. It takes the suddenness of the girl’s movement to shock Connor into sucking in a sharp, rasping breath. The air’s so dry it makes him wince again. While she seems eager to leave, Connor shakes his head at her offer, glancing at a firefly that buzzes languidly between them. 

“No, that’s okay,” he mutters, wiping his muddy fingers on the grass next to his knee. “I think I’ll stay a little longer. Thank you, though–… Uh, get home safe.”

Something wrenched in her when she saw the look on his face—she’d scared him. But she didn’t quite have the presence of mind to feel bad about it because she was fucking scared, too. If this was anything like last time…

Oh, god, she had to get home. She couldn’t muster up the words for a goodbye to end this strange, confusing, terrifying conversation, so she just left, her footsteps heavy, skin soaked through to the bone. As she passed the Kearney house, she shivered from something more than the cold. She couldn’t look at it, kept her eyes firmly averted, yet she could feel Larissa’s presence at the window, her cold stare boring into Naomi’s neck.

Bile rose in her throat, and she just barely made it behind a bush to vomit.

Her knees wobbled under her and she sunk to the ground, hot tears welling in her eyes. She willed herself not to cry, but soon found herself staring at her tears as they mingled with her own sick, stinking and pathetic. The thought just made her sob harder.

She realized too late as she wiped her face that her hands had mud on them. Gasping for air now, she forced herself to stand up on her wobbly legs lest she make a scene. She didn’t want to be known as the woman who puked outside Larissa’s place, especially since she looked half-drowned, soaked and covered in mud. No, this was not an image that the public needed to see.

That boy back there, whoever he was… he was the only one who needed to know. She’d make damn sure it stayed that way.

Steeled by her newfound resolve, Naomi gave one last look down the little path she’d followed that had started it all. Then, teeth gritted, she took off for her place as fast as her legs would carry her.

END

[willmoody-deactivated20180808]

ˈfyo͞on(ə)rəl/ - noun - the ceremonies honoring a dead person

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

willmoody‌:

The sorrow of the crowd was potent. Looking around, Will saw a lot of people he didn’t even realize would’ve known Larissa. Obviously, in a town this small. Still, the way the webs of Hollyhead weaved themselves had always, and would always, surprise him. He had gotten there too late to stand by his mother. Probably good, given she was speaking with any and everyone. Offering them a hug and a fortune reading when they could stop by. He couldn’t help but chuckle. That was Miranda Moody alright.

 As his eyes locked and loaded on the engraving of her name in the stone, the sound of his own name whipped Will’s head to the side to see a familiar face. It took him a moment to come out of his trance, before seeing the warm eyes and soft smile before him. “Naomi Wilder.” He smirked. “In the knick of time. Yes, please.”

They walked quietly, the damp dirt beneath them molding to their footsteps, leaving a trail. As they approached the small clearing, Will took a moment to look back at the mourners enveloping the small monument. “Lots of people here.” He mumbled, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a well-stocked flask. “Good for the family. Hard on them if nobody came.”

He took a swig of the liquor, and stretched his arm out to hand it to her. “It’s crazy. You leave town for a few years, and everyone grows up. You included.” He smiled. “How’ve ya been, kiddo?”

When they were at last away from the crush of people crowding the headstone, Naomi felt it so much easier to breathe. She suspected Will had something to do with it, too. The days when she’d play in Miss Moody’s yard seemed like a lifetime ago now, but she could still remember his gentle affect like it was yesterday: his voice, stern but kind, as he intervened in her troublemaking. Though she usually wrapped it in the guise of making mischief, the truth was that the Moody house had been an escape for her. When Nolan was on the warpath or her father had a bad day at work, she had somewhere to run to. Somewhere that made her feel safe.

That sense of safety extended to the calm face of the man beside her, though that face was now etched with new lines and worries that never quite seemed to fade. She felt for a moment that they were back at the house again, the warm summer sun shining on their backs as they drew chalk figures on the sidewalk, laughing as they played silly card games.

