emgee-megs requested a prostitute/client AU, and a few anons wanted a fake relationship AU. And thus begins my “drabble that got away” for this ship. (This will be a non-magical AU, too.)

Desperate Measures (first installment up soon—like, tonight):

Regina Mills hasn’t been home in ten years and hoped to never return. But when an old acquaintance convinces her to return to Storybrooke, Maine for her wedding, Regina decides she can’t come empty-handed, not when she’ll be surrounded by ghosts of a life she lost when her fiance died. For a few thousand pounds, she’s armed herself with a professional escort to keep stale condolences at bay. But as the week progresses, it’s becoming hard to tell the difference between reality and fiction as her faux beau seems to genuinely care about her—and even more surprising, she wants him to.

(Yes, this might maybe a little bit be inspired by “The Wedding Date.”)

I talk about how I love language, but I’m constantly frustrated by its limitations. I can’t convey the swirl of senses around each moment or the way certain thoughts float, and so when I contemplate writing them down I feel mute.

Muteness that presses out against my chest, like lead, holding my throat still, numbing my hands, words killed as they meet it. The sound of my breathing is too much, too loud, and I feel tensed to scream, suspended with that pressure against my neck and that rawness of my voice burning out as I scream in silence suspended in a scream a mute scream because I can’t stand this floating and it’s pushing against me heavy and mute and deafening. 

the thing is that it’s easier to say that it’s my fault, because if it isn’t my fault then that means that i couldn’t control it, that i couldn’t make it not happen. (“it” is a lot of things, sometimes it is only that i can’t get out of bed. i don’t want to think about why.) i wonder if i’ll ever not be this way. it’s qualitatively better, and yet. my shrink told me to try and think about a good thing about being here, or about starting t (?). the only thing i can come up with is: i’m not dead. i hate spelling it all out because it’s way too honest, but it’s hard to figure out what to do. i’m tired. spite is a good motivator but it can only carry me so far.

everything comes down to a stupid truism. like. #it’s hard to be a body in space. i fell on my face getting on the bus one morning this week. no one on the bus acknowledged that it happened, except the driver who said: you can take your time. i couldn’t stop laughing anxiously. (what else is there to do?) i sat down next to an older man who said: at least you can laugh about it. a couple weeks ago, a girl in my program that lives in my building invited me over for tea. i told her (i don’t remember why it came up) that i thought it was a funny gay joke that i got fired from christian summer camp for being queer or gay or whatever. she didn’t get the joke, she said she thought it just seemed sad.

amy made me such a good sandwich on friday night. i keep listening to my frankie cosmos tape. i spent all day saturday with friends. the leaves are starting to turn. i just want to give you context. it almost makes it worse because i feel ungrateful. that’s not a helpful feedback loop. i don’t remember what the point was, anyway. 

i’m always trying to write myself out of feeling bad, but maybe it’s different to learn how to sit with it. (can i? how do you do that?) there’s a big welt on my shin. i keep thinking that my voice is different but i can’t know for sure. i don’t want to keep a record. it might be different this time but i won’t know until it happens, or until i do it. 

8

Death Note Meme: [3/5] Favorite Characters → Misa Amane

What a beautiful way to kill…

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