Tw Abuse - Blog Posts

ive been through so much pain in my life. Inflicted with it. Helpless to stop it.

And I’m so angry and depressed right now. How dare the world hurt me this way. I was supposed to be given kindness and love- and instead i was tortured. Broken. Made an example of. Turned into nothing.

Everyone else has such consistent happiness within them. Like they have no question that they are loveable. How fucking dare the world take that stability away from me. I was to feel safe and good all the time.

Instead i went through horrific circumstances. People stood back and said, “that kid’s going to be fucked up for life”. And instead of STOPPING it i am now fucked up for life. And those who could? Yeah.. those who SHOULD’VE helped DIDN’T. And it’s as much their fault as it is the inflictor’s fault. The pricks.

To me now it seems that almost all people have parents who love them. Families that take care of them. I hate how my life lacks that. I hate how i SHOULD’VE had that and DIDN’T.

I even feel evil right now, speaking out into the void. Their words. Telling me i am Pretending to be a victim. My pain is my own fault, i am just what is wrong. Not them. Blame blame shame and guilt on me. Not them. And this enrages me when it is so clearly twisted and manipulative.

I feel evil still. Saying out loud the fucking TRUTH. I feel like my words will genuinely hurt someone. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I know I am hurting and that this pain dies with me. No one else should ever have to feel this.

But that’s just it. MY WORDS ARE NOT HARMFUL. The guilt and gaslighting is STILL clinging to me. If I put a voice to my pain and actually say what happened, well means i’m hurting my abusers!!! Oh how DARE I hurt them by saying out loud what they fucking did to me. The liars say they want the truth. Ha.

For the void i will say it. The truth is I was robbed of a loving family. Of a happy childhood. Of kindness and love. I was not only ignored but also bullied mercilessly by people supposed to love me. And I am forced to carry this pain. I must carry this fucking horrible pain and loss. All the way to my grave. I should’ve had it better. And i didn’t.

Evil horrible people abused me.

I am a fucking victim of abuse.

I still don’t believe myself when i say that. I wasn’t abused in ways other people have- so it doesn’t count. It’s not enough abuse

But, These scars… they will last my life. They are real so anyone who says my abuse wasn’t abuse can FUCK off. (looking at you enabler family members .)

Other people had families. And love. I had a fucking posse of bullies. I was hated from the moment i could speak up. Three year old child treated like garbage.

No one else (besides other victims) carries these kinds of scars. Often i feel so alone among those who were loved.

They can live their peaceful blissful lives, happy to be loved and happy to love. I am happy for them. But the jealousy i have towards them too.. It fuels my anger at my abusers. They should’ve loved me. Treated me well. Not twisted me up and broke me and toyed and played and hit and sneered at and despised and grew disgusted with me.

World?

Void?

I am angry. And jealous. Why cant i go back and be loved? Where is the lost hours, days, of kindness? I was not shown affection.

I want to have been loved.

All i am left with is loss.

It makes me mad.

I cry for the butcher

Gold silver and copper

cake my tongue

No harm can ever come from

my mother's praying hands

My filthy mouth -

I harmed myself

Orange wedge lip

Clenched ivory threat

Pulled the trigger with my tongue

Blood orange

Her saintly hands

I’m sorry - a million times over

I say to her

And when i finally cry

It is not for the lamb.

The Monastery of the Lost

There is a Legend that circles throughout many old villages, those that have yet to make the leap into the New Age, especially those around the base of the Howling Mountains. Elders speak of a hanging Monastery that is protected by creatures of old, creatures that were slowly killed of by people in their fear.

Eyre, Guardian of the East Gate positioned directly behind a cascading waterfall that has led many to their deaths. A Kelpie made of green tinted serpentine rock, teeth bared threateningly as a mane of seaweed falls across its back, and eyes made of rubies gleam whenever the sun hits them.

Cephas, Guardian of the North Gate positioned on the path that leads into the inside of the mountains caves, where bats chase intruders out and stalagmites fall. A Drake made of gneiss with massive claws and teeth bared in threat while its delicately carved tail wraps around the pedastool. It is said that Cephas is more a protector, prefferring to simply stop intruders rather than kill.

Yukio, Guardian of the West Gate positioned towards the snow covered paths that threaten avalanches, and ice covered rocks that are only too easy to slip on. A Kamaitachi made of granite with claws made of blue kyanite, teeth bared in a menacing expression as it prepares to leap into the air and attack.

Notus, Guardian of the South Gate positioned in the open air and only able to be entered by Elemental Masters. The South Gate is the hardest to approach because of the powerful, howling winds that whip by constantly and the dark clouds that gather when intruders approach. A Xexeu made completely of basalt with beak opened wide in a scream of thunder as black wings spread as if too take flight, and eyes made of cracked jade.

The Monastery itself is said to have dragons made of broken jade and pieced back together with silver sat atop its high walls made of polished marble, roofs of gold shingles, and pathways made of granite within the massive courtyard. Towards the North Gate stands a massive garden of all kinds of trees and flowers, several of them edible.

From the East Gate flows a river of crystal clear, drinkable water that provides the water for the entire Monastery. Because of its old age the Monastery had none of the newer technology such as lights, electricity or fridges, but it had bathrooms, running water, and an old fashioned stove.

It was enough for Morro who had, in the short time he'd been brought back to life, yet to truly become comfortable with any of those advancements. When he'd heard the Legend while staying in a nearby village, he'd dismissed it but after hearing it in the next two villages he'd passed through he'd decided to check it out.

Using his wind, he'd approached the Southern Gate and was unsurprised when the Guardian stayed stone and passed by it unencumbered. He did not notice its eyes following his every move as he made his way towards the Monastery's golden doors.

It took him several months to truly outfit the Monastery as he wanted it, though he didn't change much, but one day while he was within one of the nearby villages he heard something that had his blood boiling. Morro found a man beating a young toddler, a kid of maybe four years old, cursing about stolen money as the kid sobbed. Hidden far back in an alley, they were mostly hidden and the kids cries were far quieter than they should have been.

With a snarl, Morro sent the man flying into the wall and threatened to kill him unless he left. At firat the man tried to resist, claiming the kid was his son and he could punish him how he saw fit but Morro was not a forgiving or patient man. His second blow, this time with his fist, had the mans nose breaking beneath his knuckles in a satisfying crunch.

Cussing and crying the man fled as Morro watched with a prideful smirk. A tiny sniffle had him remembering the kid, so he turned to find said kid trying to stand even after being beaten like that.

"Sit back down, brat," Morro snapped, as the kids eyes snapped up to him, wide and fearful. Sighing, he ran a hand through his choppy hair before slowly crouching down. He vaguely remembered Lloyd having several memories of comforting kids, but he hoped it would be enough. "Are . . . Are you okay? He was hittin' you pretty hard."

The kid stared, hands wrapping protectively over his ribs, where several kicks had been delivered. When the silence had stretched on too long, Morro tried again.

"Look, I'm not . . . I'm not gonna be like him and hit you if you respond okay? I don't like men who beat on kids," Morro stated, frowning when the kid continued to stare at him, uncomprehending. "Can . . . Can you hear me?"

This time the kid nodded, slowly, eyes never leaving Morro. "You just don't wanna talk?"

Another nod.

"Fine. Yes or no. Are you hurt?"

The nod was slower as if he wasn't sure.

"Okay. Can I help you?"

The kid stared at him blankly before his lip began quivering, making Morro curse in his head. What had he done to upset the kid? He'd only asked to help . . .

"Please." The kids voice was so small and weak as if he never used it. Morro was viscerally reminded of himself when he was on the streets, chased off and beaten whenever he chose the wrong trashcan to raid.

"I'll help you. And I won't make you go back to that asshole either. But you have to come with me for that to happen."

Blinking wide, dark green eyes met pale jade as Morro held out his hand. It took a few minutes but eventually the kid made a decision and reached out for his hand.

Smirking, Morro led the kid from the alley and back to the shop he'd just left. He'd need some first aid supplies for this.

While he was inside picking up bandages, he felt the kid gently tug at the base of his GI. "What?"

"Nico."

Morro's brow furrowed and he looked down at the kid, who still looked guarded but far more relaxed than he had been in the alley. "Nico? Is that your name kid?"

Nodding, Morro huffed and hesitantly ruffled his hair. "Guess I didn't introduce myself, huh? Morro, kid."

And so began Morro's journey. Not as the Green Ninja. Not as the Forgotten Ninja or Vengeful Ghost. But his journey as a Sensei and a Parent for Nico was not the only child he rescued.

Maya, an 11 year old girl on the streets struggling not to become a prostitute.

Wren, an 8 year old living in an abandoned house on the forests edge.

