multiple victims

Medic tip #2

How to handle multiple victim scenarios:

When mass casualties occur, like in a protest situation or in the event of a terrorist attack, you may have to sort the victims by severity of injury. This allows you to sort the victims in a manner that allows you to help as many people as possible.

Ambulatory- they are able to walk. If they are uninjured or relatively non-traumatized, they may be able to help you with first aid. Ambulatory victims can have minor injuries and still be able to assist. Be aware that there are injuries you may not be able to see, like psychological ones or internal (physical) ones, always try to check on victims multiple times to ensure they don’t become worse. Example: large scrapes, bruises, minor bleeding

Delayed- they may not have life threatening injuries (meaning you can delay treatment), but the injury is significant enough that they cannot/should not move on their own. Assess for responsiveness. Remember- delayed victims can become immediate if not watched. Keep an eye on everyone if possible and go check in on victims you’ve labeled as delayed. Example: broken leg

Immediate- they have life threatening injuries that must be treated or they will become dead/expectant. The most important part of this category is that you can correct it with as little intervention as possible. Ambulatory victims can help with this. To decipher between immediate and expectant when the victim is unresponsive, open the airway. If the person takes a breath, they are considered immediate. If they don’t, readjust the head and try to open the airway one more time. If they don’t take a breath they are considered dead/expectant. Example: Gunshot injuries, partial/complete amputation, major bleeding

Dead or expectant - No signs of life (no pulse and/or no breathing). This person is in need of CPR or they are already dead. If you are the only responder, move on. This is a terrifying reality, but they need resuscitation beyond your capability. Remember- CPR/AED will not revive a victim. You are compressing the heart in order to move blood and oxygen around the body. If you have an ambulatory victim that knows CPR/can understand your instruction to perform CPR, they can be used in this instance. Note: if someone is not breathing but has a pulse, you can consider them immediate if you have an ambulatory person that can perform rescue breaths.

Something’s Not Right Here

Fox News may have fired Bill O'Reilly but it’s giving him a reported $25 million severance package. Roger Ailes, the former network head who was also ousted after sexual harrasment charges against him surfaced, received a reported $40 million on his way out the door.

The multiple victims of their alleged harassment, not so much.

Via The New York Times:

Mr. O'Reilly is receiving a payout of as much as $25 million, equivalent to one year of his salary, two people familiar with the matter said Thursday. That development was met with “outrage” and “disgust” among some employees and among critics outside the company, who said it sent a message that a powerful newsroom figure could profit even after multiple sexual harassment allegations had been made against him.

“It’s terrible,” said Lisa Bloom, a lawyer who represents two women who reported sexual harassment allegations against Mr. O'Reilly. “Most people would consider $25 million a huge lottery win.”

Mr. O'Reilly’s package brought the total amount of payouts related to sexual harassment allegations at Fox News to more than $85 million — paid by the network’s parent company, 21st Century Fox. The vast majority of that — as much as $65 million in exit packages — is being paid to the men who were ousted because of the allegations.

Anti-tcc cheat sheet

(before you plan your next discourse, brush up on the basics to avoid sounding (too) redundant!)

1. The true crime community is not a fandom.
2. Mass shooters and serial killers are not the same thing.
–Mass shooters typically attack a group of people at once (a ‘mass’, if you will) and open fire via guns (that’s the ‘shooting’ part of ‘mass shooting’) or sometimes bombs.
–Serial killers tend to kill multiple victims over a span of time (the word ‘serial’ is derived from ‘series’) and can use a variety of methods.
3. If you can’t remember tip #2 (likely because you probably don’t know enough about the crime to criticize the blogger), just use the generic - the Columbine kids (it’s okay, you don’t know their names), and Dylann Roof were mass shooters, while Dahmer, Bundy, Ramirez were serial killers.
4. Charles Manson didn’t kill anyone. He is not a serial killer, if anything, he is a cult leader.
5. The true crime community is not a fandom.
6. Hybristophilia is an authentic paraphilia that describes a sexual attraction to people who have committed violent acts, including murder. Not all of the TCC are hybristophiles, but many can openly acknowledge that even bad people can have attractive faces without dismissing what they’ve done. Have you ever met a person with a beautiful face, and even an interesting personality or were amazingly intelligent, but they were a total sack of shit human being? That’s how this works.
7. We know that Jeffrey Dahmer was gay.
8. Some of us are male. Some of us aren’t white. Some of us are trans, etc. A lot of us are gay/bisexual, etc. Many of us are adults.
9. You may catch us mocking the killer, but not the victims - we police our own. 99% of us don’t condone murder at all, especially the loss of the victims’ lives and up to including the death penalty.
10. Murderers are human beings. You can argue against this all you want, but the fact is that committing a heinous crime doesn’t alter your DNA nor change your species.
11. The true crime community is not a fandom.
12. Dylann Roof is not the same person as Dylan Klebold (aka Sunshine boy/VoDkA - one of those previously mentioned Columbine boys)
13. Many of us currently work (or want to work) in psych, criminology, law, etc.
14. Jokes/memes are a coping mechanism. Police, nurses, morticians, doctors, and psychiatrists make jokes about their professions and their field of expertise. It allows the subject matter to be of continued study/interest without overwhelming the individual with empathy - it is human nature to adapt to situations with humor and resiliency.
15. Interest in or mentioning how attractive someone is does not equate to wanting to have sex with them.
16. The true crime community is not a fandom.

The claim that Russia “hacked the election” has essentially been totally discredited

From the latest dump by wikileaks

The CIA’s hand crafted hacking techniques pose a problem for the agency. Each technique it has created forms a “fingerprint” that can be used by forensic investigators to attribute multiple different attacks to the same entity.

This is analogous to finding the same distinctive knife wound on multiple separate murder victims. The unique wounding style creates suspicion that a single murderer is responsible. As soon one murder in the set is solved then the other murders also find likely attribution.

The CIA’s Remote Devices Branch’s UMBRAGE group collects and maintains a substantial library of attack techniques ‘stolen’ from malware produced in other states including the Russian Federation.

With UMBRAGE and related projects the CIA cannot only increase its total number of attack types but also misdirect attribution by leaving behind the “fingerprints” of the groups that the attack techniques were stolen from.

UMBRAGE components cover keyloggers, password collection, webcam capture, data destruction, persistence, privilege escalation, stealth, anti-virus (PSP) avoidance and survey techniques.”

On May 14th, 2015, emergency responders arrived to the house of the Savopoulos family, which was on fire. Inside, they found a gruesome crime scene.

Dead were businessman Savvas Savopoulos (46), his wife Amy (47), their son Philip (10) and their housekeeper, Veralicia Figueroa (57). They had been taken hostage on the previous afternoon and kept inside for almost 24 hours, with no one realizing it.

Savvas had called his assistant and asked him to bring him $40.000 on the morning of the murders. Even though the assistant wasn’t told what the money was for, it was to pay for the ransom.

But something went wrong. All four victims were stabbed, beaten or strangled before the fire started. Philip, who had been used to make his father comply with the criminals, was burned beyond recognition.

The main suspect of this tragedy is Daron Wint (34), a native from Guyana whose DNA was left on a pizza he ordered while keeping the family hostage and on a vest inside Amy’s stolen car. He’s already been arrested. However, police think he didn’t act alone and are still looking for possible accomplices.

the salt, as requested

(disclaimer: if you follow me and like/support/identify with/have a shrine in your basement to kent parson, i honestly don’t care. you do you. in the grand scheme of things, it seriously matters like…not at all. these are just my own feelings, and i’ll put them under a cut so pro-kp followers don’t have to read them.)

Keep reading

Woobification In Fandom Culture

I spend a lot of my time on Tumblr. Possibly too much time, however I don’t go outside. On Tumblr it isn’t uncommon to be immersed in something called a fandom. I have so far been in 3 Tumblr fandoms. My first one was Homestuck, however I joined really late. The comic ended about 2 years after I officially joined the fandom. It was a strange experience to be my first online fandom. Many people shipped sort of incestuous ships. However, a lot of the ships weren’t directly incestuous so it was more forgivable. You may be wondering how Homestuck and it’s weird fandom has anything to do with woobification.

