Speak.

| Michael Loughlin, 39 | | Empathy | | Therapist | | Blog for TheHavens-Rpg | |INFP|

[michael-loughlin-blog]

To My Dearest Michael

My Dearest Michael—

    I am sorry for the circumstances under which you will find this letter in. I also apologize in advance for any grief this letter causes you. I pray that it falls into your hands on the date I have left it for you (March 23rd) and has not been tampered with. Call it old fashioned, and perhaps ironic, but this way of telling you leaves less of a paper trail than any electronic format could. Perhaps it’s more personal for me to address you like this anyhow.

    If you do not already know, or have guessed, this letter is my suicide note. Rest assured that I am dead by my own hand unless I am not found in my apartment, in which case something is very, very wrong. Do not look for me if that is so, as it may endanger you further than I have already done just by associating with you. And perhaps that is why it’s best that I do this before you grow an emotional attachment to me as a lover. Being around me is already painful enough, I imagine. Being threatened by people you don’t even know on the daily for my misdoings isn’t fair to you.

    It is because I love you that I must leave you this way, without a final goodbye, and want to leave you with God’s truth. You deserve to know, even if it makes you think less of me.

    The truth is this: you have always given me too much credit. Time and time again, you have defended me and have tried so hard to understand me when nobody else would even try. I thank you for that, my love. You stood by me when I least deserved it, but you were wrong. I was a monster in life, Michael. I murdered innocent people. Families. Husbands. Wives. Children. I framed so many suicides, even here in Nightingale. Even Helen. I was the one that hurt her and took her children away from her, away from the both of you. Her blood still stains my hands, still haunts my dreams.

    Everything painful I have ever done to myself, I have done out of guilt. I wanted so badly to atone for my actions, and perhaps this letter is how I do that. You have always been my confidant, and I trust you will understand why I entrust you with this even at the risk that it falls into another’s hands. You deserve the truth. Always have. But I’ve been trying for so long to change the truth that it became impossible to go on any further.

    I’ve tried on many occasions to leave the Rebels. I have. God, I have. But there is no way for me to do so without you or our families being endangered. I myself have scars from each time I’ve tried to run away. I am a valuable asset to the Rebels here in Nightingale, but I am too old… too tired… too lovesick to continue. I never wanted to be part of this group. It is only by necessity that I’ve committed all of of my atrocious deeds, and I deeply regret each and every one of them. Every death is another nail in my coffin, each assault and bribery a trail of blood. I have never deserved your kindness, for I am a monster. A machine, as you have said. An unthinking, unfeeling machine.

    But do not be mistaken. These last months I’ve spent with you have been the best days of my life, and I mean that… truly. Never had I before experienced such love that I reconsidered my position in life, or my opinions on commitment and marriage. In fact, I had never experienced love before, but I’m sure I had it with you. I have never felt something so sincerely in all my years. Do not fool yourself into thinking that this was all some hoax to hurt you. I was never any more myself than I was with you, even though I appeared tacky and inexperienced. I am sorry that physical love was the best I was able to do for you most days, but truly, you had every part of me, heart and soul included.

    Michael, I’m sorry for all the agony and confusion this letter must cause you. I have never been more sorry, in fact, because I’ve never wanted to hurt you. This act is supposed to protect you, and I hope to God that it does. I promise I will look out for you from Beyond, wherever that may be. I’ve no doubt that I won’t be alone in this endeavor, but please do not come look for us There. It would please me greatly to see you live out the rest of your days and grow old and grey with someone you love and die a peaceful death of old age and nothing more. I am sorry that I am not the one to stay by your side into those golden years, but such a dream was always unrealistic, given my circumstances. Yet I dared dream, as I always did around you. I dreamed so often that I planned to make it a reality.

    Yes, I was going to ask you to marry me back home in Bellbird, in my mother’s rose garden, underneath my parents’ marriage tree, and cry about it years from now when we found an old scrapbook full of wedding photos. I still have the ring that I was too nervous to give you. If you must look for it, it’s in the trunk by the foot of my bed. I thought you would like it, seeing as that it is modest and elegant at the same time, much in the same way that you are. ‘Forever’, it says, and I guess for me, this is forever. I suppose that if you want nothing to do with me after this, you may pawn it for a few thousand dollars. If nothing else, that much can get you a plane ticket back to Seattle.