Cassey, an 17 year old forced into prostitution to protect her younger brother, Liam, a 7 year old.

Lady, a 6 year old on the streets.

Casper, a 9 year old caught stealing from houses.

Sammy, a 15 year old who tried pickpocketing Morro and had successfully been pickpocketing others.

All eight kids lived in the Monastery alongside Morro, who they saw as their brother and Sensei since he was so insistent they learn to protect themselves.

Cassey and Sammy were incredibly helpful for a young man who had barely taken care of himself while out in the world, but he learned.

--------------------2 Years Later------------------------

Four kids snuck through the halls, using the stealth skills Morro had recuntly begun implementing in their training. Quietly, Casper pushed open the door, grinning when it didn't creak upon opening.

Slowly they crept towards the occupied bed, before climbing onto the foot of the bed pausing anytime the person stirred.

Unknown to the four, their target was wide awake and simply waiting for his moment to strike.

"Ready?" Wren asked, eager as ever.

"Ready."

"Ready."

Nico giggled to himself, and nodded.

"3 . . . 2 . .-"

Casper yelped as his legs were swiped out from underneath him and he landed on the bed with an oomph. Lady and Wren quickly followed, landing on top of the poor boy as Nico was swept into Morro's arms with a laugh of delight.

"And just what were you four doing?" Morro asked. To most he would sound furious and angry but that was simply his voice for them.

"Cassey sent us to wake you up," Lady pouted, sitting up. Morro raised am eyebrow at the three before glancing down to Nico, the weaklink of their little group.

"Nico?"

"You needed a wakeup call she said," Nico admitted, voice as quiet as ever. Morro sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Disrespectful. All of you."

All four giggled as he swung himself out of bed. "All right, beat it. Go eat. I'll be there in a minute."

"Okay!"

Lady, Wren, and Casper left but Nico simply sat on the bed, attached to Morro's hip as always. Ruffling hia hair as he passed by to get his closet, Morro reached for his Sensei robes. For know he wore only the under layers and pants leaving the top for when training actually began, after breakfast.

"Alright kid, let's go see what Cassey cooked up."

Nico giggled, reaching out for Morro who gave a put upon sigh. "I hope you know how spoiled you are," Morro stated fondly as Nico smiled wider. Since Nico had been in his life, Morro had let go of many of the angers he'd held to focus on bringing him up the way he wished he would've been.

And with Lloyd's own experiences still in his memory, he had a pretty good idea of what he shouldn't do.

Nico seemed to think he was doing pretty good based on his massive grin whenever he was with Morro. After being so painfully shy and terrified those first few months, Morro was relieved and proud of the smiles and infectious happiness the 6 year old radiated.

"What do you wanna watch today, kid?"

Nico thought for a moment, sticking the chew necklace he wore in his mouth. "Bluey," He mumbled.

"Alright, Bluey it is."

CARVED OUT BY FEAR જ⁀➴

yandere!yuta okkotsu x reader

warnings: emotional abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, implied violence, psychological trauma, disassociation, yandere themes

wc: 318

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

he doesn’t yell when he’s angry.

that would be too easy.

yuta okkotsu punishes in silence. with hands that don’t bruise, but hold too tight. with eyes that watch you fall apart and never look away.

he enjoys it.

he enjoys me—my pain, my fear, my confusion. i see it in the way he smiles when my voice cracks. in how he cups my face so tenderly after a breakdown he caused, whispering, “there you are… you always look so honest when you’re crying.”

he tells me it’s because he loves the real me.

but what he really loves is the version of me he’s carved out with fear.

every time i try to stand up for myself, to push back, to breathe—he lets me. he watches me rage, scream, cry—and then when im exhausted, shaking, back against the wall—he kneels beside me like a savior.

“shh… that’s it,” he murmurs, wiping my tears. “you got it out. i'm proud of you.”

he says he’s proud when I fall apart.

because that’s the version he’s in love with. the girl who can’t leave. the girl who only survives when she’s in his arms.

and when i stop fighting?

he’s sweeter than anyone i've ever known.

he’ll brush my hair. run me a bath. feed me by hand like I’m something precious and weak.

“see? isn’t it easier when you don’t resist?”

he calls it love.

but it’s not love.

it’s ownership wrapped in soft words and bruiseless hands. it’s the way he tilts his head when I disassociate, studying my emptiness like it’s beautiful.

“i like when you go quiet like that,” he once said. “you look peaceful.”

i wasn’t peaceful.

i was gone.

can’t stop imagining tiny little host!vic getting pinched by nana for swearing and their mom asking where the marks came from and vic insisting it was steffi pops. their mom not believing them and telling them to stop blaming things on steffi.

can’t stop imagining their mom writing it off as weird little kid stuff instead of investigating any further, eventually getting so annoyed by vic’s “antics” she just stopped caring when they came back from nana’s house with marks - because every time little five year old vic told her it was steffi pops. though it crossed her mind, their mom refused to entertain the notion her mother was abusing her child.

throw in vivid childhood dreams and you get distorted memories of childhood, the internalization that maybe the pinching really was just a series of dreams they had as a kid about their weird doll.

anyways. steffi pops as a coping mechanism, a tulpa made of false memories and real abuse. nobody touch me

Many people are of the opinion that some of the abuses that C!Dream faces are in some way justified or excusable. Which, no! Abuse is never okay! But lets put that aside for one moment. Lets pretend that yes, c!dream being subject to solitary confinement is defensable due to the moral boundaries that he’d crossed. That he posed such a threat to other people, that he was bad enough of a person, that his rights are now null and void.

Where do we draw the line? I’m genuinely curious, at what point in the storyline did people no longer think he deserved adequate living conditions? What action did he take that then made it perfectly okay for him to be cut off from any form of support network? What moment meant that his canonical self harm could then be dismissed as attention seeking?

And if we’ve now established that there is some point when abuse is justified, surely that logic must be applied universally? What action would c!tommy have to take where exile was okay? Where is that line in the sand?

The logic behind excusing the conditions of pandoras vault is the same behind justifying the exile arc.

Being abusive and being mentally ill are not mutually exclusive

The removal of all positive traits from c!dream is harmful to abuse survivors.

Abusers are not terrible 100% of the time. Many are leading community members, or known for their charisma and friendliness.

It is an incredibly common narrative that people doubt that they were actually abused, as the perpetrator displayed kindness and positive traits, to both their victims and other people.

When abuse victims do come forward, their experiences are often denied by people who had a good experience with the abuser.

Allowing c!dream not only makes for a more compelling narrative and character, but it also makes it easier for people to identify abusers.

Maybe you still think c!dream is evil, and that’s okay. But evil has a human face.

some dictionary definitions to review:

Abuse

Torture

Manipulation

Felonies

Morals

Sympathiser

Apologist

Justify

Excuse

Explain

dsmp lore fans learn what words mean challenge

So many people argue that c!dream being imprisoned and tortured is best for c!tommy... is it really? Surely the most reassuring thing for him would be knowing that his abuser has been rehabilitated and no liber want to hurt him? Instead he just lives everyday unsure if c!dream will escape and hurt him again. Perpetuating the cycle of violence, focusing on the punishment of crimes rather then the prevention of them future ones, hurts everybody, including c!tommy.

I’ve seen a lot of people say that c!dreams behaviour in pandoras vault is him ‘manipulating’ everyone, and whilst I personally don’t think so, I wouldn’t care if he was. Even if he is altering his demeanour to illicit sympathy- it’s for the goal of avoiding torture? So many of c!dreams actions are unjustifiable, but that is most certainly not one of them.

If during exile, c!tommy had been lying to his visitors or to c!dream with the end goal of securing his freedom, that would be 100% understandable. If his suicidal ideation had been an act to bring about the end of exile, these actions would have been seen as clever, as a smart tactic c!tommy was utilising. Most people would see this manipulation as a way of escaping his abuser.

In addition, if someone is self harming ‘for attention’, it still counts as self harm and needs to be taken seriously. The fact that c!dream is in such a desperate situation that he has committed suicide multiple times is extremely worrying-regardless of any other outcomes he is attempting to achieve.

c!tommy has flaws ≠ he deserves abuse.

this is very much subjective- and informed by own journey of dealing with abuse. I hope this makes sense, and I am very much open to other (respectful) opinions.

~The ‘revenge fantasy’ is a storyline I am somewhat sick of seeing! If someone finds them cathartic or helpful, that is wonderful; and everyone is allowed to have different relationships with media. I just want to see other story lines, for a number of reasons.