How things had changed. That tender brightness had been extinguished in them both, it seemed. Sometimes she wanted it back; sometimes she feared it would burn her.

She eyed the flask he offered. Things had definitely changed. On any other day she would have refused, but this wasn’t just any day. So she took the flask instead, drank a bit, grimaced at the taste.

“Is it good for them, though? Do these people actually care, or are they just here to gawk?” She frowned. “Sorry... I’m being cynical. Just been a long day, you know?”

She was pretty sure he did know. Still frowning, she took another swig and handed the flask back to him. At “kiddo,” she laughed for the first time that day. He probably still saw her like that—that girl with the bruised elbows and the skinned knees, twigs ever-present in her untamed hair. Nowadays that girl felt like a stranger. She had for a long time.

“I’ve been… I’ve been… God, how have I been?” The liquor was warming her belly now. “I don’t know. Nearly every day is jam-packed packed with classes, I guess so I can avoid answering that question.” Her expression darkened. “I taught Larissa for six years, you know. Now, going through all these motions today, I can’t help but wonder why I even bother. They certainly didn’t do her any good.”

She cleared her throat, which had become thick with grief. “How did you know her?”

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

A Sunset, A Shade

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

moodyconnor‌:

The murmuring stream looks cold and dark in the waning light. The kind of dark that makes you curious about what may be dwelling in the depths. The kind of dark that you want to look at, but from afar. Step too close, and you’ll be just another soul in Hades’ river. Connor listens to the whispers and wonders what they’re saying. If the water’s just carrying the trees’ otherwise silent tales, unheard as, rather than expel sound, they soak it in. Feed on it. How many secrets must they keep, trusted creatures, solid and rooted to an age-old Earth. Connor wonders what they’ve seen. What they’ve heard. What they know about Larissa.

More than the rest of us, that’s for certain.

The girl from The Ring sits up, and Connor turns to face her. They both squelch with soggy mud, both pull a face. Connor’s more used to it, though– or so he suspects –and finds some comfort in sinking his fingers into the slime. It’s like a protective coat, permeating him lest whatever lurks in the shadows takes a swipe. He toys with it as the girl speaks. 

“Okay,” comes his reply, faintly heard over the crickets’ song. He sends a smile her way. An assurance: I won’t push you. We can keep our secrets to ourselves. 

But then the questions have turned onto him, and Connor glances at the trees again, wondering if they’re awake. Alert. Their souls peeking at him through the cracks in their trunks, the swirls embedded in their thick bark. He tiptoes around his answer, like a shadow dancing around the edges of a pool of light. Scared to disappear.

“Sometimes you see things, or you hear them. Sometimes it’s just your mind playing tricks on you, like… Like when you think you see something move in the dark, but it’s just your eyes trying to see something. But… It’s difficult to figure out when it’s your head, or… Or something else.” Connor shrugs, watches his fingers swirling in the mud. “I think it doesn’t matter. Whatever… Whatever it is, it’s always trying to tell you something.” He looks up, cocks his head. “We’ve just forgotten how to listen.”

One look at his face and she felt bad for her reticence, like she was committing a lie of omission. But maybe she needed to tell a few lies right now to make it through the night. Not that she’d be doing much sleeping tonight anyway… she’d be too busy thinking about that damn girl in the stream. Though she’d been imagined, the weight she left on Naomi’s mind sure felt real.

Maybe she’d sleep at the gym tonight. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d exercised herself to sleep, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. She’d spent long nights on that hard concrete floor, too tired to drag herself to the little sofa bed but too wired to fall asleep where she was. She’d let that icy feeling creep beneath her skin, feel her space breathing all around her, welcoming her. In those moments she might not have been comfortable, but she was safe. Sometimes that was all that mattered.

She could only meet the boy’s eyes for so long before she had to look away, like the sincerity she saw there was too bright to look at, too vibrant to be dulled by half-truths and runarounds. He seemed to be avoiding the situation as much as she was. That… that meant something. He had experienced something uncanny too, she was sure of it, whether it was in recent days or long in the past. There was a certain comfort to the thought that she wasn’t alone in this, this whatever it was.

