Apparently, my post is too long for Tumblr, so hereâs a link to my XYventures fanfic on ao3. Iâm starving for XYventures content, so I created it myself. Hey @artistblack whatâs up
      âTen minutes ago,â he started, though his voice trailed off into the quiet of the room, a stark contrast from the festivities of just ten minutes ago. He sighed. Then, he smiled, offering a short hum of approval, and shook his head.
      âTen minutes ago?â she asked. Her hand touched his knee, but only for a moment before she pulled it back, afraid that he may yell at her for being so friendly so quickly. After all, theyâd only just met.
      Emiliaâs face flushed, and a breathy chuckle escaped her lips. Her eyes dropped into her lap momentarily before rising once again to meet his. âSir, you flatter me.â
      âI flatter you, hmm? Please, Iâm only speaking the truth.â This time, his hand fell on her knee, and it stayed there. Ten minutes. Theyâd only known each other ten minutes.
      Emilia politely moved her knees away, slowly so he wouldnât notice, and his hand fell to the bench beneath them. Emiliaâs mother had always warned her to be kind to male suitors, even if they moved too quickly. One of these men could be her future husband, she would say.
      He pouted and replaced his hand, convinced his hand had fallen on accident. Surely, Emilia wouldnât have pulled away from him. His eyes narrowed, and his hand wandered further up her leg. It rested on her thigh.
      Again, Emiliaâs face flushed. A shiver ran up her spine, but not the pleasant kind one gets when they meet somebody they like or when they accomplish a task theyâve been trying to master for months. This was an eerie chill, the kind one gets in an empty room with a strange man.
      âEmilia,â he said, and her attention turned from the hand on her leg to the face that was much too close to hers. She leaned back, but he followed, his face mere inches from hers. âI think youâre a very lovely girl.â His other hand found her shoulder, and it ghosted down her arm, catching momentarily on the frills of her sleeve.
She swallowed the fear in her throat. Be nice.
He pressed forward still, leaning ever closer to her. She followed suit, leaning away until she felt the arm of the bench against her back. There was nowhere else to go. Be nice to him. She turned away from him and squeezed her eyes tight. It would be impolite to run, wouldnât it?
She felt lips pressed against her neck, and a hand creeping up her leg, just beneath her skirt. Was this customary after ten minutes of knowing a man? She held her breath.
âAh, there you are.â That was a new voice. âIâve been searching for you all night.â
Emilia barely had time to open her eyes before a new hand took hers, freeing her from the strangerâs grip. She found herself in the arms of a new man who was shorter than she and tanned in complexion, though she didnât much care what he looked like. Heâd saved her.
Emilia allowed this new man to hold her, a hand resting politely on her hip as the other held her hand. It was so unlike how the first man touched her, how friendly he seemed. Ten minutes. It had only been ten minutes that theyâd been alone. He had no right to touch her.
âI hope you donât mind that Iâve cut in, darling,â the new man said.
The statement was obviously directed toward Emilia, but the first man responded. âNo, of course.â But he did mind. His tone was cold and distant, and he refused to look back at Emilia. She was supposed to be nice, but she was very amused by how suddenly the first manâs attitude had changed.
It was funny, she decided. He thought he had a right to touch her, yet she didnât even know his name.
The new man nodded and led Emilia away from the private room toward the hustle and bustle of the ball. It was much safer for a woman to be in public with a man. It made her feel much more comfortable. They were almost to the main ballroom when the new man spoke. âMy name is Alex.â His gaze met hers.
âAlex,â she tried the name on her lips. How informal to introduce oneself with a nickname, and how utterly amusing.
âThank you, Alex. I appreciate what you did for me,â Emilia said.
âPlease,â Alex said, âI only did what anyone would do in such a situation.â
Emilia smiled, and a new kind of shiver ran down her spine. This was the pleasant kind, she was sure. âMy name is,â she paused, âEmmie.â
âEmmie?â he questioned. It was his turn to smile.
âWhat? You can introduce yourself with a nickname, but I canât?â She removed her hand from his grip and walked ahead of him.
He chuckled. âMy nickname isnât embarrassing.â
Emiliaâs mouth dropped open, but the faintest of smiles still tugged at the corners of her mouth. How dare he make fun of her. Did he have any idea who she was? Her mother had thrown this gala. Emilia was to inherit Atkins Incorporated. She was kind of a big deal.
He didnât really care.
âWhat?â Alex said, shrugging his shoulders. âHave I offended you?â
âWell, in that case, I insist you dance with me.â
Emilia was taken aback by the request. She had almost forgotten that they were at a party that she was expected to socialize at. The whole point of the gala was to expand her network, yet sheâd only managed to meet one man, and he spent ten minutes offering her incredibly unwanted attention.
