Love Agony Fear Anxiety

“I told you what would happen If you disobeyed me!” Did you? Did you really?

So now I’m laying on the ground Trying to catch my breath After the solid punch You laid in my gut

You stand above me Face red and flushed with anger Chest rising and falling in quick breaths You stare at me with so much disgust in your eyes

That used to hurt me That used to make me cry I would avoid that gaze But not anymore

I stare back at you At those controlling eyes And wonder how I every could have lived With you alive and by my side

It’s a struggle to stand on my feet The painful feelings swirling around me Causing me to stumble Causing you to strike me again with a kick

Should I be scared Concerned? I don’t know I just think that these painful feelings will be gone after tonight.

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(Bleh 😑 Staring school in 1 min. I wanna go home. I woke up at 3 am and got jump scared by my mum. Thanks for reading and have a good day.)

“I told you,” My friend said, “Told you what would happen if you disobeyed me!” “What in the world is that play?” I asked with a disgusted face, “Sounds like something the devil would say. “Bruh, have you not been listening to me?” Rya asked. “If we’re being honest here…” I said in my usual casual/sarcastic voice. “Yeah, yeah, I already know the answer,” She rolled her eyes, “Well, todays the last day of school, you think I should ask Robert out?” “Robert?” I asked and pretend threw up “The sixth grader who calls himself ‘Wobby?’” “Yeah, you know, you should start listening to people more often,” Rya commented. “But it’s my thing, never listen,” I sulked. “Well someone may say something important someday, you never know,” She said, then stopped as we made it to her class. “Well what I do know is that people are annoying and they all stare at their stupid phones playing, what’s it called….” I acted as if in deep thought, sarcasm as always “Snapchat.” “There’s no point in helping you,” Rya said “See you at the end of the day, Brooks.” “Later,” I replied and headed farther down the hallway, finally making it to room 162. That class, mostly nerds, was math, I didn’t like math so it went by quickly, by me falling asleep. “Brooks Ashtyn Camero!” I heard a booming voice say “If it was my choice I would give you ISS for the first couple weeks of sixth grade, since you care so much of math already.” The teacher. I looked up, sleep soon wearing off. My teachers ugly face loomed above me, her five distinct warts redder than usual. I snickered as the bell rang, stood up, and left. Nothing she could do now, since it was the end of the school year. “No more classes!” I yelled through the hallway, getting some glares on the way to Rya’s class. Once I made it there she hooked her arm around mine and we left, heading down towards the field that we walked on to go home. “I hope Roberts walking this way today,” Rya said and sighed. I could see how much he meant to her, how much hope he gave her. If he broke her heart…he had a date with the devil, me. Then I saw him, saw Rya squeal. His wavy brown hair making his big brown eyes pop. He somehow got the looks compared to some people. Rya tan over to him, and I had to follow. “Hi Robert,” She said, as if she was used to talking to him. “Do I know you?” He asked. That made me mad. Rya had been trying to get his attention all school year, he could notice her but now he was just being an idiot. Rya looked at me with a firm glare, forcing my temper to soften. “Well, not exactly, but I was wondering…will you be my boyfriend?” Rya asked. “Oh-“ He stuttered, he and his friends looked taken aback at her guts “I like someone else actually.” “Why you-“ I said, but was cut off by Rya who had an ok look on her face. “Let it go Brooks,” She was trying to hold back tears. I glared at Robert then back to Rya, then took Rya’s arm and ignored him when he said who he actually liked.

I woke up, sweating. The dream….or not a dream, my fifth grade year… “Everything ok?” Robert asked me, his face reassuring that everything was ok, even if Rya had died two years ago…she meant everything to me.

Georgie could see the last few rays of light fading from the sky and all he could do was watch. He watched the sky like it was something he’d never seen before; a beauty hidden above his world of darkness. He knew it was highly likely this would be the last day he’d see to the end and he wanted to hold onto a least one pleasant memory, a pleasant memory that he couldn’t lose or have to invent.

