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like my name, xavier!

[formulax]

JOSIE / SHE/HE/ZIE / 23

MAIN: @verpaso

art account! ocs, mcrps, sci-fi shows, & more!

icon -> zaxonz

[ahmadwaleed55]

For the past two days, the storm has pushed families in Gaza into conditions that are impossible to imagine.

Our tents have flooded, our bedding is soaked, and the cold rain hasn’t stopped for a moment. Many families no longer have a place to stay… and mine is one of them.

I’m a child, and all I know right now is that we spend long hours under the rain, just trying to find a dry spot to rest. I see the exhaustion in my family’s eyes, and I feel helpless, because we have nothing to do but wait for the storm to end… or for someone to reach out and help us.

My family is fighting hard to keep going, and any support could mean so much to us in these painful moments.

Please share this and donate to my family, it would mean more than you can imagine.

📌 Fundraiser vetted (#167 by el-shab-hussein & nabulsi)

[formulax]

you have no idea how many times i drew and redrew her hair, stubble, and freckles. you have no idea.

[formulax]

could you imagine how insufferable the Doctor would be if he finally became ginger?

my own imagined version of the Doctor for fun. some outfit traits I have thought of: colorful funky shirts, brown/maroon/warm toned 3-piece suits, sometimes a longer overcoat, pins on coat, space earrings, glasses

[formulax]

ASSIGNMENT

There is a flash of light—no—something beyond light. It is blinding, and even when I lift my hand to cover my eyes it burns through me, stronger than physical matter, superimposing itself on every surface. Even then, I cannot look away. It shifts and dances like a kaleidoscope, a flurry of movement and colors I have never seen before and cannot hope to comprehend. I am floating, pulled towards it like a magnet as my supplies swirl around me: brushes, paints, canvases. I reach out to the powerful source above me, longing to touch it. As I get closer, I smell the scent of fresh oranges peeled by a mother and given to a son on a hot summer’s day. I hear the roar-crash-spray of violent waves hitting jagged rocks on the shore. In my outstretched hand I feel the texture of a long-lost childhood blanket; it runs soft across my fingers. The source undulates and emanates a low hum that vibrates my bones and chatters my teeth.

Read the rest on my Toyhouse!

[formulax]

what if i just posted this without telling you where its from. hey these are two tween boys standing together in a red grass field on a certain planet playing hooky from Academy. they will become rivals. and then enemies. and then a war will happen, and they'll be the only two left in the wreckage, never to return to those grass fields, or those childhood years of friendship.

[formulax]

An examination of two paternal worldviews -- PIRATES!

Toyhouse

There is a very specific, influential, and particularly precarious relationship between father and son.

General Atkinson, coming from a long line of General Atkinsons, stretching back and back and back along their wealthy war-hungry English tightrope, understands this fact to a degree. To a degree, at least, that could be gathered from being a son, and having a father.

These are the premises he deduced from this worldly experience:

a. The father is solely responsible for the son’s upbringing as a proper man. b. Simultaneously, the father is absent, for months or years at a time, serving Crown and Country, and of course, making a good example for the son. c. The mother, being a female subject, and one so bland and uninteresting, is not noticed by the son. d. Rather, the son solely worships the father, for his heroism, patriotism, and holy manliness. The son desires to live up to the father’s example. e. If the son is not, despite the father’s best efforts, interested in serving Crown and Country, and carrying on the family lineage another generation, there is something defective about him (perhaps, from a hit on the head or a case of fever in infancy). f. Any defections must be spotted as soon as possible and corrected through harsh teachings, by the father. The situation is still salvageable.

It is under these assumptions that Atkinson chose to raise his son, his only son, Simon. And yet, something went wrong this time. Atkinson, now looking down instead of up, saw cracks in the foundation. Atkinson went away for months or years at a time, and Simon admired him from a distance, worshiped him as designed. However, Simon had developed a natural aversion to the “serving of Crown and Country” on the high seas. Upon closer inspection, Atkinson also observed that Simon and his mother, Davina Nightingale, were close. Dangerously close, dangerous enough to foster in Simon a love of that prissy, intellectual nonsense that threatened Atkinson war-hungry pirate-hunting tradition. Premise (e) seemed to be coming true. And as Atkinson initiated premise (f), as he beat down Simon’s interests, will, and love of his now-deceased mother, things seemed to have slotted back into place.

