Never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive.

And never trust a preacher until you know how much they’ve lied

And never hate your mother until you know how much she’s tried

And never judge a person until you know how much they’ve cried

Life is but a mirage You see only what they want you to see So never judge a mirage By what you see immediately

Never trust a survivor until you know what they do to survive.

What did I do to survive?

I lied. I pretended to be who they wanted me to be. I pretended the words they used didn’t hurt. I didn’t care. It’s okay. I’m not broken inside. I pretended that I didn’t hate watching mum put make up on and a short dress and say ‘I’m going to the bank’. I was fine with the one meal a day and the empty bottles. With running as fast as my little legs could carry me.

I changed. I strengthened my mind so I really was fine. I strengthened my mind till pain really was something I brushed off like dust. I was faster and stronger so sometimes I could dodge the blows. I came to love solitude. I came to hide in my friends houses.

I learnt. I learnt that some days I had to be a carer for the people who beat me. I learnt it was okay to cry as long as no-one knew. I learnt it was okay to make myself hurt because they did it anyway. I learnt that sometimes words hurt more, even than the buckle end.

I turned to music, kept my head down, did as they said. When they asked me to change my surname, I asked ‘what to?’. When I saw the change come over them, when I realised what was happening, I stopped trying to run but just stayed where I was, that way it couldn’t get worse.

The biggest thing of all was after. The first time I realised it really was wrong was when my boyfriend saw my scars. We talked about it, and I knew. I knew it wasn’t right, I knew it would be okay.

I didn’t lie. I was open with people. I tried to help. I went to a school once, I was scared when I spotted someone in the crowd and knew that they were going through what I had. More shocked when I helped them.

I did change. I no longer feared people, I knew I could get help if I needed it.

I learnt that it was okay to need help and never okay to be hurt. I learnt that I could cope and that pain was real.

Then came my test. Could I survive a conversation with them? Could I figure things out with them? The short answer is no.

Please don’t judge.

Never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive. Life can be a zero sumn game especially in this economy. Not everyone gets a chance to live, but sometimes you take that chance from someone else. And he took! Jerod carongton is guilty for murder of my mother and I can prove it! On the outside you see a sweet old smal tiny Person But what I see is a refugee who was heading down a dangerous path and did what he dad to do to survive. You see Jerod wasn’t always evil……

(Made this a loooonnnnggggg time ago lol don’t know why I never posted it til now.)

Never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive

Where have you been, Friend..?

Falling Down D o w n d o w n

again.

Bitter lemons caress my eyes As I lie awake In sweet silence

You seem… Fine. But different. Changed. For the better? I have yet to find out

Are you truly Alive, still?

Who were you Before And more so Who have you Become

F r i e n d ?

I was ecstatic When I found out But I don’t want to be tricked And the internet is a place of lies

They’ll find you if you let down your guard

Good thing I don’t go out After dark

"Never trust a survivor unless you know what they did to survive." reading the quote my heart jolts. I remember my friends and their horrified faces. My throat tightens. It had been so close. I had done so much yet it was never enough. My shoulders sag and I think about just how true that quote is. I am the one you should be wary of. I lied and cheated and wanted to kill. I chose myself over my family. I did it to survive but it is still a part of me. I wouldn't trust myself and no one else should either. Yet, I don't tell a soul. I walk like I don't want to break the bones of... anyone... just anyone. I just want to hurt something, to make them pay, for everything. Years. Its been years. Friends come and go. The new ones don't know what I've done, where I've been and they care about me. I don't want that to break... I don't want that... But, its there: the lie, creeping up on them until they know the truth. I see fresh faces in my minds eye: betrayed, distrustful, scared, desperate, their whole world turned upside down. "Never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive." Or maybe, just don't trust anyone.