Slowly, he’s focus shifted forward, away from the outside, to the frame of his 4 X 4 window. Would he notice the shard of glass missing? Would he notice before Georgie had a chance to do something, anything? Georgie spend the next hour in a daydream: fantasising his dream mission of a heroic escape; the moment he’d see his family again; his moment in court where justice would be served.

Abruptly, Georgie was pulled back into the present with a familiar sound: keys and chains. He looked back at the window one last time, inwardly begging something, someone, to give him the strength he knew he didn’t have. ‘Runt!’ The gruff voice came from the shadow blocking the doorway and Georgie knew, without having to turn around, that the beast would have a sickening grin on his face. Reluctantly, Georgie turned to face him. Although skinny in size and young-ish in age, the beast has the strength of ten crazy men when he wanted it; Georgie’s cuts, bruises and breaks could stand witness to that. ‘Don’t underestimate him’, Georgie thought to himself. The smell of stale beer clogging up the air shouldn’t have given Georgie a sense of hope; if anything, he knew it made him more unpredictable.

‘Well Runt, what’re you waiting for, a fucking invitation?’ The beast lingered in the doorway, taking one small step into the tiny basement, grinning, enjoying the winnings of a hunt rather than a meal just handed to him; it was one of the reasons he kept the kid this long: he still continues to fight.

Georgie stumbled back, gripping onto the shards of glass too tightly with his, now bloodied, hand behind his back. He knew the game and didn’t want to play anymore… he allowed the beast to come towards him. The beast didn’t like it; it wasn’t a win if Georgie didn’t lose. He stepped forward and gripped Georgie around the neck, intent on making him squeal another way when something behind the kid caught his eye: the window. He’s eyes flashed back at Georgie, full of fire and excitement but Georgie didn’t wait, he plunged the knife into his chest, mastering as much strength as he could, burying the glass deeper into his own hand as it sank deeper into the beast.

Georgie ran, he ran as quick as he could towards the door, towards the air of the night sky and city, still buzzing with life. He could feel his legs giving way on the stairs but he had strength; he could do this. He got to the door and turned the handle, the handle to an unlocked door! An easy way out! The smell of air was intoxicating, exhilarating. Georgie opened his mouth wide to scream at the top of his lungs so that someone could finally take him away. As he breathed in … he was overcome with darkness. Nothing but pain and confusion, with time drifting by.

Eventually, he’s swollen eyes could just about open and he could feel his wrists shackled to the wall. He eyes we’re all he could move, everything else felt broken, shattered; even breathing induced pain. He’s eyes focused on the room and he could just about make it out: the shadow, grinning teeth, staring eyes. Lingering onto consciousness, Georgie heard the beast almost singing to himself, ‘I told you what would happen if you disobeyed me,’ just before Georgie passed out from the pain.

Lie once.

Lie twice.

And thrice more.

Here you are to pay the price.

Your boots made their arrival heard, ringing out a tremulous beat. The gangway rasped in a pained plea for you to leave. Even the frayed fibre tried to cajole you into heaving yourself up the sharp incline on their jagged teeth. No. You would not fall for the devious whispers of the Rising Ghost.

“Out me way!” Simple words welded with power to send the weed tumbling away.

With purpose to match the strongest sea storm you bore down on the first mate; they stamped their status with a single gold hoop. “Tell me w’er yer cap’in is! Or feel me wrath.”

Hoisting themselves to their full drunken height, the first mate hesitated- just for a second. Something dangerous flickered amongst the hazy seas trapped for eternity in their thick head, “Ye don’ ‘ave a weapon- “

“I don’t need one,” Another step, a deliberate move, “Cap’in. Now.”

Stupefied they lurched backwards, intoxicated. It wasn’t cheap drink of the Devil that flowed through this ship, it was your aura of serpentine tentacles that looped darkly through the rigging and bones. Unfazed by the gentle lilt of the ocean song, you lightly move across the deck in the wake of the jagged mountain of taught muscles. Under the cheerful light of the midday sun, you silently memorised every tattoo of filthy ink.