The factor that Atkinson has missed in his analysis is the precarity of the father-son relationship. See, Atkinson assumes what he does because that is how he was raised, what he was told, and how he behaved. Atkinson saw no value in his own mother, and worshiped his absent father. These characteristics extend back along that generational tightrope, and is in fact why it became such a tightrope in the first place.

These are Atkinson’s “ideal conditions,” which in practice are impossible to replicate. For he, despite his desires, is not his father. And Davina Nightingale was not his mother. He was him, and she was her. Davina Nightingale was not bland. Davina Nightingale was a hidden intellectual, an aspiring astronomer, and a loving mother. And she was determined to love her son, her only son, Simon, in place of the father’s absence.

This is not to say that other not-bland women such as Davina Nightingale did not also fight and struggle in the Atkinson family. Rather, it is to say that despite partial success in the past, the Atkinson Father-Son Formula is not foolproof, and was never really true. Atkinson misremembers the parts of his childhood where he was mad at his father, or when he loved his mother. It’s a severe case of selective memory loss that was passed easily from his father to him, and from himself to Simon. Simon, too, tries very hard to forget those moments where he loved his mother (which was, inevitably, all the time).

No, none of Atkinson’s premises are true. The Atkinson men are not heroic, the mothers not bland, and the sons not ideologically loyal or else medically defective. The father-son relationship of Atkinson to Atkinson, as it was built with tyranny and rigid expectations and pain and abuse, was always a flimsy, wobbling thing. And yet, for generations upon generations, the premises went unchecked. The tightrope-walking Atkinsons went un-toppled.

In saunter the Ortizs.

There is, also, a very specific, influential, and particularly precarious relationship between mother and son.

Captain Ortiz, coming from a long line of Captain Ortizs, stretching back and back and back along their outcast plunder-hungry Spanish plank, understands this fact very well. Rather than coming to this conclusion in adolescence, as Atkinson had, he came to it as a husband and father himself.

These are the premises he deduced from this worldly experience:

a. All responsible parties, mother and father or mother and father and rest of pirate crew or other combinations, etcetera etcetera, are all key players in a son’s upbringing as a good man. Though, a father-son bond is acknowledged (when the father is present, exists, or is not dead yet). b. That said, the father must not be absent. No parent should be absent, really, because who in their right mind would want to miss a god-damn moment? c. The mother, being another human being (and in his case being the one who popped that damn thing out), is a beautiful, resilient, and incredible woman, sure to be noticed and admired by the son. d. The son might very well worship the father, and if this seems to be the case, attempts must be made to lead by imperfect example (i.e. sometimes the father might have a bit too much rum and fall down the stairs, but son, every good man makes mistakes, you understand). e. If the son is not interested in carrying on the family business of piracy and plunder, then well, damn, the boy is a free spirit, who is the father to judge when he himself pushed his own father off the plank at fifteen? f. If (e) is true, some convincing might still be in order, and some assertions made that the ship will always be open to his return. Some guilt tripping is allowed in this case, to tease the boy and get petty revenge. A grand farewell feast is to be had.

As can be seen upon first glance, the assumptions above are not perfect by any means, and neither are they always true. For example, Captain Ortiz’s son, Ezra, has still absorbed a certain perfectionism when it comes to impressing his father. Such things are only natural when one comes from a lineage of successful pirates, but it is perhaps true that Ortiz could have done a better job at reassuring Ezra of his inherent value. Ortiz would sometimes forget, what with all the constant plundering.

The constant plundering is another nitpick.

The key point: Ortiz understood his wife. He understood Carmen de la Rosa. Carmen de la Rosa was a skillful fighter, a near-prophetic navigator, and a loving mother. Carmen, in her love, taught Ezra all she knew, and Ezra admired her like nothing else. (His first word might have been “mama,” or might have been “mierda,” depending on who you ask.) Ortiz did not see this as some kind of threat, rather, he relished in it, having the opportunity for love and family that he was not exactly given as a child, with mother long-dead and father meaner than hell.

