#self.para

[thephoebeyates]

📲 mommy 🩷

PHOEBE: I'm sorry I haven't been in touch

❗ NOT DELIVERED

PHOEBE: I really need to talk to you

❗ NOT DELIVERED

PHOEBE: I could really do with my mom right now...

❗ NOT DELIVERED

[snixxem]

[text] Steal Bree’s phone, and leave it in the mailbox outside.

Stealing wasn’t the problem. Santana had been doing it since she was twelve. Whether a candy at twelve, or a 15,000 Burkin purse at 21 - it depended on if it was for a thrill, or a necessity to pay a bill - she always got it done without flaws. 

 It was the fact it was a demand, and they didn’t need to say it for her to know she had little to no choice. That’s what fired up the nerves that cooked up the kind of discomfort that stretched from one end to the next. It was heavy; consuming the little peace of mind she rarely had. She was beginning to feel like someone was slowly webbing strings along her arms and legs, and creating a puppet out of her. 

Rage and fear sky-rocketed at the thought. She needed a drink, which was exactly what she announced when she entered the home after completing the task.

[thephoebeyates]

para002

tw: emotional abusive relationships, graphic imagery of a near death experience, pregnancy/birth complications, self deprecating thoughts, anxiety, depression (this is a flashback thread with Lisa and Spencer, what else do you expect)

They're singing, "Happy Birthday" You just wanna lay down and cry

For all intents and purposes as Phoebe awoke that morning, it was just another Monday. Well, she had once again fallen victim to the peace and serenity sleep brought her, still hoping the last month had been some horrific nightmare, where she’d roll over and find Foster there and everything would be fine. But, aside from that, just another day.

She watched the sun flit through the cheap, thin curtains as she laid in bed until Misty’s mewling was impossible to ignore. She fed the cat, made herself some coffee, and watched as the first notifications of the day popped up.

One thing was certain in life. Jeanie Ramachandran was always going to be the first one to post a birthday story for Phoebe, no matter how many times the birthday girl in question had complained. There was a few years where the bartender hadn’t take into account the time difference of where she was traveling to Illinois, which left a lot of people confused on when Phoebe’s date of birth was exactly, and she couldn’t help but admit that the best birthday gifts were that of confused texts from friends and acquaintances apologizing for being a day too late or too early.

Still, she got the notification that Jeanie had added her to her Instagram story, but didn’t click on it, watching her phone curiously to see if two specific people would contact her today. Her mom was unpredictable in every sense of the word, and Foster…

She told him she’d reach out first. What was she supposed to do; text him ‘hey I’m ready to talk now. BTW its my birthday’? Phoebe would rather gouge her eyes out with a spoon. 

Still, she opened up her text history with Lisa, the last few on Phoebe’s end going undelivered which meant her mom likely disconnected her number and was starting afresh somewhere new. It wasn’t like she’d forget Phoebe’s birthday: the worst day of Lisa Yates’ life. But whether she’d break no-contact with her daughter was anyone’s guess.

12 years ago. Phoebe’s 18th birthday.

“It’s upsetting me you’re not doing a party, Bee. You’re eighteen.” Lisa whined from her usual place on the couch. Douglas had just broken up with her, now his ex-wife was single again. True love never meant to be broken apart, Phoebe assumed. And Lisa just liked an excuse to wear her bathrobe at all hours of the day.

“Who’d come to my party, Mom? You, Linc, Seb, Jeanie —,” She paused, staring at her mother incredulously. “Not exactly a big birthday blowout.”

Lisa scoffed. “Oh, please. You have more friends than that. C’mon, I can get the invitations sent out today.”

“It’s Sunday, Mom. The post office isn’t exactly open.” She had finished packing her bag for the day, the dusty blue polo shirt of her Gulp ‘n’ Go uniform being her designated birthday outfit to ring in eighteen years. “Now I’m going to work, but I’ll be back later.” And she kissed Lisa on the forehead, prepared to have a normal day.

Upon returning home, the darkness setting over the small Weaver Ridge apartment with the exception of the neon lights of Gulp ‘n’Go guiding Phoebe jimmying the lock slightly before throwing her body weight into the door to get it open. She stumbled into the darkened living room, clutching the small store bought cake that she was sure was stale, but it was the only one the gas station had. Lisa was still sitting on the couch, just where Phoebe had left her, an empty bottle of red wine on the coffee table, a fresh one just being opened. 

“Hey.” Phoebe murmured, keeping her distance, trying to gauge which drunk Lisa she was getting. It most likely wasn’t the happy-go lucky party girl most people associated with her, which meant…

“Here’s to the anniversary of when I almost died!” Lisa slurred, holding up her wine glass, red wine splashing carelessly from the rim.