    Michael, I am sorry if this letter hurts you, but please do not mourn for me. I have never been worthy of such adoration that a man may cry over me, and I do not wish for you to shed tears for someone who isn’t there to see them. What matters is that I love you. Please remember that. Always…

Eternally Yours,

Pyotr Stepanovich.

[michael-loughlin-blog]

Like Father Like Son

[jakebohm-deactivated20231122]

Twists, Turns and Ties || Horus, Michael and Vanessa

Why did waking up from darkness always feel so familiar? Why did it frighten him? Every time, it frightened him—and it was even worse when he could not remember falling asleep, and his current surroundings were unfamiliar. Metal floors existed on boats, at least as far as his knowledge went …

But something else was brewing in the back of his mind—it had been for weeks, but even more prevalent now as he pulled himself into consciousness, eyelids fluttering in a vain attempt to clear the haze; he felt an eerie sense of deja vu; there was something there just beneath the surface, scratching, ready to burst free and yet … he couldn’t remember, on the very tip of his memory and it just narrowly escaped his reach.

His head was pounding, his cheek burned with what felt like a scrape or a cut, he wasn’t sure … but he certainly recognized the taste of blood, his own blood …

Though sensitive to sunlight, his dark eyes were keen to dim surroundings and quickly adjusted as he took in the sights. He had been right. Metal floor. And the walls looked strange, like tile or brick … he wasn’t sure. Where was this place? Damn it; Horus was getting tired of unfamiliar things. He wanted to move and examine the cut to his cheek, but the moment he moved his hand, he discovered both to be bound behind him, feeling the plastic edges of the zip tie cut his skin as he writhed against it.

Fuck.

A quiet grunt became caught in his throat as he rolled onto his stomach, then his knees, sliding a bit upon the loose film of dirt that covered the floor as he rose to his feet and pressed his back briefly against the wall for support before standing upright to better survey his surroundings.

This was bad; this felt oddly familiar with how it did not feel familiar and Horus was beginning to understand just what had happened. He knew this feeling. It explained the gap. Someone had fucked with his memories again. He felt sick—nauseated and dizzy—why did this keep happening to him? What had he forgotten this time? But … something was different about this; someone must have done a rush job, because this … there was something there, something just outside the door, just waiting for it to be opened a tiny crack so it could slip through and then gush like a flood.

“Michael?” The sudden realization of just who else was in the room with him. “Are you okay?” It was an instinctive question—one that hadn’t been taught to him, one he hadn’t learned from observation, but a genuine inquiry of concern—one that was silenced by the arrival of someone new, the door opening with a creaking clank.

A man. A man in a blue jacket. A man in a blue jacket with a gun.

And he spoke Horus’ name, which caused those dark eyes to focus on him. But then another language.

“Επανενωθεί με τον πατέρα του .. Αυτό δεν θα το κάνει. εσείς πρέπει έχω γνωστός καλύτερα από να τρέξει.” 

It confused Horus—not because it was another language, but because … it wasn’t English and he understood it. That was Greek. He knew that language. He knew it well; but what was more confusing to him, was just what this stranger had said.

Reunited with his father? What? That didn’t make sense. The only other person there was Michael … as far as he knew; Michael wasn’t his …

Something in the back of his head pierced and throbbed, a memory screaming to break free but chained beyond the wall. Something about that name, Michael Loughlin, it resonated in a way that made his stomach churn; it was as though the letters of the man’s name had been torn apart, scrambled, dissected further and blended together into a dark grey hue with only flecks of the original colors lingering in the mix.

The sound of clicks, a gun being loaded; it didn’t register with him as the swirl of the world caused him to falter and sway, leaning his shoulder into the wall for support. Focus, Horus. FOCUS.

Someone else was there … and the stranger spoke again, this time in English.

“Who are you?”

[michael-loughlin-blog]

Nikolai was impossibly small in his arms—a mere whisper of a boy when he let go. Michael would not cry, but he didn’t know for whose sake. There was a resigned serenity that thickened the air and when Michael looked at Nikolai, it was not with pity nor remorse, but some rare dejection, ineffable, that somehow translated to nostalgic bliss. He dipped his weary head and pressed a kiss to Nikolai’s brow before.. the night erupted in a single resounding scream.

