God! I can't take it. The dread is killing me. I'm losing all the blood in my fingers with how tight I'm squeezing the steering wheel. The honking around me is not helping. I can feel everyone's fear collectively as we sit in agitated traffic. Stress. Fault. Jitteriness. Indifference. Panic, panic, panic.
God, I hate being an empath. I can't even hear my own thoughts. I need to breath! Yeah. Take deep breaths. I'm not far from the U-turn lane. So what if traffic is moving 1 millimeter a minute? The storm can't be faster.
Hooooonk!
Beepbeep!
I have to get out of this situation before I have a sensory overload.
From my front and my rear, I'm surrounded by vehicles. I can't move back, I'll hit someone. I can't move up, because they'll think there's space to move and I'll be more stuck than before. Looking to my right I realize the road across the gate is fairly empty. That last car I saw go that way was 40 something minutes ago.
I gulp loosening my grip from the wheel but still holding it firmly in my palms. Taking a breath I turn the wheel and step on the gas. My car races through the grass and crashes though the metal gates. With a screech, my tires are finally rolling and I'm off. Towards the dark clouds like a fool running blindly into a lions den.
When I finally catch sight of the curling palm trees and the flying debris, my weariness is replaced by anger. We had a plan. A simple schedule. Prepare emergency food, water, and medicine, flashlights and documents, locate nearest shelters, fill up gas tank, clear the yard, and turn off the power. When the evacuation order is set, I would be too far away at the time, so my husband would get the kids from home and we...would...evecuate.
Evacuate.
We would meet at the nearest shelter with our separate cars...
Unfortunately, my...sweet...dearest mother decided to take it upon herself to pick up the kids herself...and NOT evacuate. Instead, she wanted her grand babies to feel safe during the storm and cook them a nice meal...at her house.
I almost had a heart attack when my husband said they weren't there. Instead, a note was attached to the fridge reassuring us that my elementary school kids, including a baby, did not infact disappear off the face of the earth. She wants them to feel less threatened and stressed over this "flood nonsense". Make it seem like a regular thunder storm.
Except it's not a thunder storm! It's a hurricane!
I told my husband not to worry about it, I will get the kids and be ok. The hurricane is suppose to be a bad one, the weather man said. Anything left undemolished by the storm by the end of this would be a miracle. Hopefully it won't be my sanity. I swear, she's impossible.
By the time I get to her house, the streets are flowing with water and clawing up her driveway like waves at a beach. I step out and my shoe kerplunks into the water. I groan, feeling my ears eject hot steam. I stomp onto her porch with a squish, squish, squish and jam the key into the lock.
I kick the door open and slam it shut, my anger seeming to accelerate as soon I step inside. I cringe a bit, noticing my youngest asleep on the couch.
"DON'T SLAM MY DO-" my mother sticks her head out through the kitchen doorway and spots me.
"-Oh, hi baby!"
I stretch a tight smile, coaxing my child back to sleep. "Hello, mother."
"You came just in time. I just need to get a few things done before we eat."
And there she is. Like always. Not worrying about a thing while marinating apple cider vinegar on peices of pork. Probably to slice into the-
Sniff, sniff.
-gumbo. Her calm persona was infuriating. Almost insulting.
"Too bad my son in law couldn't be here. He'd love to stuff his face with the beignets" she continues.
"He's at the shelter. Kinda like we're suppose to be" I say, honey tounged and all "which begs the question..." I lean in, my palms face down on the table. "Why aren't we there right now?" I sneer, bringing my voice down.
"Because there's no need to. You know that" she says simply.
"Maybe in your case, but not mine. You just felt entitled to do things your way. Like you always do. I had everything under control and-and you had me worried."
"You know nothing was going to happen to these kids. I knew nothing was really wrong."
"If you really felt so aloof about this, you should have stayed yourself. You can't just up and take my kids like that. We've talked about this."
She finally looks at me, turning away from her task. "I should be free to see my own grand kids whenever I want to."
"I would have probably excepted that, if we weren't in the middle of a god damn hurricane-"
"Momma! Momma look!"