“Mom..” It was a story she heard every year. Sometimes it was painted in a more forgiving light, and others like now, it was like Phoebe deliberately made her entrance to the world a difficult and painful one.

“Just sixteen, barely lived. And you, fucking hell. You had the cord wrapped around your neck, and a really weak heartbeat, and never mind I was gushing out blood like I had an unlimited supply of it.” She sneered at Phoebe, who just stood there numbly. “And I remember begging God to let me live, let us both live. And I’d provide you with a great life.” Lisa managed to stand, stumbling over to her daughter. Phoebe tried hard to blink back the tears. 

“The worst day of my life, and you’re too selfish to even honor that with a fucking party.” The smell of wine on her hot breath made Phoebe’s stomach churn. “Happy birthday, Bee.” And with a shoulder check, stormed off to her bedroom.

Phoebe stood there numbly, taking a few deep breaths, before dumping the cake in the trash and just heading to bed, preparing for tomorrow to be a truly normal day.

Blinking out of her thoughts, Phoebe closed the text history with Lisa, deciding it was probably better to not hear from her mother, and after confirming to Jeanie she was definitely going to meet her later and not bail, showered and got dressed. The only good thing about Mondays was that it was Phoebe’s day off from the paper, and with her internship ending soon, she had no qualms about going in the remainder of the week either. She had a connection, had emailed her manuscript over to a potential agent who’d possibly take her on as a client. It was just the matter of finding something else to do with her day. 

If her and Foster survived it, would he have done something? She had no doubt he’d have respected her wishes to keep things lowkey, but she couldn’t help but mourn the potential loss of the birthday of a woman in a happy relationship, rather than the single thirty year old who barely felt like she was out of her teens. At least, a small voice told her, it was better than any birthday she was forced to spend with Spencer…

7 years ago. Phoebe’s 23rd birthday.

They hadn’t been dating that long. Only meeting a few months ago when he came by chance to O’Shea’s, and Phoebe served him the wrong drink by accident. After that, Spencer came by every Friday night to ask her out. He was charming, good looking, but she had been hesitant. However, one night she agreed, and the rest was history.

The thing was, Spencer was maybe too nice. He never let Phoebe have a bad word to say about herself, any self-deprecating jokes regarding her writing or playing immediately shut down. “Y’know you shouldn’t say those things about yourself,” He had pointed out one day, “I don’t like it. You wouldn’t like it if I said those things about me, would you?” And she had to admit she wouldn’t. But maybe after two decades of her mom’s backhanded compliments and ability to fly off the handle at any given moment, Phoebe was finally waiting for Spencer, and should have just quelled her anxiety that the other shoe looming over her threateningly was going to drop.

Then she turned twenty-three. And the shoe dropped hard. 

It had been her usual routine. She’d wake up, there’d be a post from Jeanie and other texts from her friends. Her mom would douse her in attention and bitch and moan that Phoebe wasn’t throwing a party, and that she wanted to shout from the rooftops that her baby girl was born twenty-three years today! But Phoebe wanted a normal day. She had the rare weekend off from O’Shea’s, and wanted to spend time with Spencer who, by her own design, had no idea what the date meant.

But all day he was off with her, like he couldn’t have thought of anything worse than spending time with his…well, they hadn’t exactly put a label on it yet, but Phoebe assumed with the way things were going it wouldn’t be long until they were boyfriend and girlfriend. It wasn’t until they came back to his apartment, a large chrome inspired place in the nice part of Cardinal Hill, when he took out his phone showing a screenshot of Jeanie’s birthday wishes to Phoebe, and slid it over to her.

“Do you know how embarrassing it was for me to find out this way?” He asked, and Phoebe immediately felt guilt wash over her.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just…my birthday isn’t a big deal to me, and uh, we’ve only been seeing each other for a few months so..” She tried to explain, and Spencer had the audacity to scoff in her face.

“No, I get it Phoebe. You don’t think I’m important enough. God, to think what amazing plans you must have canceled out on to slum it with me.” He shook his head. “I bet your friends will think I’m such an asshole for not getting you a gift. For not even saying it to you!” 

“They won’t think that, they know I’m…look, it’s just a day.” She tried to reason, heart palpitating at the idea of upsetting him further. “I…I can make it up to you. We can go for dinner, or…do something tomorrow, maybe?” 

He looked at her with utter contempt, shaking his head. “I think I should just drop you off home.” And that’s what he did, the car ride silent, Phoebe feeling like a monster for not disclosing her birthday to him. Her mom had set up more balloons since that morning, and even got Phoebe a cake from Walmart, and she held back tears the entire night.

