Personal Writing - Tumblr Posts

Jayden's Letters

This has been a passion project of mine for a long time and I've been working on it for a long time. I'm glad I'm able to share this with you all and I hope you enjoy it as much as I've loved writing it <3

I'll post more projects of mine in the future, but this is what I have now.

Tw: Alcohol Consumption, Pill Abuse, Cursing, Gore, Hallucinations, Murder, Heavily Implied Suicide

Everything was ringing in John’s ears, the buzzing growing more and more intense. He faintly heard his name being called, it slowly growing as his eyesight slowly focused on his hands and the salad in front of him.

“John? John, are you okay?” The voice snapped him out of his daze.

“Huh?" He whispered, looking up and staring at her.

"Are you okay John? You kind of blacked out on me there." Alyssa playfully teased, staring at him with a nervous expression.

"Oh yeah, I'm…I'm okay." He told her, his hand holding the side of his head.

"Okay…if you say so." She shrugged before continuing her story.

The ringing in his ears grew to a pitch as he let out a small groan. He squeezed his eyes before snapping them open, now standing in the doorway of his house as the ringing in his ears started to die down.

"How'd I get here…?" He whispered, closing the front door behind him as he dropped his bag on the couch next to him. He stumbled to the counter, his brows furrowing as he stared down at the note on his counter. John shook his head and walked past to grab a cup. He turned and pulled a bottle of whiskey off his fridge. He accidentally slammed the glass on the counter, sucking in a breath at the loud slam.

"Fuck." He hissed, rubbing his temples as he closed his eyes.

John let out a breath and slightly opened them again, popping the cap off of the bottle before pouring the golden liquid into the glass cup. He set the heavy amber bottle back on down and sealed it, slightly pushing the glass back from the edge. He walked back to the note, picking it up with one hand while the other brought the glass cup to his lips. He threw his head back, swallowing the liquid in one go before coughing, his head falling back forwards.

John sighed and finally picked up the crumpled note, smoothing it out so he could read it more clearly. The text was neat and almost clean, a little crooked here and there but otherwise it looked almost perfect.

"Dear John,

I know we haven't talked in a while. Or at all actually. But I thought it would be nice to try and reconnect! I heard you got a new job, that's amazing to hear! I know you're probably confused on who I am and I apologize, but hopefully we'll see each other again!

Love, J."

John let out a small scoff, crumpling the paper again. He went to pour another glass but stopped when he saw a shadow fly past in the corner of his eye. He turned to scan his office, the room almost pitch black. "Hello?" He called out, setting his cup down and walking over to the office. He stepped past the barrier before stumbling back at the feeling of hands brush his chest. "Shit!" He yelped, falling back and staring up at the abyss. He let out heavy breaths as he quickly stood up, grabbing his phone from the counter and stumbling back to his bathroom.

Once in his bathroom John started the water in the sink. He put his hands under the running water, a small hiss slipping from him at the cool feeling hitting his palms and running down his fingers. He took a deep breath and leaned forward, splashing his face with the water. He raised his head again, his vision blurry from the water on his lashes. He went to grab the towel on the counter so he could dry his face but then he paused, noticing something in the corner of his eyes, reflected from the mirror. He shook his head, ignoring it as he grabbed one of the various bright orange bottles on his bathroom counter. He looked down at the label. It was Fluoxetine prescribed to a "Johnathan Oscar". He went to open the top, struggling more than he'd like to admit. When he finally got it open it slipped out of his hand, falling into the sink. "No!" He squeaked, dropping the bottle into the sink.

He let out a breath, his gaze shooting up and landing on the mirror. His gaze immediately trailed over to the bathroom closet door behind him. It was cracked open with black, slender fingers gripping the doorframe. His gaze trailed up and he made 'eye contact' with the being, beady red eyes. A small breath left him as he slowly turned his head to look back at the closet. It was closed, no sign of anything or anyone. He let out a small breath and looked back at the mirror, seeing it opened a bit more. "The fuck…?" He muttered, looking back at the door with a furrowed brow. He shook his head and turned back to the sink, trying to pull as many pills out of the sink as he could. He grabbed three pills from his prescription, setting the bottle back on the counter and turning to walk back to the kitchen.

When he got back to the counter he opened the bottle of Whiskey again, pouring it back into the shot glass. He poured more of the amber liquid into the glass. John set the glass bottle down again, making sure he didn't make it slam. He sealed the case before pushing it back and away from the counter. He grabbed the pills, putting them in his mouth and swallowing them before using the alcohol as a chaser, another cough slipping from him. He walked over to the couch and went to grab the remote for the device. When he flicked the device on it didn't turn on. "What is wrong with you?" He muttered, frowning at the screen. He sighed and flipped the remote over, opening the batter compartment. Instead of the normal double A batteries you'd see there was a paper folded up. He pulled it out and unfolded it, his eyes scanning over the writing yet again. This time it was a little more jumbled but it still looked neat.

"Dear John,

Do you remember that night we walked together by the freeway? The night when we talked for hours and hours together? It's one of my favorite memories. The way you held my hand as our laughter mixed together, our pains defend by the joy of that night. I can't still remember the way you gently said my name and the way you'd squeeze my hand when you wanted to make a silent agreement. I wish we could still do that. But people change. I know you definitely have. But that's okay, maybe I can find a way to change with you. Anyways, I hope this finds you well.