She offered him her hand, and he led her to the dance floor. Rather unceremoniously, he shoved his way through the crowd of people. Her mother had told her to be polite to the people at this party, but sheâd also told her to be nice to possible male suitors. Besides, his chorus of polite âExcuse meâ and âPardon meâ humorously contrasted the way he barreled through people. Emilia couldnât help but laugh.
They reached the middle of the dance floor, and he bowed to her. âMay I have this dance?â he asked, as if he didnât already know the answer.
âYou may.â Emilia placed one hand on his shoulder and allowed him to hold the other. He respectfully rested his free hand on her hip. She looked down at him, and she smiled.
âIâve never met a man so short,â Emilia commented. She allowed Alex to lead.
âNever?â He moved to the music with a rhythmic one, two, three, one, two, three.
âNever. All of my suitors are tall,â Emilia said.
âPerhaps youâre not giving all of your potential suitors a chance. You may like a shorter man.â He grinned, and that pleasant shiver was back. Ten minutes ago, Emilia thought sheâd only experience the other kind of shivers that night. Ten minutes ago, she didnât know Alex.
âAlex, whereâs your family from?â Emilia asked.
âUnimportant,â he sighed, âThereâs a million things I havenât done. Just you wait.â
Emilia was about to retort when something caught Alexâs eye behind her. She glanced behind her, but there was nothing of interest. People merely danced and chatted and ate and enjoyed the company of one another. âAlex?â
Alexâs face turned pale, but he smiled nonetheless. âMy apologies, Emmie, but I have to go.â He took a step away from her, but continued to hold her hand as if he wasnât quite ready to let go, as if he wasnât quite ready to say goodbye.
Emiliaâs eyebrows knit together in concern. âMay I ask why?â
He considered this for a moment, but shook his head. âWeâll meet again, I hope.â He kissed her hand and disappeared into the crowd.
Time for a little Suburban Mom Horror. This was originally written to be performed, so just ignore the vocal cues.
~~~
My dearest Bethany,
      Heâs gone now⊠I guess.
Iâm writing you not because I feel like I have to, though it is the right thing to do seeing as we both know⊠(pause) things. I want to. I want to extend the olive branch from my family to yours. We need each other, I think. (Gradually speeding up pace, voice cracking) Itâs not right for the both of us to keep these things to ourselves. Internalizing the issue isnât going to make it go away. We have to talk about it. We have to. Itâs eating away at me, Beth. Itâs⊠(clears throat)
      Anyway, (forced playfulness) it feels like so long ago since weâve last exchanged mail. Letters feel so old-fashioned now with new technology coming out every day. I can hardly get Alex and Eliza to pry their eyes away from their screens long enough to communicate with each other, let alone go outside. Kids these days. Youâd think theyâd get bored of Candy Run and Call of Halo by now. Theyâre just as bad as my husband was back in his arcade days. (smile fades, pause)Your husband, too⊠(nervous) He was good at games, Bethany. Too good.
      (awkward laugh, clears throat) How have you been? I havenât seen you at any PTA meetings lately. Helen made some kick-ass brownies last week, and we discussed the class budget. Exciting, right? (rigid in speech) I know you wouldnât miss brownies and talk of finances for just anything. Right? Iâm beginning to think youâre avoiding me, but that canât be true. RIGHT? I mean, Iâd have to be going crazy to think youâre avoiding me. R I G H T ?
      Sorry. Iâm just a little⊠frazzled. I donât write letters often. It just felt like a fun thing to do to relieve a little bit of stress. (visibly stressed) It worked. See? Iâm not scribbling off the edge of the page anymore. TOTALLY NOT STRESSED. Iâm just, as the kids say, chillaxinâ.
      (strained) I am not chillaxinâ. I am the opposite of chillaxed. What the hell kind of word even is âchillaxedâ anyway? Itâs a stupid combination of âchillâ and ârelaxedâ. ITâS NOT CLEVER, BETH.
      I canât take this anymore. The secrecy is killing me, but they might actually kill me if I donât keep it a secret. You know what they said in that stupid, white room when they spoke to us. Those men in suits. They told us not to talk about it, but how could I not? It was crazy what we saw. It was just⊠I donât know what to do. I canât leave my kids without a father AND a mother. I canât do that to them. I canâtâŠ
      I donât know how youâre keeping yourself together. Whatever is out there is killing people, Bethany! Animal control says itâs just a bear, but what we sawâŠ. (pause) That thing is not a bear. Itâs not⊠(pause)
Bears. Arenât. Thin. And they donât have long, spindly fingers like that. They donât⊠string people upside down from trees and rip them to ribbons. (trying to steady breathing) Itâs not a bear. I donât know what it is, but it is definitely not a bear.
Iâm just so worked up about the whole thing. I canât stop thinking about that screech we heard, that deafening nails against the chalkboard screech. I canât sit by myself without hearing it. Even now, with all the background noise from Alexâs cartoons, I can hear it. Itâs not there, Beth. Nobody else hears it, but I hear it so loud and so clear. Itâs like itâs right against my ear.