When she woke up the next morning, she had a text from Spencer inviting her over. She tentatively did, scared things would end before they even really began, being met instead with a large balloon arch, the biggest cake she ever seen, and a small pile of gifts. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday, I was just upset you felt like you had to keep it from me. I was worried you thought I was someone who’d feel…inconvenienced or something.” He said, pulling her in for a kiss. “I’m never not going to make you feel like your birthday isn’t a big deal ever again…”

If only she knew what the next four years of birthdays would bring.

Her morning flew by quickly, though she was tense to leave on the off-chance Foster dropped by. But she left it for as long as she did to go for her pre-made plans she couldn’t exactly cancel, returning home with a couple of hours to spare in getting ready for whatever Jeanie had planned for her. 

Whatever it was, she could handle it. She was still a living, breathing person after what Elijah had gifted to her, and she knew the excitement would sink in after the shock and the exhaustion of her birthday was past her. 

Still, she came home, sorting through her closet to find something suitable, eyes falling on the gift box. Nine whole months it had been shoved in there, the vaguely festive wrapping paper collecting dust. Phoebe had strategically hidden it behind Foster’s stuff when he had first moved in, but without his pants and coats hung up, it was there hiding in plain sight, staring at her in the face.

She pulled it out and placed it on the bed, tearing it open and lifting the box flaps, letting out a soft gasp at what was inside.

2004. Phoebe’s 10th birthday.

“Mommy, mommy! Look!” When her mom had asked Phoebe what she wanted to do today, letting her skip school to celebrate her birthday, all the little girl wanted to was spend time with her mom. Lisa opted to take them to Chicago for the day, letting Phoebe into boutiques, music stores, and even had plans to visit one of the museums after lunch.

They were currently in a small second-hand bookstore, and Phoebe stared hungrily at what was on offer on the small, rickety shelves. The kindly old man was patient with all of her questions, and she had stumbled upon the best thing she had even seen.

A three-piece collection of Alice in Wonderland, The Wizard of Oz, and Peter Pan.

“Oh, they’re a bit young for you, aren’t you?” Lisa questioned with a patient smile, as Phoebe held up the books. “Like, baby, you have an advanced reading level — your teacher even said — you don’t wanna waste time with children’s books.”

“But mom, look at them. They’re like really special.” Phoebe defended, her big brown eyes watering. Lisa, to her credit, did take the box holding the books in her hands, studying each angle, eyes landing on the price tag.

“I’m sorry, Bee. I would, but they’re just…so expensive. For books! C’mon, I can get you a pretty new birthday dress next door for the same price.” They thanked the man for his time, and Phoebe hesitantly put the set down, and no matter how many times she returned to that store over the years  — to any second hand store in the greater Illinois area — Phoebe was convinced she had lost those books forever.

There, staring at her in the box, was the exact same collection set she had stumbled upon twenty years ago. All three stories of a little girl going to a magical land, all three stories about her somehow, some way finding her way home again.

There was no note, no clever sentence tying Oz, Wonderland or Neverland into Blue Harbor or what Phoebe sacrificed in her last thirty years. She didn’t know if it was an apology, or somehow Lisa proving that no matter what, she did care and listen to what her daughter wanted. All Phoebe could do was leave the books on her bed as she got ready.

She didn’t cry, not even when she accidentally jabbed her mascara brush in her eye. Just plastered on her best ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this but thank you anyway’ smile, and decided, that maybe once, celebrating her birthday didn’t have to be such a fucking hardship.

[thephoebeyates]

para001

tw: heartbreak, vague violent imagery, $10 earthwave garlic powder mention.

When Phoebe woke up that morning, she felt normal for about five seconds. The sun was seeping through her thin blinds, she could hear Misty scratching outside the door, and the lack of alarm had her momentarily excited for the things she could do on the day off she shared with Foster. She stretched out, arm hitting his side of the bed, the sheet cold, untouched.

Oh. Yeah.

She willed herself to roll over, to examine the unslept section of bed cover, where everything seemed preserved in the hours before total destruction. His empty cup of coffee from the morning before, that he brought back to bed with him because it was a rare Sunday off and Phoebe insisted they sleep in before his work-out routine called him. His worn notebook used for recipe ideas, laid almost carelessly on the floor as if it dropped out of his hands as he drifted off to sleep. Rolled off to a corner, half draped by the decorative curtain,  the balled-up pair of socks he kept promising to pick up whenever either of them noticed.

She threw herself out of bed then, going over and pulling open his drawer of things. His shirts still neatly folded, his socks and underwear still occupying the space. As if to say, it’ll all blow over soon. I’m coming back.

Fuck, she wanted him to come back. 

No, he could get fucked.

