Bad Romance By Lady Gaga But It's Bad Bromance

bad romance by lady gaga but it's bad bromance

A concept

Guess who's going on an amasai writing binge

Me

@amasaiweek day 3: family/forgiveness

*sigh* alright here we go

Tw for: knives/scalpels, blood, death/dead bodies, literally the whole thing is angst so look out

Lots of spoilers for @kagazuly 's beta au fic!! Don't read if you haven't gotten past chapter 3!!

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There was a blade pressed against Shuichi's throat.

It had all happened so quickly. He had gone to check on the medic in the warehouse, and-

And there was a hand on his wrist, and a sudden falling, and a weight on his chest so that he could just barely breathe if he made his breaths shallow enough. And there was the sharp, bitter sting of the knife at his throat.

Shuichi was going to die, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. All because of- he looked up at his killer's face- Rantaro?

Rantaro?

But-

But he was our leader, the person most dedicated to ending the game, the violinist thought. We trusted him more than we trusted ourselves and each other.

It was all an act, then, huh? He got us to trust him, and now he's going to kill me and escape, probably.

He looked up at the green-haired man's face again. His eyes were wild, feral, as if he was driven by instinct rather than his morals. An idea came to Shuichi. Could... Monokuma have brought back the Despair Disease? No, I'd think that repeating the same motive twice would be too boring for Monokuma... Then, did Rantaro have it all this time since looking after the patients, and managed to fool even the mastermind into thinking he didn't have it?

The blade pressed closer to Shuichi's neck, and he felt warm blood slide down onto the floor beneath him.

This was not the Rantaro he knew.

Memories of the previous trial came flooding to him, of Himiko's dismembered body, the blood spilling in a scarlet puddle on the tile, stained weapons scattered around, Angie's crazed face when the others figured out she had the Bloodlust Disease. The man above Shuichi looked like that now, ruined by his own Bloodlust Disease.

He was going to die.

Shuichi was going to die.

Hesitantly, he looked the medic in the eyes. "R-Rantaro?"

Time seemed to stop for a moment.

Rantaro's breathing slowed. Shuichi felt the blade slip away from him, and the medic put what Shuichi could now see was a scalpel in his pocket.

Rantaro let out a sigh, shut his eyes, and stood back up, turning to face whatever he'd been doing before. He paused and, without looking back, tossed an alcohol wipe from his pocket to Shuichi.

"Sorry. I thought you were going to kill me. Use this, it'll clean up the wound, and there's plenty of bandages in my lab," he said nonchalantly.

"You... You thought I was going to kill you?!"

The blonde boy stood.

"Dont think I'm gonna forgive you that easily, Rantaro."

"Fine."

"I... I COULD HAVE DIED!!'

"If you're just going to yell at me, go work your issues out with Kiyo. I'm the medic here, not the therapist."

He turned his head to look at Shuichi.

"Besides," he said in a stern yet ominous whisper, "it's not like I havent killed anyone before."

Shuichi froze in terror. "W-Wha-"

"Even medics have to kill to survive, sometimes. War is war. I'm not the only one, either. Most of us have been the cause of another's death, in one way or another. We're all killers, Shuichi. Killers all crammed into one place, under circumstances that mean we can't help but distrust each other, no matter how much we try to tell ourselves we have allies. Reminds me of the battlefield, now that I think about it."

What... was Rantaro saying?... They couldn't... trust anyone, that was true, but...

He took a few cautious steps toward the doorway and was going to leave, when he heard the medic speak again.

"Hey, Shuichi?"

"What?"

"You said you won't forgive me, right?"

"Um, yeah."

"See what I mean?"

"What?"

"You see, Shuichi,

"There's no forgiveness on the battlefield."

I think an extremely important part of mental health awareness and intervention is acknowledging that no, help isn’t actually always available. Or the “help” that is, isn’t actually helpful.

When I was 22 I hit a wall. I called the suicide hotline from my car so my roommates wouldn’t hear me crying. I explained that I could barely shower, feed, or dress myself. I needed immediate intervention.

They asked me if they could send an ambulance for me. They wanted to hospitalize me. I explained that I was a week away from finals. And graduation. If I were hospitalized, I couldn’t graduate. The inpatient program also didn’t allow phones or visitors, and I knew how disastrous it would be for me to lose contact with my family support system.

I didn’t need to be hospitalized. I needed daily solutions. Simple ones, even. I needed a few precooked meals in my fridge so I could use my menial energy to keep my body going. I needed a doctor to contact my school and ask if I could have some extensions on my class assignments. I neededna few excused absences so I could catch up on my lost sleep.

They told me there was an intensive program that allowed residents to live in an inpatient care facility and get daily help with tasks like eating, therapy, medication, and showering, while still leaving for work and school, but it cost $30,000. I told them half the reason I was calling them was because of my financial pressures and fear.

In about 10 minutes of back-and-forth, it became clear that they had no true solution for me. I could go into the hospital and an inpatient program which would interrupt my entire life, and which I knew did not create very good results and had traumatized some of my own friends, or, well, I couldn’t even go into debt for the other program. They didn’t accept any new patients without half of the cost upfront. So it wasn’t even an option.

No therapist or psychiatrists or social workers could fit me in for 3-8 weeks.

So I said thank you and hung up, emotionally spent. I felt utterly empty.

Sitting in my car I realized I had a choice, to live or to stop. Nobody was going to save me. Nobody was going to help.

So I went inside, and I cried myself to sleep, and when I woke up I still hadn’t made a choice. So then I did. I chose to live no matter how terrible, just in case things turned around down the road.

It was unspeakably difficult. I didn’t shower. I barely ate. I either slept too much or not enough.

But I did survive, and a year later I got with a therapist who started to make things a little lighter for me.

I still struggle now, but things are usually much better, and I’m glad I’m still here.

I just think it’s important to acknowledge that for many people, especially in rural areas, and for people without money, which is most people, that the “help is always available” line feels hollow. Because often times it isn’t, actually.

But that doesn’t mean there will never be.

Overall, we need to build an entirely new system for mental health support in this world.

But for now, ask yourself or your friend in crisis what might make things a little more bearable until help actually is available.

A meal? Emailing a professor? Clean laundry? What might make things a little lighter?

I know that on the very brink, things like this may seem totally pointlessnor trivial. But if you can’t stop yourself or someone from falling, sometimes the only way to save someone is with a softer landing.

rb if you’d wipe all pedophiles off this earth

my neighbors trained their bird to sound like a screaming child then put it in their front porch for the whole neighborhood to hear

THIS WILL NEVER HAPPEN ON TUMBLR BUT