      You know, I sit here trying to rationalize what we saw. It was dark, you know? That thing could have just been our eyes playing tricks on us. You know, they say that people tend to agree with each other after moments of extreme trauma.  We were probably just shocked after seeing Tom⊠mutilated⊠And what was crawling away with his arm was just a shadow. (clear throat) Just a shadow.
      (forced laughter) Or it was that bear. What reason would animal control have to lie to us? It was just a bear, Beth. (more seriously) Skinny, humanoid bears are common out here. In the middle of the suburbs. I donât know about you, but I definitely trust our local law enforcement. If they say itâs an animal attack, itâs an animal attack.
      You know, I do have to wonder where Donâs body ended up. They found Tom. Well, we found Tom. He was ripped to shreds and missing his arm, but it was still Tom. They never found MY husband. He could be out there still⊠I think. Itâs not difficult to survive in the woods behind our house. Even if it is, itâs not hard to find your way back home. I know itâs been a few months, but he could still be out there. (strained) You agree with me, donât you? BethanyâŠ
      I donât want to think about this anymore. Weâre finally replacing the siding out back tomorrow. Those scratch marks have been such an eyesore. Now, I can let the kids play in the backyard without reminding them that their Daddy died back there. Because even though we washed the bloodstains, those deep, horrid scratches stayed.
      I can smell it again, Beth. I can smell the rotting meat. Eliza and I cleaned out the fridge yesterday, so itâs not the hamburger meat I thought was going bad. I can swear itâs coming from the kitchen, though. Eliza smells it, too, so itâs not just me this time. Iâm not going crazy, see? Eliza smells it, too.
      Maybe you can help me find the source sometime later this week.
You have nothing to be nervous about, yet there you are. Awakened by a rapid heartbeat and an overwhelming sense of fear. Your used to this by now, but it isnât any less of a hassle. At this point, youâll give yourself a heart attack. Dadâs side of the family has a history of heart disease, so it isnât unlikely. You share at the ceiling, arms outstretched to both sides of your body. Youâre sweating, but you canât tell if itâs hot in your room or if thatâs just, again, your anxiety.
Youâre feeling nauseous now. At least you know that oneâs your depression. You give a bitter smile, and you gag on your own paranoia. You keep a trash can next to your bed for this sort of thing anyway. You dry heave over the side of your bed, but nothing comes up. You havenât eaten anything in a day a days half anyway. You donât know why you expected to vomit when thereâs nothing left in your stomach to expel.
You lie back down, but this time on your side. You clutch your pillow to your chest, but your heart is still racing. The shaking comes next. You hate the shaking. You also donât remember your throat being this dry. You make a mental note to leave a water bottle next to your bed the next evening. That is, if you decide to live that long. Youâll probably live that long. Offing yourself is a permanent choice your not quite ready to make.
You sit up in bed, bracing yourself against your pillows. Hugging them didnât work, so you suppose this is the best best thing. The sun is starting to creep through your curtains. Your entire body shudders, and you huff. Great. The shaking. You wrap yourself in your blanket, and you pray that youâll stop shaking soon. You pray to whatever deity would listen to your pathetic cries that the shaking will pass, that your heart will calm, that you can finally go back to fucking sleep like you had intended to do in the first place. This is pathetic. Youâre pathetic.
Minutes seem like an eternity to you. Just when you think your body stops violently wracking itself, it starts up again with even more intensity than the last. Your therapist says that following a regular sleep schedule will help with the panic attacks. Great. Fantastic. Youâll just turn down your anxiety, do you can sleep. Youâll pop sleeping pills until you overdose. Maybe youâll self-medicate.
Youâre standing at this point, and the shaking has stopped for the most part. You need a smoke desperately, but you were supposed to resupply when you woke up. You donât have enough to smoke now and before you left your bedroom and before you headed out. Youâd have to choose. You could do without for now. You cough, and it feels as if tar is costing the sides of your throat, like tar is filling your lungs, like tar is drowning you. You donât mind the feeling.
You look out your window, seventeen years old and wrapped in a Panic! @ The Disco throw blanket your mother bought you years ago when she thought you were into pop-punk. Your feet are bare, and you wear a t-shirt, sweatpants. You open your window and allow the cool, morning air hit your face. You shudder, but itâs different than the last time. Itâs brief. You inhale the fresh air, and you cough again. You wrap your blanket tighter around yourself. You sigh.
How long has it been since you woke up? You check the cellphone on your bedside table. Your sister is your background, but youâd never tell her that. Sheâd never let you live it down. Itâs only been ten minutes since you woke up. Short one, but you canât imagine getting back to bed anytime soon. You might as well just get up now, start your day, do nothing, wallow in your own self-pity, lie back down, fall asleep by noon. Your mother knew to leave you alone during your depression naps, but your father always wanted to do something. Your goddamn father just doesnât get it. None of your family members get it. They can never get it because they donât suffer like you do. Youâre alone. Youâre alone, and thatâs okay.