The scratching almost impossible to ignore now, Phoebe pulled away from the relics of Foster to focus on Misty, the cat rubbing her face as soon as the intern stepped into the living space, purring intently. She must be starving, Phoebe thought as she led her to the kitchen. Foster would have usually been up and fed her by now.

Cat’s breakfast down, Phoebe went into auto-pilot mode, beelining back to the bathroom to make sure Misty had fresh litter down, and then back to the bedroom to...she didn’t know, actually. What did you do the morning after a break up? 

She observed the space, finding clues of the chef in almost every nook and cranny. Funny, when he moved in a mere month ago, she was worried he didn’t have enough stuff with him. Now, it seemed like his presence was overwhelming. She went back to the drawer, taking out the whole section and, first ensuring Misty wasn’t there, lobbying the full thing out of the bedroom door. Handfuls of Foster’s things — his socks, his shoes, jackets hung up in the closet — all followed suit, creating a mound of clothing in the doorway, which she kicked over as she stormed out. Heading back to the bathroom she grabbed his toiletries to add to the pile. And then she reached the kitchen.

Grabbing a roll of trash bags, Phoebe hastily opened one, and in went his cookbooks, his preferred brand of coffee, fucking utensils she never had a use for in the first place. Useless stuff that made up him, and she couldn’t bear the thought of his mark being in her home anymore. 

She flew open cabinets, raided drawers, anything that was Foster’s or Foster-adjacent being tossed into the bag. She even went back to fill another trash bag with the slowly growing tripping hazard outside her bedroom door, before going back to where his presence was felt most. All the fucking cooking lessons, all his late night smokes outside her window. The ashtray went straight into the bag. Another artifact of his existence in her apartment gone.

It was when she opened the cupboard usually reserved for seasoning, spices and other condiments did she pause.

There, staring at her right in the face, was the fucking ten dollar fucking Earthwave fucking garlic fucking powder.

Not even thinking, Phoebe hastily reached for it and without missing a beat, lunged it across the kitchen, the jar bouncing off the tiled floor and shattering everywhere, the smell of dried garlic filling the room, a dust cloud settling over shards of broken glass.

It was then, and only then, did Phoebe allow a sob to escape her. She fell to the ground, chest heaving, the sound breathless and hoarse, the stream of tears flowing down her cheeks so strong, her entire face stung from the irritation. 

How could she have been so stupid? How did she not learn her lesson from her history with Spencer? With what others had told her about Foster? 

Eventually, her broken heart would mend. Would be splintered and battered in places, sure, but it would heal up eventually. Her trust in people, however? If she couldn’t trust the man she felt safest with in the whole world — the first person to truly make her feel like she was home — to be honest about himself, how could she ever trust anyone else?

Phoebe Yates was soft-hearted and weak, full of hope that people were more than their past and believing that they could do better.

It was the hope that killed you, in the end. And, curled up in a ball in her garlic dusted kitchen, Phoebe truly felt like her time was up, that she couldn’t go another day feeling this broken.

[lovelyfxxl]

P R E S E N T I N G

_____________ M I S S D O V E Y S T G E O R G E ___

to her majesty queen elinor hanover.

the room was long and narrow with all the furniture seemingly removed, or perhaps never having been decorated, aside from a pair of ornate thrones at the far end, elevated on a stage where a small assemblage of flamboyant courtiers attended the queen and fawned over the various little gems who traipsed down the carpet for presentation. it was all very... glittery. dovey did not know what sort of reception she expected to find here, but the inherent ire these socialites bore towards americans proved markedly more than whatever daydreams she'd entertained leading up to this night. the familiarity immediately set her upon edge.

dear emily took great care in going over with the 'young' ones under her guidance, and then going over with them again, each proper step in this meticulous orchestration. first names and titles would be announced, one was to promenade down the aisle lined with eager onlookers to the edge of the stage, then bow and/or curtsy at a respectable height, and be appraised before being dismissed to enjoy the festivities of the evening. none of that might have bothered her a tick had all the eyes on them not felt so terribly abrasive from the very beginning. "oh, it is bending at the waist and knees, it cannot be more frightening than crossing an ocean, right?" dovey half hissed, half whispered before the doors opened for the lytton family, which presently included the motley crew of wards.

aera froze like a frightened mouse, it seemed, while hari floundered a bit. this sort of affair was not among their innumerable talents, and it riled an all too familiar indignation to think her friends might be thought less of by this parade of flounce for that. without a second thought, dovey stepped forward with the express intention of drawing attention, negative and otherwise, towards herself as she, quite unlike her companions, relished the performance of it all. was she not here to entertain as it were? casual confidence kept her chin raised and eyes meeting only the monarchy to which she was meant to be impressing until the very moment her head bowed. no one would claim her manners practiced, her countenance perfect, nor even graceful, but captivating? dovey could pull that off, for a moment at least.