Ortiz understands the precarity of the overall parent-child relationship, because he lived it, and overcame it in a way that Atkinson could not. Ortiz values his son and his wife and their love because he knows that otherwise, he will lose them, and they will lose something in themselves. He does not want that, not for himself and not for Carmen de la Rosa and not for his son. So, even after her death, especially after, Ezra admires his mother like nothing else.

An Ortiz is not an Atkinson. An Ortiz will push a bad father off a plank.

With this in mind, it becomes clear what finally toppled the Atkinson Way. For, on one stormy night, a washed-up, vengeful Ezra got a job on Simon Atkinson’s vessel. And on another stormy night, months later, that vessel crashed on an island, both men and two others being the sole survivors. Atkinson’s worst nightmare has been realized: an Atkinson must survive with an Ortiz. An Atkinson fraternizes, bonds, exchanges stories with an Ortiz.

An Ortiz will push a bad father off a plank.

Ezra Ortiz sees something in Simon Atkinson that knocks him free of his vengefulness. A reflection of himself: a father impossibly admired, a mother loved and lost. But the difference, of course, is in the father, in the upbringing, the ideology, the methodology. Ezra will not let Simon starve for an absent, angry father. Ezra will not let Simon resent a lost, loving mother.

With every passing month, every late-night exchange of admissions, Simon wobbles on the tightrope of Atkinsons, of worshiping fathers and ignoring mothers and serving Crown and Country and despising piracy. And step by step, Ezra walks General Atkinson off the plank. Simon begins to wonder if fatherly love really is pain and hurt and absence, if men are so emotionless and cruel after all, if women really are so bland and frivolous and obsessed with such useless things like astronomy.

It is a simple doctrine, a two step doctrine, that Ezra preaches:

a. Do not take shit from thy dickhead father. b. Love and admire thy dead mother, as she did thou.

And finally, after thirty-odd years, Simon rediscovers the intellect he shares with his mother, the love he has for his mother, the grief he has for his mother, the admiration he shares with his mother. And having come under the doctrines of the Ortizs, having seen what could have been, what should have been... he falls from the Atkinson tightrope, and lands on something sturdy. Something that smells like old books and sounds like a violin and looks like the stars and feels like a mother’s embrace.

He becomes Simon Nightingale.

[formulax]

i privated my work "ASSIGNMENT" as I have to go back and edit it for a final portfolio for a class. once it is turned in again I will reshare!

[formulax]

Fancy

A Pirates! Season 6 practice piece! feedback welcome :) / Toyhouse

“Ezra... Ezra! Jesus Ch—AGH!”

Ezra shoves Simon through the doorway, sending the poor man stumbling backwards into Ezra’s desk. Ezra kicks the door shut behind him and marches forward. He seethes.

“You. You knew.”

“Knew what?” Simon holds out his hands in a pleading fashion. Ezra huffs, face a burning red.

“YOU KNEW—” Here, he stops, and checks over his shoulder. He looms closer, meeting Simon’s blue-eyed stare. “You knew about Angel,” he continues, quieter. “And you didn’t tell me a damn thing!”

For a moment, Simon gawks. He covers his mouth with a gasp. “Oh, Ezra!”

Ezra snarls and takes Simon by his coat, shaking him severely. “I’m going to kill you!”

“Why me?” Simon begs, taking hold of Ezra’s wrists. “Why me?!”

“Because you—” Ezra jabs his finger at Simon’s chest, “are supposed to be my friend. My best friend!”

“Unhand me, you madman!” Simon shoves Ezra backwards. Ezra allows it, holding up his hands and turning away. Simon brushes himself off as he speaks with a gained air of self-assurance. “I’ll remind you that I have known Angel much longer than I’ve known you! Regardless, it’s not really my business to tell you, is it?”

Ezra sneers, but considers the point. He crosses his arms and squints. “How long.”

“Jesus, Ezra, does it matter?”

“HOW LONG.”

“Since we met you, imbecile!” It is Simon’s turn: he smacks Ezra’s chest with the back of his hand. It’s a light retaliation. “It’s not my fault you were the only one who didn’t realize he was head over heels for you.”

Ezra is too busy turning the first sentence over in his mind to care about Simon’s insubordination. He begins to pace, and he brings his hand to his chin. “Since they met him,” of course, would mean that Angel was “head over heels” for a mean, rogue, revenge-crazy creature, one who promised to kill the once-captain who now stands across from him, obsessively adjusting the frills of his sleeves. One who promised bloody mutiny, just as it had been done to him.