Part of her that was incredibly freaked out by that—again, admitting that something like what had just happened had actually, well, happened—but part of her was comforted by it. Like, maybe she wasn’t crazy. Maybe they were both just troubled. Or maybe Larissa was fucking haunting them—

Naomi squeezed her eyes shut. No need to think about that now. Focus on the moment.

“How can it not matter?” she said, the tremor in her voice betraying her placid expression. She remembered all too well the last time she’d believed in what she saw. It ended in a bloodied face and a breakdown. Since then, she was never as quick to trust her eyes. She was pretty keen to avoid jail time, after all, and what better way to get arrested than by beating up random people or, heaven forbid, getting pointers from ghosts?

“If she’s—it’s—just a figment of my imagination… do you know how crazy that sounds? A girl is dead, and I’m taking advice from her—from her—” her throat closed up. She couldn’t say it.

The problem was, Naomi had seen that look in her eyes. She’d seen it multiple times. Each time, she got the sense that Larissa, or the shade of her, was trying to tell her something. That she just had to look a little harder, linger a little longer, and she’d find it.

But what did she want her to find?

Naomi struggled to her feet, nearly slipping in the mud. An icepick of a headache stabbed itself through her eye, throbbing, like Larissa’s freezing fingers poking at her brain.

“I can’t be here anymore… I have to go, I have to get out of here,” she said, words jumbling together, gaze frantic. Her heart rate was picking up again, cool prickles of sweat forming at her neck, swamp water running down her back in rivulets.

“Do you need an, uh, escort home or something? I don’t know. I just—I can’t—I can’t be here. I’m sorry.”

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

A Sunset, A Shade

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

moodyconnor‌:

This, like the look, he understands. That wave of relief that washes over you when someone’s pulled you out of murky depths. Depths you didn’t realise you were drowning in, until you gulp down gallons upon gallons of liberating air. So Connor inclines his head, a silent acknowledgment. The next reveal comes as more of a surprise, however, and Connor feels his eyes widen to match the fullness of the moon– though, in retrospect, he’ll probably conclude that it was waxing, close to completion. Still, now he stares at Naomi with a clammy pallor clinging to his cheeks, like chains rattling from a spirit’s ankle. He believes in echoes of the soul, of course. Of lonely wanderers whose eyes weren’t covered by coins. The thought of Larissa remaining among them, rather than finding peace and solace elsewhere, not only terrifies him, but saddens him, too. 

His lungs are tight as he drags his gaze towards the surface of the water, which ripples with the last traces of Naomi’s violent digging. A mayfly darts across, surfing the tiny waves. Connor watches until it disappears into the shadows. He wants to utter some words of comfort, but the thought of Larissa being trapped in Hollyhead still, even in death, could never ease anyone’s conscience. He pauses to breathe from his inhaler before finally speaking. 

“I did,” Connor says, like it’s an admittance to guilt. How long will it take, he wonders, for her to either realise he was the one to find her, or disclose that she knew all along? That, out of politeness, she feigned ignorance? Connor can’t decide which is worse. He decides he’d rather avoid testing the waters. So, instead, “Did she feel present?”

Naomi closed her eyes, slowing her breathing a little bit at a time. In, out. In, out. Twilight overtook the horizon and the crickets began to awaken, chirping all around them. The stream burbled below in breathless whispers. Larissa’s voice didn’t seem to be among them; perhaps she was gone, or maybe she was just done visiting.

Despite the sodden chill creeping into her skin, her strength was returning. She pushed herself up onto her elbows. When she felt steady, she sat all the way up, wincing at the squish of mud underneath. Well, she’d already soaked her mourning clothes—what was a little mud on top of it all?

He didn’t seem to want to talk about Larissa, she noticed. She didn’t blame him. Looking back at him, she suspected he might have been close to her, but it wasn’t really her place to presume. Best to leave it alone.