“Never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive.” I whisper the words to him, too late to change anything. His eyes, wide with pain, shock, and terror, latch onto mine. “Rey,” he chokes, “why . . ?” “That’s not my name. I’m sorry, Blake. I tried to warn you to stay away from me.” “I know who you are, Elisabeth.” His voice is a whisper. “I stayed anyway. I hoped . . . I wanted to show you that it was possible to change, that you could . . .” He trails off. “I’m sorry, Blake,” I say over my shoulder as I leave him. “I guess I really am a monster.” I don’t look back.

“Never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive.” The queen’s voice carries throughout the banquet hall, vibrating in Maeve’s chest.

The quiet shuffle of fabrics ruffling together and the clink of crystal wine glasses almost drown out the Queen’s stern lecture. All faces turn to her, their low chatter hidden behind masks of diamonds and bright silks. Covering their snickers with gloved hands, their eyes gleam with greed and a quiet, throbbing distaste.

It makes Maeve sick—the food, gold, and money wasted on pleasure and meaningless joy. Her stomach churns at the vicious smells of sweets and champagne. She thinks of the slaves, starving and desperate for warmth, for life, and she can’t help but feel guilty. She remembers the hunger echoing inside her, making her whole body thin and fragile.

Maeve turns to the Queen, the anger and fear burning inside her, almost spewing out of her. Despite her blurring vision and aching stomach, she plasters on a fake smile.

Ammon leans over, his breath hot against Maeve’s ear. “Are you ready?”

“No,” she admits, and Ammon stifles a chuckle. “But I can’t turn back now.”

“None of us can.” His dark lips split into a small grin, one that would leave plenty of girls swooning.

She shifts on her feet, Ammon’s gentle stare burning into her skin. “Are you sure you’re willing to have his blood on your hands?”

Maeve’s eyes dart to General Hearst, his dull expression and rough uniform a contrast to the fair fabrics and ecstatic faces surrounding him.

“Yes.” Ammon sets his jaw, eyes burning with determination. “I need to do this.”

Maeve knows little to nothing about Ammon, only that he’s chosen to make a change, to save the ones who can’t save themselves. In a way, she admires him for giving up his comfortable and pleasurable life to conspire with lowlifes.

She nods, ignoring the unease settling in her bones. He tears himself from Maeve’s side, his eyes lingering on her a moment before turning away. She watches him leave, Ammon’s absence leaving her sweaty and nervous as ever.

“A refreshment, ma’am?” Quintin questions, appearing at Maeve’s side. The servant’s suit is dashing as ever on his freckled skin. He holds a platter of bubbles and champagne, the golden liquid splashing around.

Promptly, Maeve plucks a glass from his glistening silver dish. “How kind of you, sir.” She fakes a posh accent and gives him a knowing look.

Quintin winks before gently grabbing her hand and leading her through the sea of dresses and suits.

“What you and Ammon are doing tonight,” Quintin begins, “is what needs to be done if we want change.”

Maeve spares another glance at the war general. He hasn’t moved an inch, but now Ammon stands next to him, making small talk.

“We will not kneel,” she whispers the banned phrase, the fear of being heard not weighing on her.

Quintin places a hand over his heart before swinging the servant’s side door open for Maeve. “Strength through sacrifice.”

Nodding, Maeve slips through the doorway and dodges hurried waiters balancing plates on the palms of their hands. She reaches inside her handbag, fingers wrapping around the delicate crinkled paper, and analyzes Quintin’s hand-drawn map of the castle’s tangled corridors.

She’s never been good with directions, even when she was a child living in her hometown. Maeve knows she doesn’t have enough time to get lost; one wrong turn and she’ll run out of time.

Following each twist and turn of the map, checking and double-checking every corner, Maeve finds the castle’s corridors striking, the low crystal chandeliers lighting the ivory and gold halls in a warm glow. Each wall and windowsill is framed in elegant golden designs. Moonlight shimmers in through arched windows, spilling over the marble floors.