Always know your enemies.

Descending into the bowls of the Rising Ghost, you increased your self-awareness. This wasn’t your ship. It was theirs. Yet no flick of rats’ tails or shifting of dangerous silhouettes could be seen. All that could be heard was the melodic crooning of the shapely planks and harmonising creak of taught rope.

You winced as their heavy fist pounded on a meticulously polished mahogany door, “Cap’ a bilge rat for ye to skin!”

“I ain’ seen no bilge ra’ for ‘wen’y years or more. Sen’ in ‘he bilge ra’ Greg,” A voice wet with whisky emerged through the crack under the door, seeping out on a river of liquid gold.

“Me lady,” Greg opened the door with a flourish, bowing low and gracious. Blistered lips pulled back in a malicious smile, one that you wished to wipe off his smug face. Instead, you swept past cold as the driven snow, and sent the door back into its place with a firm heel.

Inside the Captain’s cabin toxic fumes of burnt cigars embedded themselves deep into the very fabric of the ships’ soul. No lithe figures could be seen dancing in the hearth flirting with the shadows of the past. Somehow the rich ribbons streaming through the delicate stained glass failed to illuminate the ornate scenes. Precariously balanced the dull brass lantern threatened to throw itself finally to deaths waiting arms.

Their contempt was clear beneath their glowering tricorn hat, even their bulbous nose managed to fold itself into something like derision. “I told you what would happen if you disobeyed me!” That final condemning sentence was forced out through gapping gaps and rotten teeth. Beneath their shallow façade lingered a trace of their eloquent and lavish heritage.

You held their weeping gaze. “I s’ill wish t’ see ye dance t’ hempen jig,” Spite poisoned your tongue, “Yet I see no pistol, where’s it at Cap’in?”

Leaning over their personal barrel they tried to look intimidating only to forget their ankles were carefully folded atop the desk. Amused one caterpillar stretched its still back against a pale backdrop. You knew you were on dangerous territory, yet when did prodding the beehive hurt anyone?

A single liver-spotted appendage gravitated towards the holster that hung limply from a straining belt. Nothing. Perhaps the other hip. Nothing. It just failed to reach the abused mouth from which a bluebottle made a hasty escape. “Com’on, surely a Cap’in o’ mighty ship knows where ‘is weap’n is! Really?”

“Shu’ yer trap! Or I ‘ave yer measured fer yer chain’s!” Violently punctuating the empty threat with a slamming of feet returning from the clouds.

“O’ ‘tis much fun t’ wa’ch yer rage. In t’ ol’days yer would ‘ave ma’e me kiss t’ gunners’ daughter, ‘ow times ‘ave changed.”

“Ye know nowt abou’ t’ ol’ days!” He hollered as he flung the contents of the desk across the distressed rug. All manner of things clattered, thumped and bounced into the spotlight or rolled mortified into the corners.

Surveying the items gathered on the floor you muttered wearily, “Still no pistol.”

“Shu’ up!” Bellowed the Rising Ghosts’ captain, turning an alarming shade of puce and his forehead veins threating to commit mutiny. “Why yer even carin’ abo’ me pistol? Who are ye, bilge ‘at an’ why ye ‘ere?” The great gulps of oxygen causing a strange staccato to his words.

Innocently, twisting your plain sleeve cuff you murmur, “O’ me?” Curiously, you tossed your orbs of wonder around the room, before ascertaining that indeed that you were the only one that was being addressed. “Well, I quite like me ship back, Cap’in.”

This caught him on the blindside, momentarily flabbergasted he wove his pillar-like arms in a mysterious configuration with his wobbling jowls gasping like a beached fish. “Your ship?” Was all he could muster, his tough exterior vanishing with the defeated fall of his hands.

“My ship. I wan’ ‘er back, please.”

“Or what?”

“Or I turns ye into fish food… and send ye t’ Davy Jones’ Locker,” you couldn’t help the slight sneer that crept like seaweed across your face.

“How? You don’t even have a weapon.” Childhood anxiety rose like a sea fog, swiftly stealing the seeing eye.