The Homestuck fandom was mainly teenagers or young adults. The characters were all teenagers, it was a coming of age story. A lot of the characters were very violent. You could go anywhere in the fandom sphere and see someone say “I love Gamzee, he’s so precious. He doesn’t deserve to be treated badly.” However this wasn’t exactly the case. In the beginning, yes Gamzee did deserve to be treated better. However he had a mental breakdown and went on a murderous rampage. People in the fandom sort of ignored that until he started killing their favorite characters. Some still ignored it, shipping him with multiple of his victims.

I was able to escape the Homestuck fandom by entering another one. This one was even more hellish. This fandom used to rule Tumblr, some argue that it still does. This show has gone on too long and has a gif for everything, even if you don’t ask for it. This fandom is notorious for queerbaiting and shipping wars. I’m talking about the Supernatural fandom. Another one I entered late. I got into it between seasons 10 and 11. People are still arguing whether it’s okay to ship Sam and Dean, or if it’s better to ship Destiel.

The Supernatural fandom has woobified every character at least once. Prior to season 11 it was very common for fans to demand the writers bring back the antagonist Lucifer. They say he was misunderstood, that he wasn’t bad, that they love him, even though he literally wanted to kill every human on existence because his dad was mean to him.

The Supernatural fandom acts like Castiel, an angel, a literal warrior of God, is a precious child who doesn’t understand social interaction. In the canon of the show, at one point he could kill someone with the snap of his fingers. The fandom acts like Sam and Dean would not be able to harm them, when Dean would happily slit their throat if they stepped too out of line.

The third fandom I entered was the It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia fandom. You may be wondering “why is that a fandom?” well the answer to that is: I don’t know. It’s a good show. People like to bond over shows they like. This fandom is the calmest one I have ever been involved in. I entered the fandom during season 12, which is actually about when an actual Tumblr fandom rose. Prior to this, most people would have reaction gifs or images from the show. Even though I hadn’t seen the show yet, I saw captioned screenshots from the show on my dashboard from time to time. It was a well known show, it had been on for over a decade. I had seen promos for the show while having FX on as background noise, I remember the black and white promos from season 9 saying they were switching to FXX.

This show, at it’s core, is about terrible people doing terrible things. It’s a satire of ignorant white Americans. Some people call the characters sociopaths. All of them are damaged, there I no arguing. They all have trauma. Mac is gay and came out at 40 years old, due to his Catholic upbringing. Charlie is illiterate and stalks a woman, who he doesn’t even know her name. Dennis was raped at 14 and uses sex as a form of manipulation and a way to assert himself in society. Dee was abused by her parents and her peers, and she lashes out on other women to make herself feel better. Frank was also abused as a child, he grew to be greedy and neglectful. All of these characters are alcoholics and substance abusers.

These characters are also extremely racist and bigoted. They’re just plain awful people. The first episode of the series is titled “The Gang Gets Racist”. In the fourth episode of the first season, titled “Charlie Has Cancer”, in which Charlie pretends to have cancer so he can gain sympathy from the woman he stalks, Mac and Dennis try to set Charlie up with a woman, they fail miserably and Mac begins a relationship with a trans woman named Carmen. Mac and the rest of the gang refers to her as “the tranny”, which is a transphobic slur.

At the end of the day, none of these characters ever get what they want. Fans woobify these characters by treating Charlie like a five year old child who couldn’t hurt a fly, when in canon he regular kills rats by bashing them with baseball bats, one of which has a chain and nails sticking out of it. In the episode A Very Sunny Christmas, Charlie bites a mall Santa’s neck, causing terror and tremendous blood loss, possibly death. There is no arguing whether Dennis is a serial rapist or not. He is, it is literally canon, however many people don’t necessarily talk about it. No one talks about Dee also being a serial rapist. Both Reynolds twins manipulate people for sex, usually nonconsensual.

Mac and Dee are guilty of blackface and other racist costume types. People point out that it was a bad choice to include these things, as casual viewers, and people who aren’t aware of the satire, would normalize it. Plus it was just in bad taste.

Some people lower Mac to this husk of The Gay Man, and ignore his other extremely interesting character flaws. People lower Dennis to The Emotional One, when he is a very sinister person. People make Dee to be The Tragic Female, when she brings it on herself sometimes, she is an awful person. People think of Charlie as The Dumb One when he sometimes can be the most intelligent one, and the most manipulative. People don’t even talk about Frank. If you take one member of the gang away from the others and make 100% sure that they can not go near the others, they won’t magically become better people. They would wreak havoc alone.

Woobification takes dimension away from characters. It is important to take a step away from the fandom versions of characters and reevaluate characters. You can enjoy a character who is an awful person. You don’t have to apologize for liking them. Your favorite character can be the “villain”. Every character has their own motivations and reasons for acting the way they do. Usually it is due to their upbringing. You can like The Bad Guy as long as you don’t ignore all of the interesting facets of their personalities. Every character deserves to have multiple dimensions.


The sky is a dark grey, causing shadows even in the lightest of places. It’s not necessarily because there’s bad weather; it’s always this way. It’s almost like the sun is no longer existing, like it gradually decided that this sad excuse of a planet wasn’t worth it’s time.

People walk at a reasonable pace, all wearing black suits or black dresses. They style their hair in a certain way in the morning, not because it’s how they like, but because they know they’re not going to get any respect if they show up to work looking like they’d got out bed five minutes ago. Each face is empty, almost lifeless.

I’m the same, of course. My hair is forced out of my face every morning, shining due to the gel. I rise out of bed every morning and take the time to make sure I’m looking presentable; ensuring my suit is ironed and my shoes are shining. I eat cereal - the same one added to the breakfast table in every house all over the world each morning - full of fibre with no exciting taste. I don’t like it or hate it.

The long drone of the alarm buzzes through the building, and I don’t hesitate to the lean over and reach into the top drawer of my desk. I keep nothing in there besides papers compulsory for me to do my job. I grab the small gun that sits in the middle and feel the roughness of the plastic underneath my fingers. (The government had to create billions, do you really think they’d use anything that’d cost them more money?) I already know there’s four doses ready to be used because I made sure to reload this morning.

All around me, men and women are doing the same as I. As though it’s recited, we all raise the gun to our necks and pull the trigger, still sat behind our desks. The skin surrounding the end of the gun is opened and allows the blue liquid to seep into our system. To describe how it feels would be impossible; the whole purpose of the dose is to take away any feelings or any emotion that threaten to surface.

The room falls silent when the alarm stops ringing and everyone has shut the drawer of their desk. I sit up straight, feeling refreshed. Just as before, there’s the constant sound of typing and clicking from each desk around me.

“Bieber,” I hear the rough voice that I’m aware belongs to my boss as he comes striding along from behind me, I can hear his shoes meeting the floor as he walks purposefully. “Have you taken your dose?”

“Of course, sir,” I reply and stare ahead. There’s no movement in my face - my nose doesn’t twitch, my lip doesn’t threaten to curl up into a smile - while my boss’ hands press against my desk.

“There’s a woman just been brought in, mind doing the honours?” he asks and when I’ve had enough of his stare burning holes into my face, I shift my gaze from the multiple backs of heads in front of me to look at him.

His hair, just like mine, is swept back and kept in place with gel, although his hair is a lot darker than my own, apart from the grey strands beginning to show. He has a crooked nose that gives me the feeling he’s going to poke my eye out with it if he gets any closer. He’s showing his age with the crow’s feet and wrinkles that are starting to layer over his skin, and not to mention his ashen skin that makes me wonder whether he’s ill or simply tired.

“Of course, sir,” I nod before rising from my desk. “What’s she here for?”

I’m walking by his side now - I’m only just taller than him - and we must look almost identical, I think.

“What do you think?” He doesn’t give me time to compose an answer. “Sense Offence.”

I don’t say anything in response but carry on walking, knowing the exact moment my boss will turn off onto a different route as he aims for his office. When he does, he takes the awkwardness from the conversation with him and I feel as though I’m able to breathe again.

There’s a door at the end of the hallway. It’s grey paint glitters under the blazing lights. As I’m marching towards it, it opens and one of the other men appears dressed in the same suit as me. He catches sight of me and does a subtle head nod in my direction, I return it before swiftly sliding into the room and closing the door.

Sat at the table, a woman sits staring at the wall opposite, as though interested by it. She doesn’t acknowledge me, even when I make my way around the table so her eyes are piercing through my stomach.

“Hi. What’s your name?”

She doesn’t show a sign of wanting to talk to me, or wanting to be here, and I don’t expect an answer from her and I know I’m right not to when she continues to keep her lips in a straight line. My hands press flat against the table so I can see the veins on the back of my hand rising through my skin; they look like tiny rivers.