Resisting the urge to gawk at each breathtaking detail, Maeve keeps her focus on the map and the mission. Even as her eyes drift to the shadowed corners of the Queen’s courtroom, she presses forward, ignoring the nagging guilt in her chest.

She staggers to a stop, her stomach dancing with nerves. She knows she shouldn’t, yet her curiosity drags her toward the archway.

“Ammon’s gonna kill me,” Maeve giggles to herself as she drifts into the Queen’s Chambers.

As Maeve shifts into the courtroom, her breath catches in her throat. She expected poise and grandeur but nothing this extraordinary. It’s amazing, yet the glitter and gold disgust her.

Her heels echo across the grand marble floor, the sound distant compared to the vast room. Maeve gapes up at the towering white pillars, all engraved with Thalorn’s historic victories. Stories she heard as a child turn real under the chandelier’s flicker. Long shadows cast evil stone eyes on her.

Despite herself, Maeve can’t help but stare, amazed at it all. Even as her hands tremble and her insides twist with fear, she can’t bring herself to look away from the royal purple tapestries. Knights kneeling to the Queen are embroidered in golden strands.

The throne lurks in the center like an idol being worshiped. It’s a monument, a symbol of power and blood. The spears are like claws, jagged and unforgiving in the spine of the seat. Maeve can almost feel the weight of the Queen’s presence, even when she’s gone and it’s only Maeve.

Maeve swallows and takes a deep, hard breath. She needs to stay focused and fast before Ammon finishes his section of the mission. She ignores the pressure of the still shadows and haunting silence; she will not be afraid of the Queen or her courtroom.

Moving silently, Maeve sticks to the dark corners. Her fingers brush the Queen’s table. Neat piles of documents and papers scatter across the mahogany surface. Her eyes skim over them, looking for any possible information the rebellion could use.

Only one document stands out to her, and she painstakingly snatches it with trembling hands. It’s a parchment, marked with the royal seal. Maeve’s hand slicks with sweat and her heart pounds as she reads through it carefully. Realizing that the document reports military services and plans, she holds back a gasp as she reads detailed strategies for upcoming operations. With a disturbing twist in her stomach, she recognizes names— people from the rebellion and places she knows are important. Targets for the Queen to take over, to silence.

Maeve’s blood runs cold, and her stomach lurches in horror. The rebellion has only begun, a small flame flickering in the dark. They will start a forest fire and drown out the darkness, Ammon once told the growing group of rebels.

Her body scrambles, hands moving with urgency as she scoops up documents. She can hardly feel her legs as she shoves the papers under the piled fabrics of her dress.

She’s ready to sprint back to Ammon and Quintin, ramble to the two about her findings, until another paper catches her eye. It sits half-hidden under a map, and Maeve rips it free.

Operation Silence. Frantically, Maeve reads through the Queen’s plans to eliminate the rebellion. It lists ways to root out rebellion sympathizers and major rebellious powers.

Maeve’s pulse quickens as her body hums with distress. She slips the last paper into her handbag, breath hitched as she rushes back to the archway she entered through.

Archways and windows flash past her in a whimsical blur. Following the semi-familiar halls with the crumpled map in her hands, she sprints back to the banquet hall, her throat burning and body weak. She ignores the feeling of rough paper against her skin as she bursts through the servant’s side door.

She scans the crowd for Ammon and Quintin, breath heaving. With a jolt in her chest, she stumbles over to Ammon, who still stands close to the General. She comes from behind him as she places a shaking hand on his arm, seeking stability in his support.

“Honey,” she flashes him a panicked smile, hoping he’ll catch onto her little act. “I’m not feeling very well, would you mind if we left now?”

If Ammon is confused, he hides it well. “Yes, yes. Wait for me outside the banquet hall while I say goodbye to General Hearst.”

Maeve turns to General Hearst. “So sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Lady Constance, Count Ammon’s wife,” she lies, a sweat breaking over her brow.

“Have a servant fetch my coat, would you, sweetie?”