You sit in your windowsill, staring aimlessly at your front lawn. You spot that tacky-ass garden gnome your mother bought last Easter. If you had it your way, youâd smash the damn thing, but you donât. It makes your mother happy. You hug yourself through your throw blanket. You lean against the window frame.
Your mind wanders, and youâre suddenly thinking about how you yelled at your sister the other day. You grimace. You want to apologize to her. It was so fucking stupid to yell just because she left you home from school, especially since you announced rather loudly that you werenât going. You should have expected her to leave. She said she was going to leave, yet you still found her in the halls between first and second period. You shouted at her, and you embarrassed both her and yourself. You pull your knees to your chest, and you drop your face in them. You should apologize. You donât apologize.
Your brows furrow. Youâre thinking about your heart rate. You may have calmed yourself down, but you definitely still have an increased heartbeat. Youâre going to die tonight. Youâve already accepted your fate. Itâs a heart attack or something. You just know this is the end. You know it. You squeeze your eyes closed. You wait. Nothing happens. âThis is just anxiety,â you tell yourself. âThis will pass,â but it doesnât work. You still feel this overwhelming sende of dread.
Then, something changes in you. So what if you die? Youâve accepted death at this point. Nothing is more painful than the life you force yourself to live each day, so why not just end it all? Why not let yourself die in your sleep? Your family would be better off without you anyway. You know this. You know this, and yet you stay. Youâre too much of a coward to off yourself. This, too, you know. You inhale deeply.
Somehow, you find comfort in the thought of death. You crawl back into bed, throw blanket wrapped tightly around your body. You hug yourself tighter. Sleep doesnât come immediately, but it does come. You donât dream. You donât do much of anything these days.
According to the Williams Institute, approximately 9 million American identify on the LGBT+ spectrum. This is about the population of New Jersey.
So They Say
âYouâll never find a husband
with that attitude,â my mother says.
I laugh, and I clutch my chest with my
gay, little hands. âOkay,â I say,
âNo husband.â
My crush walks past me in the dining
hall, and my breath catches in my throat.
âAre you okay?â She puts her hand on my back
and rubs it as if I were a distressed child.
âFine,â I say, and I smile at her.
âYou just took my breath away.â
âNo boyfriend yet?â my aunt asks over
Thanksgiving dinner, giving me the side-eyed
glance of a woman who thinks she knows me better
than I know myself. âNo boyfriend,â I say,
and she thinks itâs a lie. Itâs not a lie.
âBut a girlfriendâŠâ
âBoys donât find that kind of language
attractive,â my father says. I look to the photo
of myself and my girlfriend kissing on my lock screen,
and I smirk. I say, âAs if Iâm concerned about
what boys find attractive.â
âWeâll always love you,â my mother says
in the middle of the noisy dining hall. She holds
me against her chest, and I hug her as if Iâll never
see her again. I cry into her shoulder, and for once,
I have nothing else to say.
A 2013 Girlguiding survey states that 33% of 16-to-18-year-old girls are not happy with he way they look.
Weâve All Heard It
Where do you think youâre going dressed like that?
Boys will get the wrong idea.
Your skirt is too short.
That neckline is too low.
Thigh-highs are too suggestive.
Donât you think this turtleneck would be more attractive?
Boys are never taught the difference between yes and no, so honey,
Donât go out wearing that.
How dare you talk back to me with that tone?
Girls shouldnât use that kind of language.
You have such a potty mouth.
Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?
Youâre being kind of bossy.
Boys donât find that kind of language attractive.
Women should know their place in casual conversation, so dearest,
Only speak when spoken to.
Youâll change your mind when youâre older.
Youâd make such a good mother.
Children really are the greatest gift a woman can receive.
Do you have any names picked out for future children?
What if your hypothetical husband wants children?
Every woman grows up to be a mother.
Women are only good for the repopulation of the human race, so sweetie,
When are you having children?
Thatâs not very ladylike.
Itâs impolite to burp out loud.
Sit with your legs closed.
Where are your table manners?
Speak with your inside voice.
Get your feet off the table.
A woman should never display traditionally masculine traits like that, so sweetheart,
I didnât raise you like that.
Itâs time for some poetry about literally my favorite thing in existence. I know @scarvenrotâs Saintly is going to be killer, and I canât wait for its release. Also, thereâs something really interesting about the dynamics between the boys and their female caretakers that I wanted to explore. So I did. Enjoy!
âSaintly,â she says about her son who,
Just hours earlier, slapped down a
Butterfly with a plastic flyswatter
And ripped itâs wings from its
Back. Her son stands beside her,
Preoccupied by the thought of ripping
The wings off of something bigger.
Heartier.
She pats bee sonâs shoulder.
âMy kid could never hurt a fly.â
~
âSaintly,â she smiles at her step-son who,
Just hours earlier, decided that one
Of his female friends was his property to
Do with what he pleased. Her step-son
Stands beside her, preoccupied by the
Subtle hand sheâd placed on his thigh. He
Wanted to pull away.