Fast as the northern gannet dives, you wrapped yourself around the portly figure. Nimbly, locking his wrists together with half a yard of rope, you press biting fear to his temple. “I don’ need a weapon, when I am t’ weapon. Like I said I wan’ me Rising Ghost back, and ye stole it. I don’ take kindly to thieves.”

“That is rich coming from a scoundrel.”

“Ye sure?”

“Yes! Untie me at once! Isn’t that my pistol?”

Pretending to meticulously study the firearm, you pause dramatically… “Seems li’e t’is mine too. Shame ‘tis rather pretty.”

Unable to stand his mindless chatter, you shoved him into the sharp point of the mantlepiece. Pressing against him, you freed your right hand which shoved an oily rag into his mouth. You felt a nub of repulsive pus break free of the gag, “Pick tha’ up, now.”

Stepping away you gave him ample space to retrieve his foul tooth, you tracked his movement with a sharp gaze. Waiting loyally by your side your pistol imperceptivity quivered with apprehension, delighted to be returned to its mistress’ skilled hands.

“Inhale it- now.”

Two teenagers dated two times. The second time the guy said,”What would you do if I got an earring?”

The girl said,” I wouldn’t date you anymore. Don’t disobey me.”

A week later, the guy says,”Are you free for dinner?”

The girl says,”No.”

The guys says,” No!?!”

“Right no. I told you that if you got an earring I wouldn’t date you anymore and I told you what would happen if you disobeyed me.”

The guy left confused.

Continuation of Their Father’s Crimes and My Name is A̷c̷e̷ Alex Trigger warning: mentioned removal of an eye

Ace had been wondering when their father would do something to them. He knew, after all, that his beloved ‘daughter’ was fighting him, and definitely knew that they were still using their ‘ridiculous attention-seeking’ pronouns.

And as if that wasn’t enough, then they were openly attending gatherings of those who were fighting back in the waking world.

This…

Zero’s scars were inflicted by someone he knew, they were well aware of that. He was nervous about telling anyone about how he got them, nervous about talking to the older teens in general. Aislinn also claimed that he was homeschooled, so that left few questions to really be answered.

Ace knew their own home life was hardly brilliant, especially considering their father’s quick ascension to supervillain status, but up until this point it was a small comfort to think that they knew someone who was worse off. As horrible as the thought was, it was hard to help someone who didn’t seem to talk about himself enough to confirm anything.

They didn’t even know his real name.

But here they were, feeling very real blood trickle down the side of their face and trying to squint at their father through their left eye rather than using their right side to do so.

“I told you what would happen if you disobeyed me!” he snapped, holding up the eye he’d just tore from its socket. Blood dripped onto the floor, though Ace wasn’t looking at it.

“Yep, you definitely told me about this.”

“Access to the brain is all I need, Alexandra.”

Oh.

Oh no.

With only one real option, they flung themselves forwards, dodging away from their father’s grasp and sprinting for the still-open door. A shout in some language they didn’t know seemed to echo through the whole building, followed by screams and cries for help from other locked rooms down the corridor.

Ace didn’t have a choice. Dreamers and vilimora alike were likely being tortured behind those doors, but alone they were useless. It was Aislinn, Liadain, Isolde, even Zero, who could do incredible things. Their contribution to whatever their little freedom movement was just information and an odd benefit of being friends with Liadain.

“Ace!”

There was Zero.

His eyes widened as he took in the blood staining their cheek and the distinct lack of an eye, raising a hand as though in a trance to cover the scars on his right cheek. “What in the ever loving…”

“Don’t!”

Triggers: Domestic violence!

His hands shook as he stared down at the broken plate on the floor.

Fuck, not again... this was the third time he’d broken something, and the bruises on his stomach, neck, legs, and arms were still fresh from the last two times.

Hearing the front door creak open and slam shut, his whole body trembled like a terrified Chihuahua, knowing what was in store for him.

“Joshua?!”