[theromandaniels]

para001

tw: violent imagery, gore, implied car accident, topics of death, surreal nightmare, grief.

They’re in the bus, and Harrison’s just cracked the joke about Roman’s family having access to the crown jewels, saying that if he’s going to bother proposing to Matilda, it might as well be with the biggest, most expensive rock that the British Isles has. Eli is telling him that it isn’t how it works, that Roman’s family aren’t even of nobility and, even if they were, very few people could just waltz into the Tower of London and grab the crown jewels, not even the Queen herself.

The Queen is still alive, because it’s 2019. It’s 2019 and the band have just had a successful world tour. And they’re on their way to the final show in Los Angeles. 

“You okay, man?” Comes the soft timber of Antonio’s voice next to him where they’re crammed in the backseat. They might have had three world tours but the budget on transport for more local shows is still as crap from when they were trying to make it at all back in Illinois. Kaya from his other side looks at him in concern. Then Elijah. Then finally, Harrison, turning from the front seat.

The deep blue of those eyes makes him want to be sick. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear the start of a countdown clock.

“Jesus, man. I’m only playing,” And Harry flashes him that damn Cheshire Cat smile. “Look, you could probably propose with a ring pop and she’ll say yes. Don’t let our teasing give you cold feet.”

“We need to pull over. We need to get off the bus.” Roman finds himself saying, trying to unbuckle his seatbelt so he can alert the driver.

“Someone crack open a window, I think he’s gonna hurl.” Someone, maybe Antonio, demands. Roman shakes his head.

“We need to…the bus. Harry you need to —,” Roman suddenly can’t breathe, the seatbelt seemingly only tightening around him, glancing frantically down to try and release it.

“What’s done is done.” 

He looks up, taken aback at the vision of Harrison. Still smirking, still his signature Cheshire Cat grin, blood spilling down his chin. His eyes gaunt, his skin gray. From this angle, his neck looks broken.

Internal decapitation. The knowledge hits him like, well, a bus. “Harry —,” He chokes out. His cheeks are wet. Something is telling him it’s not tears on his face though, not when everything is tinted with red.

“There’s nothing you can do, Rome.” And he sounds so fucking confident and cocksure of himself that the familiar lick of angry fire flares up in him.

“Yes we can! We need to — I could…trade places. We could…it wasn’t supposed to be you.”

The words reverberate around the bus. The countdown clock is getting louder. For the first time he notices Eli, Kaya and Antonio aren’t here. They got off, they made it. They’re safe.

“It’s not supposed to be you either.” His voice is so soft, Roman is sure he can imagine him fading into the blackness in his peripheral vision surrounding them, can feel his heart being ripped from his chest in real time, reaching out to grab Harry to stop him being consumed by the dark. “I’m fine. I’m safe. You just need to let go.” 

“No.” Roman has always been a stubborn bastard, always needing to have the final word, the last laugh. He’s sure he’s digging into Harry’s skin, but he’s not letting him go. Things can be different this time, he can do it, he can!

“Let go, Rome.” The voice is fading, the countdown being washed out by what sounds like hospital monitors beeping.

“Let…go…”

There was a large crash causing Roman to bolt awake with a scream, his right hand in a painful cramp, his retro-looking alarm blaring loudly. Rolling over to turn it off, he caught the date. June 12th, nine a.m. Harrison Morrey had been dead for five years and over twelve hours now. This time five years ago, Roman had been in surgery. Much good all that did.

He gave his hand a little shake, trying to ease the cramp with little success. Once his fingers finally unlocked, he threw himself out of bed, going downstairs for a much needed cup of coffee, and maybe a hard wall to knock his head against repeatedly.

Surprisingly, Ophelia was already up despite never outgrowing the ‘sleeping in until midday’ habit she had as a teenager. At first, Roman assumed that it was some sort of filming day until his phone was slid across the breakfast bar to him. Not been used in twenty-four hours.

He simply couldn’t hack it anymore. The texts informing him Harrison was in various thoughts and prayers, insensitive journalists and fans asking him questions. Seeing his face all over their specific niche corner of the internet. The first year had been hell, and he had been so broke and ill it hurt that he couldn’t really do anything at all. So, after that he and Ophelia devised a plan. On June 10th at 11:59pm he’d pass her contact details on to those who need to know for work reasons, then turned the device off to be kept in a drawer for the next day. Then, once woken on June 12th, could access it again. Not a perfect plan, but it was better than being dragged through a painful memory lane each year.

“You don’t have to go in.” Ophelia informed him, regarding the shop, sensing what was on his agenda for today.

“If I don’t, nothing will get done properly.” 