‘Getting even’ with ones abuser/s isn’t always feasible. Whether through legal means, or taking matters into your own hands, victims/survivors don’t always have that ability. The statistics on SA show this very clearly- the rate of convictions is appallingly low. For many, their abuser may pass away before ever facing the consequences of their actions. In addition, people don’t always want justice/revenge. In many ways, leaving no space for your abuser is the most helpful thing to do. Others may not find revenge satisfying. Especially after the focus and limelight in media, the actual emotional impact maybe somewhat of a letdown. One persons suffering does not erase anothers. Seeing ones abuser be hurt, it doesn’t undo the damage they’ve done, nor does it necessarily stop them from hurting others in the future.

I am also not talking about measures taken that prevent anymore people being hurt, that ensure abusers won’t have anymore victims. There are absolutely some people whose freedom must be taken away for the safety of others. But I will always be more in favour of options that work to rehabilitate. My veiw on the application of the prison system is that it should be about protecting people, not punishing them. I am far more interested in a narrative that centres solely around recovery, around someone rebuilding their life and relationships with no room for the person who hurt them. That makes clear that the abuser was a big part of their past, but won’t be a big part of their present or future.

Let me make this clear- I am not saying that getting justice is bad. I am saying that it is not essential.

Storylines of revenge 100% have their place, but framing them as an essential step in the healing process is not helpful.

thinking abt critiquing the entire existence of the revenge trope as it pertains to pandoras vault,, someone hype me up i need the confidence boost

C!Dream affected not only by malnutrition, but but by a lack of sunlight.

When he first enters pandoras vault he’s doing, okay. Mentally and physically. Still shaken by his two canon deaths in quick succession, but he’s handling it.

But then he starts sleeping more (and it hurts because it reminds him of c!george). But sleeping is all he has to occupy himself, a way to make the time pass faster. He tries to keep his strength up, to exercise regularly, maintain his stamina, but it seems to get harder everyday. Not just because there’s no point, but physically. Fatigue plagues him every waking moment. He sleeps not because of its restorative effect, but because when hes sleeping, he doesn’t know just how tired he is.

Everything hurts. He can never find a comfortable position on the obsidian floor, but it’s more than that. His very bones ache. Muscle pain is constant, with no exertion to explain it. His legs cramp, his whole body does, despite it never happening to him previously.

When c!Quackity visits, things are worse then they should be. Hits that would have only bruised in the past now break bones. His wounds don’t heal like they used to. Infections set in easily. He can only watch as his body breaks down, is broken down, and one day he forgets what the sun looks like. Did its warm rays on his skin feel the same as the heat radiating of the lava? He can’t remember anymore.

Everything listed is an actual symptom of vitamin d deficiency! Not included is depression and mood swings. Add onto all that solitary confinement & malnutrition. 6 months of no sunlight is a Very Bad Thing.

Chapter 4: I see you

Content Warnings for Chapter 4:

Child Abuse (Physical and Emotional)

Neglect and Abandonment

Drug Abuse Mention

Domestic Violence

Mentions of Poverty and Financial S

trugglesTrauma and PTSD

 ThemesMental Health Struggles (Insanity/Breakdowns)

Graphic Descriptions of Injury/AbuseDissociation and Psychological Distress

viewer discretion is advised ⚠️

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My footsteps echoed softly through the unfamiliar halls, each step carrying me closer to a classroom I had never entered before. There was no sense of certainty about what awaited me beyond its door, only a quiet apprehension that lingered in my chest. After signing a consent form handed to me at the entrance, something unexpected happened—the paper itself shimmered faintly, folding and twisting until it transformed into a mask resting delicately in my hands.

I recognized its shape almost instantly, though only from the books I had devoured back at the facility. It was a kitsune mask, a relic often associated with spirits and tricksters from old tales. Traditionally, these masks covered the entire face, which struck me as suffocating and isolating—perhaps a personal bias formed from my own sensory sensitivities. To my relief, however, this mask was only a half-mask, designed to shield my eyes rather than my whole face. A practical adjustment, I assumed, meant to make it less overwhelming to wear.

Ms. Tess, who had been silently observing my reaction, stepped forward and explained the mask's true purpose. It was not simply an ornament or a ceremonial object—it was a tool. A containment device meant to dampen the constant flood of visions and fractured moments that relentlessly played across my mind like a broken film reel. With the mask in place, the overwhelming torrent of future flashes would ease, granting me at least a fleeting sense of normalcy.

She also gently suggested that I visit her every Friday—a standing invitation to what she called 'sensory moments.' These were designed to ground me, a time dedicated to unraveling the tension knotted inside my mind. Apparently, my powers were not only fueled by external triggers but also amplified by my own relentless overthinking, the constant hum of unease I carried with me. It was this internal chaos, she explained, that kept my abilities flaring wildly out of control, leaving me drained and vulnerable.

Those fleeting thoughts, fragile as fallen leaves beneath my feet, crumbled the moment I stood before the door. Room 206—a name so ordinary for a place that felt anything but.

My knuckles rapped softly against the wood, and with a breath caught between hesitation and resolve, I pushed the door open.

"As predicted, here she is."

The voice belonged to the professor, whose gaze flickered toward me with the faintest trace of expectation. I lifted my eyes to meet theirs, offering a plain, almost weightless, "Good morning," before stepping fully into the room—a presence without fanfare, yet not without gravity.

My gaze drifted over the room, tracing each unfamiliar face. Eleven students. Only eleven.

So, they weren't exaggerating after all. Those who walk the uncertain paths tied to time itself—our kind—are rare as cracks in the sky.  From what I see, they all have unique different objects they wear to help them control their powers, which is quite amazing to think that there's this one girl who have her eyes blindfolded.

"Please introduce yourself." The professor said as I nodded. "Good morning. I am Tachibana Hagarin..."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Curious gazes devoured my presence the moment I settled into my seat. I suppose I couldn't blame them—a new face in a room so small was bound to attract attention. The silence that followed pressed against my skin like a second atmosphere, thick and unrelenting.

"For the continuation of our lesson," the professor's voice cut through the hush like a knife against glass, "we begin at Chapter 5."

A pause—deliberate, heavy.

"Dark Triad."

The words slithered into the air, curling like smoke around the edges of my mind.

"The Dark Triad refers to Narcissism, Machiavellianism, and Psychopathy—three personality traits bound together by manipulation, absence of empathy, and an insatiable hunger for control."

The professor's voice echoed within the hollow of my thoughts, and for once, the clarity of it felt almost indulgent. My mind had been left unclouded for days, all thanks to the mask resting against my face — a fragile shield between my sanity and the endless unraveling of time.

Even so, I couldn't help but wonder why we were treading the waters of psychology in the first place.

This was supposed to be a class for those who twist time itself — so why did this feel like an autopsy for the mind? 

When the class ended after 2 hours, I finally reached the schedule of vacant time. I was quietly thinking of what to do with the given 2 hours of vacant but suddenly...

A pen rolled near my shoe, its faint clatter against the cold floor somehow louder than it should have been. I leaned forward, fingers poised to grasp it—

"No!"

The word cracked like a whip through the air, sharp enough to slice through my hesitation. I looked up to see a girl, panic carved into every step she took as she nearly stumbled toward me, her shoe sending the pen skittering across the room.

"You shouldn't touch it," she whispered, her voice low and urgent, as if the walls themselves had ears.

I followed the flicker of her gaze to a boy slouched near the back, his grin stitched too wide across his face, a glint in his eye that spoke of cruelty reserved for those who knew no limits.

"Why?" My voice was calm, but curiosity curled beneath it like smoke.

"That pen," Clara murmured, fingers trembling as they curled into her sleeves, "has been laced with someone's twisted magic. If you touched it, you would've been swallowed whole — into a room stitched from riddles and silence. A place where you could scream until your voice breaks, and still no one would hear you."

Her words tasted like truth, bitter and lingering.

"But you kicked it," I pointed out, my voice softer now. "Wouldn't that count as contact?"

She shook her head, strands of hair sticking to the sweat gathering at her temple. "No... It needs skin. It craves warmth. Bone, flesh, the pulse beneath your fingertips. Shoes are just leather and rubber. They hold no soul."

Her eyes drifted back to the boy — the architect of this sick game — who merely offered a laugh that sounded more like something choking on itself.

"Just be careful," Clara said, voice dipping lower. "You're new. You don't want to end up... you know... a plaything."

I offered a nod, the weight of her words settling across my shoulders like a damp cloak. "Thank you for the warning."

There was silence, then her hand stretched toward me, trembling just slightly. "I'm Clara."

I took her hand — cold skin against mine — and held it for a breath longer than I meant to. "Hagarin."

A pause, then: "Can I ask... more about this place? This department?"