Love, J."

John grumbled softly, balling up the note and throwing it onto the couch as he stood up. "Who the fuck is J? And where are his letters coming from?" He snarled, taking a deep breath as he tried to calm down. John trudged over to the cabinet nearby, opening it and watching for some sort of food. As he searched for something to eat there was a large slam nearby causing him to jump. "Shit." He gasped, his hand gripping his chest as his heart pounded in his chest, the beating making his ears ring again. He squeezed his eyes and gripped his shirt, his nails pushing against his palm through the thin fabric. When his eyes opened again his gaze landed to the mid-stomach of a figure. His gaze slowly trailed up, going higher and higher before stopping at where the door frame stopped, about mid-neck.

The figure was thin. It was so thin that he could see the ribs protruding from its chest. He went back to the stomach and saw how the skin dipped back, just barely enough space to fit the internal organs it would need. John's gaze flicked to its arms. They were un-naturally long; they reached to about the middle of its shins, which was even more surprising because its legs were also long, maybe a little longer than its arms. The skin. It looked like the skin was rotten, hugging the bones that made the limbs. At first glance it would be easily mistaken for a skeleton. If not for the stench of rotting flesh and the visible decay of its skin.

There were a few pauses of deafening silence, the ringing in John's ears only growing in pitch before the zombie-like creature let out a blood curdling scream. One that almost caused John to stumble and fall to the ground. The only reason why he didn't was because the creature came charging at him, but stopped after a few steps and collapsed, its head being torn from its body. When John saw the head he let out a scream of pure terror. He stared down at the sunken, bright red eyes staring up at him. Its mouth was hung slack, one side barely hanging on. If it weren't for the little bit of cheek tissue that desperately clung to the peeling muscle. John slapped a hand over his mouth, his legs giving out under him, causing the male to trip over his own feet and land back on his tailbone.

He scrambled up and gripped his hair, stumbling into the kitchen, his legs barely able to take the weight of his body. He stopped at his fridge and stared at a letter stuck to the cool metal by a magnet. This time the writing was less neat, it was jumbled and more squished together. It looked as if the person writing it wrote too fast.

"Dear John,

I know you've struggled with eating well. Especially when it comes to this new prescription. I made you some food for this week. I didn't know what you'd want so I made a lot with what I could find. Please remember to take care of yourself John. I can't stand to see you like this. And remember that I'm always there to help you. I'm one call or text or even fucking letter away. Please let me help you.

Love, J."

John stared at the Letter. He shifted and opened the fridge, letting out an almost immediate gag at the horrid smell hitting his nostrils. He immediately moved his hand to plug his nose, trying to block out the smell of death that threatened bile to creep up his throat further. He thickly swallowed, feeling the bile burn his throat as he forced it back down. But when he looked back into the fridge all attempts to keep his vomit down failed. The fridge was filled with rotting body parts. There were internal organs laid out, a heart still beating on the upper level on top of his milk, there was an arm and a leg in a glass dish, a pair of Kidneys was sat on one of his white square dishes. The blood that would've accompanied the organs and limbs was now a dark reddish brown, a few streaks of bright red from the heart, a few squirts being shot out as the organ desperately tried to provide blood to the bow deconstructed body. There were maggots over most of the organs, eating through them and leaving torn holes scattered over them. Some of the holes even going through the thick tissue of each organ.

At the sight of the decaying flesh John doubled over, vomit shooting out of his throat and onto the lower level of the fridge, burning his throat as it went flying out. It was a slight yellowish color, clumps of torn up leaves from his salad earlier. He let out harsh coughs after the spill ended. He stumbled back and bent over the sink, washing the area around his mouth. He let out more coughs, his throat raw from the acid that shot up qnd out earlier. He turned his head and gulped down some of his sink water, coughing more. "I-its just the alcohol. It's just the alcohol and the pills. I-I must've taken too much." He muttered to himself, looking over at the still opened fridge. He closed the door and stumbled back against his counter, his breathing heavy from the pressure being applied to his lungs.

He closed his eyes again and let out a small sob, finally allowing the situation to process. This wasn't his imagination, people- no things were in his house and they were tormenting him. Whoever this 'J' person was is the root cause of his suffering. He let out another breath, standing and gripping his stomach. " I just need sleep. Whatever is going on will stop. I'm just sleep deprived. Yeah. I'm just sleep deprived." He muttered, one of his hands moving and tangling in his hand in his hair. He sighed and shook his head, walking back to his bathroom. He closed the door behind him and started the water to wash himself off. "A relaxing shower before bed. Nothing will happen." He whispered to himself, peeling his shirt off. He glanced over at his mirror again and saw another letter taped to the reflective surface. The handwriting was jumbled, there were spots of dirt brushed against the paper, turning it a slight brown.

"Dear John,

I can barely recognize you now. I don't know what's going on with you but please, let me help you. I want to help you through whatever you're going through, please let me help you. I know this has been hard for you, losing your sister and all. But please remember that you're loved. I'll be here to help you and listen to you. I love you. Really.

Love, Jay."