His question threw her off, though, right as she was feeling better. Naomi wasn’t sure she was prepared to answer it. Of course Larissa wasn’t present! But try and tell that to the woman who had soaked her clothes a few minutes ago, and she might have disagreed.

To say that she felt present would be to imply that she believed it had been real. And it wasn’t. But the damn chill was climbing into her bones now, and Larissa’s cold smile still arched behind her eyelids.

“She was… she was… I don’t know what she was. I can’t explain it, and I’m not sure I want to.”

Naomi didn’t know what else to say and her brain was starting to hurt, so instead she deflected.

“Have you ever… seen anything like that? You know. Someone being, uh, present.”

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

calderscross‌:

Calder stared out at the small, swaying sea of mourners. She took a puff off the cigarette, felt the familiar itch for it as she exhaled the smoke back out. She turned her look back on Naomi where she stood beside the twisting tree.

She flicked the lighter with her thumb. “Today,” called the preacher. “We send a child of God back into His arms.”

“Happier where?” Calder said, nodding back to the man. “Mexico, you mean?” She looked up to the still, grayer than a preacher’s skin sky. Her chest was hollow as a carcass. Something beat inside it, but Calder couldn’t be sure it was a heart.

Calder looked to Naomi’s scraped up knuckles, to the fading bruises ever present on her bare arms. She could respect, maybe admire, Naomi’s dedication to teaching girls to fight. But, there was always that little bug in her ear: ‘what do those girls have to fight against? you had no one but yourself to learn survival from, and you could outmatch any one of them’.

She shook her head of it, swallowed warm, sour smoke down her throat. “Did you see her?” she found herself saying. “I mean,” she said. “Have the cops talked to you?”

Naomi didn’t get funerals. The words were just words; it didn’t change anything. The dead were still dead. It was hard not to picture Nolan’s funeral here a mere eight years before. She hadn’t wanted to go at all, to see everyone there pretending they understood what she was going through. The look on her father’s face, though… as much as she was hurting inside, he was hurting even more.

It had been hard to focus on the actual ceremony because her sister’s ex had shown up. God, she’d wanted to kill him that day. Sometimes she still did.

She looked over at Calder and realized that she’d missed something she said. But maybe the expression on Calder’s face said it all. Naomi tuned in again quickly, her stomach lurching when she remembered her conversation with the police. The Detective was perfectly pleasant, but something had… happened.

Did you see her? echoed in her head, over and over and over.

Rationally, Naomi knew it was just her overactive imagination that kicked in. She was stressed by the death, and the questioning, and the craziness of it all. But it had seemed so real… the look in her eyes when Naomi mentioned that she’d been high… a warning. Or a message. Whatever—it was a waste of time to think about anyway, because it didn’t actually happen.

“Uh, yeah, yesterday,” Naomi said awkwardly. “Asked me the standard stuff. You know—when did I last see her, how was she, where was I. It was pretty routine. I’m guessing they interviewed you too.”

Frowning, she lifted her cigarette to find a tower of ash, then put it out against the tree trunk. So much for a smoke.

[willmoody-deactivated20180808]

ˈfyo͞on(ə)rəl/ - noun - the ceremonies honoring a dead person

The wind stretched itself through the sky as damp clouds hung over the open field like a curtain; shielding all those who entered from the sun. The coldness roared; rearing its head back as the quiet man made his way through the columns of headstones. Will tapered through the remains of people lost; some many moons ago, and some merely moments ago. He made his way through the seemingly eternal fields. Finally, a small, newly engraved headstone peered into his vision; and then the group of sable dressed mourners surrouding it. Will’s pace quickened, rapidly closing off the gap between him and the small monument. He found his feet taking place behind the mass of bodies before him. His pale, saddened eyes made their way to the words engraved in front of him.

Larissa Mona Kearney

A requiem.