The fluorescent scarlet pierced Michael’s skull and he turned suddenly. In vivid detail, he could feel the freshman who, intoxicated with spirits, had nearly fallen into the bonfire. The shock of their combined fear dissolved like a wave pulling its’ foam back to sea and when he returned to face Nikolai, he was gone.

Michael spun in a circle as if to solidify the fact that his last moment with the young precog was truly interrupted by the scintillating colors of a drunken adolescent. Michael couldn’t breathe. Slowly, suddenly, his feet began to carry him back to the Institute, where he could at least entertain the illusion of security. 

An upheaval. His mouth tasted bitter. What? 

Nausea was a paralytic, whose discomfort prompted a sheen of sweat to prickle from Michael’s brow. The uncontrollable urge to vomit was overpowered by his chartreuse anxiety, dulled only by the cold confidence of a stranger. Michael blinked to register Horus’s murky turquoise and Vanessa Cole. The violent purple, nearly black, bruise that curved across Horus’s face like an angry half-moon sent a jolt of pain through the empath and he strained to reach Horus’s injury. Vanessa, though suffering no visible injuries, looked wrong like this; on the ground and captured. 

A paternal protectiveness swamped Michael’s heart and his determination to defend far surpassed any discomfort that came from the plastic tie, which held his hands behind his back. Horus’s voice was true and sweet and Michael couldn’t help but be soothed by the sound. He nodded and wrestled his way closer to him. “Vanessa-” he started. He opened his mouth to speak again when the door’s hinges whined in protest.

Nikolai’s lips moved in his memory: 

Everything will change. 

Michael hadn’t understood. 

When the man stepped through the door, it was though he’d leapt directly from his imagination. He could recall well enough Alexander Volk’s stories from his Rebel recruitment. The man was tall, thin, with thick brown hair and a neatly manicured mustache. His jacket was blue and buttoned, sweeping below his knee like Michael had pictured in his head. Just like Alexander had described, and when he stepped forward, Michael immediately hated him. 

When he spoke, Michael’s face contorted in confusion. Why was he looking at Horus? Why.. why did Horus seem to understand? 

Michael shifted his weight, as if he could shield the boy with the entirety of his body.   

There were bullets in the Rebels’ hands, and Michael watched furiously as he loaded them into the revolver. With careful precision, he let his anger dissipate and tapped into the bit of Nikolai’s obsidian hopelessness he’d saved behind his eyes. It filtered along Michael’s skin, like a microscopic wave of sand, and he willed it rise. Willed it collect. 

His eyes were suddenly wet, but Michael could only bite his lip. 

“Vanessa Cole,” he hissed at the Rebel. “Not yours.” 

Fall. 

It did, and the Rebel, bewitched with grief, turned the revolver to his head and spattered blood and grey matter against the wall. 

[michael-loughlin-blog]

The Beginning of the End || Michael and Nikolai

[reveriestardust]

He knew that Michael would be able to feel it, but he had hoped—and perhaps even prayed to whatever higher power there was—that the good mood of those inhabiting Obsidian Beach would soften the blow, maybe even mask the pain just a bit, make it tolerable to have that despairing and defeated abyss amid a galaxy of excitement, relief and jubilant celebration. A stark difference than when they had that buffer of distance and a computer screen between them. But now?

Now there stood a tall ghost of a boy, who already seemed to stand so perfectly still and haunting, like a statue overlooking the cemetery; his lips scarcely even seemed to move as he spoke, his voice so soft and scarcely heard over the nearby crowd.

“Listen,” he answered upon a delicate air when asked what it was that Michael could do. Michael could listen. “Just … listen.”

He drew a slow breath.

Read More

[michael-loughlin-blog]

There was so much pain, so much fear, and such a profound exhaustion in the outline of Nikolai’s sincerity that it crushed Michael. He couldn’t pretend that he understood Nikolai’s hurt, not now. Not with the weight of all he couldn’t comprehend flooding his lungs like a bitter pleural effusion. Michael knew that he should have blocked it out for the sake of privacy, but with such a familiar tang of acidic nightlight, he found that he couldn’t. He found that he wanted to, but stronger than that intuitive urge to respect was the desperate longing to finally understand the mystery of Nikolai Volkova. 