“Rome —,”

“O —,” The nickname matched her whinging tone. Glancing over at his sister, his features softened. “It’s just a normal day, I’ll be fine.” 

Because what was done was done. He couldn’t change the past.

Wouldn’t stop him wishing he could though.

[happydcath]

in case i don’t come back. (4/12)

part four of twelve.

an au self-para for josh kiszka.

after my last attempt, i vowed to not enter a cave again. if these things are dangerous, then I will stay away from them and not endanger others. besides, it is remarkably hard to find accessible caves that aren’t locked down to commercial endeavors. or at least, it is for someone like me, that has no experience with this sort of thing. i did look. briefly. i don’t want to leave my cellphone on for long. it was a half-hearted search, as i have no desire to go down into that darkness again. not after last time.

i bought a cheap fashion scarf to cover the bruises on my neck. the cashier stared at me the entire time she rung me out. the purple lines across my throat are obviously a handprint, but the fingers stretch too long, almost back past my ears. it hurts to turn my head. it hurts to lift anything or even to keep my arms up and on the steering wheel for hours on end.

they didn’t mean to hurt me. i know this now. they didn’t realize.

i finally checked the news. the cave tour group is believed missing. they’re speculating that they went into an unexplored part of the caverns and got lost. they didn’t find any bodies. i guess they never will. they haven’t released the names of the people missing yet. if they do, i’ll be safe at least. i used a fake name and paid with cash.

i feel guilty thinking this way. about how their deaths will affect me when i at least got to survive.

i started to hear the whispers yesterday morning. this is unusual, for i’d only heard them in the dark prior to now. they echoed in the back of my head like a low hum whose origin can’t be pinpointed. it chewed at my waking thoughts and when my mind slipped into an idle state i thought of the darkness; of walking through a vast space and my body felt cold. at one point i realized i’d taken an exit i hadn’t intended to take. i turned around and returned to the highway.

they’re calling to me. i know that’s what this is. i felt it like a barb inside my chest, the line pulling ever tighter the longer i tried to ignore it. i think they set it when they fixed my eyes. affixed it inside me, wrapped around my sternum, and now i am caught and can only twist helplessly.

i thought it was fine. that I could fight the call, that i was strong enough to. i’m not.

i returned to awareness after i was in the hollow space. i didn’t know how i got there. i have no recollection of what happened between when i went to bed in my hotel room last night and when i woke under the earth. when i next opened my eyes i was someplace vast and cold, barefoot and dressed in my pajamas. this was not a dream, nor was i somehow transported there directly from my bed. my legs ached as if i’d been walking and there was grit on my feet. eli was at my feet.

their whispers surrounded me. discordant, uneven, as if multiple lines of thought were swirling about me, each distinct and none of them demanding to be heard over the other. i couldn’t hold on to any of them and it all sounded like noise in my head. i fell to my knees and covered my hands with my ears.

one of them touched my arm, lightly, where the bruises were spreading up towards my bicep. then it shifted, fingertips against the tendon in my neck. something in my chest caught at that, the memory of being held, being dragged away against my will, of trying to scream and fight and being helpless.

i slapped its hand away. and i felt a shift, a sudden awareness that had not been there before fixed on my person. i felt their surprise - and their displeasure.

they would not hurt me. this i understood. was made to understand from the whispering that forced their intention into my very mind. they had before, obviously, but that was not their intention. a mistake.

sam, after all, never fought back. we are more fragile than they realized.

but neither would they tolerate my rebuke.

i lay this out for you so easily but that masks what this process was actually like. everything moved too fast, like images flickering in and out of my eyesight so fast that I could only register the impression. i filled in the gaps myself and even then, i couldn’t do it at the time. i only half-understood what was happening. it was only later that i could sit still and silent and reflect that i began to piece it all together. i wonder how much of what i wrote above is my own conjecture.

i wonder how much of me they understand. they did not seem to care what i was, but rather why i was. like they were skimming the top of my emotions and trying to comprehend what formed them without understanding the emotions themselves.

they understood, at least, that i was not sam. that i was different, that i had a will and desires of my own and that they no longer matched what they wanted of me.

and i understood their intention to remedy this.

i fought them. i felt like a child throwing a tantrum but i knew no other way to express that i didn’t want to be here, that i was scared and confused. they held me, but with the flat of their hands, pressing against my back and pinning me to the ground. just enough that my struggling to rise was futile, my feet sliding uselessly against the stone beneath me. and there was a touch, a single finger against my spine, just between my shoulderblades.

something tightened in my chest. strings encircling my ribcage, squeezing tight until it felt my ribs would crack. i whimpered in the back of my throat.

my memories falter again at this point. i snatched fragments here and there. of being pulled to my feet, fingers encircling each of my wrists. another hand against my back, steadying me as i stood.