The male let out a small breath, crumpling the paper and throwing it against the wall. He leaned over and started the water for his shower, holding back tears. "Why…? Why me? Why me of all people?" He whispered to himself, stepping back and pushing the balls of his palms to his forehead. He took a deep breath before letting out a pained cry, his voice breaking as he screamed. He doubled over again and moved his arms to hug himself, crying a bit as he knelt down next to the bathtub, leaning his forehead against the cool ceramic. He opened his eyes slightly and rested his chin on the edge, looking up and watching as the water fell, hitting the bottom of the tub. John let out a breath and shakily stood again. He stepped into the tub, not even caring about the dark slacks that clung to his hips. He sat down in the water, a full body shiver causing his body to shake just a bit. "Cold…" he muttered under his breath, pulling his knees to his chest.

A couple minutes later he shot up, his breathing heavy as he looked around. John looked down at his hands, they were pruned, staying down when he pressed his thumb against the skin. "How long…" he trailed off, looking up to the door. There was yet another figure, but this one he recognized as the shadow in his closet. He scrambled backwards, his spine pressing against the divot in the tub. His breath was shaky, he glanced back at the small ledge digging into his back before his gaze snapped back to the figure. "Go away…" He whispered, his voice breaking as he spoke. "Go away!" He yelled, burying his face into his knees as his arms wrapped around his head as a sort of shield. As he yelled there was a hiss and the figure disappeared. John sighed and quickly stepped out of the tub. His foot slipped a little causing him to fall to his knees.

The male stared down at the ground, his breath heavy as his vision blurred in and out of focus. John heard a familiar voice hiss his name in his ear. The voice was soothing, almost haunting calm as it cooed his name clearly. He let out a yell and slammed his right fist to the ground, his vision going fully blurry due to the tears that stung his eyes, threatening to spill down his burning cheeks. "Leave me alone! Get out of my fucking home!" He yelled, his voice cracking and breaking as he yelled. A sob slipped from him, causing his body to shake a little bit. He heard the voice again, but before it could finish he shot up and stumbled out of the bathroom. He quickly ducked into his bedroom and slammed the door behind him, panting heavily as he pressed his back against the door. He slowly opened his eyes, scanning the dark room for any figures that had been haunting him.

When it seemed clear he carefully flicked on the lights, moving to his closet to get into a change of clothes. He carefully slid on a pair of gray sweatpants, the soft fabric clinging to his still wet legs. He let out a small shiver, quickly grabbing a plain dark blue-almost Navy colored sweater. He pulled it on before turning to walk out. That's when he saw the note taped to the doorframe. He felt his heart drop to his stomach while his gut was doing flips around his heart. John slowly reached out and tugged the letter down to properly read it. The paper itself was damaged, it looks like it had been crumpled and ran through the dirt. The writing was jumbled, it looked like it was scrawled on as if the writer was in a panic. Some of the letters were squished together and some of the others were spaced too far apart. It looked like a child had gotten a pen and scrawled what they thought.

"Dear John,

Do you remember our first sleepover? You hit me with your pillow so hard it gave me a black eye. I'm positive the zipper hit my eye. You felt so bad. You were terrified your mom would get upset and send me home. That's when you helped me. It was the softest you touched me. I swear my heart was doing flips in my chest. If you had kept holding me how you were, I would've lost all self control.

Love, Jay”

John's heart dropped as he read the letter. His eyes went over the words over and over and over again, the echo of his voice playing in his head. He tore the paper in half before crumpling it, his heart pounding so hard he could hear the rhythmic beating in his ears. He crawled into his bed, curling up under the blankets as he hugged himself tightly, making a sort of protective shield in his mind. John was muttering soft reassurances to himself, promising how it's all just his imagination and he'll be okay. ‘This is all just a bad dream’ he repeated in his mind over and over and over again. He felt tears burning his eyes, spilling down his face and onto his pillow, another shakey sob slipping from him as he tangled his hands in his hair, squeezing his eyes. John has eventually tired himself out, slowly dozing off into a deep slumber. That was until he felt a cool breeze brush against his face.

He let out a small groan, pushing himself off the dirt floor. His head was pounding, when he fully opened his eyes and stood it felt like the world was spinning around him. John put his arms out for balance, slowly closing his eyes again as his legs slowly started to get used to having weight on them. When he opened his eyes again he stared out at the twinkling city ahead of him, his stomach dropping. He then heard laughing coming from the right of him, causing him to immediately snap his head in that direction, his breathing heavy. “Hello? Is anyone there?” He called out, taking a small step towards the sound. When he heard more laughter he bolted over to the voices, his mind spinning as his body tried to keep up with the adrenaline. When he got to the voices they stopped. All sounds except John's panting had ceased, the Silence slowly creeping closer, seeping its twisted tendrils into his mind and latching on. John stood from his bent position, searching for any signs of life other than the city. That was when a paper caught on his foot. He knelt down and picked it up. The handwriting was neater, it looked like care and effort was put into it.

“Dear John,

This was our first date spot, this was the spot where I confessed my love for you. I remember it as if it were yesterday. My heart was beating so fast it felt like it would've tore out of my chest. You looked so pretty under the night stars, that's when I admitted my feelings for you. I had hoped you would've been ecstatic, confessing back to me and smothering me in affection. But instead you tore my heart out. You called me mean names as tears rolled down your cheeks. When I tried to wipe them away, that's when you pushed me. You yelled at me to ‘get away’ and you pushed me instinctively. My footing slipped. The fall down hurt, the wind hitting my back before I slammed into some rocks, rolling down until finally my head was cracked. Now, I'm giving you the pain that you've given me. You don't deserve to live anymore. Not after what you've done.