And it was devastating. Michael had once believed that he knew sorrow. It was a simple, deathly emotion that people endeavor to complicate for the sake of explaining why their children tie ropes above their beds. Michael had tried to complicate it as well; had attempted to see the darkening colors moulding together as a midnight nebulae of blue and grey and scarlet and black. He of all people should have understood the murkiness of suicide -- the difficulties of extracting ink from polluted sunlight. He didn’t speak. 

Words like metal hit his skin, digging deep and becoming parasites which would take years to die. Even then, their teeth would leave immortalized scars on Michael’s lilting white.  

He listened to Nikolai, and he felt. 

There was a fire in Nikolai. A burning resolve that clung to life like sputtering tinder. It was bright blue and just as beautiful as the constellations of Nikolai’s eyes. He didn’t want to die, but the flame was dissolving in submissiveness towards a higher maturity that exceeded Michael Loughlin in his years lest he understand. Lest he try. 

He nodded his head, urging Nikolai to continue. 

Michael wanted to comfort him. He wanted to press the joy that his schoolmates were feeling all around into his flickering aura, but then what would that do? The desperate blueness in it’s skin was the only thing beautiful about the demon that clung to Nikolai’s chest, and it was shedding, now, to be wiser than before. Michael was rooted in place, his limbs limp and useless. Perhaps it was his ineptitude that was killing Nikolai. 

He listened with a silent numbness. The motivation in Nikolai’s actions surpassed his mental health. Michael blinked in confusion. It was a cancer, he realized, and became suddenly sure of it. Precognition was an explosive sickness that would detonate if harnessed properly by the wrong people, or the right people with wrong intentions. While Michael could never be afraid of Nikolai, he had no right to call himself on behalf of the world. 

In the next moment, he realized that this would be the last time that he would see the Ice Prince with life still in his veins. Nikolai would not graduate. He would not become a father or raise a better generation. Michael choked on his voice and could not help the sadness that flooded from himself. His emotions had dissolved to sand and heads were beginning to turn. 

He would not embrace Nikolai, like he wanted to. He would not beg for him to stay, for that would have made him a selfish man. It would have made him a foolish man. 

Slowly, he nodded his head. He swallowed his pride and bit back a tsunami of grief. People would condemn Nikolai for committing a cowardly assault on the living, but Michael would disagree. Cowardice had nothing to do with it, and this martyrdom was brave. All the same, Michael did not want him to allow him to leave. But he would, because who was he to play God? And he would endure the soul searching. “What can I do?” 

[nicomace]

“Just one?” Tobias asked, incredulously. “C’mon.. two.”

[michael-loughlin-blog]

“That’s stretching it, Mr. Burke.” 

[professor-quinten-felt]

“Well then, tonight’s the night you’re going to loosen up and have some fun!”

“What’s your favorite song? I’ll…” He looks around to make sure nobody hears him. “…change the song…” He winks. 

[michael-loughlin-blog]

“Oh shove off, Quinten. Your enthusiasm’s contagious.” 

“Haven’t got one, really. Change it to yours.” 

[sherlockens]

[professor-quinten-felt]

“THAT’S THE SPIRIT!!”

“C’mon! You look like you haven’t been to a party before!”

[michael-loughlin-blog]

“You’re terribly enthusiastic, Quinten.” 

“Not for a while, no.” 

[michael-loughlin-blog]

The Beginning of the End || Michael and Nikolai

[reveriestardust]

“Michael …” he spoke softly, very clearly not wishing to be in the vicinity near people for too long. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves; the last thing he wanted to do was bring them down, and everything about his demeanor gave the impression that he did not wish to be present … which perhaps would give the empath a clear view that whatever the reasons for Nikolai’s presence must have been important.

“We need to talk … please.”

[michael-loughlin-blog]

The blackness was so heavy, so sudden. It curled like strong tentacles around Michael’s throat, pressing against his windpipe and suddenly the creature was on his back, sinking inky talons into his chest and smothering his flame with a single echoing breath. He recognized the feeling from high school, from studying at his University, and behind the gelid blue of Nikolai’s eyes. Michael returned his bottle to the tilting foldable table and turned slowly. “Nikolai.” 