“I’m Justin Bieber,” I say and she - finally - looks me in the face, although she looks less than pleased, “but you don’t care about that,” I mutter and grab a chair that’s been pressed up against the wall and sit in front of her. “Do you know why you’re here?”

She takes a few seconds, but I watch her lips part and she takes a deep breath. She’s starting to tremble slightly. “Because I want to live like a real human being?” She looks like she might start crying.

“To live like a real human being is to abide by the law and take your doses, and we both know you haven’t being doing so. Why?”

“What keeps you going?” she asks, taking me by surprise.


“What makes you get out of bed in the morning? What’s your reason for living? What’s your purpose?”

I frown at her, watching her eyebrows furrow while waterfalls are building in her eyes, threatening to burst and flood her cheeks.

“To serve, to make sure offenders like you are incinerated the second you leave this room.”

“Are you happy?”

I shrug. “I’m merely doing my job; I neither love nor hate it.”

Her facial expression shows sympathy, although I’m unsure as to why. Her body shakes, causing strands of her hair to twist and turn.

“Feeling is beautiful. It’s what makes us human and what keeps us alive, and yet, it’s being taken from us completely. Why?”

It’s starting to feel as though I’m the one being interrogated. “Emotion is forbidden and you know it. Emotion is dangerous. These doses are what’s keeping this race existing, if you have some kind of problem with that, you should take it up with the government, although I highly doubt you’re going to make it as far as the double doors of this building. Now, answer my question; why aren’t you taking your doses?”

As though something snaps - a vein or a muscle - behind the surface of her skin, the tears finally spill over, gliding down her eyelashes before splashing against the woman’s cheeks. I notice her try to blink them away.

“I can’t live like that anymore; not feeling anything, it’s driving me insane. I refuse,” she gulps.

“Very well, but you know what happens to anyone who’s been found to be feeling and/or not taking their dose-“

“Do it. I don’t care.”

She’s shaking vigorously now and she looks as though she’s shivering. Her cheeks are a faded pink, and the victim of multiple sets of tears; all hot and salty and leaving a subtle shine to her skin. I watch her blankly. Neither of us speaks for a moment.

There’s a fan doing circles above us and it’s creating a humming sound all around the room, meaning we’re never in complete silence. I inspect her face and see hurt and pain, my head tilts to the right ever so slightly.

“Do you not ever wonder what you’re here for, what’s outside your life within these walls?” Her voice is calm, which I find unusual. I notice she’s slumped back in her seat now, her fingers locked around her stomach.

“I have a family; a wife and a kid. That’s my life.”

“How? How can you possibly take a woman’s hand in marriage when you don’t love her? How can you be intimate with her, and conceive a child when you know you’re not going to love the heart and soul of that child? You feel nothing for those people who you share a life with, do you really know them at all?”

I frown.

“Have you never wanted to be able to touch someone’s hand and feel their warmth? What about music and art and poetry- oh wait, I forgot, you’re the one who makes the effort to go around and burn those kinda things, aren’t you?” she spits, and an angry expression takes over her face. “Emotion is everything. Emotion keeps me going, keeps us going. Love is pure, but so is hate. Fuck you.”

Her face is round and glows under the blazing light; I’m sure if I could feel a single thing I would feel something for the woman sat before me.

I wait until I’ve risen from my seat to speak again. Her gaze follows me tiredly. I straighten out my suit before clasping my hands behind my back.

“You’ll stay here until someone comes and collects you. I imagine they won’t take you for incineration today, and if not, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you sometime in the near future.”

Even as I’m walking towards the door - the fan still humming above me - I can feel the woman’s gaze on the back of head and I’m more than aware it’s full of hate and despise for me, maybe even a hint of disgust.


@ all the white women in this fandom who are suddenly all “this fandom is just NOT what it used to be”. Bitch its because y'all are racist abuse apologists!!!!

“We were all so united against the antis in Season 3-what happened?!”

I’ll tell you what happened:

Most of the WOC in the Bellarke fandom were united against the antis because they stood on a platform of racism, abuse and biphobia. We mistakenly thought that all of our fellow Blarkes (including the white ones) were fighting the antis for the same reasons we were. 

But, if I’m being honest, it seems like a lot of the reason some of you all were standing against the antis, was just because you’re anti-Cl/xa, because it posed a threat to Bellarke. I say this because I have no idea how you can be anti-Cl/xa (for reasons that include abuse, racism and many others) and still support Octanakin and her relationship with Ilian.

And all of a sudden, you’re all making post about how “sad” you are that the fandom is dividing itself and how “uncomfortable” it makes you all feel. Think about how it makes WOC and abuse victims feel to see people they thought were allies in their fight against the racism and abuse apology in this fandom suddenly support a racist abusive ship with a cultural appropriating abusive female lead and aggressively ignore our voices (which is what blocking, unfollowing and speaking over us is). 

And then you defend yourself by saying “we’re just trying to explain the story to you-insert implied idiot here” or “just because you like a character doesn’t mean you support what they’re doing!” But like…in going so far out of your way to explain Octanakin’s story and action you are literally excusing and supporting her actions. 

Also, statements like: “I am all about discussing the problematic aspects of this show as long as everyone is respectful!” is a prime example of tone policing. 

People who have been victims of the things you are discussing (in Octanakin’s case-racism and abuse) don’t need to be respectful in our discussion and often times we can’t, because what for you is just an “interesting story” is for us our real lives.”

And I’m sorry, but if you truly think you’re “all about discussing the problematic aspects of the show” but you block/unfollow/dismiss everyone who holds a different opinion than you, you’re not practicing what you preach at all. 

Here’s a wake-up call:

Fandom has never been a safe space for WOC and I wanted so badly to believe that the Bellarke portion of the fandom was different, but as soon as *the evil was defeated* and Octanakin started to show even a hint of redemption all of the allies I thought we had in the fandom started brown-nosing her abusive ass like crazy. 

No offense, but maybe when multiple WOC and abuse victims are telling you that your opinion is problematic, you should….i don’t know, maybe try listening to us, instead of the one or two voices that you think represent us. 

If this post feels like it’s about you…maybe you should reexamine your choices, because it probably is. 

fr though if u want good a good story that treats abuse victims well read wings of fire like

-in the 1st arc five abuse victims (the protags) literally stop a war & are the heroes. they all have diff symptoms and ways they cope with their abuse and all well written

-one of them becomes a fucking queen and does not forgive her abusers and is not challenged or scorned for it

-bpd coded abuse victim with violent symptoms gets an entire fucking book dedicated to her recovery (sideeyes warriors)

-abuse victim kills his abuser and its made very clear in the book all the justified reasons for doing so

- book series as a whole generally displays multiple abuse victims with, again, an amazing variety of resulting symptoms (anxiety, ocd, bpd, depression, over empathy, lack of empathy, discomfort at physical touch, self loathing/doubt, maladaptive daydreaming, dependency, isolation, the list really goes on)

-it also shows abuse victims who recycle abusive symptoms/become abusers and doesnt excuse or justify their actions bc they were abused

seriously wings of fire is a rlly good book series abt dragons that includes gr8 narratives abt abuse give it a read 👍🏻

BREAKING NEWS: California elementary school shooting

At least four people have been injured in a shooting at a San Bernardino elementary school. 

A shooter entered North Park Elementary School on Monday morning, opening fire in one of the classrooms. 

The injured include the shooter, a teacher and two students. The students were taken to hospital and the condition of others involved is not known.  

San Bernardino Police Chief Jarrod Burguan said  the incident appeared to be an attempted murder suicide.

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It is not yet clear whether the shooter was a student at the school. 

‘We have a shooter down and three victims.  One of them is a teacher, the other two are unknown, and their condition is unknown. 

'We believe the situation is contained,’ Maria Garcia, a spokeswoman for San Bernardino City Unified told The San Bernardino Sun. 

Others were taken to nearby Cajon High School for safety, he said. 

The San Bernardino Fire Department first reported 'multiple’ gun shot wound victims at the school.  

Students at the nearby California State University in San Bernardino were told to take shelter.


anonymous asked:

Taylor Swift deliberately called out Harry Styles MULTIPLE times, playing victim (like she always does) and tried to make Harry look like a womanizer. She is the definition of a privileged white girl who only cares about fame and what will make her look good. Don't you DARE go out against this sweet innocent angel when the song Ever Since New York isn't even about Swift, but even if it WAS he has NEVER tried defaming her name.