The site of a graveyard had always made Will queasy. That eager kind of feeling ate at him; the feeling that he needed to dig deep into his hometown to sift through the dirt above his brother’s coffin until he could feel Benajmin’s hand in his again, albeit it bone. And now, it made him desperate to run to Richmond and set up permanent residence on the ground’s of his son, Baby Benjamin’s, grave too. A graveyard would forever make Will miserable; too many dead Benjamin’s to count.

And here, in a sea of people who no longer knew him, Will was as queasy, desperate, and lonely as he had ever been.

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

Naomi couldn’t look at that damn grave. She’d accepted that already, but she was at a funeral, which meant she needed to do something. She settled for people-watching, since at least it made her look busy. From her vantage point, however, she spotted a familiar head of hair, a profile she’d once known all too well.

“Will,” she said, sliding through the idle mourners to stand at his side, eyes averted from the pit that was the star of their solemn gathering. “Long time no see… wish it could be under better circumstances.”

She’d been seeing him around here and there for the better part of a year, but they rarely got a chance to talk beyond the ships-passing syndrome that had plagued their past conversations. Here, though, he looked like he needed a life preserver, even if it came in the form of small talk. Why not be the one to throw it?

“You look like you need some air. Wanna take a break from all this? I don’t think she’ll hold it against you.” She gestured to a small clearing not far from the grave site, where they could respectfully observe without being drowned by the scratchy clothes and stifled sobs surrounding them.

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

Written transcript of video interview HPD-08-05-89-I-WIL.

For your eyes only.

Case: HPD-07-31-89-KEA - Local teen - Possible homicide - Ongoing investigation

Date: 08-05-1989

Players: Detective Matthew Anderson - mid-thirties - Seasoned detective. Years on the job have given him a welcoming affect, unlike Det. Whitney, who just pisses people off (useful in its own right). Whitney on standby if needed Naomi Wilder - 25 - Runs local gym, inherited from late sister (see notes). Obviously cared for victim. Forthcoming during questioning in Case HPD-02-16-81-WIL. Clear she has a temper—see court report for details Larissa Kearney is here don’t ignore me i’m here i’m here i’m

Setting: A dingy but moderately sized interview room at the station with a small METAL TABLE and TWO CHAIRS. NAOMI sits in the far chair, legs crossed, picking at a nail. DET. ANDERSON enters from right with FILE in hand.

Naomi straightens up, rising to shake the Detective’s hand.

DET. ANDERSON: (affable) Thanks for being here. I know it’s inconvenient, so we’ll try to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Naomi smiles curtly.

NAOMI: Of course. Any way I can help.

Anderson opens the file and scans through its contents.

ANDERSON: You were Laris̴s̶á K͏ea̧rne̡y’s self-defense instructor for six years, is that right?

NAOMI: That’s right.

ANDERSON: How well do you believe she learned your material? Do you see any reason she was unable to fend off whoever hurt her?

NAOMI: She was one of my best students. Lar͠is҉s̸a has changed a lot since we first started training, but she rarely ever missed a class and she’s knocked me on my ass more times than I can count. I don’t doubt she could defend herself if she had to. But I… I don’t think this was about fighting.

ANDERSON: What do you mean?

NAOMI: Well, you know, she got older. She… stopped smiling. Started catching rides home with strange people more than with her brother. Like she was—coming unraveled at the edges.

ANDERSON: So, when was the last time you saw her?

NAOMI: It was right after class. She was kind of off, I guess. Look, sparring her—the girl punched like she was on fire. And she was. There was something driving her to punch harder, strike faster. I don’t know what it was, but now I wish I did.

ANDERSON: Maybe she was intending to fight someone.

NAOMI: I don’t think so. She was always intense like that, since she was a kid. Like she had something to prove. I liked it because it was a challenge, but the older she got, the more she demanded. That night, though, all the spirit had gone out of her. She was sloppy. She didn’t care. I tried not to take it personally—everyone has their off days.

ANDERSON: Who picked her up from class that night?

NAOMI: I don’t know. Her brother had been picking her up a lot more recently, and I was excited because I thought maybe they were spending more time together. But I didn’t see anyone there when she left. You can always tell because if there is, the headlights shine through the windows.