Clara sighed, her expression caught somewhere between pity and exhaustion, before she sank into the seat beside me.

"I'll tell you everything I can," she said, her voice no louder than a prayer, "in hopes it makes you feel a little less like prey."

When Clara settled beside me, I let my gaze linger on her — a habit born from survival rather than curiosity. Her hair, a shade too soft for this place, was braided into a bun plait, too delicate for a room that reeked of fear. The strands twisted like a noose, and at its center, her monocle gleamed like an artificial eye — an elegant restraint to a power I knew she could barely hold back.

"Where would you like to start?" Her voice cut through my observation like a scalpel, precise and clinical.

I averted my gaze, as though looking too long would unravel me. "I suppose... we could start with the culture here. What do people do in a place like this?"

Clara's smile was thin, barely there, like a ghost caught between walls. "Culture," she repeated, as though the word was foreign, a relic long buried beneath dust and rot.

She folded her hands in her lap, knuckles pale. "This building breathes silence. Not by design, but by consequence. We are few — a species on the verge of extinction, clinging to corridors stained with the mistakes of those who came before us. But we all share the same disease."

Her voice dropped into something brittle. "The disease of seeing too much."

I felt my stomach twist. "And the subjects you study?"

"Psychology, History, Philosophy, Sociology, Politics," she listed them like names on gravestones.

"Why?" I asked, though I already knew the answer would taste bitter.

"Because if you lose your mind, your power will devour you." Her words carried the weight of a funeral prayer. "This place is a coffin for those who couldn't hold their own sanity together — their powers grew wild, untethered, until they swallowed them whole. If you can't control your mind, you can't control the time."

Clara scratched at her temple, the skin red and irritated, as though her own thoughts were a splinter beneath the flesh.

"These subjects aren't about learning — they're about survival. You study history so you don't repeat your own mistakes. You study psychology so you understand the voices crawling inside your head. Philosophy teaches you to question your reality before it eats you alive. Sociology reminds you that you aren't the only monster walking these halls. And politics..."

She trailed off, but another voice filled the void.

"Politics teaches you the rules of power. Knowing when to kneel — and when to slit a throat."

The footsteps were soft, measured, each one deliberate like the ticking of a clock. A boy stood before us, the air around him heavy with calculation. His uniform was too neat, his posture too perfect, like he belonged in a portrait rather than this crumbling room.

His smile was polite, but his eyes were scalpel-sharp, stripping me bare in a single glance. "Sanity is currency here," he said. "If you lose it, your power consumes you from the inside out. So, we sharpen our minds until they're blades — because the only way to survive this place is to cut first."

The room felt colder.

The boy offered no introduction but just a polite smile. "Right, no need to sound like a walking thesis just to make us feel stupid, Clarence," Clara shot back, her voice light, but her eyes rolling with enough force to tilt the earth off its axis.

Clarence chuckled — a low, deliberate sound that somehow felt like it belonged to someone who knew exactly how and when you would die. "Just doing my civic duty. Our new little time anomaly deserves the full orientation package, doesn't she?" His gaze flickered to me, sharp but amused.

I rested my chin in my palm, already exhausted. "If we're supposed to be trained into functional, sane people, why's that guy..." —my finger lazily pointed at the slumped figure drooling onto his desk, the one who rolled the pen towards me— "acting like he's escaped from a psychological horror film?"

Clara snorted. "Oh, him? That's Ezra. He's new, like you. Except he skipped the 'gradual breakdown' part and just speed ran straight into 'hopelessly unhinged.'"

Clarence leaned against the desk, his expression darkening into something more serious — the kind of look you'd wear at a eulogy. "He's a walking cautionary tale. His sanity wasn't just fractured — it was pried apart, piece by piece, until the light itself showed him everything he couldn't bear to see."

He paused, his fingers tracing patterns on the desk absentmindedly. "You see, for some of us, the power doesn't break us. It shows us how broken we already were. And once the mind is exposed to too much truth, it shatters like glass."

I didn't respond. There wasn't much to say when someone described a fate you could practically feel breathing down your neck.

Clara, mercifully, broke the silence. "Anyway!" she clapped her hands together, trying to inject some life back into the room. "Moral of the story — don't touch random objects, don't stare too long at the void, and for god's sake, never trust the vending machine on the third floor."

"Why the vending machine?" I blinked, confused by the sudden shift.

Clarence just smiled. "It eats more than your money."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Several days have passed, and I suppose I've begun to adapt to the peculiar rhythm of this place. The atmosphere here is unlike the main building, which was constantly alive with noise and bustling students. In stark contrast, this department feels almost isolated, its silence only interrupted by the occasional conversation or the faint hum of distant footsteps.

Throughout these days, I've found myself gravitating toward Clara and Clarence. They seem to have taken it upon themselves to ensure I don't entirely lose my mind in this strange environment. When they're occupied, however, Ezra tends to appear — often without warning. His presence alone is unnerving, considering our first encounter involved him casually rolling a cursed pen in my direction. A pen, mind you, capable of trapping me within a labyrinth of riddles until I somehow managed to solve my way out. To put it lightly, Ezra's existence leaves me with an enduring sense of wariness.

At the moment, our class is gathered in the gymnasium. Today's exercise focuses on building connections — not through casual conversation, but through direct access to each other's memories. The process is simple in theory: remove any object that dampens our abilities, select a partner, and lock eyes until the walls around their past begin to collapse, allowing us a glimpse into their personal history. It is, apparently, a foundational technique for understanding time travel. For some reason, the moment I removed my mask, nothing happened. No sudden flood of memories, no overwhelming rush of visions — just the ordinary sight of the gymnasium and my classmates. It was almost unsettling how quiet my mind remained, like a static screen where chaos should have been.

Perhaps it's this building itself — designed to keep us on edge, to suppress what we rely on most. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of subtle tricks they embedded into these walls. A spell? A mechanism? Or maybe something much simpler, like the weight of constant observation. Whatever it was, the absence of noise in my head felt louder than any commotion ever could.

"I'll be assigning partners," our proctor announced, glancing down at the clipboard in his hands. A collective groan rippled through the room, though none of us were particularly surprised. Of course, we couldn't choose for ourselves — not here.

"Hagarin and Ezra."

Ah, yes. The radiant beacon of my existence. How fortunate I am.

From behind me, I heard the unmistakable twin reactions of Clara and Clarence — a synchronized oh that carried both sympathy and amusement. I turned to them, silently pleading for some form of rescue, but all they offered in return were sheepish smiles and helpless shrugs.

Before I could plot my escape, a hand clamped down on my shoulder, spinning me around with unnecessary enthusiasm. "Aren't you the luckiest? Partnered with me!" Ezra's grin stretched ear to ear, radiating the kind of chaotic energy that could set off a fire alarm just by existing.

"More like a curse," I replied, shaking my head. "You cling like a wasp that refuses to die."

"And you," he said, utterly unfazed, "are the honey — all sweet and easy to mess with."

"Dear god..." I muttered with a cringed reaction etched on my face, turning to walk away, only for him to seize my wrist and pull me back into his orbit, cackling like a villain in a low-budget play.

He's going to be the death of me someday — that much I'm certain of.

The proctor continued announcing the other pairs, though his voice felt distant, like a soft hum beneath the weight of my own thoughts. Soon enough, it was time to begin.

We were instructed to sit across from our assigned partners, knees barely apart, eyes locked. No masks, no objects to soften the edges of our abilities. Just direct eye contact, until the world around us dissolved into memory.

The rules were clear, spoken with the sternness of someone who had undoubtedly witnessed the consequences of disobedience: Do not touch anything. Do not move anything. Do not allow yourself to be seen. Do not speak to anyone. Observe, nothing more. A quiet ghost in the river of time.

I met his gaze, and for a brief moment, I forgot how to breathe.

His eyes — mismatched and striking — were a story in themselves. One a rich amber, warm like sunlight spilling through ancient windows; the other a deep, stormy blue, like the sky moments before thunder shatters the silence. They pulled me in, gently at first, then all at once, like falling into a trance where the edges between past and present began to blur.

Somehow, without meaning to, I found myself wondering — if eyes could hold someone's entire history, what kind of story would his tell me?

A blur crawled into my mind, cold and relentless — like fingers dragging me under the surface of a frozen lake.

The flood of memories didn't arrive gently, nor did it feel like a tender unveiling of his past. It was violence wrapped in silence, the kind of silence that pulses against your ears when screams are too hoarse to escape. Whispers slithered through the cracks in my consciousness, fragmented mutterings, desperate pleas, the sound of skin hitting skin, the begging — oh god, the begging to live.

And that is the story of Ezra.