I was interrupted by my two children excitedly telling me that a pie was on the way. All while showing me their hands, proof of a raspberry massacre. Animated. Passion. Triumph. Pleasant. I ruffle their heads with a quick "good job" and they ran off together. Their happiness almost cures my frustration. It does calm me down a bit though.
"Is is so much to want to keep your family safe" my mother asks.
Aaaaaaand its back.
"Is it so much to just listen to me? To just let me do things my way? I am in no less danger than you are just because I dont have the same... tools that you do."
"It looks like it puts you in a lot of danger if you have to evacuate the city. You could simply come here so momma can protect you."
"That makes me look like a normal person, mom. The streets are already flooding and a ton of people just saw me go the opposite direction. I look stupid and suspicious." I'm taken back to my teen years. Having a similar conversation with my mother. "Not everything can be solved with your protection. I can make my own decisions. But instead you undermine me and tamper with everything around you. Just because I dont have it, doesn't mean I cant keep my family safe or simply be a mother. How about, for once, you let mother nature do her job."
"Your father made this house with his bare hands, rehydrating himself with his sweat. No one is touching this house. Not even Cosmo's or Gaia or whatever." She huffs and turn away. A puff of steam emerges over her head, indicating she opened the pot of Gumbo.
"Well, when your the Matriarch, you can start making the rules around here."
Realizing an apology isn't coming, I groan restricting myself from wrapping my hands around her throat. Its silence between us, as there is after every altercation. Especially when the house is mentioned, cause it's always Papa's house. He passed away before I could even learn to speak his name. Mama always told us about Papa. How she met him, how he put her on her feet and built a house for her (it was told he even built the bricks holding this house up), how his devotion to his family and the love of his life lasted until death did them part.
"What makes you think I'm going to be the next Matriarch?" I ask, slipping in the kitchen chair.
"You will. It's a family tradition that you need to uphold. And you are the only girl conceived by me." She answers, this sounds almost rehearsed.
"Why don't the others take your place?" I ask, for the millionth time.
"It's only rare that a boy has ever been in place of a woman. And once a girl was brought in, he was removed immediately."
"If it's that simple then crown them and get it over with."
"Oh, do you think it's that easy"? She quizzes, slowly turning to me.
"Knowing you, probably not."
"Hyde is much more coordinated than that. If they really didn't think you were worthy, we would have known, but I always knew you were special."
Here she goes again. Hyde,, is supposedly the person that gifts the family with magic, life, and girls. It's the spirirt who thrones and dethrones us. No matter who we are. According to mom, the next Matriarch could be good or bad, Hyde has a plan for them in the end.
Along with Papa's stories, Hyde was always directed towards me because I was the only girl, excluding my half sister. Truthfully there was no way to know if Hyde was actually real. I'm not even sure if my parents have seen it. Mom would tell me tales at night of different women throughout our generation, chosen by Hyde and how I would be like them someday.
Perfect.
"Hyde doesn't give you this gift for no reason" mom reassures "they always have a plan. You can't see everything in a negative light. What if Hyde chooses Clio and you-"
I stop her at the mention of my youngest name.
"I'm not putting that responsibility on my kid" I say sternly, though It probably won't matter what I tell her "Especially if, no offense, she ends up like you. Completely dependent on Hyde's gift. IT didn't give me any when I was born, like the rest of you, and I'd like it to stay that way."
Silence once more.
"Perhaps you're afraid-"
"I'm not afraid-"
"-its okay."
"-Of this imaginary ghost."
"Sure, keep believing that. But when it happens~" she sings.
"When it happens to me, pigs will fly" I sneer, memories of that same sing song tone prodding at me.
She says nothing.
"Just let it go mom, it's just not meant to be. I'm not a child that you can hide under your wings when hail comes. However your gifts came to be, Hyde, the house, whatever, it must've skipped a generation."