Jayden.”

John stared at the letter in his hands before it was blown away. In its place was blood, the cold liquid dripping down his hands. He opened his mouth to scream but all that came out was a broken sob. That's when he heard an explosion in the distance. His gaze shot up and there was a firework lighting up the sky. John stepped closer to the cliff edge, his hands slowly falling to his sides as he stared out into the horizon. Then he took one last step, his body giving into the wind.

This is it. The ending of a chapter I've spent so long on. This has taken me roughly 5 months to write and I'm going to do more because I'm going to turn this into a film.

Woke up in a friend’s guest room this morning. I’m thankful for friends who let me stay in their home last minute. I am just outside of Greenville. I’m wondering how many more trips to this place I have to take before I am without a rush of emotions. I am seeing different landmarks for the first time each time I come back. When I came back for the first time a few weeks ago, it was a quick one-night stay to see a play. It was a rushed trip. I hit the downtown highlights, visited my old apartment, went to the Swamp Rabbit. I sobbed downtown with my mom and sister awkwardly not knowing what to do with me. If you’ve made it this far in the post, you probably read that post too.

I wake up this morning, I get on i85. I’m heading in the opposite direction. To Asheville.

It’s an overcast day.

That’s how I remember you, Greenville. I cry.

I’m in Spartanburg now on my way to Asheville. There’s this little coffee shop/bookstore with a cat I would visit. I stopped there on my way. A few weeks ago, I didn’t get a classic vanilla latte at these fancy shops - they only taste this way here. There’s no way I can describe it, it’s a hot vanilla latte, but it tastes like the Upstate. It’s wonderful. I hate admitting when there is something I miss.

(TW: ed mention in this paragraph) The illusion of it all hit me this morning. The curated version of this place - all the old industrial downtowns have been renovated into the perfect Instagram background. My friend is a Doctor, so her luxury apartment is meticulously clean and nice, even the towel I dried off this morning was heavy and fancy. The apartment community is constructed like the resorts I see when I’m in Myrtle. She left a key out for me as her and her fiancé are out to dinner with friends. The pictures they post have that hipster perfect background. I am faced once again with the reality that I THOUGHT I would be living here. It hurt a little bit thinking maybe if things were different, maybe… but no. I drove on i85 an I remember my real life. My work. I remembered the group trying to talk me into going on Ozempic- join their little pact. I remember the interrogations. I remembered their twisted version of religion - mandatory lunch break “Bible Studies” (aka getting as much vulnerable personal information they could) I remember my eating disorder coming back during that time. I remember the heartbreak I’m still not over. The memories flash and I put them away the best I can. No no no. The photo op curated version of this place isn’t real. No.

I am getting lunch at a place I desperately miss in a moment. Then I’m off to Pisgah. My escape from all of this back in the day. My escape today.

A southern coastal setting is often the background to many love stories I’ve watched on screen. I think about the introduction to The Notebook, the birds flying above the Black River. Forest and Jenny. The list goes on and on. Take the people out of the plot, and there’s such a natural romanticism about the Lowcountry coast. It is a ripe setting for love. For me, that love starts and ends here. To feel so deeply connected to an area, and to love it so much. It’s hard to replicate. I fall in love with it over and over again.

When I decided to leave it two years ago, a piece of me was missing and I didn’t feel whole again until I was back. The fear of familiarity and the mundane consumed me. I’ve spent many of these summer days lamenting the cool air of the mountains, missing the summer days spent in the Appalachian creeks. An exciting deviation from the normal. I love it too. The way you love the excitement of an adventure, the rush, the constant of newness. Feeding into an adventurous rush. It’s hard to miss it. But…

I was empty there. I laughed and regularly lived in the awe of seeing places I’d never seen. I lost the familiar love of my life. The beauty in pointing my camera at yet another Egret. Watching the spartina grass finally hit its peak green in August. To then watch it fade to beige again. Seeing yet another lettered olive or little whelk along the beach. I will always pick them up. Watch the sun move over the horizon throughout the seasons.

I sat in my Greenville apartment all alone and decide to watch The Notebook movie because I had nothing better to do. The second those white birds flew over the Black River, a river I’ve spent so much time on, I would cry because I missed my birds. I missed seeing the things I regularly love. I felt like I was missing out on my own life.

Watching the coastal birds fly over to roost at the state park, watching the tide roll in and out. In and out. Who knew I would feel like I was missing out on something that seemingly never ended and something I saw every single day. I ultimately couldn’t take it. I gave up the promise of new sights and adventures to spent my days capturing yet another picture of some birds. To me, yes a waterfall is more magnificent than watching something I am use to. But that’s love. I look out at the cattails and brackish water. I listen to the Blue Herons abrasively honk. Who knows how many times I’ve been out in some marsh to watch it. It truly never gets old.

This area is romantic. At least for me. But not because of memories of lovers. No. This area is full of love for what it is. Something many people here deeply understand. When you see it through that lens, and you love it so much…. You can’t depart from it. It becomes the love of your life. Something I know I will grow old with.