LMFAOOOOOOOOO 😂😂😂😂 someone send help ive fallen and i cant get up

(congrats on missing the point)
California shooting: 'Multiple victims' at primary school in San Bernardino

A gunman opened fire at a primary school in San Bernardino, California killing two adults and injuring two students, local police have confirmed.

San Bernardino police said they believe it to be a “murder suicide” that took place inside a classroom. The male victim is said to have died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Maria Garcia of the San Bernardino school district said the threat has been contained but did not confirm whether the female or male victim was a teacher.

We believe this to be a murder suicide. Happened in a class room. Two students have been transported to the hospital.

— Chief Jarrod Burguan (@SBPDChief)

April 10, 2017

Two students have been airlifted to a local hospital and are in critical condition, according to police.

They are investigating the shooting as a possible domestic violence matter that involved the teacher.

Approximately 500 students from North Park Elementary School have been evacuated to the nearby Cajon High School for safety and to be reunited with parents. Other area schools, including Cal State University San Bernardino, were put on lockdown as a precaution.

The city experienced a terror attack in 2015 in which 14 people were killed and 22 injured. A married couple, Syed Rizwan Farook and Tashneem Malik, targeted a Department of Public Health holiday party.

More to follow…



Real Name: Daniel Robitaille
Classification: Ghost/spirit/other
Bio: The son of a former slave, Daniel Robitaille was raised in an around aristocracy when his father created a machine used for mass-producing shoes during the civil war. Daniel was privileged enough to obtain an education and, after school, made his living as a painter. He was commissioned by a wealthy landowner to paint a portrait of the man’s daughter, Caroline. Daniel and Caroline fell in love, much to her father’s horror. By the time her father discovered their relationship, Caroline was pregnant. Enraged, he banded together with the townspeople to lynch Daniel. They cut off Robitaille’s hand with a rusty saw. They covered him with honey from local bee hives and chanted “Candyman” as he was stung to death. Caroline’s father held up a mirror at the end, so Daniel could see his own hideous, mangled face as he died. The legend goes that Robitaille’s soul became trapped within the mirror. And if you say his name five times in mirrored glass, the Candyman will appear…
Abilities: levitation, teleportation, invisibility and other ghostly abilities. Also uses the power of people’s disbelief to his own advantage. 
Characteristics: The Candyman is a tragic character and most of his actions stem from his wish to either end his suffering or to at least not suffer alone. He wants a victim, not multiple victims, those are simply a means to an end. He relishes in the power of being a story more than being a ghost and romanticizes his own condition with his place in urban folklore. He does not want an unwilling victim, but wants a partner not just in death, but in the myth, someone worthy of becoming a memorable story. 
Films: Candyman, Candyman: Farewell to the Flesh, Candyman 3: Day of the Dead


“At the end of the day, Stephens is merely following what the Quran had laid out before him in the form of commands. Already slaughtering 17 infidels, the only way this man is going to stop is if he’s either caught or killed before he can do any more damage.

It’s time to stop ignoring the realities right in front of us and address the dangers that pose a threat to our communities for what they are. Blood has spilled on American streets. Not one more American should die at that hands of Islamic terror — and a good way to ensure that it stops is for liberal apologists to stop making excuses for the religion responsible.”

And more here-

The One in Which He’s Lucifer the Cop (Cop!Luke)


Word Count: 6,2k+

The oh so familiar knock rips you out of your sleep. Ugh, why does he have to choose this exact moment to wake you, you ask yourself, because, damn son, but you were having a hell of a nice dream.

Another knock echoes through your apartment. You groan, then move to stand up and grab your hoodie from your desk chair to wrap yourself in it. Another knock. Another groan.

Putting on your best pissed off-face—which wasn’t very hard, considering you were pretty pissed off—you unlatch the door and rip it open. He stands before you, a mix between a smirk and a sheepish smile plastered on his lips, hand resting on his gun. “Morning, sunshine,” he greets, like he does every time.

“Morning, Lucifer,” you respond in a snarl as usual.

His grin only grows wider. “Ever the so happy little princess, I see.” His other hand comes forward, holding on to a file.

You roll your eyes, because you know exactly what is in it. “Lemme guess. My taxes?”

He does a show of flipping through your files, as if he hasn’t already studied them. Which he did. Probably at the ass crack of dawn, chewing on a donut in his car parked in front of your apartment complex. “Actually, sunshine, it’s your rent this time.”

You throw your head back and groan. “That son of a bitch!”

Your landlord has seriously worked up the nerve and gone to the police because you haven’t paid your rent in three months? But then again—at least he hasn’t kicked you out yet.

Luke throws you a small smile, closing your file. “Mind if I step in for a second?”

“No.” And you close the door.

Not a second later, he raps on it. “Oh, come on! How many times have we gone through this?” There was a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Uh, probably too many times?” you reply in a duh-kind of way. You are seriously so fed up with this shit and how many times your sleep gets disturbed, just because you struggle to pay off all your bills. In a way, you count yourself as lucky as you still haven’t ended up in jail—thank God.

When he knocks again, you call, “Goodnight,” in a sing-song way and stalk away, though you don’t miss him shouting, “It’s already bright in the morning, sunshine!” through the door as he gives it one last soft slap.


Gosh, Luke is so smitten. There is still a huge grin plastered on his face as he hits your rolled up file against his open palm repeatedly. Footsteps trip him from cloud nine and Luke immediately lets the happy face fall, turning on his heels and makes his way towards the exit of your apartment building. He knows it’s wrong, but someday—someday he’ll ask for your number and he’s gonna take you on a date.

It’s been three months since he first rapped on your door, informing you about your unpaid taxes. Over the months he has learned that you often have a man over, though it is never the same one. And every time Luke is scheduled to pay you a visit, he prays there wouldn’t be a man answering your door. Today is his lucky day.

Somehow the nickname sunshine has stuck with Luke, seeing as he has to knock on your door every morning—he’d pick your case first, he’d visit you first and magically, you’d brighten up the rest of his day. He doesn’t know how he can be so smitten by one person whom he hasn’t even had a single conversation with that isn’t about her inability to pay her bills.

He doesn’t care though. He’s a fucking goner and he loves it.

He loves seeing you in your pjs, hair a mess, face scrunched up in annoyance and anger. He loves the way, even though there is a police officer standing at your door, you still hold yourself with grace and determination and will not give in to his stance that usually intimidates everyone, considering he’s a six foot something giant with a gun holstered at his hip and one hidden by his foot. Yes, you are certainly something, and he’s so smitten and he will not give up.


He’s the first one on scene. Often times Luke prays for them to be a DOA, because he cannot stand to see them in pain, but this one is a fighter. She’s still stuck in the vehicle, whimpers escaping her lips as the blood drips around her broken body. He holds her hand, caressing the back of it softly as he tries to get her to stay conscious by speaking to her. Looking at her fills his heart with a feel of familiarity and he immediately hates himself for hoping she’d be a DOA, when he sees how strong she is, how her eyes light up, talking about her baby sister and her little boy she has at home—even when there is blood fogging up her view. And he hates—absolutely hates the feeling of her life seeping out of her right in front of his face. Her hand that has been gripping his back with a strength he didn’t know someone with such injuries could have, goes limp and somehow, Luke’s heart drops and his breath hitches and he needs to scream so so badly.

It’s not the first time he’s witnessed someone dying—hell, he’s already held people’s hands as they were dying because of a bullet he himself put into them. Then why is this time any different?

Why does he snap at the fire fighter as he cuts her body out of the vehicle?

Can’t you be more careful with her?! Stop handling her like she’s some fucking thing!

Why does he feel the need to ride with her to the morgue and why does he feel like he’s obligated to inform her family about her death?

He finds out hours later as he holds her records in his hands.

Tears are falling

And falling

From his eyes, because you have the same parents and the same surname. Hell, you even have the same features—explaining why he felt this familiarity in his gut as he was talking to her.

He leaves the precinct with a few dents in the lockers and her records tucked into his messenger bag. Luke cannot tell you just yet—God, he dreads it so much. He wants to give you a few more peaceful hours of not knowing and he wants to sleep so so badly, preparing himself before he has to shatter your world even more.

He sleeps that night with a wet and salty pillow that has become the victim of multiple screams, the file lying on his bedside table, haunting him.