A boy born into the middle ground — not poor enough to be pitied, not wealthy enough to be spared. His life was average in the cruelest sense, hovering just above ruin, surrounded by people too broken to love him properly. Those smiles and bursts of manic energy were a carefully crafted mask, because the truth was too ugly to show.

Deliberately ignored by the very hands meant to protect him, Ezra learned survival the hard way. His mother — the woman meant to fill his stomach and soothe his fears — turned to drugs instead, letting substances take the place of responsibility. The house became a prison, the walls soaked with the stench of neglect. And when she wasn't a ghost, she was a monster.

She made sure his body bore the weight of her frustrations. Bruises blooming like rotting flowers, bones learning to break before they could fully grow. There were nights he couldn't walk, mornings he woke up wondering if his legs would ever carry him again.

And yet, here he sits — bright-eyed, loud-mouthed, and relentlessly alive.

But now I know the truth.

Every smile is a desperate defiance. Every laugh is a scream buried under his tongue. Every careless act of chaos is a child daring the world to break him again.

And in this flood of someone else's pain, I realized: some people aren't born survivors — they're made into them.

I wanted to help him.

It wasn't a fleeting thought, nor some heroic impulse — it was instinct, primal and unforgiving. My bones screamed at me to reach out, to shatter the rules, to tear through the veil that separated my reality from his.

But I couldn't.

Because the rules are absolute.

Do not touch. Remain unseen. Just watch.

So I watched. I watched as he collapsed onto the cold, filthy ground, limbs trembling from the weight of bruises layered over bones too fragile for this kind of life. His breathing was shallow, the kind of breath that doesn't expect to last.

And when I thought that was the end — that this was where his story would end in a puddle of blood and neglect — she came.

An old woman with shaking hands and kindness carved into every line on her face. She scooped him up like he was something fragile and precious, like broken things were meant to be cared for, not discarded.

She gave him warmth, food, and clothes that didn't hang off him like skin he was waiting to shed. She gave him a home, not just a house. And for the first time, he tasted love. Real love — the kind without conditions, without fists hiding behind smiles.

"What's a wife?" young Ezra asked one day, small fingers tugging at her sleeve as they sat by a hearth that crackled softly — the only sound that didn't hurt his ears.

The old woman smiled, gentle and sad. "A wife is someone you'll love — someone you'll never turn your back on. She's like a seed you plant, one that grows into something beautiful if you care for it properly. Promise me, Ezra. When you find someone, treat her right. Be the kind of man your father never was."

And for a while, it seemed like fate would be kinder to him.

But trauma doesn't disappear — it festers. It finds ways to seep into every crack, even when you think you've sealed them shut.

So Ezra grew up with kindness in his heart, but madness wrapped around his mind like a second skin.

He became a man who laughed too loudly and too often, because silence was where the ghosts lived. He turned himself into a living spectacle — an insane clown wearing tragedy like face paint. But beneath the chaos, beneath the theatrics, he was still that little boy asking what love was, praying someone would show him how not to break it.

Ezra is a good man.

Just one who was built from broken things. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 3,743 words

Next Chapter

She-Ra Where’s Micah?

So, obviously the rumors of Micah’s death is greatly exaggerated or misunderstood. We’re never shown exactly how he ‘died’ we just know he did and Angella feels responsible since it is implied it was her plan or decision that lead to his supposed death. Which is why Angella has a fear of making another bad decision that she didn’t make any decisions leading ( or contributing) to the original Princess Alliance to fall apart.

So, Micah isn’t dead. Then where is he? If he was a prisoner of the Horde he would’ve been used as a bargaining chip by them already. To get Angella and Castaspella to comply with whatever demands in order to ensure Micah’s safety. Both have a strong emotional and personal relationship with Micah, they would’ve done it. Two kingdoms submitting with little to no resistance at the same time would be a huge advantage for The Horde.

I theorize Shadow Weaver somehow has him under her own secret and private improsonment. Without Hordak’s or anyone else’s knowledge. Why would Shadow Weaver hide this from Hordak?

Simply because Shadow Weaver cares about her own magical power first and foremost. Even if giving Micah to Hordak would gain her approval and favor, Shadow Weaver has shown again and again, Hordak and his mission means nothing to her. Hordak is simply convenient for her goal.

The way she used Glimmer as a living magic battery while crude, but given the rushed circumstances she seemed to be comfortable and at ease with the situation. While showing disregard for Glimmer’s physical well being during this, it shows she has the knowledge to perform this and a lack of empathy to take magic from other’s regardless if it’s hurting them.

It also helps show that she’s hypothetically done it to Micah and possibly still did while she was in the Frightzone. Shadow Weaver probably has a complex spell or magical device that’s keeping him imprisoned (and out of sight) but alive enough to serve as a magic battery. Her being kicked out of the Frightzone has possibly cut her off from his magic.

Though, if he’s not being held by Shadow Weaver he’s possibly stuck or trapped in whatever area of the mission he ‘died’ in or he has amnesia as a result of the injuries he received on said mission.

Harvey Dent & Two Face in the Reevesverse Headcanons

He and Bruce aren't childhood friends because Bruce was homeschooled.

I hc that he and Bruce met after the flood incident because Gotham is in need of a new DA. (I swear, my ears perked up when I heard that Gil Colson was a DA on my rewatch of the movie. Immediately I was like, "they better mention Harvey Dent because this is the perfect way to introduce him".)

Mayor Reál introduces them to each other at a party / fundraiser.

Harvey and Bruce are awkward for a while but after they talk more about how they want to change Gotham, they develop a bond with each other.

Harvey knows he has DID because of his Father's abuse and communicates with Harv.

They have a schedule about who uses the body on what day.

The reason why Harv is so aggressive is because he wants to protect themselves from danger. And how can you be in danger when you are the danger.

Harvey wants to enact justice the right and legal way because he knows it'll be worth it. Meanwhile Harv wants it to be done fast because "Justice doesn't spare time for the guilty."

Harvey and Harv admire what Batman does but both agree that wearing a leather bat costume beating up criminals at night seems a bit too tacky. (He wears half and half suits but they're a part of his theme, he says.)

He and Gilda married early, a few years after they graduated college.

He and Gilda eventually got divorced because they realized they're too different for each other.

Now they're on friendly terms and have coffee meetings from time to time.

Harvey has a crush on Bruce while Harv wants to marry him on the spot because who wouldn't want to marry a man who shares the same dreams of changing the world as you.

After the acid incident, his DID gets revealed to the public and the media portrays him as a "Two faced lawyer".

They call themselves Two Face because "If it's two face they want, it's Two Face they get."

Two Face gets portrayed as a crime boss, which he is but he doesn't harm civilians. Only those who are corrupt, thieves, abusers. Those kinds of people.

He may be a criminal, but that doesn't mean his goal is completely changed. He still wants to change Gotham for the better, It's just done differently now.

random wolfstar drabbleeeeee

alrighty

“mmph--” there was a voice heard.

“hm..?”

“did i wake you up?” a raven-haired boy asked.

“nah, woke myself up”

“what’s the time?” sirius asked, and he got himself up.

“11 o’clock”

“wha- how much did i sleep???”

remus shrugs. he raises his hand and pulls sirius back next to him. sirius lets out a groan. remus slowly moves his hand so he can hug his partner.

and bam, those two start the morning cuddles. *guys stop it’s too adorableee*

all of a sudden, a bang was heard. the two got up. but for what? an all-mighty karen broke their door so she can complain.

“youuuuu” the old woman said coldly.

“who?” remus asked.

“YOU, FAGGOTS” the karen screamed.

“bitch, what the f?” another voice was heard.

a random woman from the block just stood there, watching the karen having a tantrum or whatever she had, a seizure?

“why are you BANGING all evening???” the oldie said, accetuating banging.

“ i think you were the one who banged something” sirius said, subtly pointing to the door. “you’ll fix it. now, keep on steppin.”

the women left, leaving the door broken.

“that bitch, wont even fix the door. well, im too lazy” remus mumbled.

“yea, im gonna go do breakfast”

ok so

this is horrible

short and horrible

it's no big surprise you turned out this way

"sirius orion black, how dare you! how dare you disrespect me and how dare you screw our reputation up! you should be ashamed of yourself!" walburga shouted in the black's dining room, making the glasses on the table shake. "get out of my sight!"

sirius got up of his chair quickly and ran to his room, thoughts coming up in his head.

when they closed their eyes and prayed you would change

walburga sat on her chair, reached her glass full of wine, took a sip and looked out the window, the moon reflecting itself in her eyes, glistering in tears.