Maeve smiles and nods, patting his arm lightly before disappearing into the crowd. She spins around groups of men and women, still happily sipping away at their champagne. The Queen’s lecture has ended, and now she sits high above the crowd, smiling coyly at the audience, pretending to enjoy herself. Maeve wanders until she sees the flash of fiery red hair belonging to Quintin.

“Waiter,” Maeve calls to Quintin through the bodies of guests. “Waiter!”

Quintin stumbles before turning his head, a sense of relief slipping over his handsome features. “Yes, ma’am?”

Maeve suppresses the urge to sob to him about the documents, to let the words spill out of her and ramble until the whole courtroom can hear her. Instead, she grabs Quintin’s white collar and shrugs him closer to her.

“I have something you need to see,” Maeve’s voice

trembles and Quintin’s body tenses. “We need to leave. Now.”

Quintin wrenches his collar from Maeve’s fists and pretends to dust off the wrinkles. “Follow me, ma’am.”

Maeve holds onto Quintin’s shoulder, letting him lead her through the maze. He throws open a pair of ivory doors, nodding to the two guards stationed there before they leave. Slowly, the doors shudder closed and Maeve can feel the pressure of staying calm fall away from her.

She crouches, propping her hands up on her knees. “We need to wait for Ammon here.”

“What happened?” Quintin places a hand on her back. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Grimly, Maeve thinks of all the names she saw written down, the lives that would be lost.

“I might as well have.”

Sorry! This prompt is so unnecessarily long and confusing but I had a really fun time writing it.

I survived a two wars, two revolutions. It was hard. I saw so many people die. I wake up with nightmares almost every night. There are certain places I can’t go because it triggers me. I have moved so many times, it’s hard to call my house home. Many people don’t trust me because they think I’ve seen too much.

And I have.

I was a general in the wars. I killed people with my own two hands. I have seen comrades and enemies die at my feet. I have fought wars all over the country. But I tricked my way out of capture the first time and won my way to the winning side the second. I look scary because I no longer sleep and scares and wounds still show. I guess that’s why they say don’t trust survivors. There is a reason we survived.

Never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive.

People always talk about Nova. She is the more overt one. You can tell she had a rough childhood from the closed off, defensive behavior she displays.

She wields a knife or weapon and is always analyzing people. People have learned to keep their distance from her. To distrust her.

But Haze, she is the reason for that upbringing. Being a witch in a witch-hating world is a death sentence.

She may appear happy and hopeful. She may be a bit child-like at times, but she is all too aware of her life and the life her sister is forced to have because of her abilities.

A witch’s magic is based on trust. That makes it difficult when no one trusts magic users.

Nova trusts her, and that’s all she’s ever had, so Haze holds a lot of guilt.

Over how Nova has to live. Over the tarnished name of witches. Over what they’ve had to do to survive.

She has endured ridicule and horrible remarks. She has survived pitch forks and swords. She has survived the fire and the stakes. They have survived everything.

She is a Phoenix. She’ll keep rising from the ashes of whatever they throw at her.

Because she’ll keep surviving. To keep her sister safe. You can trust Haze, unless you threaten Nova. Then you are in for a rude awakening.

Never trust her without knowing what she’ll do in the name of family.

Never trust a seeker, until you know how they lived How did they survive?

Little girl left alone, Dad’s train delayed, Mom’s dead now. Southern secret still!

Love’s around, yet missed. ‘Where has my family gone?’ ‘Grandma? Auntie? Dad?’

Ignore feelings, thus the pretense survives. All proud. Must impress. Be good.

Go to church! Behave! Feelings make you too subject to ridicule, shame.

Then still one morning aha, my spirit! My righteous Mother.

Devoid of feelings, going to church for show and tell. The child survives still.

Trust your instinct! NO! Yes, trust your instinct, you know! Little girl, still lost.

Surviving her life, never growing in her own. Trust her life lesson

Do the work, or not. Her soul’s black barrenness stays. Go to church! Behave!