He’s been preparing himself for hours, all right? But still he’s pacing in front of your apartment, heart racing, palms sweating. It’s later than his usual visits, and Luke figures he needs to get this over with. He can’t postpone it any longer, it’ll only do more damage when you find out she’s been dead for almost half a day already and no one’s bothered to tell you.

So he knocks. And he waits. And then he hears the shuffles. As the door opens he isn’t met with your familiar, sleepy—angry—face though. It’s a half-naked man that stands before him and looks at him in confusion. Luke groans internally. Why does she have to have a man over today? Why this day out of them all?

“Can I help you, officer?” the dude asks as if this were his apartment and he were living here.

Luke’s got no patience left in his body. “Yes,” he growls. “You can get me the woman that lives here. ASAP.”

“Why?” he challenges.

“Because I said so. And if she’s not here and you not gone in half a minute I will arrest you for obstruction of justice and haul your damn arse into jail.” He imagines himself looking like he’s ready to pounce. (And he is.)

The dude flinches, raises his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll get her.”

And the door slams shut. The fucking door slams shut in his face!

Luke kicks at it—the frustration and anger leaking into his actions. “Stupid son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath, wringing at your sister’s records.

When the door opens half a minute later, and you stand there in front of him, cuddled in a hoodie, he feels like his body is deflating. His mouth opens to greet you with the usual line, but the dude comes into view and cuts him off with an awkward cough. “I’ll, uh—I’ll just go.”

Luke glares at him. (It’s a pretty impressive glare.) “You better,” he growls.

“Thanks, uh, for the night.” Oh, he has the fucking nerve.

Luke’s fists clench, but then he feels your sister’s files getting crunched and he tries to relax again. A look at your face and he sees the utter confusion you’re feeling. His heart clenches just as his fists do again. How can he look at you like that, knowing he’s about to break you? He was wrong, he thinks, he doesn’t want to be the one to tell you. But he can’t let anyone else do it. For one, he’s already here, and second, he will not—he will not let anyone see you this vulnerable. You’re his kick-ass sunshine and he cannot bear the thought of anyone taking that strength from you. Even if it’s breaking his heart to have to do it himself—it’s a sacrifice he is willing to make.

Finally, the dude shuffles past and leaves them.

The air seems tighter, all of the sudden. Luke tries to relax his stance and his face. “Can I come in?”

To his surprise you don’t snap at him immediately, but rather examine his face. He’s got this look of sadness clouding his baby blues and the way his hands can’t hold themselves still makes you nervous. Maybe the time’s finally come and he’s here to escort you to jail. Or maybe he’s here to kick you out of your apartment. You don’t know why he’s here, but you figure it won’t hurt to let him in. If he is really here to do those things, then letting him in won’t make any difference anymore. So you just nod your head and open the door wider for him.

The nervous bubble follows him in as he walks towards your couch and seats himself in a tense position. You continue to try to assess the situation but come up empty, standing in front of him.

“Please take a seat,” he says in a weak voice—one you’ve never heard before. His voice always booms with authority and certainty. Reluctantly, you let yourself fall onto the space beside him.

“Is everything all right, Officer Hemmings?”

“No, actually it’s not.” His hand first comes to rest against his gun, then raises to finger through his hair. A shaky breath. Gosh, he cannot do it. He cannot. But he has to. For you. For her. “I’m so sorry to inform you that—” another shaky breath “—that there’s been a horrible car crash yesterday night. Your sister—”

And just like that, you break. A mix between a sob and a cry leaves your throat as you slap your hand against your mouth, shaking your head wildly.

“—she didn’t make it,” he finishes, though you don’t hear it anyway. You already knew that. If she had survived, the hospital would’ve called you. The only reason the police contacts family is when someone’s dead. And she’s dead. Dead dead dead.

Luke watches you in agony and he feels his own tears pushing against the back of his eyes as yours fall fall and fall down your cheeks and shirt. He looks up, desperately trying to find the right words to say. Come on! You’ve been fucking trained for this kind of situation! a voice shouts at him, but he can only shake his head.

Not this kind of situation. Never this.

“Please,” he whispers, “I’m so sorry, sunshine—”

“Don’t,” you spit in return. Everything’s spinning in your head, everything’s spinning out of control. “Please, don't—”

There is not enough air to get your body to function. Not enough air to force down your lungs as you shake and break and cry and wail and cannot breathe. How can your own sister just be gone in a matter of minutes? How can she be here one second and then just gone? You cannot fathom it.

Arms circle around your waist and shoulder and press your body against Luke’s. His warmth immediately engulfs you and there is this calming motion of his hand as it lightly runs up and down your spine. You notice your legs are bare and pressing against his uniform, but you don’t care. You only care for your heart as it beats against his. Your face that is lying on his shoulder, the tears falling on him as they paint your marks across his body. You focus on his breath that fans your scalp and cheek, his lips that graze your hairline and forehead with every sob that rocks through your body.

“My nephew—” you choke out after an eternity of tears. “His father’s dead. He’s an orphan—oh God, he’s an orphan—” You shake your head repeatedly against his shoulder, because this is not what you would’ve wanted for him. You are all too familiar with the feeling of growing up without parents and now your baby nephew has to go through the same fate.

Luke smooths his hand down the length of your hair. “He’s all right, don’t worry. We’ve taken good care of him.”

You untangle yourself from his embrace. “Was he in the car crash?” you ask, your heart pounding against your rib cage as you fear for his answer.

A heavy sigh escapes your lungs, as he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “He was with an underage babysitter at the time, so for now, we’ve put him into foster care.”

“Foster care?!” you shout in anger, wiping at your cheeks. A cold fist reaches into your chest and squeezes at your heart. All the memories of foster care come back to you in a rush. The fear, the chaos.

“Hey, hey,” Luke coaxes gently, taking your hands in his. They swallow them whole, providing warmth and steadiness. “We can go see him right now, if you want to. And as far as I am informed, there is a very large possibility that you can adopt him, since you’re his aunt and only living relative.” His calloused fingers rub against your own and you look down, wondering how often he has held a gun in his hands, how often he has held his finger against the trigger. You shudder at the thought.

You nod in response to his statement. “Yes, I want to see him. Please.”

“All right.” He stands up and pulls you with him.

Letting go of his hands, you stalk towards your infamous front door before you’re stopped abruptly by a grip against the crook of your arm. “Uh, where do you think you’re going?”

Where the fuck would you be going?

“I’m going to see my fucking nephew that has just lost his mother,” you snap back in response, not turning around, but fuming at his question.

Luke lets your arm fall. “I was just—I’m sorry… It’s just that—You aren’t wearing any pants.”

Looking down at yourself, you notice that you are indeed only clothed in your underwear and a hoodie. Your brain is currently one giant space of a mess, too much information trying to get processed at once that you completely forgot that you’re half naked. In defeat, you turn around, staring at the cop standing in your living room with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Officer,” you tell him softly.

Stepping towards you, Luke gently clasps your hands in his again. “Please don’t apologise,” he says, his lips curving into a tiny, reassuring smile, “and please don’t worry. All you need to worry about right now is your baby, all right?” He gives your hands a squeeze. “And please call me Luke. Or even Lucifer for all I care. Officer sounds so formal and I think we’re way beyond that, yes?” The smile he offers you now is cheeky. And you think you love him in the moment for it. “Go get dressed,” he says, “I’ll wait for you by the door and then I’ll drive you, sounds good?”

You nod, the tears still falling. “Thank you,” you whisper, squeezing his hands in return.

He smiles again.


“How come you aren’t in your usual patrol car?”

“I came directly from home. I didn’t want to postpone this any more than absolutely necessary.”

He opens the door for you. Everywhere you enter or exit.

The drive is, at first, silent. There is no music filling the background and there is no small talk being made. Then you ask the question that has been swirling around your mind ever since he broke the news to you. “Were you there when she died?”

Your voice is so little, so quiet, so different than how it usually is. But he hears you, he always does. (That may be because he made it his habit to pay extra attention to you.) “Yes,” he replies. “I was the first one at the scene. I, uh—I held her hand while she died.” He swallows and you can see his Adam’s apple shift along with a muscle near his jaw. “She was very brave. She talked about you two as the life was seeping out of her. She even had the audacity to laugh at some point.” He throws you a quick glance, contemplating whether or not he just made the right move.

You are still in shock about everything—was it correct to tell you that? But you only smile, wringing your fingers in your lap. “Sounds like her. My hero.” And here come the tears again.