He didnât.
âA good man, just like his father.â
~
âSaintly,â she says about her grandson who,
Just hours earlier, shoved a classmate
Violently against a locker and threatened
Him until that classmate agreed to go on,
What her grandson described as, a âdateâ
With him. He doesnât regret his methods,
And heâs sure he never will.
âSo self-confident and independent.â
I wrote poetry about Magnus Burnsides and how his love evolves over the course of the adventure. Oops.
Itâs a new kind of fanfiction. Fanpoetry.
I love her more than the sun loves the horizon
once, in the early morning,
when the sun is large and full of hope, and
again in late, late afternoon
when the horizon beckons for her lover to come home.
I love her more than the sea loves the shore at high tide,
and the tide creeps closer and closer
until heâs right at its breaking point
because it wants so badly to be closer
to that soft, patient sand.
I love her the only way I know how
with hugs and kisses and home cooking
and small gifts that mean so much
and simple, monumental words of praise
and rushing home to see her at the end of each day
and placing gentle, butterfly kisses to every part of her exposed skin
I loved her
And Iâll always love her
And I love again
I love them like I love my mentor
that family I never had
and always wanted
I love them like a craftsman loves his work
like worms love the dirt
like a father loves his children
like flame loves dry grass
like a drunk loves his flask
like suffering loves company
Like a boy detective loves learning magic
and a dunce of a wizard loves teaching him.
Like a couple of Dwarven children love their deadbeat dad
and an apologetic cleric loves the man heâs become
I love them in a way that can only be described
while holding a cold glass of ale in the middle of
the Summer Harvest Festival
And nobody hears,
But nobody needs to.
I loved her,
and Iâll never forget that love.
But sheâd never forgive me
if I stopped loving
on her behalf.
E-U-I-A-L. That wasnât correct. She giggled, and Eric could feel his heart beating in his throat. That was the first time he had heard her giggle. The sound was soft and delicate, but it seemed to echo through the quiet library. Her giggle was thunderous, though silent. It was monumental, though mundane. That was the first time he had ever heard her giggle, and he was desperate to hear it again.
He grinned, and she nodded at him as encouragement to continue practicing. He was making a fool of himself, but she seemed to think his struggle to learn was funny. She seemed to find his effort charming even. Otherwise, she wouldnât have agreed to help him. As he positioned his hands to try again, he stole quick glances at her face. Her eyes fixed on his hands as he created simple letters. His spelling was poor at best, but at least his form was correct. He paused momentarily and watched her eyes scan over his hands, trying to pinpoint a spot where sheâd intervene next. She was beautiful, but not because her red hair fell perfectly around her shoulders or because her blue eyes sparkled ever so slightly in the dim light of the library. She was beautiful because she cared. She cared enough to help Eric learn a new skill. People were always the most beautiful when they cared.
A-U-I-E-L. Better. Only one letter was out of place, and she stopped Eric exactly when he made his mistake. She placed her hand gently over his and then promptly gestured to herself. Eric watched her hands as she showed him once more exactly how to position his fingers. If his fingers werenât exact, he would never spell her name, and he wanted so desperately to spell her name. It was a simple gesture, one that most would overlook. Still, being able to sign her name was the first step to having natural conversations with her. He wanted to talk to her without passing an old notebook back and forth or wildly gesticulating to get his point across. Besides, she deserved to have somebody to talk to. Not being able to communicate with anybody must have been lonely.
However, Eric was getting tired of this repetition. Maybe heâd give up and practice on his own back at his room. He raised his eyes from his fingers to her face. She chewed on her bottom lip as she watched his fingers and shook her head in frustration. He couldnât stop now. He glanced again at the torn corner of notebook paper on the table in front of him. Ariel. Her name was Ariel. All her had to do was position his fingers properly.
He signed the letters carefully. He signed an A, not an E. He was sure that it was an A because his thumb sat next to his index finger rather than splayed across it. A smile pulled at the corners of her lips. He signed an R, not a U. Finally, he processed that his index finger needed to cross over his middle finger instead of holding the two of them up. She glanced up to meet his eyes briefly before returning them to his fingers. He signed an I, a letter he knew rather well. It was the only sign that used the pinky finger alone without moving. However, if he did move, heâd be signing a J. He was almost there. Next came an E, not an A. That was a mistake that he did not intend to make again. Finally, he finished with an L, the letter he already knew from when he was a child, learning which way was left and which way was right.
A-R-I-E-L. That was correct. Eric looked to Ariel for approval. She nodded her head vigorously, a large grin playing on her face. âAriel,â Eric whispered, âAll right.â Ariel couldnât seem to contain her excitement for Ericâs accomplishment. She clapped her hands together and nodded her head. She was proud of him, and Eric was proud of himself. Eric considered reaching for the notebook they had between them, a written record of their conversations, but he held himself back. Instead, he held his hand to his mouth, palm facing in, and he pushed his hand out toward her. Thanks. That much, Eric could say without help.