“Dios mío, I’m going to be sick,” he groaned, pacing around his desk and slumping into his chair with a hand on his forehead. Simon paused his preening and raised an eyebrow. “What terrible news, what awful news.”

Simon inhales, but thinks through his words for a moment. “It doesn’t have to be awful,” he says, slowly. “Why would it be so awful, if you, indeed... I mean to say... if you...”

Ezra lifts his gaze, and it is heavy with fear. His good eye twitches. “Don’t.”

Simon sighs in an exhausted manner, as if he hadn’t been equally stubborn, equally oblivious to his own emotions. Some part of him admits he’s getting a taste of his own medicine. “I’m not the one to give you advice on this,” he warns. Ezra snorts and shakes his head. “But if he... fancies you, and you fancy him—”

“Fancy, fancy, fancy!” Ezra mocks. “I do not fancy anyone. Fancy is too nice, fancy is too official, it is too—posh! Pirates don’t fancy, they hunger. And they take. And they destroy. Angel is a fool if he fancies me.”

“Well, Ezra, I simply don’t know what to tell you. It all depends on if you’re attracted to him! Are you attracted to him or not?”

Ezra ignores his friend. He stands and resumes his pacing. Simon sighs and sits. He tries again: “You ought to be honest with yourself. If you—”

Ezra interrupts with a cackle. “Says you! Says Simon!” he exclaims. Simon looks down at his hands, harboring a secret he is afraid to tell. “I know about being honest with myself, I—” Ezra falters, “I am being honest. Honest that I am... not...” his face twists, “not right. For Angel. Not right at all.”

“Now that’s ridiculous,” Simon counters. “You two are joined at the hip. You two—”

“Are good friends,” Ezra finishes. His face is warm. “It is honest for me to say that I am no romantic. If I’ve got it right, Angel is harboring something more than I can give back.”

Simon stops entertaining the thought, instead noting, “You didn’t answer my question.”

Ezra sneers at him. “Your question is stupid.”

“Are you, or are you not, attracted to Angel?”

“Vete a la mierda you and your question.”

“Are you attracted to Angel Marigold!”

“And what if I was!” Ezra whirls around towards Simon and holds out his arms. “What if I was, what good would that do! How would it change anything!”

“It changes everything, Ezra!” Simon pleads, clasping his hands together, bursting at the seams with his own untold confessions. “If you love Angel Marigold, if you really do, you should tell him! Tell him, and get it off your chest, and he can get it off his!”

Ezra laughs, though it is a dry, emotionless thing, more of a chest heave. “You read too many books, Simon. The real world does not work that way, with your happy ever afters.”

Simon cannot say anything more, for he knows that is the truth. He knows it more than anyone. The gears in Ezra’s head turn as he walks circles around the demoralized ex-soldier. “I can’t subject Angel to one of my cases of immature infatuation. He deserves better than that! He’s such a force of good, a force of kindness and happiness and love, and he deserves someone who can give that back to him tenfold!”

“And why can’t you?” Simon mutters.

Ezra scoffs and motions to himself as if it is obvious. “I’m me. I’m a playboy, a heartbreaker, a creature prone to flings and breakups! Bad breakups. Violent breakups.” He shudders at the memories. “Creatures like me know nothing of love. A something between him and me, if I were to listen to the voice in my head, would ruin everything we’ve built together. The friendship, the crew, the family! And not to mention Angel’s broken heart! It’s inevitable. It’s a certainty. So no, Simon of Britain, son of Davina, I will not tell him anything.” He huffs, done with the conversation, and he shifts his one-eyed gaze to his liquor cabinet. “Would you like a drink?”

“Please.” Simon rubs his temples. Ezra retrieves the rum, and two glasses. Simon positions his elbow on Ezra’s desk, and leans forward as the pirate captain sits across from him. “Ezra,” he says, as Ezra pours. Ezra shakes his head and pushes Simon’s glass towards him. “I just want to ask you one more thing.”

Ezra grunts and sips his drink. Simon lifts his glass and tilts his head.

“That voice in your head. Talk with me, man to man. What is it saying?”