“The father was killed in the line of duty, right?” He knows that already, but God, he wants to hear your voice so badly. He wants to talk to you, hear you tell him everything about yourself.

“Yes,” you nod. “He was a great husband, and I’m sure he’d’ve been an even better father. He never got the chance, though.”

Luke smiles at you as he turns into a parking spot. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, me, too.” Now you are everything the boy has left. And you’d fight everyone who will stand in your way of adopting him. And, gosh, you know just how many there’d be, because you’re an adult that isn’t one. You can barely take care of yourself, your bills don’t even get opened because you already know you don’t have enough money to pay them. Hell, you’re on a first name basis with the officer that almost visits you daily to remind you to get your shit together. How will you take in a baby and provide for it?

You don’t notice it, but Luke stares at you. Somehow he knows what you’re thinking about—the look of panic and doubt plastered on your face. “I know this is not very professional, but I’ll help you. You know you have me, sunshine, right? You’re not alone in this, all right?” His fingers twitch, wanting to trace the tear stains on your cheeks, catch the ones that are already queuing in your eyes. With a sigh and a sad smile he settles on the hand resting in your lap and gives it a good squeeze. “Come on,” he says as if he hasn’t just knocked the breath out of you with that statement.

Once again he’s there to open the door for you. Hesitantly, his hand reaches for yours, wiggling his fingers through the gaps of yours and wrapping his heart around yours as an armour. Can he feel the frantic beat of yours? (Almost. His own is beating just as frantically.)


He cries when he sees you. The fear is written clearly on his face after spending a night without his mommy in an unfamiliar place. His chubby hands immediately reach for you, his screams echoing down the corridor.

“He hasn’t stopped crying since we picked him up,” the social worker says, smiling sadly at the both of you as she hands him over.

Finlay’s tiny hands grab for your hoodie, fisting them tightly as he wails into your chest. Instantly, wetness pools in your eyes, threatening to overspill any second, but you don’t want to frighten the poor little boy any more than he already is. You just hug him to your body, pressing your cheek against his head and try to soothe him somehow. But how do you sooth a baby that has just lost its mother and is left with nothing?

Walking towards the plastic chairs that line along the multi-coloured walls, you seat yourself and keep your arms tightly around Finlay. His cries have come down to sobs, and you guess that’s a progress. Luke continues standing with the social worker, silently discussing Finlay’s situation.

“Shhh,” you whisper, smoothing your hand over the baby’s blond hair and rocking him back and forth. “We’re going to be all right,” you say, pressing a kiss against his temple.

“She’s his only living relative and she’s over 18. I think it’s best she takes him in. And look at him. He’s comfortable with her,” he says, one hand pressed against his gun holster and the other one pointing at you two’s direction.

The social worker nods her head in understanding. “Yes, I can see that. But she’s not financially stable and that is a problem. She’s barely twenty-one and according to her file, has had multiple house visits regarding her unpaid bills. She’s in no shape to adopt a child!”

Luke lets out a frustrated sigh, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling, his hands now propped against his hips. “Yes,” he says lowly, “but she’s not alone. She’s got support.”

“From whom?”

“Me, obviously.”

Your breath catches, your eyes widen. Did he just say he’ll support you financially? Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you—after all, it’s been a disastrous day and it’s not even noon yet. Surely, the officer that’s been pounding your door in the last couple of months because of unpaid bills would not offer to pay them for you. Clearly.

But your hearing gets confirmed when the social worker asks, “From you?” A perfectly manicured brow raises.

“Yes.” He shrugs as if this were no big deal.

The confusion is evident on her face, as her lips purse. “But aren’t you the officer assigned to her case?”

“So?” He shrugs again and you notice that he tends to do this often—play something down that is actually a very big deal. “There’s no law that prevents me from doing so.”

But isn’t there some kind of law that prohibits relationships between officers and their cases? Or is that only meant for doctors and their patients? You are confused, but you shake off your thoughts. You shouldn’t focus on that right now. Like Luke said, the only thing that matters right now is getting Finlay. And if that means lying to a social worker, then so be it.

“All right,” she finally gives in. “It’ll take a long long process, though. We’ll have to check both of your records, pay you visits, see how little Finlay adjusts to the new situation.”

“Yes, we’re aware of that,” Luke says.

“Okay,” she nods. “Then let’s go down the hall and get the paperwork done.” She smiles at you to follow.

You walk, refusing to loosen your tight grip on Finlay whatsoever, as you’re getting step by step nearer towards your nephew.

This morning, your main goal was to scratch enough money together for your next bill. Now, it is to make sure Finlay ends up with you. How a life can make a 180 in a matter of seconds was beyond comprehensible, but you think you’ve got an idea.

Like before, Luke talks for you, flicking through the files and silently filling you in, before telling you where to sign. Your heart trips a beat, but reluctantly you hand Finlay over to Luke as you sign the papers. Surprisingly, he doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t cuddle him either. He more leans back as far as he can, his chubby hands laying against Luke’s chest as he looks up at him with as much concentration an eight-month-old baby can muster. Maybe he feels some sort of familiarity, since Luke does share of few of his traits—the blond locks, the blue eyes and the pointy nose. Though maybe it might be because he seldom comes in contact with males, considering his father has passed before he was even born and he was raised by a single mom, no grandparents.

Apparently, Luke has passed the little test, because Finlay seems content, leaning his tiny head against his chest as he finally calms down.

This is a sight you never ever want to forget as you force yourself to memorise it: Luke leaning against the wall, gun strapped to his hip, arms clasped around the baby’s bum; Finlay resting against him, his legs swinging at his sides.

This feeling that settles deep in your stomach is one you never ever want to forget either. Like the planets have aligned and everything is balance.

But everything is not. You’re about to become a mother for God’s sake. Suddenly, the feeling of balance wobbles and a feeling of fear slams down on one side.

So much for balance.


The next couple of months fly by in a blur. Surprisingly, Luke really does stay with you two and you work out a schedule. Whilst you go out scouting for jobs with a decent pay, Luke stays at home taking care of Finlay. He’s taking fraternity leave or something like that, because honestly you have no idea how Luke did it or how many favours he had to ask for in order to take care of you and Finlay. He’s already got his own drawer and toothbrush and sleeps over most of the time.

Child & Family Services checks in on you once a week, making sure Finlay likes his new environment and your apartment isn’t on the edge of falling apart. It’s the same woman who handed Finlay over to you that does the house visits and you can see the surprise on her face every time Luke opens the door with the baby set on his hip. Even she didn’t think he meant what he told her.

After Luke’s introduced you to a buddy of him, he manages to get you a job as a PA—another thing you have thanks to him. Most of the days you get off around lunch time, but then there are days like today where your boss keeps you behind until eight.

Turning the lock in the door usually greets you with a laugh or a squeal, but this time there’s none of that. Stepping into your apartment, you kick off your shoes, discard your keys and trudge towards the living room, ready for sleep. But you stop abruptly when you see Luke laying sprawled across the couch, his feet hanging over the arm rest, hands holding onto Finlay who appears to be awake in contrast to the one who’s supposed to be watching him.

In the past months, Finlay has become used to his new life. Days of sleepless nights because he misses his mother have passed and now he sleeps through until the first rays of sunshine. That’s usually where he decides to be your personal alarm clock, crying or screaming.

Considering your apartment only has two rooms, you gave the other one to Luke in the beginning, but soon after, you both decided that Finlay should get his own room, so now the two of you are stuck sharing a bed occasionally—and he’s the only one in the past months that has gotten to sleep in the same bed with you. And you’ve got to admit, the days he spends in his own apartment or on the couch, your bed seems colder somehow.

As you still haven’t got enough money to decorate a room for him, it’s only got a crib and a rocking chair in there and that’s that. It’s disappointing you can’t offer him more, but you still count yourself lucky you’ve got food on your table everyday.

Quietly, you tiptoe towards the couch, letting your purse and your jacket fall to the floor before you carefully pick Finlay up from Luke’s chest where he’s been laying on. The fact that he knew not to squeal when you came in because Luke’s sleeping makes your heart warm up a notch. He’s taking quite a liking to him, not even fussing the tiniest bit when you leave for work every morning.

Cuddling Finlay to your own chest, you begin to rock him back and forth. “Hey, little man,” you whisper. “How’s life treating you?”

He only grabs for your mouth with his chubby fingers. “Yeah, me too!” you answer enthusiastically, laughing at him.