"what did i do wrong" she whispered under her breath. "didn't i raise him right? didn't i raise him to be the heir we all want him to be? am i a bad mother?"

and they cut your hair and sent you away

"where are you going?" regulus asked his older brother, leaning against the door frame.

"away from you all. i'm done" sirius answered." you can come too."

"no..i can't" the other one replied.

sirius sighed. "i'm sorry it has to be like this. well...take care." he finished, putting the last things in his chest and walked downstairs.

"sirius black, where are you going?" walburga asked, getting up from the chair.

"away. and i'm not coming back" he said coldly and left the house.

"sirius...!" walburga shouted. "sirius orion black!"

you stopped by my house the night you escaped

"sirius?" james gasped. "what happened?"

"i-i don't think it's time to explain" sirius replied, panting.

"why am i standing here like this? come in!"

with tears in my eyes i begged you to stay

"i shouldn't come here, i'm sorry" sirius sighed. "i'll just pack my things and search for a place"

"no" james responded. "stay here! you're welcomed!"

"james, you're amazing, but i can't take it. i'm not worthy of staying here, and i'm just a burden."

"no you're not!" james replied. "stay! please!"

you said "hey man, i love you"

"no" sirius finished and exited the room.

"no! wait! sirius!"

"no, james. i shouldn't have been welcomed here. i'll just look for a place to go. sorry"

"sirius!" james shouted after him, with hope that he'll come back.

as he saw sirius walking off, james could only hear the word "sorry" in his head.

"sirius!"

"but no fucking way"

Profic Party Day Three - Your Most Problematic Ship

(featuring everyone's favorite fazacon)

Enji whos guilt consumes him and makes him enable Toya's bad behavior >>>> (prolly ooc but idgaf im balling ⛹️‍♂️)

No Text | No Filters | More Burns 🤤

this took so long, I'm finally free 🕊

If I messed anything up no i didn't. close your eyes

The more I think I about it, the more I realise how alike Hunter from TOH and Fear Herself from MVT are.

Comparison

Upbringing:

Both Hunter and Arava had strict and demanding upbringings, leading to a sense of duty and resilience.

Hunter's upbringing was within the structured environment of the Emperor's Coven, while Arava's was on a tropical island with heavy responsibilities from a young age.

Manipulation and Exploitation:

Hunter was manipulated by Belos into believing he was his nephew and used as a tool.

Arava was exploited by her village for her powers, never receiving genuine appreciation.

Guilt and Internal Conflict:

Hunter's guilt stemmed from his fear of failure and his internal conflict with his loyalty to Belos.

Arava's guilt was more profound, rooted in the accidental death of her mother and the creation of demons.

Loss and Betrayal:

Hunter felt betrayed upon discovering the truth about his origins and abandoned Belos.

Arava experienced a significant loss when she was stripped of her Overseer powers, adding to her feelings of betrayal and inadequacy.

Emotional Turmoil:

Hunter's trauma manifested as anxiety, fear of being replaced, and difficulty forming connections.

Arava's trauma was more intense, with erratic behavior, deep-seated insecurities, suicidal tendencies, and a path to redemption.

Chrysanthemum Days Part 5

[Part 1] | [Part 2] | [Part 3] | [Part 4] | [Part 5] | [Part 6] 

Explanation under the read more!

TW: Story arc Chrysanthemum Days has subjects of intense bullying, suicide baiting, manipulation, social isolation, and mentions of self-inflicted wounds. If any of these subjects bother you, skip this story arc.

I’m actually not sure if there’s any explanation to be had for this part. Shimi is angry to the point of violence which is amplified by her unstable secondary quirk (of which the mechanics I will be updating on her profile,,, sooner or later lmao).

Chrysanthemum Days Part 4

[Part 1] | [Part 2] | [Part 3] | [Part 4] | [Part 5] | [Part 6] 

Technically it was part 6 on Instagram but oh well!

Explanation under the read more!

TW: Story Arc Chrysanthemum Days has subjects of intense bullying, suicide baiting, manipulation, social isolation, and mentions of self inflicted wounds. If any of these subjects bothers you, skip this story arc.

And the reason why Mira had been abusing Shimi the way she had been was for... POPULARITY?! Can you imagine how self-absorbed you’d have to be to do that? Well, Mira is exactly that much.

Of course being shoved around for three years does things to a person, Shimi in this case. Being the target of death threats, other things to cause her injury and harm, loss and destruction of personal property, and thoroughly having her reputation drug through the ground doesn’t bode well for one’s mental state. 

And here we see the first instance of a very dangerous side effect of Shimi’s secondary quirk, Tiger Form. 

A Blind Rage.

There’s also a few hints here relating to her future at UA, mostly that she didn’t make the mark for the Hero Course practical exam.

(READ PAGES FROM RIGHT TO LEFT)

Chrysanthemum Days Chapter 3

[Part 1] | [Part 2] | [Part 3] | [Part 4] | [Part 5] | [Part 6]

Chapter 3 is OUT and oh man its brutal.

TW: Story Arc Chrysanthemum Days has subjects of intense bullying, suicide baiting, manipultion, social isolation, and mentions of self influcted wounds. If any of these subjects bothers you, skip this story arc.

         “The school wasn't so bad the girl thought. Yes, it was just fine even if it did have its issues like every other school.”

TW: manipulation, abuse, bullying, death threats

// A story to outline what Shimi had experienced back in junior high (middle school). 

Click the link to read the full thing!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/18Cb17yl1_7f5LH_zJWu_Wc0Rsuw4Q_VFc59ynNEV2Bw/edit?usp=sharing (in case the link on the quote doesnt work)

*Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of physical abuse, mental abuse, emotional abuse, parental abuse, verbal abuse, child neglect, threats, anxiety, panic attacks, violence towards children.* Monday, June 19th, 2023 Part 5 6:32pm

Now here we are, in the present, where I’m back after 3 years at 20 years old. Where I’ve learned and grew so much outside of this cage, where I was free from the dark chasm in my life and heart that is home. Where every second around you makes me feel 8 and 10 and 12 and 15 and 17, all simultaneously and all over again. Of course, the abuse has stopped, it stopped a long time ago, but when you have PTSD, things get really muddled. And, yes, I’m an adult now, teaching at an elementary school, and taking care myself for the most part. So, what’s so bad? Well, I’ll tell you.

When I’m back in my childhood bedroom, sleeping on an air mattress, with ALL of my younger siblings, as an adult. When there’s another bedroom that could have been used, but why would it be, when my stepdad uses it to get ready for work, to house the hundreds of products he purchased from Amazon, and in case you forgot from earlier, the thousands of dollars worth of workout equipment that he uses once every 2 months. OH! And get this! His mother is living with us right now, and she now gets that bedroom. Wild, right?

When I’m back to being the in-house, unpaid nanny for the kids. To feed them, watch them, help them with homework, and yes, to correct any misbehaving and report only the extremes. When my stepdad decides he’s bestowing me the responsibility of “supervising the kids cleaning the room”. When he comments on how responsible I’ve always been, and offers me to be back on their car insurance, even though I was never removed from it. 

When he comes in the door, and immediately starts yelling and blaming everyone for how “messy” the house is, and to “get this crap off my stuff”, and “who touched my shelf?”. OH, THE SHELF! When he has a whole shelf in the refrigerator that is dedicated to separate all of his groceries for his vegetarian diet and his on-brand food items that cannot be disturbed by anyone else. When he subjects my mom to buying the cheapest version of all food products, but specifically asks for her to only buy specific brands for him. When he has 2 tables in the kitchen for juicing that cannot be used as counter space by anyone but him. When he’s telling me about the health benefits of one of his juices (or as he calls it every time, “a concoction”), and adds, “Bet you didn’t know that when you were vegan, huh?”. When he continues to not allow anyone to use the washer in the evenings when he gets home because he needs to wash his uniform daily. Also! When no one is allowed to use the only bathroom in the house for at least 3 hours, because he needs it reserved.

When he consistently forgets our birthdays or details of what’s going on in our lives because he doesn’t ask, until my mom tells him of an achievement we’ve made and forces him to congratulate us. When he’s rushing to get to where he’s going and he’s bounding and pushing throughout the house telling everyone to get out of his way because he has poor time management and forgets that there’s 8 people in this tiny house right now. When he asks us a question and we answer, but he doesn’t care because his focus is always elsewhere, so he yells at us that we’re ignoring him. When he impulsively decides to buy the kids something or take them out to eat, and he constantly complains about he could be watching Tv instead or badgering the kids about how much it costs. 

When you misinform your kids by telling them inaccurate retellings of American and Black history. When you feign authority over whether they can go out with a friend, just to forget about it until the time arrives. When you preach about respect and manners, but continue to disrespect and treat me as a child and allow your kids to do the same. When you brag about accolades and compliments from your job because of said respect and manners, even posting a letter on the fridge, but never celebrating any of us for our accolades and compliments.