The voice of his husband boomed from the living room, and Joshua didn’t want to answer, but he knew that if he didn’t, he’d get what was already coming to him ten times worse.

“Yes, Vic?”

Victor rounded the corner, and the first thing he saw was the plate in a thousand tiny pieces on the tile floor. Turning his gaze up to Joshua, the other held in a whimper at the sight of his eyes, knowing that look all too well.

“C’mere.”

Vic did the finger gesture slowly, and Joshua obeyed. He was numb to the swift hand across his face and the words that followed.

“I told you what would happen if you disobeyed me!”

“Please, Vic, I’m sorry, my-my-my hand- my hand, I just- I lost my gr-!”

Another slap shut Joshua up, and he tasted something he’d never tasted before: blood. He must’ve bitten his tongue...

“You clumsy shit! You’re useless, I don’t even know /why/ I married your ass! You have the housekeeping skills of a goddamned gnat! Did you-?!”

A soft cry from the baby monitor interrupted the rage-filled rant, their newborn son having awoken from his slumber.

“Go get ‘im. After you’re done, I expect you to clean this up unless you want one of these shards shoved down your fuckin’ throat, got it?”

Joshua nodded, hurrying out of the room and to the nursery. He closed the door behind him and picked up the baby, settling him against his chest as he shushed him softly.

“It’s okay... we’re gonna get out of here soon, I promise...”

The young man adjusted little Luke’s blanket, sitting down in the rocking chair beside the crib and trying to tune out the football game on the TV just outside the door, soon accompanied by the all-too-familiar sound of a beer can being cracked open.

“I told you what would happen if you disobeyed me!”

My mom still had the wooden spoon in her hand, ready to hit my bum again if she had to. You see, a wooden spoon is a cooking instrument. But not for Portuguese mothers. For Portuguese mothers a wooden spoon is a corrective behaviour tool when children are naughty. Slippers would often do the trick too.

After that smack I learned not to go sneak around for sweets without her permission. She had warned me a few times, I have to admit.

“I’ll smack your ass with the spoon!” she would threaten me.

But I was 8 and thought I could fool her. I thought she wasn’t around when my hand started opening that drawer but next thing...

“Oooooouuuchhhh!”

So there I was, my hands rubbing my sore buttocks, hardly holding my tears. The spoon was right in front of my eyes.

“I’m sorry, mom. I will not do it again.”

“You better not. I hope I won’t have to use this on you again.”

She didn’t. I was a good boy after that. If there was anything the wooden spoon taught me was to be obedient. Never again would I disobey my mom.

I told you what would happen If you disobeyed me!

A kingdom of destruction, And of physical obstruction, I said: Just follow my instructions, And there’d be zero repercussions,

And now there’s nought but ruin, And the start of my undoing, For I told you what would happen If you disobeyed me.

“I told you what would happen if you disobeyed me!” I whisper venom over his face pressing my dagger under his chin. I watch as the blood bubbles around the sharp tip contrasting against the darkness of the blade.

His lips shutter as he kneels in front of me. Fury courses through me the longer it takes for him to say something.

I get even closer, pressing my lips ever so slightly to his ear, “Tell me why I shouldn’t slit your throat right now for what you’ve done?” I growl in frustration when yet I’m met with silence kicking him back to the floor.

I unsheathe my sword trading in the dagger.

“I told you to stay at your post and wait! What was so difficult about waiting for my signal!” I yell into his face, my saliva spraying. “You got him killed! This is your fault.”

He doesn’t fight just let’s me take my anger out. His arms stay at his sides as I consider murder.

Tears string at my eyes slipping past my defenses. My blade starts to shake. I can’t even hold it steady anymore. My knees give out and I am on the floor. The clang of metal on the cement barely rings in my ears.

I can feel his arms around me, his voice deep in my ears, “I’m sorry. I was trying to do something more.”

“You still disobeyed me.” I have no strength left and I finally let him go. No longer do I feel arms around me or his breath whisping in my hair. I sink to the floor and let in the despair.

“You should have listened to me,” I mutter between gasps.