Ezra clears his throat. There’s his face again, and now his chest: hot like a sunburn. He was never good at repressing things like this, not really. He blinks, and hums, “I’d like to say it’s none of your business.”

“Ah, but you won’t,” Simon says, holding up a finger, “precisely because you have pried into my business just as equally. If not more.”

“You and Cassie, see, that was a fling.”

“Ezra.”

“Alright, alright... que cabrón.” Ezra shifts in his seat and waves a dismissive hand at Simon. He opens his mouth, but keeps thinking. The thoughts come too fast. “It... tells me... that he has the most beautiful eyes, especially in the light of the sun.”

Simon leans his head on his hand, eyes wide, waiting for more. Ezra catches his stare, and grimaces. The embarrassment presses in on his chest, and his breath catches. He decides he cannot take much more of this, not for the rest of his god-forsaken life.

“That’s all you get.”

Simon gasps. “What? No!”

“Mmmmhm.” Ezra looks down and pretends to read the papers on his desk. “Mmmwow, so interesting. I think the voice is telling me something else.”

Simon leans forward with a sparkly look. “What?”

“It’s telling me you need to get back to work, you nosy fuck!”

[formulax]

STILL LIVING: or, a reluctant psychic with a dead son falls hopelessly in love

[formulax]

Hey, so I just put a lot of my OC work on my toyhouse! it gives me more lenience in formatting my works so its probably the best place to go

A community for collaborative character creation and trading, worldbuilding and roleplay.

[formulax]

okay phew that made my neck hurt. the things i do for chris

[formulax]

i implore you to ignore the anatomy

[formulax]

oh lauren, we don't talk to people like that.... even if it is really funny

the door link

[formulax]

Dr. Fox's original body. A kind of scrawny guy, always disheveled and distracted. Too much coffee, too many redvines. He's trying very hard not to be upset that his family dumped him into a hidden foundation in the desert, but maybe that's what happens when you punch a fellow professor in front of a lecture hall full of students

[formulax]

One of many stolen bodies inhabited by Dr. Mackenzie Sharp Fox, an immortal eccentric scientist with a consciousness trapped inside an amulet. Disowned by his influential family and an eternal victim of 963, Mack's presence at Site 19 is a necessary evil. My take on a Bright rewrite.

[formulax]

a call, where nothing in particular is really resolved: a first person present tense venture into sibling dynamics

I come to the realization, after a few rounds of ringing, that I am calling my sister. I come to the realization also that it was somehow an automatic response to look for her number in my phone, out of everyone else I could have possibly called. Why not call Claire? It is something I don’t immediately understand—and then I realize, I know Claire can’t help me here. Only Jenny Monroe can help me here, which is a sentence I did not expect to think to myself anytime soon.

It takes a moment for Jenny to pick up the phone. It’s nearing ten o’clock at night, and I don’t know how late she stays up. So I lean forward, bounce my leg, and wait.

“Chris, is everything okay?” She picks up. Her voice is tired, but forming a nervous tone that seems to wake her up just enough. “Is something wrong? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s—don’t worry. Don’t freak out,” I say. The words stumble ungracefully from my mouth. “I’m just... calling.”

There is a pause. “Why?”

“I’m alone in the... I don’t know. Lauren’s out with friends. I don’t know.” It’s hard to vocalize what I want; I hardly even know what I want.

I hear a sigh, and then some rustling. “Okay. I’ll go to the living room. Kevin’s out like a light,” she says. She doesn’t seem irritated, but it’s hard for me to tell.

“Did I wake you up?” I ask, pulling at a stray thread on my pajama bottoms.

“No, I wasn’t sleeping yet. Mom sent a text about me hosting the next party.” Here, her voice drops. I huff, intentionally audible, and roll my eyes. Jenny clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Don’t do that, Chris. I know we’re not letting them boss us around, but mom has arthritis, she can’t cook and host like she used to. I still want to be nice.”

“You hate cooking,” I remind her, my eyebrows raised. I lean back on the couch, put my feet up on the coffee table. “You always start yelling at people when you cook.”

“Kevin tells me that every time too. Am I really that bad?”

“And you get a little insane when you host.”

“What—what does that mean?”

I find a memory immediately, and pull it forward. I have been sitting on it for a while, as one of my best Jenny stories. “I remember once, you shoved a drink into my hand and told me to have fun or else you’d fucking kill me.”