Anderson shifts in his seat, writes something down in his NOTEPAD.

ANDERSON: Did you try to give her a ride home?

NAOMI: Of course I did. But L̍̓a̢r̍̄̀ͨ̐i͗̎͑ͯ́s͏sͯ̊̋̐ͪ̀a͂͢ didn’t do that—she didn’t take favors from people, even when she needed them.

ANDERSON: I get what you mean. So, you mentioned she was “off” in class. How so?

Naomi is quiet. Her eyes flick to the CORNER of the room for but a moment.

NAOMI: ... I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. Her eyes were… glazed over, like her body was in the ring but her brain was somewhere else. And she was—high. I don’t know on what. But she always fought differently when she was high.

ANDERSON: High? Was that a regular thing for her?

NAOMI: No, it had only happened a few times, and only recently. I don’t think it was a new habit though... maybe she was just getting sloppy.

ANDERSON: That night, do you think she feared for her life?

Naomi’s back goes rigid. She looks a little more toward the CAMERA, at the corner of the room, but quickly looks back at Anderson.

NAOMI: Well… uh…

ANDERSON: Ms. Wilder?

NAOMI: Um, could I get some water? My throat is really dry.

Anderson squints at her.

ANDERSON: Alright. I’ll be right back.

As soon as Anderson’s back is turned, Naomi’s attention snaps back to the corner. Her hands tighten around the edges of her chair, white-knuckled. Her gaze seems to follow something above eye-level partway across the room, ending at the Detective’s chair.

Det. Anderson enters, holding a WATER BOTTLE.

ANDERSON: Here you go.

Naomi springs up and takes the bottle.

NAOMI: (breathlessly) Oh—thanks.

She sits, cracks open the cap and downs half the bottle in one go. Her eyes remain fixed on the same spot as before.

ANDERSON: Are you alright?

NAOMI: Yes, just… talking about that night, I see now that there were so many signs. I could have done something.

ANDERSON: Did you try to talk to her about those... signs?

NAOMI: (still visibly shaken) Look, L̢̖͍̾̓̅͊̚ͅͅa̷̬͉͕ͩͯ̆̉̀ͣ͛ṙ̷ḭ̦̙̣ͬ̓ͯ͑ͫ̌͌s͆͏̹̪̝s̆a̝̤̲̞̭̻̍͠ always made it clear that her business was her business. When she was younger, she was a lot more open about things. She would actually stay after class and we’d chat for a bit, and she seemed to really enjoy our conversations. But somewhere along the way she closed up, I guess; she stopped wanting to share anything. I did try, but she had this way of getting retribution when you’d wronged her. Like, say I asked her about something and she got upset, the next week she’d bruise my shin from a kick that was a little low. Maybe it wasn’t totally on purpose, but you could feel that petulant energy, you know?

Naomi takes another drink of water. Her back has begun to relax.

NAOMI: I guess I was worried that if I pushed too hard, she would stop coming to class.

ANDERSON: So you didn’t approach her about whatever was going on because you were worried about losing a student?

NAOMI: No. No, it’s—it’s not about the class at all. It’s about... empowering somebody. Giving them the tools they need to feel safe and confident in their daily life. I didn’t want her to lose that.

Anderson is quiet. After a moment, he jots something in his notes.

ANDERSON: Alright, we’re almost done here. I appreciate your cooperation in all this.

NAOMI: Well, thanks for doing what you’re doing. I want to find out what happened to her too. We all do.

ANDERSON: So Ms. Wilder, where were you between the hours of 5 A.M. and 6 A.M. on July the 31st of 1989?