Ariel gave a slight sigh, and she started signing complex sentences that Eric couldnât quite understand. Still, he watched her closely, picking up on certain words at times and then no words at all. Ericâs mentor was getting carried away, and she stopped trying to communicate with him when she noticed his blank stare. Ariel grabbed the notebook between them, and she threw her hair over her shoulder as she wrote. âYou did well,â she wrote, âIâm really proud of you, Eric. Nobodyâs ever done this for me before. It means a lot. Anything specific you want to learn next?â She slid the notebook back toward her friend.
Eric picked up the notebook and read. She was proud of him. This was an opportunity to do something bold. The dim lighting and the silence of the library made for a perfect atmosphere. Eric wasnât one to take risks. No, he preferred to be safe and live peacefully, but this was the moment to take a risk.
Eric looked up at Ariel and released a breath he didnât even know he was holding. He gestured toward himself to get her attention. She locked eyes with him, a gentle smile playing on her lips. He had her fell attention, and there was no backing out. He signed her name, a typical way to start a conversation. Then, he implemented the knowledge heâd learned on his own. He signed a phrase that neither of them had expected to see so quickly. Both of their faces flushed. Can I kiss you?
Ariel bit her bottom lip, and she searched Ericâs eyes, trying to figure out if he was kissing or not. When she concluded that he was serious, she raised she fist and moved it up and down. Yes.
Hannah was only eighteen at the time of the Incident. She was young, too young. Mom didnât want her to come to the lodge with us. She said that Hannah was too naĂŻve to be without adult supervision. She was too trusting and gullible. Mom thought that my friends would pick on her and that sheâd feel left out. We didnât believe her, of course.Â
These were Hannahâs friends, too. Besides, we only wanted to go up to the lodge because it was Hannah and Bethâs birthday. Obvious, Hannah had to come. She had planned the party herself with her best friend, Sam. Besides, Beth and I would be there to take care of her. We would never let anything happen to our baby sister.
Eighteen. She was only eighteen, and she was hopeful. She had invited Mike, the guy sheâd been crushing on since middle school. Of course, he was one of my friends, and he had a girlfriend, but that didnât mean anything. That night would be the night that he noticed her as the beautiful, strong woman that she was. It had to be. She had gotten a tattoo for him, a small butterfly on her shoulder. Normally, Hannah and Mike wouldnât be compatible due to their astrological signs. That is, unless she did something crazy to draw his attention, something crazy like getting a tattoo. He never really noticed.
Still, she was hopeful. She had just turned eighteen, after all. Eighteen was when you became an adult, Hannah believed. It was when life got better, and hard work paid off. I tried to tell Hannah that her theory wasnât quite true, but I never had the heart. It wouldnât be right to shatter Hannahâs innocence and optimism. It wouldnât be right to tell her that Mike wasnât interested. It wouldnât be right to ruin her birthday.
Hannah was only eighteen when she died. Mom was right about the lodge. Mom was always right. Hannah wasnât ready to come with us. She was too innocent and too naĂŻve, and my friends were too cruel and too bored. It was around one in the morning when they devised their plan to prank Hannah. It was our first night down at the lodge. We were supposed to go skiing in the morning, but that never happened. Hannah and Beth died because my friends wanted to play a stupid, tasteless joke. My sisters never made it until dawn.
It was around one in the morning when Emily decided to play the prank. Hannah had been getting too close to her boyfriend. She had been flirting, she had been desirable, and she had been available. Obviously, Emily didnât like that. The plan was to leave Hannah a note. It would invite Hannah to spend the night with Mike, the guy that everybody knew she had a crush on, the guy that everybody knew wasnât interested. When she arrived to the designated meeting spot, Mike would play his part. Heâd flirt. Heâd egg her on. Meanwhile, my friends would be recording. My friends would be lying in wait. When Mikeâs act went too far, theyâd jump out from their hiding spots and reveal that it was all a prank. Then, theyâd all laugh about it. That was the plan.
It was around one in the morning when Chris and I passed out at the kitchen counter. We had been drinking all day. There was no adult supervision in the woods. We were the adult supervision, so we drank until we couldnât see straight. It was only a matter of time before we crashed. SO much for being responsible adults. So much for watching out for my sisters. I wish I had been awake. I wish Iâd been able to so much as lift my head. I could have helped Beth stop the prank. I could have searched the woods for Hannah. I could have saved Hannah. I could have saved her. If I wasnât unconscious and completely hammered⊠If I hadnât been so damn selfish and unreliable⊠If I hadnât been drinking, I could have saved my sisters.