When you force me to pay you and mom at least $100 a week ($500 a month) as a rent-adjacent payment to help my mom with groceries and bills, just like you used to. When you constantly lecture me about getting a car, but don’t allow the full autonomy of my finances by threatening my ability to stay in my childhood home with the payments. When you try to tell me how to do my job teaching, when you have zero experience of the sort, and try to speak in a proper manner to match my manner of speaking. When you project your superiority/inferiority complex onto me when you ask me about college, by trying to act that you’re more intelligent than me and more knowledgeable about the subject I’m literally having to explain to you.

When you constantly forget about my mental disorders and my therapy and my medication, then you ask me about them as if it’s your time hearing it, even though you know that my mental health is the whole reason I moved back home. When you weaponize your willful ignorance against everyone in the house, especially my mom, to excuse your participation and involvement in our lives.  When you bought walkie-talkies as an updated way of summoning everyone to your room to heed your request, like a bell system that you ring when you need an attendant, saying, “[insert name], report to the bedroom.”, because you can’t be bothered to function independently at home or talk to your family normally. 

How you require that whenever we enter your room to listen to you, that we stand on the side, “where you can see us”. How you make my mother wash all of your clothes or prepare your shower. How my mother goes out of her to make your choice of dinner every night, but you consistently change your mind and inconvenience her, or how my mother is currently in school to get her degree and has HOMEWORK, just to get frustrated when your wife isn’t able to spend time with you. How you selectively recognize that my mom is overworked, just to blame it on us, rather than stepping up and being the parent that you should be. 

How you ask me to complete your online training and learning modules for your job, despite me not knowing anything about truck driving or transporting oil and that you don’t pay me to complete what you should be completing on your own, again, for your job! How you are teaching your kids to stereotype other marginalized communities by saying, “All Mexicans eat guacamole”, or “Those Asian people look like they squint because they’re eyes are too small”.

How you literally decide to manspread every chance you get and take up so much unnecessary space, and force everyone to move around you and yell when someone can’t get around you, when I’m literally taller than you. How you insult your kids daily by calling them stupid, dumb, clumsy, blind, deaf, etc., when it’s because of your own failings as a parent that they don’t meet your expectations of them. How you lie to everyone not in the household in front of all of us about how you act as a parent. How you lie to your kids saying that a box of doughnuts has been sitting on your table for 3 days and needs to be thrown out, when I just bought it that same afternoon. How you don’t know how to react if the kids have a medical emergency because you don’t know their conditions, medications, and what they’re for.

How you manipulate your kids into serving you (“helping you”) by painting it as spending time together, which is the only time you spend together.

How you constantly speak in very vague and general terms, saying “that thing”, “your stuff”, “over there”, then get frustrated and insult everyone’s intelligence because you can’t think of ways to speak in a more clear and intelligent manner, and expect us to be able to always know what you’re speaking of.

How you asked me why I never come home, and I told you a half-truth. How you’re so observational, yet not perceptive. Because if you were, you would at least have the self-reflection to be able to understand that you’re a despicable, horrible piece of shit excuse for a human being, not even a man. How you can’t even look at yourself in the mirror and realize how you scare everyone with your tantrums and violence. How you can’t even recognize that it’s your fault that things are the way they are, and you can’t expect children to have that level of understanding. How you think you’re so exceptional as a person and as a “parent”, but it’s all a delusion that you make yourself believe because you were raised in the same exact way. How you can’t realize that you were traumatized as a child and as much as I know you hated it yourself, you didn’t strive to be different than your father, you strove to get your chance to do the same. 

How you willingly and knowingly married a woman with two sons, and looked at them, and decided to treat them with violence and vitriol, instead of realizing that they don’t have positive father-figures and that you should be different. I hate you for who you made me become. And you’ll never be a parent to me.

Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- Part 4

*Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of physical abuse, mental abuse, emotional abuse, parental abuse, verbal abuse, child neglect, threats, anxiety, panic attacks, violence towards children.* Monday, June 19th, 2023 Part 4 6:32pm

When I was 15, I was forced to get a job to pay for all of my school fees. I had to convince my future manager to give me the position illegally because I would eventually turn 16 in 3 months, which was the legal age to work at the time. After I got the job, you told my mom to force me to give her all of my paychecks to help her with the bills and groceries, and confiscated my money to use as an allowance for me. So, when I continued to be your perfect little pawn, then, I would slowly get the money I needed for my school activities. You used that opportunity to stop helping my mother with the bills, even though she made half as much as you, and a little after I was 16, you had 2 new cars and started your impulsive Amazon shopping habit that turned the extra bedroom into the “workout room” that it is today. I wasn’t even allowed to save for a car because I didn’t have my permit, which is because you and mom decided not to teach me until a year later because I wasn’t “making enough to get a car in the first place”. How does that make sense?

I decided to take inspiration from my father and turn vegan during my sophomore year. I had to learn how to grocery shop on my own for my diet, and cook for myself because he didn’t need “his wife” taking extra time to focus on my “unnecessary needs”, which was fine, I learned so much from that time. But, he also asked me questions everyday about the benefits of veganism and the recipes I was making and how much things costs because he wanted to “cut down from 330lbs to 260lbs”. He tried to make me feel antagonized for being vegan and that I was a burden on my mother for it, but also showed interest in it, then all these years later, he’s vegetarian now because he was inspired by me.

When I was 17 and a senior in high school, I didn’t have the motivation to truly apply for scholarships and to college due to my severe depression. No one ever asked or checked in on how that process was going, because it was assumed that I was doing great in school and would go to college, true, but still. I received no assistance searching for schools and scholarships, and it was because of my teachers that I received my full-ride scholarship to an almost Ivy League-level school. I wasn’t even excited when I received it because I was anxious to tell you all. And, I was right to, because you both weren’t even excited when I told you, the interaction lasted 2 seconds. Yet, you both turned around and gushed to everyone who would listen and on social media of how proud you were of me and how hard I worked. You wouldn’t even tell me that yourself.

I told my counselor about some of the trauma that you put us through because I wrote about it in my essays. I also wrote about how I found out that you were beating my mom, after she told me that she wanted to divorce you. I made the counselor promise me that she wouldn’t report it because the abuse stopped years ago, but while I was house-sitting for my mom’s boss, CPS came to the house. I admitted that I talked to the counselor about some things that happened at home, and my mom told me that she was glad that I was staying at that house because you were threatening to kill me.

I was part of the ever-controversial class of 2020. So, before the COVID lockdowns started, I was already planning for prom and graduation. I asked my “parents” for assistance paying for some of the costs needed to have the prom and graduation that I deserved, I guess I should have expected that you would say no. And, it was a slap in the face when you both told me to research how to make my graduation invitations and find a photographer, to not only pay for by myself, but to send to all of my and my mom’s family and to yours. And after the lockdown, and all those plans were canceled, you only threw me a party after my Nana told me she was making me a cake.

James decided to “gift” me his second pickup truck for graduating. Not mentioning all of the functional issues the truck had, and directing me to pay the $3,000 dollars worth of work that needed to be done to it. Then, after asking him if the truck would survive the 3-hour trip to Atlanta, he told me that he didn’t know and that I should continue fixing it. 2 weeks of me starting college, the truck was out of commission and he refused to help me figure out what to do. And a year later, after paying $1,500 of parking fees for a broken truck, he finally came down and scraped the truck, but kept all the money from it. It’s no surprise though, since through my 2 and a half years of college before this “gap year”, I never received any financial support from my adults.

I spent every break trying to avoid coming home. I took advantage of the fact that my college offered to house students who have abusive households over the break. Especially after my first Christmas break, where mom and I had our fight about literally all the trauma that I have endured from my supposed “father-figures”, that she continues to ignore, excuse, defend, and support. When my school denied me the opportunity to stay on campus the summer after my sophomore year, I thought I was going to be homeless. I wasn’t allowed back home after the fight, and I had no where else to go. But, after talking to my dad’s side of the family, I went back to where I grew up to stay with them. Of course, only to endure more abuse and more “conversations” of them defending my dad, because apparently, my whole family is fucked all the way up!

After I returned for my junior year, I thought things were going to be great. I was finally moving on from all the shit that you and everyone else did to me. But of course, scary men still exist, and after experiencing yet another triggering, traumatic event, I was done with this life that I’ve been dealt. Hence, the medical leave, or as most people refer to it, “a gap year”, and moving to New York with my sister, and then, having no choice but to move back home when everything fell apart.

Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 Part 5

*Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of physical abuse, mental abuse, emotional abuse, parental abuse, verbal abuse, child neglect, threats, anxiety, panic attacks, violence towards children.* Monday, June 19th, 2023 Part 3 6:32pm

When I went to the high school 5 minutes away from our house, I was in the Honors Academy and still in the Band program. I was busy, with afterschool rehearsals and homework that I couldn’t easily breeze through. It threw a wrench in how the household functioned because you relied on me to pick up your slack as a parent and to take the pressure off my mother. You asked my mother to make me quit the Band program, and when I refused, you made me pay for everything myself and forced me to find a ride home every practice or show. 2 months later, you asked my mom to take me out of the Honors Academy because you thought it was “too difficult because it took so much time”, to which we both refused. But, if it was a sport, would you have reacted the same? I doubt it, considering that you jumped at the fact that Anthony started playing basketball. You blatantly tried to sabotage my high school career and life to take advantage of me. Not to mention, you didn’t graduate high school and you don’t have a GED because you went to jail instead, so why would you try to disturb how well I was doing; the top 5 of my class and the first chair of my section, when you should know what you missed and sacrificed?

By that time, the girls were in elementary school, the same one my mom works at, and now I do too. You made it a personal responsibility to show up for every parent event that they asked you to, and you bragged about how you were making time for it, or how much money you spent taking them out to eat before going. Way to go! I hope you are so proud that you make your kids feel like a burden with how much you speak like that. ALSO, how you rubbed it in my and Anthony’s faces because every time we invited you to “Doughnuts with Dad”, you refused and said it was a waste of time.

I wasn’t allowed to hang out with my friends because it took me away from my responsibilities at home and because my friends were girls. I was bullied because my closet was made of glass, I didn’t know how to connect with my male peers, and I was one of 3 black kids in my grade in the Honors Academy. Neither you or my mom were checking in on me or my grades or how I was doing in high school. You never taught me how to make friends, didn’t warn me of discrimination in a conservative, racist area, and didn’t teach me that there was nothing wrong with me for being me. But, that’s because you didn’t make me feel safe at home and made me feel like I was crazy for thinking that our home wasn’t right. You took and manipulated my mother right in front of me for years, until I realized there was no point in hoping or wishing for a support system. Yet, when we’re out in public, we’re one large, happy family with an amazing life, but behind closed doors, we all shiver with anxiety under the wrath of the king with no visible throne. Things couldn’t be more twisted.

Every day, you walk in the door and immediately call out everything that was wrong. This shoe is out of place, the washer is being used, there’s a tissue box on “your” counter, when everyone, except you, has allergies. Or, did you forget after all this time of your wife needing weekly shots, and all of us kids needing to take medicine every morning and night? 

You consistently pride yourself on being an “observational” person. You’re not “confrontational”, so you “sit back and take note of what’s going on around you”. I think you mean to say that you look for all the problems that bother you, and when you explode about this thing or that we need to clean up “this mess”, you excuse yourself from having to get involved and parent your kids by saying you’re not “confrontational”. 

We are a 7-person household, where all of us kids sleep in what is supposed to be the living room, and you have one of the bedrooms monopolized as your “workout room” that you don’t even use. We don’t have the space to have a properly organized and clean look. You disregard functionality for presentation, and as soon as you hear the context of the situation after we repeat it for 8th time, you deflect and say to just throw it away. But, you’ve been promising that we would get a new house since I was 10. I’m 20 now, and look, same house AND same behavior!

Daily, you find something that frustrates you and instill fear in everyone. You have such a superiority/inferiority complex with your family and the public that it leaves you with such a scary pattern of irrational violence. You never take the time to teach your kids the same standards or lessons that Anthony and I were expected to meet, and then, you throw a tantrum when they don’t do things the way you want them to. You’re an adult and a parent, we’re kids. We don’t understand how to establish a routine of cleanliness and organization isn’t a talent, it’s a skill. But, you’re so observational, yet you haven’t realized or noticed that the problem isn’t us, it’s you. Because you have such high expectations and such extreme outbursts, but you don’t raise your children to understand and teach them how to meet them and avoid what you call a “consequence”.

Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 4 Part 5

*Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of physical abuse, mental abuse, emotional abuse, parental abuse, verbal abuse, child neglect, threats, anxiety, panic attacks, violence towards children.* Monday, June 19th, 2023 Part 2 6:32pm

Now, I introduce you to our new roles. I became the “golden child”; conditioned to get the perfect grades and carry out all orders timely and perfectly. I was the “nanny and pseudo-parent”; directed to take care of my siblings, provide food for them, get them ready for school, help with homework, and handle any misbehaving and report only the extremes. I was the “maid”; the only child in the house with chores, which meant I had all of them, even cleaning up after my “parents”. And, I was the “butler”; I had to deliver everyone their plates, eating last, and take James’ dishes after every meal and bring him a hot cloth to clean his hands. I became depressed, anxious, and extremely hyper-independent, curling in on myself and realizing this is not what “home” should feel like. I was “maturing” fast, and my adults took advantage of it.

Anthony was the “rebellious child”. He was more outwardly angry, picked fights at school, and sought comfort in his friends. He wasn’t trusted with responsibility, so he didn’t receive any. And, eventually, the rules and standards that were established with me, as the oldest, didn’t work with him. He gradually grew more and more distant with the family, as I was becoming the crutch for them.

My two little sisters, and soon-to-be youngest brother, were raised more graciously, still servants to the king and with the same emotional detachment. Thankfully, they never had to experience the abuse that Anthony and I had to endure. So, while they love their father, because that’s all they know, they don’t know the true terrors of that man, and I’m truly grateful that they won’t ever go through that. 

My mother suffered as you put all of the parenting responsibilities onto her, as you forced her to attend to every need and want you spoke of, as you made her shoulder the finances to keep the house fed and taken care of. You, however, would go to your job (I can’t even remember which one because you job-hopped so much), come home, claim and monopolize the washer and the bathroom for hours, shut yourself in your room to watch “your” TV, beg and call for “your wife” to come spend time with you while asking her to do everything for you, ignore your kids and yell at them to stay quiet, and go to sleep. This is your daily routine, even now in the present.

I left my home because of you. I was 10, and my father had reappeared back in my life for the past 2 years. After visiting him twice, he offered me to come live with him, and I took it because anything’s better than here, right? WRONG. My dad is a whole other story, but I came back after a year. You would think that would be enough time for change to take hold, but it didn’t, and how could there when the space is constantly suffocated and stifled with immaturity, unintelligence, and vitriol. 

The standard was to get all the chores done before you got home and without being told, which is normal, if you disregard the fact that you threatened to beat us within an inch of our lives if we didn’t do so. You did plenty of times before. Having to hide bruises with long-sleeved shirts, oversized hoodies, and pants in the summer, and excusing ones on my face with stories of rough-housing or accidental falling against a cabinet. 

The standard was to watch the kids at all times, and make sure that they don’t get into trouble. Once, when Malia was learning to stand up on her own, she fell and hit her forehead on a vent, while I was changing a movie for Anthony and I. I was beat and blamed for that accident, and wasn’t allowed to watch anything because my focus should be on them. Once, Anthony locked both Malia and Jasmyn in the car with the keys as they were still infants, and I was inside putting on my shoes, my “parents” still taking their time to leave for church. After I tried calming Anthony down from a panic attack and telling James, Anthony was stomped in the chest against a fence, my mom barely getting him off, and I was punched in shoulder and shoved against concrete while you spat that I should have never let it happen. We were left at home that day. 

Once, I was riding in the trunk with the top open, as we got home late, and a shooting happened right in front of me in the street, us kids still in the car in the driveway. You and Mom were in the house because we weren’t allowed out of the car until you said so. You were angry that I didn’t do more to protect my siblings, that I confided in my teacher what happened, and that I woke you up when police came banging on the door at 2am. I was 11. And I had nightmares for months.

Once, you threw Anthony against the washer and beat him in front of your two extended family members at Christmas because he took too long to take out the garbage. Then, your family decided to praise you for it and talk about it, as if it wasn’t brutal and my mom didn’t have to pull you off of him.

Things got better in their own way after my youngest brother was born. I was 12, almost 13, at the time. You magically stopped. I still don’t know what changed to make you stop.

But I still wasn’t your kid.

You started to refer to me and Anthony as “boy”, and nothing else. You made sure to tell us and show us that we were separated from our siblings. You would probably say that we had to earn our keep or that we learned some lesson, but that’s not the truth. You have other kids that are much older than us, and you never contact them or tried to do right by them. I think when my mom told me that years ago, I should have realized sooner the type of man you are.

Part 1 -- Part 3 Part 4 Part 5