NAOMI: I was at the gym. I was too tired to go home after Ḷ̢̢̡͇͙̘̥ͦ͋ͣ̋͊ͥ͋̍̌ͧͮͨ̽͘͜ͅä̶͉̜̭͔̤̝́͗̔͆͊̌͑̀ͅr̢̺̘̦̦̲̮̭̝̮̠̹̗̻̻͍̩̆ͭͫ͒ͣͥͫ̉͘i̧̞͙̲̰̭̱̐ͤ͐͋̎̎͊̂́ͬͪ́͘s̵̨̡̜̫̻̹͓̹͚̫̜̺̥͉̬̎͊͑̽́͠s̢͇͚̣̺̱͓̬̻̮͚͇̝̳̲̖̦ͥ̆̏ͥ̓͋͛͊͌̃̀̍̂͛ͨ͘͜a̶̡͚̝̣̲͇̽ͥ̎́͊̀͜ ’s lesson, so I crashed on the bed in the spare room. Couldn’t sleep, though, so I got up and started doing chores around the gym.

ANDERSON: I see. Is there anyone who can confirm your whereabouts?

NAOMI: I was alone, but the windows at the gym are pretty big, so anyone who was driving by around that time would have seen me in there. Also, I fixed the chest press machine and wrote it in my logbook. I’m sure several of my regulars could confirm that.

ANDERSON: Alright.

He stands and offers a hand. Naomi stands up and shakes it firmly.

ANDERSON: Thanks for your cooperation, Ms. Wilder. We’ll be in touch.

He walks over and holds the DOOR for Naomi to exit. As she does, though, her gaze follows the Detective’s chair. She gives it one last glance as the door closes.

END

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

A Sunset, A Shade

[firsthandfirecracker-blog]

moodyconnor·:

He recognises the look in her eye when she spots him. He’s seen it in reflections, some distorted by old double glazing that’s sagged over the years by the West Virginia heat. But the look doesn’t change, no matter how hazy it appears in a ruined mirror image (ruined, or real?). With that very look, Connor’s faced monster after monster. Unlike Naomi, whom, from knowing her only as the girl from The Ring, he suspects is prone to punching her demons in the face, he’s simply cowered. Let them rip into his tattered flesh and settle in the marrowbone. Pain’s just another ghost to him, watching him from the darkened corners of his room while he sleeps. 

“No, no. I’m sorry,” Connor says, scrambling to sit up. He wipes mud from his moistened palm, the wet sheen coating the grass on which the pair sit making his skin glimmer like an embalmed corpse. He was going to offer his hand, to shake or… Just show that he isn’t a threat (though one need only look at him and they would know). But the clamminess doesn’t abate, and so Connor’s left only with matching smear of grassy dirt caked onto his hand and hip. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, to distract from his silliness, “I… Should’ve been more quiet. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He didn’t think he’d find it in himself to smile today, but Naomi somehow has. Seamlessly, as it seems, she’s dug past the dirt and uncovered a treasure. Connor rewards her with a breath of a chuckle, though it isn’t delivered without a pinch of mirth. “Maybe,” he returns, meeting her gaze. “It looked like you were fighting one, though.”

Naomi half-expected the boy to run away after she’d scared him so badly, but instead he lingered. She felt some responsibility to pull herself together, to act like a responsible adult, but the pounding of her heart and the numbness of her limbs refused to obey. Something about this boy’s look told her that maybe that was okay, if only for a moment.

She let her head fall back against the mud, too weak to care that her hair was getting dirty. She’d need a shower later anyway.

“Honestly, I’m kind of glad you did,” Naomi said, and it was the truth. It was like some kind of spell had come over her: she was trapped in this surreal bubble with Larissa, and the arrival of this mourner had been what popped it. Or something like that. Maybe she was just crazy… these days, that was looking more likely than ever.

She debated whether she should tell him what had really happened. On the one hand, it sounded totally wild, but on the other, she wasn’t sure she could sleep tonight if she had to keep Larissa’s ghost to herself. What was the worst he could do? Gossip about her seeing things? She had a feeling that there were plenty of other people in this town who were haunted in their own ways.

“I… thought I saw her,” Naomi said hesitantly. “I know we just saw her body and all, but I just—she looked so real and I thought that maybe if I could just touch her, I could pull her back from… wherever. I don’t know. It sounds so stupid now.” She looked over at the stranger. “You knew her, right?”