“I don’t... remember that.”

I grin, and laugh. “You probably blacked out,” I joke. Jenny doesn’t laugh, and we sit in silence for a few seconds. My smile fades. “Jen? Should I not have brought it up?”

“Oh, no, I—I just—I’m sorry I said that,” she mutters. I get the sense that she is not ready to joke about herself, not totally. I’m not sure I’d be ready to joke about myself, either. I scramble for my next words.

“Look—do what you want, but don’t let mom guilt trip you into doing something that will make you upset. Marnie can host the party. Or Sam. I could go on,” I tell her, recalling our similar-aged cousins.

“Have you seen the newest pictures of Marnie’s twins? I can’t believe they’re six now! I’ll—I’ll email them to you.” Jenny swerves the conversation, and for a moment I consider bringing it back. But I see no reason to keep pushing, and so, I let it go.

“I would love to see the newest JCPenney photoshoot pictures of cousin Marnie’s twins. I love seeing the annoyed looks on their little six year old faces, in their corny little coordinated outfits. It’s adorable,” I drone, smiling again. This time, Jenny lets out a chuckle.

“Shut up. They’re cute kids.”

“Right, right.” I shift again, to lay down on the couch. I stare at the ceiling, and start to notice my eyes drifting to one side. I grunt. “Shit.”

“What?”

I take off my glasses, and close my eyes as the full tilting effect hits me. “Vertigo, I moved too fast,” I groan, kicking my foot in defeat.

“Shit.” I can sense Jenny’s urge to speak through the phone. Just as I open my mouth to let her, she gives in. “Have you still not figured out anything that works for you? I thought Claire was supposed to—”

“Hey, hey, Jen. I’m fine. I’m getting better. She’s hooked me up with a type of physical therapy, and I think it’s helping. I...” I hesitate, not sure if I want to admit this quite yet. I sigh. “I might start thinking about driving soon.”

I get the reaction I just about expected. “What? Really? Are you sure? I mean—you haven’t driven in—and your vertigo, it’s—are you sure?” I can picture her biting her nails and frowning. I can also picture, of course, the same carnage she is picturing.

“I’m just thinking about thinking about it, don’t get too nervous, okay? I’d need to do lessons and tests, et cetera,” I try to reassure her. She pauses to think.

“...Okay.” I smile. She has changed a lot. “But I know you hate driving. You always hated driving.”

“No,” I correct her, “I hated driving with dad.”

“God, right.” Jenny huffs. “Why is it that our conversations always find their way back to our parents? We’ve got to have more in common than the people who raised us. At some point, passing these stories back and forth doesn't make me feel better anymore. Just worse. I don’t know about you.” Jenny speaks here with a determined anger, pronouncing words with harsh snaps. But then, she lets out a breath, and she softens. “Chris, why did you call me? Just for this?”

I open my eyes. The vertigo has passed. “I told you, I don’t really know. I just called. I’m waiting for Lauren to get home,” I say, frowning. But there is something more, I know it. I am reaching for something. For what? I grind my teeth as I try to search for it.

“Is it about Lauren? Are you nervous about her? Where is she?” Jenny’s questions are monotone, methodical, but she is asking them too quickly, and I can tell she’s unnerved.

“I... she’s driving around with friends. I want—I want her to come home. I want her to be home,” I say, laying a hand over my chest. My breaths grow shallow, and my eyes water. And suddenly, I have found the thing I was looking for, the missing emotion, the cause of my unrest. “Do you ever get that?”

“Oh.” Jenny pauses to sigh; it’s a heavy, burdened sigh. “Oh, Christopher, of course I get that. Do you know how hard it is not to call her, every hour, every day? She used to be just a room away.”

I inhale and wipe my eyes, before I let myself get any worse. “She’s having fun, I—I can’t just make her come back,” I reason, pausing for a response, for instructions. Jenny hums.

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“But when she’s not here, when I can’t see her, it feels like the end of the world!” Despite my vertigo, I have a sudden urge to stand; I obey it, and begin to pace and wave my free hand. “I’ve been trying to distract myself since she left, and I just—I can’t! I’m alone, in this house, and I can’t do anything but sit and wait, and drive myself insane, because when she’s not with me she’s not... with me!”

