Oh Hey Look, Two Cousins Talking Shit About Their Lives. Look At How Alive They Are!

Oh hey look, two cousins talking shit about their lives. Look at how alive they are!

this was SUPPOSED to be for day 3 of @azulaweek for the “No War AU” prompt but i couldn’t finish it in time ;w; im sorry

if nobody else got me @indigo--montoya and @thepossumsaretakingover got me. seriously i love you guys 

HOLY FUCKING SHIT THIS TOOK SO LONG. I hope it was worth it? Man red reality messed me UP, like I felt different after reading it. I just want my boy Robert to see his wife again ;-;

DAY 6 OF MAKEUP @azulaweek!! BAND AU BABEY! SHE’S SHREDDING

clef showing off pictures of meri to his coworkers but instead of normal baby photos their just meri in increasingly cursed situations. baby meri trying to eat a shotgun, a trail cam photo of her at night in the woods, her standing in a 'place' that doesn't conform to the laws of reality, shes fist fighting a eldritch being in a parking lot.

Let me tell you what it means to truly, unequivocally hate war: My uncle once swam the length of a river with shrapnel tearing into his skin to desert his post. He didn’t make it the first time—I guess shrapnel weighs you down, who would’ve guessed—so he tried. And he tried. And he tried. And he tried until he reached the other side, until he entered Croatia and no longer had to feel the weight of a gun in his palm. That is what it means to hate war; Americans will never truly, unequivocally hate war, because they are the ones starting them. They start and end wars and cry about them an ocean away. None of it means anything.

Let me tell you what it means to truly, unequivocally hate war: My mother doesn’t watch the news when they talk about Syria; too much like the war, she says. The hungry children, the crying mothers, the bombs and destroyed buildings. It could very well be Bosnia. You Americans are so silly, praising soldiers and the forced occupation of land by the military. Your soldiers get discounts for killing people; my father doesn’t tell a single soul he was in the army unless they served with him. Americans never hear about it, because they don’t understand. They start wars over here; they don’t flee them. My father doesn’t speak of his time in the army unless it’s past midnight and he’s down three shots of rakija. I have never once heard him talk about what they did him. My father, a prisoner of war. A honest-to-God, living, breathing, prisoner of war. You Americans know nothing about hating war. You never will. My father held a gun in his hands for the first time at the age of 16 and hated it; your father welcomes the feeling of a gun in his hand and boasts about his time in the military.

Let me tell you what it means to truly, unequivocally hate war: I will never know my grandma. I will never know my aunt. I will never get to see my mother’s chilhood home; all we have left is a line of graves, marked with smooth white headstones, the crescent moon and star carved into every single one of them. That’s where my home used to be, my mother tells me. And that’s where they stacked the dead bodies. Yes, you Americans know nothing about war. You praise the very people who carry out acts of war and turn your backs on refugees, on the displaced and the lost. You will never understand.

I hate war, says the lady next to me. No, I don’t think you do, I say.