of being taken through the cave (i don’t know which, i don’t think i can ever find it again). they were all around me, a tiny knot of those things escorting me back to the surface. despite everything, i felt safe. they would see to it. and i drifted back into the darkness in my mind.

when i was fully myself again, i found myself on a muddy road, half overgrown and encased by the forest. i didn’t know what else to do (my cellphone was not with me) so i continued walking along with it. there was barely any light from the moon filtering through the trees, but the darkness wasn’t an issue. i couldn’t see, but i knew where everything was. that there was glass from broken bottles littering the road, that there were sharp stones, and i avoided them all.

i wasn’t afraid. not of the night. just… annoyed. i was very lost as to where i was.

i don’t know how long i walked. it felt like hours. i never realized how much shoes do for us - my feet ached in a way i didn’t think possible, such that every step was agony. the full weight of my body bearing down on muscles that were unused to the strain. i kept moving only because i feared if i stopped i’d not get up again.

finally, i reached a gas station. it was still before dawn. i had to talk to someone. there was no other way to get directions back to the hotel. i told the clerk a story about sleepwalking. on a trip with a friend, i explained. i didn’t have their phone number memorized, i relied on my cellphone’s address book… which was back in the hotel room. i didn’t have to feign embarrassment for my lie.

he called a taxi for me. paid for it himself. he seemed confused, uncertain of what to do other than overwhelmingly help in whatever way he could. people are like that, i’m finding. we want to help.

i wanted to help when i saw sam at the mailbox. i think this instinct is a curse on humanity.

i still feel those strings in my chest. they dig in when i twist my body too far or bend over. it is uncomfortable, but it doesn’t hurt. not yet.

i know why they’re there. sam went to the cave every day if he could. they called to him and he went. they’re calling to me, but i did not go, and so they left something behind to compel me.

they want something. there’s a reason for all this. perhaps those things aren’t dangerous for me, but i know they are dangerous and i’m terrified that they’ll get whatever it is they’re after.

i deleted all the scheduled emails. i'm sorry. i felt i must. i don’t want anyone else to become trapped as i have been. this is no longer about saving one child or even saving one person such as myself. it’s about saving everyone else that might stumble across the hollow space in the world.

this is the only proof now and it can be dismissed or written off as a clever prank. if - when - i vanish (for i'm beginning to believe this is the only outcome) i'll have nothing left of me but these words. i will continue to update for as long as I can, but at some point, i fear that one of these posts will be my last.

please read them. please remember them. but do not go down into the earth after me.

[happydcath]

in case i don’t come back. (3/12)

part three of twelve.

an au self-para for josh kiszka.

this is a harder update to make than the last.

i made a mistake today. five people are dead because of me. i thought those things in the hollow space were benign, but they aren’t, they only tolerate me. i don’t know why. i hear screams echoing in my head - of terror, of pain - and i can’t bear to look in the mirror. there are bruises around my neck and arms from their hands when they dragged me away from the group and sent me back to the surface.

part of me wishes i’d died down there with the other five. i don’t even know who they were.

i’ll tell you how this happened. but please, remember what i am responsible for. five people that had nothing to do with this died and maybe one life was worth trading for the safety of a child but five lives are not worth mine. i hate myself. i think you should hate me too by the time i finish this update.

i’ve been driving all weekend. i said i was going to run, and i ran. i’m afraid i can’t tell you specifics of what i’m doing. i have to assume the government knows everything about me now and i don’t want to confirm whether any of that information has changed or not.

i’m not wearing my glasses. i gave that away in my last post. this is so strange to me; having to think like this. having to remember i’m being hunted. my eyes hurt. it’s even worse in the light. have you ever gone outside in a deep cold and felt the wind against your eyes and squeezed them shut tight and felt how they were cold against your eyelids? it feels like that constantly. they’re red, too, especially at the corner where that thing first worked its finger into the socket. they’re stained with blood. it’s starting to dry and it looks like rust, like the whites of my eyes are rusting.

i have new sunglasses, at least, to hide them from people. bought them at a gas station. i haven’t been able to use non-prescription sunglasses since i was in high school.

at least now i know i was right to leave. i took a risk - i turned my cellphone on. i wanted to reply to people. it’s so strange, i don’t know you and yet you’re like a lifeline for me now. a tether to normalcy.

i like my habits. my life was orderly. there were patterns and schedules i adhered to and i found them comforting. what i’m doing now - with no plans and nothing familiar around me - it’s like being thrown into a foreign country where all the customs and norms you rely on can no longer be trusted. i feel isolated and adrift.

i only leave my phone on for a few minutes at a time. i’m not sure if this is safe.