Every time you look at his face you see her. They’ve got the same mouth, the same curve of Cupid’s bow, the same cheek bones—and you’ve kissed both multiple times.

Even if he was only nine months old, Finlay still understood what was happening during the funeral, having cried into yours and Luke’s chests as the reception was being held. You’d like to believe, you looked like a little family then—Luke and you sandwiching Finlay between you; Luke with one hand on top of Finlay’s blond head, the other one gently laying on your arm; you with your own head resting against Finlay’s, feeling Luke’s fingers brush through your hair every so often and softly.

Somehow, this new life of yours makes you feel safe and warm all over. The thought of not having Luke standing by your side, makes your heart clench. You couldn’t imagine it. You’re a team now.

Finlay gurgles in content, head laying against your collarbone. “Hey, Finlay,” you whisper, “You know who that is, right?” You point at Luke’s sleeping figure.

Leaning back, Finlay stares at where you’re pointing. He giggles. “Lu,” he exclaims, happily.

“Yay!” You wiggle him. “That’s Lu. Good job, baby.” Finlay’s birthday is coming up in two weeks, and for an eleven-month old, he’s already picked up a few words. “Lu takes care of us, you know,” you tell him, staring at Luke and feeling like this is all a dream somehow. He was the cop reminding you of your unpaid bills, for God’s sake. And now he’s sleeping on your couch, helping you take care of your baby.

Taking a seat on the floor in front of the couch, you lean against it, letting Finlay sit on your hip bones. “You like Lu, little one? I know I like him,” you whisper quietly, smiling slightly. He giggles again, clasping his hands on your cheeks.

You jump as you feel something touch your hair. “You like me?” a silent voice speaks from behind you, sleepiness lacing it and pulling your heart under. You love his sleepy voice.

Heat creeps up your neck, tinging your ears red. “Uh—” you begin to stutter, trying to think of anything to say to him. You don’t want to frighten him and you don’t want him to run off. Yes, you have a connection, but maybe it’s just him being a good cop. Maybe you interpreted this whole situation wrong.

There are so many thoughts racing through your mind, you don’t even notice Luke brushing your hair behind your ear as you continue to stare at Finlay. “Don’t break your brain over it, sunshine,” he says, pulling you out of the space you just disappeared into. “I like you, too, you know?”

Oh, God.

He likes you, too.

Your breath hitches. He’s fingers are still woven in your hair, gently scratching against the side of your head. “I’ve liked you since the day I first knocked on your door,” he says quietly. Does he even know what his words are doing to you?

It’s like he’s lulling you to sleep, coaxing you into a dream so sweet you never want to wake up from it. It’s like his words are covered in honey and you’re finally getting a taste of them. They’re brushing against you oh so softly and you don’t want him to stop talking.

His fingers continue combing through your hair. “Come here,” he says. It’s that sentence that snaps you out of your trance his words have put you in and you notice that even Finlay has fallen asleep. Maybe his words have the same effect on him.

Avoiding sudden movement, you stand up and seat yourself next to Luke on the couch where he’s just made some space for you.

He’s not focused on talking right now, though, because he merely winds his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him, being careful with the sleeping baby. His free hand cups your inner thigh and he turns your body, adjusting, so you’re sitting sideways with your legs propped up over one of his and your feet planted between them. The heat creeps up your neck again and you’re not sure if it’s because of the closeness or the warmth his body provides. Sure, you’ve spent a couple of night tangled up in each other’s arms before, but you simply blamed your unconsciousness for it. This is different.

You’re leaning into him and his arm is still around you, his head against the top of yours as his fingertips dance across the naked skin of your shoulder. The silence is comfortable, warming and hot all at once. Contentment fills up your heart but there’s also this fear creeping up your spine. If the both of you pursue this new relationship, everything will change. What happens, if it doesn’t work out? He’ll leave—Finlay will lose the only man/father figure he has ever had and you’ll lose the security he provides for the two of you. And at the same time you’d lose a dear friend. This uncertainness of the future causes you to doubt, but you don’t want to lose this feeling of happiness either.

Somehow, Luke manages to make everything better—again. “You don’t need to worry that much, sweetheart,” he mumbles against you. “I swear, I can almost hear the wheels turning in that pretty little brain of yours.” And again he makes you blush with his words. He says, “We don’t need to rush anything. I’m just saying, you know. We can take things slow. The only important thing here is our little boy, all right?” Your heart temporarily stops beating. “And the rest we’ll figure out on our way.”

He just called Finlay your boy. The both of yours. The happiness fills you up and you’ll burst into rainbows for sure. But then you sigh. “I’m just scared. I don’t want to commit to anything if it’s only gonna end up not working out. And I don’t want to lose you.”

He presses his head a little harder against yours. “You’re not gonna lose me,” he says, “Neither of you. You have me, in all ways possible—the both of you have me wrapped around your fingers so tightly.”

“And I’m so thankful to have you,” you answer. “The both of us. We’re so incredibly lucky.”

Adjusting, so Finlay won’t lay in your lap, you move your legs so you’re lying on the couch with your head resting on Luke’s thighs and Finlay against your chest. You wind your arms tightly around his little body, somehow wanting to squeeze all the love you feel for him into his heart.

As you look up you’re met with Luke’s soft blue eyes. A film of tiredness has laid itself across them, but they’re still staring at you with such wonder and endearment that you don’t know how to breathe for a second. His fingers begin to comb through Finlay’s blond strands instead as he simply leans back against the couch rest and let’s out a deep sigh of peacefulness.

You ask yourself, if the three of you look like a family in a way. It’s something you’ve only thought about once, but somehow in this little moment of contentment you imagine you three looking like a family. And it’s this that breaks it to you. You want to be one—a family. You want this because you don’t want this feeling ever going away and you want it because it’s been a long time since you’ve had a proper family. You want this because you want to offer this to Finlay who’s lost the only family he had and you want it because you’re falling hard for this man with the soft heart but walks around with a gun strapped to his ankle every day.

Yes, you’re falling in love with this man.

And somehow, miraculously he is as well. Well, not exactly. Because he already is in love with you.

Ways That Serial Killers Get Away with Murder

-Preparation- Serial killers are extremely meticulous and patient. They usually pre-choose a victim, plan out their murder, stalk them, and do this all without leaving a trace of evidence. They do everything in an organized manner, and make sure that law enforcement is always one step behind them. Killers wear gloves, caps, and masks, and even clean up after themselves using chemicals. Even if evidence is left behind, cleaning up after oneself makes it harder for police to detect anything.

-Targeting easier victims- Some killers target minorities rather than Caucasians, since they are less likely to be shown in media once their bodies are found or if they are missing, which makes it easier for them to get away with their crimes. The age group does not matter. Minority children, teenagers, and adults pose a higher risk to fall into the grips of a serial killer. When it comes to abducting minorities, most killers are not even scared of getting caught. It has been proven that there are more unsolved minority murder cases than there are unsolved Caucasian murder cases. When it comes to picking illegal immigrants, killers are even less likely to get caught. This is because even if illegal immigrants notice something, they won’t speak up about it. Killers who think this way usually cross the border at night, grab people, and dump their bodies in the desert where they most likely won’t be found.

-Female serial killers are harder to catch- When it comes to murder, female serial killers are quite craftier. This is due to their murder methods, which are less messy. For example, a female serial killer is more likely to choke a patient at a hospital than slit someone’s throat as a means of murder. They also target vulnerable citizens. They’re usually at less of a risk of getting caught than male killers.

-Choosing secluded dumping grounds- While most killers try to dump bodies as fast as possible as to not get caught, this usually proves to be a sloppy way of doing things. Serial killers that go longer undetected usually find nice, secluded areas to dump their victims, and try to cover the bodies as best as they can. For starters, it takes longer for law enforcement to find the body this way. Furthermore, the longer a body is hidden, the more the evidence gets a chance to degrade.

-Corruption- While rare, prosecutors have at times refused to handle a case due to political reasons. Prosecutors sometimes think that if a case is too tough or will make them look bad, it’s the right decision to drop it. This, in turn, allows the killer to roam free once more, much to his/her advantage.

-Mistakes by law enforcement- While this scenario is rare as well, there are times when crime scenes are contaminated, making cases harder than they already are. Killers take advantage of this, and sometimes kill in areas where there are unexperienced police and an unexperienced homicide department in particular, because they know there’s a chance they’ll make a mistake.