“Okay, Chris,” Jenny slows her voice into something calm and motherly, “you’re going to be okay. Both of you are going to be okay.”

“Jenny, don’t—” I laugh anxiously and bring a hand to my face, “don’t therapy me. Please. I am perfectly aware that I’m being irrational.”

“Well—” Jenny is trying hard, I can tell, not to get frustrated. “Well, Christopher, I’m not sure what else you want me to say, I mean...”

“You don’t need to fix it,” I shout, anxiety stirring my heart. I am aware on some level how ungraceful I’m acting, but the stress is pulling my filters down, and the regret comes after. I pinch the bridge of my nose and curse. “Sorry. Maybe I should hang up.”

“No—Chris, it’s fine. We can keep talking. You can keep talking.”

It’s an offer I didn’t expect from her, and for a few moments I can only be stunned. Every day, I find myself surprised by the human capacity for change. It’s a corny thought, but a true one nonetheless. And so, I say something cornier. Something that surprises me, about myself.

“I love you,” I say, and then I slump back onto the couch. I get nervous, embarrassed; I don’t want to let it hang for too long, don’t want to turn it into something significant, so I keep talking. My face is hot. The words spill out. “I feel so selfish, I feel like a bad parent, when I get like this. And I’ve been getting like this a lot since she’s gone back to school, it’s—it’s not even that I’m overly afraid of her getting hurt, or in some kind of trouble, I just... want to see her, I want to be in the same room with her, I want to know that she’s there and I don’t ever want her to leave and it makes me feel sick because I don’t want to be mom and dad, I don’t want to hover and suffocate and—and be so obsessed like they were but god, Jennifer, my chest feels so tight and I can’t breathe sometimes and I was away for so long and I have this need, this unrelenting, terrible need to be as close as possible or else I’ll fucking explode! God... dammit!”

I slump forward and drag a hand down my face as I pause to breathe. The other line is silent, for a few more seconds, but I don’t pay any mind to her silence. I let myself cry.

And then: “You’re not mom and dad.” It’s a quiet, hesitant statement, but Jenny’s tone rises easily. “You told me not to fix it, but you’re just not... mom and dad. And I’m only saying it because you’re being fucking stupid. And I love you, too.”

My body tenses, and something bubbles up to my throat, and then I let out a horrid, sudden cackle. I double over, hanging my head, and I laugh.

“Hey!” she snaps at me. “What’s so funny about that? What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t—” I stomp my foot and cover my mouth. “I don’t know!”

“Stop fucking laughing you asshole—” She begins to giggle. “I’m being nice to you!”

“I know!” I force out some breaths. “It just feels so weird! Why am I calling you?”

“I don’t know, why did you call me?”

“Because you’re my sister, and—” I snort, “and I love you!”

Both of us burst into another round of violent laughter. My side begins to hurt, and I return to a sprawled out position on the couch. As I laugh, the bottled nervous energy drains from me, finding a new home as sound waves from my now-hoarse voice, bouncing around the dimly lit living room.

“Chris—Chris,” Jenny manages, finally. “Again, we’re back to goddamn mom and dad.”

I realize she’s right, and I scoff. “They haunt the dark recesses of our minds, Jen, of course we’re back to mom and dad,” I say, voice flat. I kick my feet up on the couch’s armrest.

“Well, I’m just saying, as someone who ended up parenting too much like them, I know what you’re saying. I think. In a way, but...”

“Alright. Am I fucked up?”

“Oh thoroughly.”

I smile. “Thanks, Jen.”

“For—for what?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, settling further into the couch. There’s a warmth in my chest, a cheesy fuzziness that makes me chuckle to myself again. The phone is quiet against my ear. I can tell she’s smiling too.

“I just want you to know, that this whole call is fucking disgusting.”

“Oh, it’s so gross.” I mock-gag. “Ew, feelings, let’s talk about cousin Marnie and her twins again in their little matching six year old outfits.”

“And her useless fucking husband,” Jenny spits, “that never lifts a fucking finger.”

I gasp and sit up. “Wait—what? Scott? I thought we liked Scott!”

“We do not fucking like Scott.”

“What happened, he was doing so good!”

“Weaponized. Incompetence.”

“Elaborate.”