If I make it to 80 or 90 years old, as long as I have strength to walk, you can find me out here among the wetlands. Over and over and over again. I love it more and more every time.

The Blame I Take

I take blame that isn’t meant for me.

It hurts to do,

But if I don’t take it then who will?

If no one admits to their wrong,

Then it is my job,

Because somehow,

In someway

I am always the catalyst.

Anytime I come along,

Something that had once been buried

Comes to the surface again.

Maybe I am simply bad luck.

Maybe things would be better if I wasn’t here.

Which is why I take the blame,

Even when I am tired,

Even when it hurts me,

Even when it leaves behind scars,

I will always take the blame,

Because if I don’t

I fear they might leave,

And to me,

That is worse than any kind of blame I give myself.

The Words You Can't Say

When you have so much you want to say

But don’t have the breath or words to explain it

So instead you simply let it still inside of you

Until it becomes too much to bear

And suddenly everything is too late

And your lungs feel like they are closing up

But all you can do is sit there

In the silence you created

All because you are afraid to be true.

https://www.instagram.com/recreationalhexing

༒ Written by Liz 🩸

I hope someday in the future I'll be able to actually cry. They say I'm strong for keeping a brave face, but I'm weak. I'm pathetic. I'm unable to do anything to help myself, not even cry when I feel like it.

Things have been bad for me mentally and I'm... Trying.

I'm trying.

But I don't feel like it.

I see other people cry over their accomplishments and I feel I don't have anything to cry over, not even my own disappointment in myself.

I hope one day I'll be able to cry over my hard work. To allow myself to be weak when I feel overwhelmed and say;

"it's too much, I need help."

"And as I stared into his deep blue eyes, he said "Remeber me when the moring shines."

Then as I awoke from my slumber, my heart was filled with doubt.

For the boy I once knew, I would have to be without."

-Quote by me

Chapter 1

Title: Eccedentesiast

Word count: 3, 312

Characters: John Watson and Matilda May

Warnings: bad dreams, panic attack?

Notes: Okay here's the first official chapter. I'll warn you I have a lot of "filler"/character chapters in mind before getting to the actual series episodes. Matilda needs to develop a sound relationship with John before thing get hectic. It's been two weeks since John took Matilda in as his foster child. She's still distrustful. Unsure whether it’s actually worth it to build a relationship with her foster father.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters from BBC Sherlock (2010) only Matilda and other oc's.

Rated M - for Treachery.

———————

Eyes a hickory as rich as the earth's soil blew open constricting in the illuminated void.

Matilda stood on a pristine reflective surface, icy chills one after the other creeped up her spine. Her body stood rigid and up right as straight as a stone pillar. The space around her was pitch black save for a single indeterminate white light source that illuminated the area. It seemed she was stuck in a void, an endless expanse of nothingness for miles and miles.

Compelled by some unknown force Matilda began to move forward. Under the weight of her soles the surface rippled. Was it water? It appeared to be liquid glass. A thin cool layer that furrowed and waved with each step. She moved forward at a slow pace, one foot after the other. The silence of the inky void made her blood as cold as the murky waters of Antarctica.

In the black she could sense a seed growing in the pit of her stomach, in her core she knew the feeling. It felt as much a part of her, as the heart drumming in her chest. Under Matilda's lightly freckled exterior, beneath the anxiety, she was... It didn't matter. It doesn't matter. She chose to ignore the feeling. there was nothing that could be done about it. Not now.

Matilda didn't need to look, she kept moving forward. She knew left, right, forward, and back there was nothing. She stood alone in the black nothingness.

The darkness swirled around her petite form pricking her pale skin. A chilling draught of air bit at her nape. It blew in from the west or... perhaps the East. She couldn't be sure. Matilda cautiously turned her head to look over her shoulder. She sensed— she could feel... Matilda brought a single hand to the back of her neck.

Yep.

The hairs stood on end. She stopped dead in her tracks, making a complete 180, the water rippled beneath her.

Bam, bam, bam.

Adrenaline shot through her system. It pumps and beats like it's trying to break through her chest. Matilda's eyes grew wide with fear. Every instinct she had screamed either run fast or curl up in a defensive ball and take whatever came. Matilda usually favored, was the latter. But something told her this time it was better to run— smarter to run.

Bam, bam, bam.

She ran bare feet slapping the reflective ground. The cold air cut her throat as she inhaled deeper and faster. Matilda never was much of a runner. Her short legs betrayed her. She punched away into the darkness, haring forward. She could hear the loud pounding gaining, closing the distance between her and it.

Bam, bam, bam.

Aimlessly she sprinted forward. She recognized the sound. It poured gasoline onto the spark of fear stabbing between her ribs. Fear torched her guts, churning her stomach in tense cramps. Her lungs began to burn making Matilda's breathing shaky and labored. Her legs felt like churning cement.

Bam, bam, bam.

Matilda's feet slipped out from under her. The world rushed by in a blur and she knew the pain was coming. The world went by fast, yet slow, almost suspended. Then impact. Every muscle in her body knotted up, weighed down by the icy hands of the darkness and exhaustion.

The sound was closing in, so loud now it made her ears bleed. The wind viciously blew in from behind, howl more like a wicked cackle.