during one of those stops, i called elizabeth. to ask about sam. he hasn’t gone into the woods, she said. not for a few days now. she sounded relieved. then she asked about me. i wasn’t home, she said, and then there were people at my house. the police, but other people too that looked federal and they were there a long time.

they came and questioned elizabeth about me. said they needed to find me, that i was in danger. they fed her some story about drugs. and then she asked me if i was safe, if i would tell her where I was so that they could come to take me. that it was okay, she understood what it was like and that she would help me through it. that there were resources. that all i had to do was let them help me.

i hung up without saying anything. i guess she believes them now.

it was better that way.

this is how they’re going to hunt me. they’ll turn compassion into a weapon. at least now it’s me they want instead of sam. that is how it should be. 

around midday, i decided to find an opportunity to go back to the hollow space. a cave was surprisingly easy to find. i think i’d been driving towards it all day without understanding that was what i was doing. i don’t have a destination in mind. i’m picking highways on intuition and perhaps that instinct brought me to a road that led past where i needed to be. the sign wasn’t that big, just the name of the caverns and the exit number. i turned off the highway and drove until i found it.

i probably shouldn’t describe the outfit in much detail. just in case someone from the government reads this. i can tell you that it was small and there was a sense of familiarity there in the people that ran it. they liked their work and liked sharing the tiny cave they’d acquired the land to with others. i was the last to arrive before the next tour. there were two other couples and the tour guide. we were given helmets with headlamps and they looked at our shoes to make sure they were suitable. this was not like the big caves, they said. there were some tight passages and there were no lights down there.

i’ll be honest - i wasn’t certain what i was trying to do. i felt compelled to go down into the earth and the more i write this, the more i think they were calling to me like they’d been calling for sam. i didn’t have to go like this, though. i didn’t have to take people with me.

the cave was wetter than the other one i’d been in. minerals encrusted the walls and the guide held up the light to reflect off their cloudy surfaces. he showed us chunks that had broken off, let us handle them. i was distracted. i only half-listened to him, straining to hear the whispering that ebbed from behind the reach of our lanterns.

i don’t think they use words. i don’t think the sounds mean anything at all. i think they’re just the carrier for the intention behind them, like thought and substance are entwined in the waves of sound.

you could argue that is language. we carry our thoughts with the noises we make. this is different, however. i think they could communicate without whispering.

i think they do it for our sake.

i turned my light off. i thought i’d fall back into the darkness and let them find me while the rest of the tour went on ahead. but that didn’t happen. when i turned my light off, all lights went off, as if that one small act plunged us all into the hollow part of the world and no light was permitted here.

i heard a couple of the others with me gasp in surprise. the guide began to speak, to tell them it was fine - then he screamed. piercing, shocked, and abruptly over with a sound like the tearing of the fabric. wet. liquid splattering on the ground. and another person screamed, and another - their cries were swallowed up into the vastness of the earth around us and i stumbled for them, hands outstretched in the darkness, crying wordlessly that they needed to stop, that this was wrong, that this wasn’t what i wanted.

hands seized my arms, just above the elbow. another went around my neck and the fingertips burrowed into the tendons of my neck, choking off my pleas. they pulled me back and their grip only tightened when i struggled until it felt like they were compressing my very bones.

purple lines of bruises mark exactly where their fingers went. the skin all around where they held me is green and yellow and i fear i will have to find a way to hide them, lest someone believes i’m being taken.

they took me away from there, from where they were killing the others that had come into the earth with me, and pulled me back to the entrance of the cave. i could see the light of the fading day in the distance, a thin pinpoint like a candle. they dropped me to my knees, for i hadn’t stopped fighting them the whole time, even though my fingers could not grasp hold of anything but air and they were so much stronger, able to carry my weight even as i struggled for purchase to resist where they were taking me. the hand around my throat switched to grip the back of my neck, keeping my head fixed forwards so i could not turn and look at them in the light of the faint daylight.

i felt their reprimandation. not unkind, nor harsh. simply telling me that this was how it was, that i had made a mistake - understandable - and now i knew not to come down here with another ever again.

just me. they’d accepted me in place of sam.

then they were gone and i was alone in the cave.

i didn’t go back to see what had become of the other five. i went to my car and i drove away. i’ve been driving since. i don’t plan on even getting a hotel tonight, i’m just going to sleep in my car. i don’t want to talk to anyone. i don’t feel i deserve to be part of this world anymore after what i’ve done. and maybe this was just a mistake and maybe you’re inclined to forgive me - because how could i have known?

please don’t.

i can’t forgive myself and i think i’d prefer hatred. it’s sharp and it burns inside me and i think this will be what carries me forward. it’s a comforting fire and after today, i deserve to burn in its pyre.