It was about one thirty when my friends pranked Hannah. Hannah had tried to take her shirt off. She had tried to give herself to the man sheâd been not-so-secretly in love with for years, but this wasnât real. Mike wasnât interested in her. He was just playing along in some stupid game. He was playing with her emotions for the amusement of my friends. Hannah was hurt. She had broken down crying and ran out of the room. Nobody followed her. Nobody cared.
It was about one forty-five when Hannah ran out into the woods. Beth had tried to warn me that sheâd seen something in the woods earlier that night. She tried to warn me that someone⊠No, something was out there. I didnât believe her. After all, Dad said it would just be us on the mountain this weekend. What reason did I have to distrust Dad? The woods were safe. We had spent entire summers in that lodge as kids. Nothing would go wrong. Nothing.
There was something in those woods, something evil that stalked my sisters through the night. Hannah was quick and light on her feet. Fueled by adrenaline and pain, she ran blindly through the forest. She ran until she came to a cliff. Only after she collapsed to her knees from exhaustion did she realize how stupid it was to run out alone into the night without a jacket. Hannah shivered. It was around one fifty when Hannah could feel somebody watching her. She felt eyes at her back, as if she were being stalked, hunted.
Beth followed as best she could, but Hannah was gone within seconds. She left our friends behind at the lodge. Nobody followed Beth either. Nobody cared. She tried to stir me from my sleep. She tried to get me to help, but I was completely gone. I couldnât help her. I couldnât help Beth find our baby sister because I was selfish. I was irresponsible.
Eighteen. Hannah was eighteen when she came to that cliff. She sat there in her short-sleeved shirt, freezing to death. She didnât mind it, though. What did she have to live for? Her friends didnât care about her. Obviously. They had shown how much they cared when they sent her the calling card. They had showed how much they cared when they recorded her from their hiding spots in wardrobes and under the bed. They showed how much they cared when none of them followed her into the snow. Mike didnât want her either. He was acting, as it was all a part of a plan to make Hannah look like a fool. She was just a pretty face to him. She had no substance. She wasnât a person. Hannah wrapped her arms protectively around herself. She was the only one she could trust. After all, her friends had betrayed her.
It was around one fifty-two when Beth found Hannah. Beth dropped to her knees, and she took off her jacket. She draped it over Hannahâs shoulders, and Hannah hugged her sister. Hannah cried, but Beth held on to her protectively, as a good sibling would do, as I couldnât do. Their tender moment didnât last for long, though. Something was watching them. Something had been stalking them since they left the lodge. It was something. Yes, something. Beth stood in order to get a better look at it, but all she could see were shadows darting through the forest.
It was around one fifty-three when Beth walked back toward the forest. She wanted to know what that something was. She didnât get far. That something wanted t be found. Beth stumbled backwards, just barely missing Hannah and she collapse onto the show. The something was tall, unbelievably so. It was humanoid, but it looked as if its limbs were stretched and broken in multiple places. It had little hair, and its skin stretched morbidly over its bones. It had teeth like nothing she had seen before, large and jagged. They were sharp. They looked as if they could tear through flesh. Its eyes were probably the most significant thing about the creature. They were completely black, and Hannah felt as if they were staring straight through her.
The creature approached them, but they scrambled backwards. They backed away until they reached the end of the cliff. Hannah and Beth accepted their fates. They were cornered, and there was no way they could escape. The ground gave way beneath them, and the two girls fell. Beth was lucky enough to grab both a branch and her sisterâs hand. The creature peered over the edge of the cliff, and Beth hung on for both of their lives.
It was about one fifty-seven when the creature leaned over the cliff-face. It was even uglier up close, and those sold, black eyes bore into Bethâs entire being. Beth turned her head away from the creature, but she could feel its sickly, moist breath against her face. It smelled of iron, of blood. Beth could feel her hands slipping. She had always been known to have sweaty hands, and a creature breathing down her neck didnât make her any less nervous.
I should have been there. I should have been there to pull them back up the Cliffside, to scare away the creature. I shouldnât have let them leave the lodge in the first place. I should have⊠But I didnât. I couldnât give my sisters a second thought. It was supposed to be party time. It was supposed to be⊠But it wasnât.
It was around two in the morning when the creature was distracted by something. It left Bethâs side to investigate a strange sound. Beth watched the sky from below as she saw fire streak across the deep blue. An inhumane screech echoed through the mountains. Suddenly, there was a hand reaching down to help her. Beth had two options. She could either let go of the branch sheâd been clinging to so desperately and take her chances with the fall, or she could let go of Hannah and accept the help from above. She wasnât prepared to do either, but her grip was slipping.
Eighteen. Beth was eighteen when she made the decision to drop her sister into the snowy abyss below the Cliffside. Beth reached out for the assistance from above, but her branch gave way, and she, too, fell to her death. Eighteen. Eighteen. She was only eighteen.
I was nineteen at the time of the incident. I would have gladly fell down the mountain in my sistersâ place. I probably could have survived the drop, too. Hell, if Beth hadnât snapped her neck on that rock, she would have survived, too. Hannah survived. She survived for two weeks in those mines, all alone, with nothing to eat but her sisterâs decomposing body. I should have been there. I should have saved Hannah. I should have been the one to fall to my death.