Matilda pushed herself up on all fours. She couldn't bare to stand all the way but she had to move. She couldn't allow the pursuer to catch her. She couldn't. Desperately she crawled forward.

Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam... crack.

Looking down from her place in the void, Matilda tried to steady herself trying to comprehend what was going on around her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she eyed her reflection beneath her. Hesitantly she presses a trembling hand against the cold liquid glass. The pounding ebbed into nothingness until, until silence was as absolute as space.

Matilda stared entranced by her reflection. A paralyzing hurt spread through her body like sharp, liquid metal. The face staring up at her was foreign, new. She couldn't hear her rapid breathing, ignored the fogging up of the surface from her warm breath.

A child stared up at her. Her eyes are a bold cunning brown, the color of dark chocolate, and her neat, earth after rain brown hair pushed back by a red headband. Her pale skin was a canvas for her numerous freckles, as if some one had strewn brown chips of marble about frivolously. She wore a dress that stopped above her knees — blood red.

The reflection wasn't hers.

Matilda's eyes, a weak shade of brown, were dim, the color of dying candle, and her curled dirty blonde hair slowly browning from the roots hung in matted knots. Her skin while pale was marked purple and blue in spots, her freckles were rather small and barely visible unless she purposely dotted them with markers. She too wore a dress, however it was one of a different style and the color — envy green.

Fear curled up inside her and clung to her ribs, settling uncomfortably in her chest. She began to inch back away from the inaccurate reflection.

Crack. A long thin crack followed her and her reflection, growing with each move backward. She immediately ceased her movement. It was too late the crack continued to creep across the surface, sounding like the crushing of bones. It worked and slithers branching off in different directions until it created a circle trapping Matilda in the center. Three large splits fractured the face of her reflection.

Certain the breakage was through, Matilda cautiously stood. Her legs were like jello but she managed. Looking around she saw no way out. No matter where she stepped the ground would break out from beneath her.

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!

She stood hand covering her ears, in the middle of the void that had become her world, a world decorated by it's own broken cracks. Her brown eyes flickered out, becoming full, glossy. Then all at once she collapsed, tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

She could call for help. What would be the point? Why ask for help when there's no one for miles, to hear you.

In her distress she didn't notice the lone pale inky hand reaching from the depths of her liquid reflection. Icy fingers gripped her ankle in the darkness. Eyes fearfully widened, a gasp escaped her lips. In a moment of pure instinct she reached out, fingers extended.

All at once the glass shattered below her. She opened her mouth to let out a desperate scream but all that came out was air. The realization flooded in, there was nothing to be done.

She went silently. The last piece of her to drown, a hand, desperately reaching out.

JWJWJW

Waking up can be a kind gift, especially when nightmares fueled by her childish insecurities plagued her somnolent mind.

Matilda woke faster than a cat dropped ice-water, eyes flung so wide each iris was a perfect orb of rich hazelnut chocolate. She felt a sharp pain, like a knife, in her chest. It weighed on her, as if she were Giles Corey facing punishment. Cold sweat coated her skin giving it a texture. With a long exhale she felt her limbs flex in shock. Everything was blurry, her head spun. Images of her horrible dream echoed in the back of her head.

She stole a glance at the clock on her end table, rhythmically ticking away the seconds. 1:37am. She blinked, closed her eyes, and blinked again. She wanted to scream, but that's not what she needed.

She sat up, dragging her feet off the bed. Wrapping her upper body in her blanket, she got off bed, dragging the too large single sized blanket behind her. She yawned, ambling down the quiet corridor.

She was only slightly surprised to find John, sitting alone in the dark family room, the dim light of his laptop softly illuminating his face. She had a feeling he'd be up. He always was, going over patient files preparing for his next work day. However he was usually in his room.

She quietly shuffled into the kitchen, careful not to disturb John. She'd be quick, no reason to bother him. She'd get what she needed and return to her room.

Better to be self-reliant.

She stood in the center of the flat's small kitchen, where a kitchen island would be if there was room. Around her shoulders her blanket, worn like a cape, trailed behind her like a wedding train. She sucked on her middle and index fingers, eyes glued on a particular cabinet.

I did this earlier, she recalled. Her eyes bounced around the room, looking for things that could help her situation. She couldn't replicate her trick from breakfast, everything had been moved over the course of the day. The step stool was missing. She needed to think of something. Matilda could hardly reach the counter top on her own. Peanut.

Focusing, Matilda drew in her lower lip. Her eyes lit up, idea after idea flooded her brain, streaming. Her eyes narrowed in deep concentration, as she flipped through her concepts as if they were pages in a toy catalogue.

No, no, no, wait... she paused. A particular idea was formulating in the back of her head. Doable, a bit chancy.

Matilda was wrong. (In more ways than one.) John wasn't up going over patient files, well not every night. In the dark room, sitting on the sofa, his typing had a relaxing sound. He'd drowned out the furious noise of the rain thunder against the window panes ages ago. The darkness in a way had become his sanctuary, a place to recharge and forget. Forget about things, people time had abandoned.

His eyes scanned his screen, and read through the typed out text.

"He hasn't got a clue! He's flummoxed! He's bamboozled!

He's stuck...”