She continues to stir. She sputters "but-but the family-"
"-The family doesn't know what's best for me and neither do you. I know I'm the only daughter to the Matriarch. I know I wasn't born with any gifts like my siblings. I know refusing my path makes me an ungrateful child and Hyde will handle me" I say reciting what I also heard throughout my life "But that's not my life. And I'm not defenseless."
She freezes. More silence.
"And, I mean, it's not like having voodoo is easy. It consumes you and it messes a lot of things up. This worlds order and the next."
"That's what the council is for" my mom mutters finally.
"Oh, right. The council. The same family who's just as dependent as you. Do you even remeber a time where you haven't used your gift and actually did things yourself?"
...
...
"Don't you ever think of letting go of this life? Doing things for yourself and not the family? Hyde? Papa's house? I notice how this changes you as you age. If this is the answer to our problems I wouldn't mind the sea taking this house away for a while-"
"Mama! Mama!"
"Wow, look."
I follow my kids voices and they seek for me, a glimmer of wonder and awe in there wide pupils. My 2 boys are pointing to the window in the living room. My sleeping child is now up, standing on her toes to see what her brothers are looking at.
As I begin to walk In the living room, they're rushing back to the kitchen. I take a peek and see a part of the lawn, including my rental car but the road and the neighborhood is gone. A large amount of visible debris is covering up the world around-
No.
No.
That's not debris. That's not wind.
I follow my kids. They've opened the screen door and ventured into the back yard. I race after them and stop in my tracks. The water barrier has followed us to the backyard. My kids are screaming and dancing in the sprinklers as the hurricane is trapping us in its second eye. The oceanic barrier is circling around is, refusing to touch the property. With my kids instructions I look up, the sky is dark above us like it's the dead of night, yet inside the barrier, its murky like a cloudy day.
I can't concentrate. Excitment. Curiosity. Shock. Chills.
I sigh as my daughter wobbles to me and I scoop her in my arms. I can see it now, worst hurricane in 6 years and the Crobitt house still stands. This is similar but not related to the instance when a pair of swings at the run down school across the house seemingly froze in the air a few years ago... CIA is currently investigating...
I gather my children inside, they were starting to go towards the rushing ocean and who knows what'll happen. I shut the door with a defeated sigh and sulk at the table. The beneits sit gracefully with their powder sugar and I worship it by stuffing it in my mouth.
"I told you..."
I look up. My mothers eyes are glowing that familiar bright green and she has that devious smirk on her face. She always gave me that look as a child as if she's trying to tell me something. That, or it's to prove something, which I still dont know. I dont think I ever will.
"...you're father built this house. No one is taking it from me..."
...
...
"Now, elbows off the table."
-------
If you like to write or be creative, perhaps you need inspiration, go check out this book! Its the best!
I got one of those drawing prompt books last year and I'm just getting around to opening it... the prompts are more... abstract than I expected. I chose to draw pokeweed for a representation of my conscience because my moral compass doesn't always point to true north 😅 and pokeweed is a somewhat... chaotic good plant. It's poisonous.... but if you know how to prepare it, you can eat it. And you can make dye out of the berries. It's both useful and dangerous. It's been making appearances in my life recently, too. #selfportrait #markerdrawing #shadesofblue #pokeweed #poisonousplants #sketchthis #piccadillyinc #copicsketch #stabilopens #kurecolor https://www.instagram.com/p/CDqLaBNFXXf/?igshid=27mre30oqpy5
warnings: angst; murder; slight gore; nightmares; unedited and shitty
words to include: killer whale, depraved, janitor, bargain, dye, fool, heap, kick, praise, quilt
a/n: first part of my ‘write the story’ prompt list! i couldn’t find an organic way to include the word janitor lol off to a good start
❝A good reason to be afraid of the dark❞ (1/41)
word count: 849
prompts masterlist —— main masterlist
reblogs are encouraged. reposting is illegal
Bucky Barnes is afraid of the dark.
He has the serum and all sharper senses that comes with it. He can see in the dark better than other people. It’s always after a nightmare, disoriented and confused and convinced he’s still in the cell Hydra had him locked in.