“What can I do?” 

[professor-quinten-felt]

“YES!”

“YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE SO MUCH FUN!!”

[michael-loughlin-blog]

“I’ll be honest, Quinten, I don’t normally drink.” 

“Fun? I s’pose, yeah. I could do with a bit of fun.” 

[michael-loughlin-blog]

“Suppose I’ll have just one..” 

[michael-loughlin-blog]

Midnight Oil || Michael & Oliver

[sladesforce]

His name left the other man’s mouth with concern, provoking a quiet scoff in return. “What’s there to worry about? I’m perfectly fine.” He spun around to face him as if to show that he was, indeed, alright. “Don’t you have people to attend to that actually want your constant nagging?” He plopped himself down with grace in an open chair, his arms leaning on the small table between them.

[michael-loughlin-blog]

Michael eyed the empty coffee cups strewn about the teacher’s lounge with a defeated sigh. “Of course you’re fine,” he agreed, “we’re all fine.. but to what length?” His contrite expression that bore a thin lip dissolved into worried frown. “You’re hiding something from me. I don’t know what, but you are.” 

He folded his arms, mock offense plastered on his face. “You don’t like my nagging, Oliver? I was under the impression you were in need of a proper mother figure.”  

[michael-loughlin-blog]

Midnight Oil - Michael&Quinten

[professor-quinten-felt]

“I’ll let up when finals are over…”

“How can you even stand this stress?! I thought I had the entire year to teach this stuff!”

[michael-loughlin-blog]

“Quinten.. these are students. Children.” He exhaled and harnessed the bluebells that always hung at the edges of his conduct however stern his visage may be. They twirled invisibly in the air, singing silent serenity with every twist of their silver bodies. Michael willed them dance to Quinten where he knew they’d soothe and heal. “Breathe, old friend.” 

[michael-loughlin-blog]

Midnight Oil - Michael&Quinten

[professor-quinten-felt]

“Oi! You would be too if you still had physics lessons to cram down your student’s throats!”

[michael-loughlin-blog]

“That’s quite a harsh way to put it, Quinten. Can’t you let up a bit?” 

[michael-loughlin-blog]

Midnight Oil || Michael & Oliver

[sladesforce]

“Oh, how I love your Professor lounge free therapy sessions, Michael.” Sarcasm dipped from his words as he poured the horrible black liquid these people had the audacity to call coffee into his mug.

[michael-loughlin-blog]

The bitter green spindling out of Oliver’s aura made Michael cringe when wisps of sour smoke brushed up against his naked arms. “Seriously, Oliver.” He paused. “I know it’s unwarranted, but I worry for you.” 

[michael-loughlin-blog]

Midnight Oil || Michael & OPEN

“There’s a thin line between pushing oneself and overworking. I fear you’re verging on the latter.”

[jakebohm-deactivated20231122]

No Treble || Horus & Michael

[jakebohm-deactivated20231122]

Horus finally conceded, giving in to Michael’s masterful artistic skills of sarcasm with a fit of chuckles, nearly spitting out his water as he held back the laughter.

Clearly, the boy was happy; he was usually like that in Michael’s presence—feeling safe and content; he couldn’t explain it, but maybe that’s why so many others on the island felt that way. He tried not to dwell on it too much.  He grinned brightly. "Nika is adorable and I’m glad you convinced them to let him keep her. I think she’s really good for him. I think they found each other for a reason, like, they were meant to be together. If that makes any sense."

[michael-loughlin-blog]

"It wasn't difficult convincing the officials. It was a formal meeting, complete with bottled water and photographs. I showed them pictures of Alexander and Nika, tugged at their heart strings - not, not literally. You would have loved to see their faces though, Horus. They were so infatuated. Soulmates indeed." 

Michael found a great happiness in Horus. Albeit rudimentary, he was a bright boy, a delightful boy, and he brought a certain giddiness to Michael that he'd thought died long ago. "The Strokes have five albums, last I've checked. I don't know how much you remember, so I suppose I'll just have to get you the full set. In case it helps, I mean, and to clear out the old shelves."