03, August. The words awakened old memories he couldn't bring himself to forget. All memories come with a price. Good or bad. You can't go back and fix them. You can't go back and relieve them. As much as you wish you could.

"According to the flight details, he was checked on board. They found the stub of his boarding pass and napkins etc on his body. His passport has been stamped in Berlin Airport. He should have died in the plane crash. But he didn't.

He was in a car boot. In Surrey.

Obviously, I haven't got a clue but neither does..."

He clapped down the laptop. That's enough for now.

Out of complete silence arose a loud clatter, the sound metal colliding against wood. "What the hell?" John quietly muttered, silently cursing as he got up to investigate.

Following the sound he found himself in the kitchen.

Matilda was on her knees back to him rummaging through the lower shelf of one of the cabinets. A mess of pots and pans was chaotically sprawled out across the kitchen tile, the largest pile up blew the counter where Matilda was kneeling. It didn't take a high functioning sociopath to deduce what had happened.

"Matilda what are you doing?!" The little girl froze, all of her muscles went tight. "You can't be climbing on the counter, it's not safe." John took her under the armpits and set her on the ground. She did not like that. As soon as John let her go, she corrected herself. She stood straight, arms at her side ready to take whatever John doled out.

Her brain was a beehive, a buzz with thoughts. She didn't mean to make him upset. She just needed to calm her head after the bad dream. Her heart felt tight. Her breathing became more rapid, more shallow. Her hands like claws ran through her hair pushing back her hair.

"You could have seriously hurt yourself," John went on.

Thoughts accelerated in her head. Too many, too fast. She squatted, sitting criss-cross on the floor, trying to make everything slow to a pace her young brain and body could handle.

John's scolding wasn't loud; he had neighbors and thin walls. For Matilda however his voice was so harsh it rivaled gunfire. "What were you thinking?!"

He knew he'd overstepped when he looked down to see the small girl curled up in her blanket like an armadillo. She was curled up in the fetal position eyes trained forward, completely glazed over.

"Matilda? Matilda?" John softened his tone, carefully kneeling beside her. "Sweetie I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice." Matilda remained unresponsive. He'd have assumed she was dead if not for the repetitive rise and fall of her stomach from beneath the blanket.

He waited. The rain floated down the window pane in gentle waves, the pitter patter is a soft form of music. Pellets of water plink across the asphalt scattering puddles all round the city. The gusting wind blew with great force rocking the trees carrying the droplets in diagonal sheets. He sat in the darkness tenderly stroking back Matilda's browning dirty blonde hair.

John half-asleep woke to the sound of gentle lilt. From Matilda came a humming sound. Her eyes mindlessly darted around the room, never settling on a particular spot. She was chewing on some of her hair, a habit that appeared to be calming her down.

After a while Matilda went quiet, pupils fixing on the man beside sitting on the floor beside her. She pushed the hair out of her mouth. Her voice was quiet when she spoke.

"Can I have hot cocoa... Please?”

JWJWJW

Was it the best parenting decision, agreeing to let a young child have a rich mug of hot chocolate before returning to bed? Perhaps not. Did it settle the child's shot nerves, melting them like fondue. The little girl swore by the creamy beverage, claiming it was often the simplest things that brought her comfort. Hot chocolate, her comfort beverage.

Matilda sat at the overhang counter, feet dangling over the edge of her seat. She had proved not to be one of those children. You know, the ones who ask every minute "is it done yet?" She wasn't one of those kids. She held herself poised, trying to forget the previous moments events.

Matilda had thoughtlessly been twiddling her thumbs, chewing the inside of her cheek. "Why are you so a miss? You in all your faults. You're a loon, a weirdo, a mistake." There it went, her studio inner dialogue, it was never her friend. She didn't have friends. "Can't even handle a measly nightmare. Such a frea—"

"Matilda," John's voice saved her from her own thoughts. "Here you go, lovely." Matilda flashes him a smile, not a scared one but too tired to be considered a genuine smile.

He placed a mug in front of her. It was the first time he'd been able to make her hot chocolate since he'd taken her in. Despite John repeatedly telling her that his microwave was better than stovetop — and that she wasn't allowed to use the stove — she was inflexible.

Her eyes suspiciously narrowed, this was not her hot chocolate. "Thank you," she murmured, kindly accepting the mug. John chuckled softly, the child was too polite. From the slight crinkle up of her nose he could tell she was perplexed. He could see the little cogs in her brain spinning.

What's this? She cutely tilted her head inspecting, the white whip dollop stacked on top of cocoa decorated with red rectangle flecks. She hesitantly sticks out her tongue, just barely touching it against the white whip. Chills.

For a moment Matilda wraps her small hands around the ceramic mug, letting the heat warm her clammy palms. "Thank you," she repeated more sincerely this time. Leaving the mug, with some struggle she managed to get off the tall tool seat without help. She had every intention of retaking her mug — she'd finish the cocoa in the safety and security of her own room — however John picked up the mug before she had the chance.

Matilda bit her lip, nervously twisting the fabric of her pajama top. "Question for the cocoa," John bargained. Matilda's lips pressed together, turned down at the edges, and she nodded. "Why are you up?" He asked delicately.

Matilda's right eye twitched.

Understandably, Matilda was the most reserved and withdrawn child he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. She was nothing like the children who so boldly so curiously sought the council of Sherlock long ago. She kept to herself. Only speaking when it seemed polite or required.