But this time, after he’s kicked so much he wakes himself up and he’s overcome the feeling of having the weight of a killer whale on his chest, a suspicious stump in the corner of his eye has him reaching for the combat knife he keeps behind the headboard. The stump however, only turns out to be the heap of books on the desk.
The nightmares haven’t been so bad as of late. Those exercises his therapist has him do somehow help him wake up before the dream can get too bad.
But this one. Bucky shivers although his body runs hot all the time and he hasn’t been cold in decades.
He closes his eyes, clenches his fists, tries not to think about how he had been back under the depraved control of Hydra. His back to the wall of a familiar apartment, staring at the back of a woman as she placed a jacket on the arm of the couch, unaware of the figure hiding in the corner shielded in the shadows, the man with a gun clutched in his hand, a muzzle obscuring their face. His face.
The next second the woman’s on her knees before the Soldier’s feet, gun to her head.
Fool, he thought. A fool to have ever thought he’d have more. A life the organization that produced machines. A killer. That’s what he was, and always will be. He killed before Hydra, for Hydra, and after.
He struggled, tried to get up. It didn’t work. He tried to make a bargain, his life for hers. Please. But no sound left his mouth, the soldier stood stoic, gun held to the woman’s forehead. The woman who seemed to be at the end of the thread tugging at his memory.
It’s his fault. He knows it. Maybe if he had just stayed with Hydra, this woman who seemed to be so important to him wouldn’t be staring down the barrel of a gun. He thought he had escaped, but they always came back. Cloaked in the dark and silent as a mouse and fingers pulling your strings before you can scream.
Bucky knew what would come next. The soldier would end it, complete the mission. And Bucky wasn’t sure he would ever find happiness knowing the last face his victims saw was his own.
Finally, Bucky was able to get his legs working, kicking and grunting and crying. But it wasn’t enough, not in time. The Soldier pulled the trigger and the woman slumped over, the sound a bang in Bucky’s chest, another unimportant thump to the Soldier’s ear.
The assassin disappeared, and the horrible, accented voice of Dr. Zola echoed around in his head. “Excellent work, Soldat,” he’d praise. Same words after every mission. His therapist says reacting to receiving compliments is something he needs to improve on. But time and time again, he’d hear Zola’s words, voice every time anyone complimented him.
The Soldier gone, Bucky was released from whatever clutches had been holding him down. He rushed over, picked the girl up, hoping somehow she was still conscious.
Her face and clothes drenched in a horrible red dye, covering her face. Hands scrambled to wipe her face of blood, brush debris away. “Please,” he whispered.
But when the blood cleared, features revealed, his heart climbed into his throat and he wanted to throw up.
It can’t be. No. Not her. Not—
Movement to his left breaks him from reliving the terror. It doesn’t set him off, his heartbeat doesn’t go haywire. Nothing’s wrong. It’s only you, tugging the vibrant quilt closer to your body. Cuddling closer to him, eyelashes fluttering to reveal eyes that aren’t lifeless.
You smile sleepily, face scrunching up in a yawn, clean of the blood his hands swiped through a second ago.
A sniff, and he holds back any breaths of relief to know you’re breathing.
Your hand reaches, threads through his hair, then smooths the wrinkles of his forehead he didn’t even know were there. You’re still smiling, he doesn’t think you notice.
“Just a bad dream,” you tell him. Hands shake as they make their way to you, he’s not sure where they land, he doesn’t care. He needs to be sure you’re here or he won’t stop thinking of your face spilling blood until he feels the weight of you in his arms, your scent not overrun metallic in his nose.
You let him and then he nods. “Just a bad dream,” he repeats.
The words bounce around in his head until his breathing settles and he’s halfway to sleep once again. The weight in his arms sweet and alive and grounding.
Bucky Barnes is afraid of the dark. Not for fear of what he can’t see. But for fear of what he can’t stop.
Day one of a drawing per day. Currently getting prompts from “300 Drawing Prompts” that my aunt gave me for Christmas. Yesterday’s prompt was Angel wings. I hope you enjoy.