Like It or Not, Mental Health is Everyoneâs Issue
~~~
He had always been a happy guy, I guess. Thereâs not much I can say other than that. He had never shown any of the textbook signs. I mean, what even are the âtextbook signsâ, anyway? Scars? Razors blades? Never saw anything like that. Never really looked for it, though.
 Maybe I should have looked.
He was always smiling, always really happy. I never thought to check for stuff he could hurt himself with. I never thought he would want to hurt himself. He was just so smiley all the time. It was his nature to be smiley. Real fun to be around, too. He was well-liked, you know? Just a happy guy.
He was my best friend. If I couldnât see the signs, nobody could. That is, if there were any signs to begin with. He didnât like to worry people, always kept his problems to himself. If he had any problems, he told me they were no big deal. He told me he was fine. I should have pried for information. He probably wasnât fine. He probably showed signs, tried to call out for help. He probably needed me to notice that, but he was always so smiley, and I didnât pay him enough attention.
Maybe I should have paid more attention.
But I believed him. What reason would he give me not to believe? I trusted him, and he trusted me. Â Heâd tell me the truth. Heâd tell me when shit hit the fan. I thought he would, anyway. I mean, why wouldnât he? He was my best friend, you know? A real happy guy.
I canât say when things started getting bad for him. His life seemed great. He had a good job, a pretty wife, a great kid and another one on the way. His life seemed perfect, really, the embodiment of the American Dream. He had that house in the suburbs with the white picket fence. He had the two-car driveway and the big, friendly dog. He lived in a really great neighborhood, too. Lived down the street from me, you know. He was only a few doors down, so I feel like I would have known if he had trouble. We were best friends, you know? But he was okay. He had to have been okay. He was a happy guy.
I didnât know much about his childhood. He was an only child, so he had that going for him. All I have are guesses, really. He didnât talk much about his parents. Iâd only get a few words of them here or there, but Iâd never get a full story. He wasnât the type to talk about his parents. Guess he didnât like them much. Said they werenât important, but they were important. They raised him. They shaped his early morals and views of the world. At least, thatâs what my parents did. I assumed he was a happy kid. I mean, his dad was harsh and his mother was silent, but arenât all dads a bit aggressive? Arenât all moms a bit passive?
Maybe I should have let him talk about them more. Maybe I should have made him talk.
I mean, it wasnât like that type of thing was uncommon when we were kids. My old man pushed me around, too. He yelled. He disciplined. My ma wouldnât defend me. Said I deserved the beatings I got. Most of the time, I did. I turned out fine. If I turned out fine, hell, anybody should.
Besides, he was fine. He was happy. It was his nature to be happy.
Times like these, times when Iâm alone, make me remember some of the stuff we used to do together. We would go camping with our families, go fishing in the lake two towns over, hold barbecues in our backyards, help our wives throw block parties. He always liked fishing best. It was just the two of us out on that lake. It was quiet, and heâd look out over the still water. Sometimes, weâd get a bite on the line, but neither of us cared too much. We werenât there to fish. Not really, anyway. We were there to relax and enjoy each otherâs company. He always looked distracted, so Iâd ask what he was thinking about, but heâd say, ânothinââ every single time, just like clockwork. Iâd accept that answer, of course. It was standard, you know? But maybe he really was thinking about nothinâ. Maybe he was thinking about everything.
Maybe I should have pushed him for answers.
You know, we would talk sometimes about the things that were going on in our lives. Well, Iâd talk. Heâd listen. He was a good listener. Weâd grab a few beers and sit out on the porch in the summers. The fireflies were out then. They would light up the horizon like some sort of silent firework display. The skies were clear, too, so you could always see the stars really well. Weâd sometimes point out constellations we knew. Well, he knew constellations. I made up my own most of the time. Made for a good atmosphere, I think.
Between the stars and the fireflies, you felt like you could say anything. You felt like nobody else was listening aside from the other guy, the stars, and the fireflies.
You knew the stars could keep your secrets.
It was just the two of us on that porch. There were no kids, no wives, no awful neighbors. Just the two of us to listen to each other ramble. Weâd sip our beers. Weâd watch the stars. Weâd joke. Weâd laugh. He would laugh, too. It wasnât just me. He was happy to spend time with me. He was always happy.
Maybe I should have let him talk more.
I should have been there for him. I should have supported him when he needed it most. I should have listened to him when he spoke. I should have paid more attention to his cries for help. I should have made him feel loved. I should have...
Hey, everyone. This is a writing blog I decided to make because itâs about time I put my work out where people can discover it. What is a writer that only writes for themselves? Feel free to send me prompts. If they pique my interest, Iâll get to them. For the most part, Iâll just be posting whatever whenever. Enjoy!
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