"Truth please," John requested squatting so he was eye level with the 33.4" girl.

Her self-confidence was basically dead in the water at this point. It'd been brutally grabbed from behind and held under the drink against its will. Not that herself self-confidence had much of a will.

With a shaky sigh, she submitted. "I had a bad dream.

There was always an adorable yet heartbreaking timidness to her actions and mannerisms.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John offered, kindly handing the still warm mug off to Matilda. She flinched at first, body readying itself for a scolding blow. But she relaxed as soon as she realized John was only returning the cocoa to her.

She fearing he would change his mind on a dime she swiftly took the mug, cupping it in her hands. "No. No, thank you." she politely declined taking exactly two steps back from John. Weird, he didn't seem mad about her shortcoming.

As she inched toward the corridor, eyes never leaving John, she brought the rim of the, 'Our Clinic Has An Awesome Doctor. True Story.' mug to her lips. Dark, rich and pepperminty the warm hot chocolate coated her tongue thickly before flowing down her throat.

"I'm always here for you, if you need me," John whispered, knowing he couldn't hear him already around the corner.

Matilda May. John couldn't help but care for the little girl. Not only because she was utterly adorable, but also because there was something so endearing about her in general. A bit rigid around the edges, she was sure a sweet little darling. She was broken and scared, she didn't quite trust him.

He was hopeful she'd come around, eventually. He just had to—

Matilda poked her head back from round the corner connecting the kitchen and the corridor. "Goodnight John."

John's mouth twitched, the corners of his mouth lifted up into a soft smile.

—give it time.

Portrait of a Miracle

"We belong in a museum", I think. We're somthing by Van Gogh maybe. All swirls of blanket, light, emotion, and colors so vibrant it's hard to believe they exist in a material as simple as paint. The soft curves of our faces and bare skin are carefully contoured to highlight our expressions, position, and proximity. Maybe the painter centered the angle between us, both of us visible. The story of tonight visible.

I shift closer to you at that thought, comforted. I open my mouth to say something, but words fail. My lips find yours instead, a hesitant hand on the back of your head, my fingers gently burying themselves in soft locks as you reciprocate. An affectionate kiss, meant to express love, adoration. Not desire. Not want or need. Simply gratitude, contentment, and happiness. 

This feels natural. Like life was meant to be this way. With you. Calm. Stress-free and warm in a way I didn't know things could be. You're warm. Warm like how it feels to walk into a restaurant in the dead of winter. Maybe the colors on our painter's canvas are shades of orange and red and yellow, those wintery colors forgotten in the rush of emotion that spurred the portrait. I wonder if this will last forever, because it feels like forever. Because I want it to be forever.

The Elephant and the Chisel

For my whole life I've thought of myself as a statue, but I didn't know it until today. Until someone made a comment about a skinny girl inside who'll never arrive and I thought wait, I've thought that before.

I realized that is how I've been viewing myself and my body. That inside of me there is a more beautiful version of myself just waiting to be free, and if I can only chip away enough I can free her. If I can find the right creams and gels, the right clothes and poses, stop eating the wrong foods, if I can find the right exercises and do them for long enough, no longer, longer still...eventually this inner me, the beautiful woman who I'm waiting to be, will be revealed.

All I must do is chip away at the extraneous. Remove those parts society tells me I shouldn't have or don't need. That let me down or spoil the whole. My uneven skin tone. My heavy frame. My poor posture. My bad dress sense. My buck teeth. My frizzy hair.

Don't worry there's a cream for that. What's your skin care routine? You should add this one, once a month, it helps tighten your face. And this one, once a week to make it plump. And this one, everyday to smooth the tone.

And your hair. Have you tried this brush or that shampoo? No? But it can fix that issue, so and so swears by it, honestly look at the reviews.

Where do you work out? Do you work out? How do you work out? Oh you haven't tried this, you simply must, its essential to tone your arms. You should add that to your leg day, it really helps with you butt. Add this, stop that, change everything.

Have I chipped enough away yet? Can you see her, the beauty stuck within me? I know she's there. The world has told me she will come if I just do this right. If I do all the right things, in the right way, then eventually that striking, beautiful woman will be set free. Finally.

And that is what I've been told I should dedicate my life to, all of my precious and limited spare time, removing parts of myself. Chipping and cutting and picking and prying until finally someone will say 'voila! There she is. We always knew you could be beautiful!'

'There was always an elephant inside the rock, I just removed the parts that weren't'. How did those parts feel, to be torn from their whole? Told they were getting in the way. Told they spoilt the view?

♛𝕄𝕪 𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥♛

♛ Articles I Wrote  ♛

The Basics of Story Planning - Part II (protagonists)

The Basics of Story Planning - Part I (introduction)

Creative Writing - is this what I want to do?

♛ Personal Writing (Mostly FanFiction) ♛

Deserving - (Red Dead Redemption II - John Marston x Arthur Morgan - Secret Cupid 2021 for  @southernlynxx​)

Love Gun - (AO3 - Fallout 4 - F!SS x MacCready)

Run Kid Run - (Red Dead Redemption II - Secret Santa 2020 for @ @onlytherocksliveforever​)

♛ Resources  ♛

None, yet.