-Killers mess with law enforcement- Many of the most intelligent killers have refused to talk with the police, and will not divulge any details of the murders. This in turn makes investigators angry, especially if they need a confession to wrap up their case. This also makes victims’ family members angry, as they’ll never know anything about the killer and the attack.

-Killing entire families has proven beneficial to some murderers, making their body counts higher- There are many unsolved cases involving the deaths of entire families. Some killers have claimed that it is simpler for them to murder more than one person at a time, since they can control their victims by threatening to hurt their friends or family. They also claim that police can become so disturbed at a crime scene involving a family murder that they end up making mistakes. With the killing of an entire family, multiple victims can be added to a killer’s body count in the span of one night.

On the Duggars...

Over the past several days, there’s been fury gnawing at my stomach and sorrow swelling in my veins, and I’ve finally parced my thoughts and feelings together enough to relieve them through my keyboard. So here it goes…

By now most everyone with internet access has heard about the Duggar scandal, and has become sadly acquainted with the intensely perverse “mistakes” of Josh Duggar. This particular rhetoric grinds my teeth because it paints a sympathetic veneer over an atrocity that should incite disgust, not pity. Pity is owed to his victims, and his actions were not “a mistake”. A mistake is unintentional. A mistake is by definition accidental, and most importantly a mistake is learned from. Most of the people standing behind Josh Duggar claim “yes he made mistakes, but “who hasn’t?” and that it’s “unfair to bring this up now because it happened 12 years ago.”


What’s unfair is parents so addicted to and dependent on the revenue of reality TV that they forsake the well being of their daughters by keeping them in the same space as a predator, having FULL KNOWLEDGE about what he has done. What’s unfair, is parents breeding like bunnies and introducing more and more of their progeny into an extremely repressive environment, while shelters brim and overflow with orphans. What’s unfair is lambasting the LGBT community and espousing the “dangers” that homosexuals pose to children, while making the conscious choice to keep your own children in constant company with the person who violated them. What’s unfair, is that their family gets a reprieve from many loyal viewers because “it happened 12 years ago” and he apologized. Whether 12 years ago or 12 minutes ago, he did what he did. Crime doesn’t have an expiration date, and the statute of limitations doesn’t change the severity of what he’s done.

It sickens me in ways that boil my blood.

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

Molesting underage girls is a “mistake”? Molesting your SISTERS is a mistake? Incest is just a teenage accident I guess…live and learn, right?

“But he was only fourteen…”

He was old enough to know right from wrong, especially in a household so adamant about instilling “good Christian values” into their children. This wasn’t just a onetime thing, either. Multiple victims, multiple accusations, and both parents aware of the goings-on.

“But he got treatment!”

Oh boy…okay, let me break it down:

Jim Bob waited a full year (during which Josh continued to molest his siblings) before going to consult his church elders for advice. Their advice was to send Josh to a treatment program, which Jim Bob opted against. Josh’s parents both lied to the press about his attending a rehabilitation program. They eventually recanted and admitted that they instead sent him to a family acquaintance in Little Rock to do manual labor for four months. Upon his return they arranged a meeting with a state trooper who happened to be a family friend (cherry-picking much?) who gave him a “stern talking to” but didn’t charge him with any crimes. The state trooper he spoke with? Currently serving 50+ years in prison for child pornography.

Pedophilia is a serious psychological condition that requires intensive treatment, and there’s a good deal of professional debate about whether or not it’s even curable. Pedophiles typically begin acting on their impulses and desires at about age 15. Josh was 14 at his start, and the eldest of the Duggar girls (12) was not a target, further evidencing the pedophilic nature of his incestuous violations. He is married now (to a wife who KNEW about his past before going into the marriage) and has three young children with another child on the way. Is he truly changed and repentant? I hope to God he is. Will he be tempted to project his impulses on his own children? I hope to God he won’t. But given that the majority of his victims were blood relations, we can’t ignore the possibilities. By trying to sweep this entire ordeal under the rug and neglecting the psychological needs of everyone involved, the Duggar parents have done anything but handle the situation appropriately.

I’m writing this (admittedly, pretty long) collection of thoughts mostly as a response to how many people I’ve seen defending the Duggars. It is not my intention to offend anyone, but I am genuinely concerned and disturbed by the logic of many people standing up for Josh. I’m a Christian myself, and I understand how crucial forgiveness and redemption are to our faith, but forgiveness is an issue for him to take up with God. Simply praying for forgiveness is, in my opinion, not enough for the severity of what has transpired, and I don’t believe anyone can simply pray away pedophilic inclinations. God helps those who help themselves, and the Duggars have done anything but that.

What’s done is done, but just as celebrities shouldn’t be exempt from the law because of their wealth, we should not be exempt from the law because of our faith. The responses I’ve seen circulating the web have made me nauseous. As Christians, trying to defend Josh is only harming our own cause. Why? Because we’re enabling the demise of our faith’s legitimacy in eyes of the rest of the world. By making excuses and minimizing the severity of what he has done, we make it seem that Christianity is lenient towards transgressions by its own people. And truthfully, we can be guilty of this, just as people belonging to any group will go out of their way to protect their own.

And I get it, really I do. I’m a Christian too, and I’m not unfamiliar with how much of the world sees us. As they say, the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and people are more liable to pay attention to the megaphone screeches of radicals than the thousands of people who are quiet and genuine in their faith. I know that many fend off being disheartened by enthusiastically pointing to people like the Duggars and putting them up on a pedestal, but this is a dangerous practice.

There has always been something severely off to me about the Duggars, and the fact that so many people praise them as a shining light and example of perfect Christianity has shocked shivers down my spine for quite some time. The truth will set ye free, and the truth?

They subscribe to the teachings of Bill Gothard. BILL GOTHARD, whose infamy in his own sexual harassment of over 30 women and girls has somehow not deterred them from his ATI home school teachings (which I highly encourage you to read for yourself, if you’re in the mood for emotional indigestion) that are pretty primeval in their instructions and include *surprise* an entire section dedicated to how to handle your son’s incestuous advances! The takeaway? It’s the victim’s fault! Your son can’t help himself, and your daughters should be shamed for tempting him. One of the possible causes of these temptations? Having your son change his sister’s diapers when he’s young, because apparently that experience can be very titillating (I wish I was making this up, but alas~I’m incapable of producing something this demented…).

The fact that they subscribe to these insane teachings speaks on its own behalf. I know many Christians that have called them as close to perfect as you can get, and beacons of light that we should all look up to, but I’m afraid I just don’t see it. At all. What I do see though, is an extremely restrictive and oppressive environment where privacy is nonexistent (which I’m sure contributed to the fact that most of Josh’s molestations were performed on the girls when they were sleeping) children are forced to raise children because their mother doesn’t have time to nurture her obnoxiously large brood, and men run the show. The children are kept thoroughly isolated, forcefully spoon-fed twisted ideology, and not provided adequate room to explore and discover themselves as individuals. Their parents monitor every interaction they have with anyone from the outside (the only texting they have is through a group text with ALL family members in it), completely screen who they can be friends with, pick their spousal candidates FOR them, and dominate any and all aspects of their lives. But through collective (and in my opinion, creepy) grins, matching outfits, and quoted scripture, they’re koom-ba-yahed about TLC as America’s charmingly gargantuan family.

But the skeleton’s out of the proverbial closet, and we’re faced with the tragic truths. And it’s all about Josh. All about how his life and his family’s brand is ruined, how he’s lost his position in the Family Research Council (the irony’s smarting) and how he’s working through the struggles of being the only provider for his family because God forbid he have married a woman who can bring in any revenue.

But what about his sisters? What about the girls who have had to live in that house with the one who committed these heinous sins, who have had to do chores for him, to serve him and listen to his praises for being “such a good brother” all those years? What about the girls who have witnessed their parent’s preferential treatment towards their brother, who have been denied adequate psychological help because it would deviate from the Quiverfull teachings? What about them? And now, their nightmares are being dredged back up as the media has its field day with the police report…what happens to them? It’s a question that’s been haunting me ever since the scandal’s come to light, and the fact that so much empathy has been offered to Josh and his ruined reputation instead of to those who suffered under his wandering fingers sickens me.

From what I’ve learned and what I’ve seen, the Duggars are many things. They are beautiful, polished, manipulative, and (dare I say it?) a cult with a limitless supply of members, so long as they keep breeding. What they are not, though, is a healthy and functional family. And what they shouldn’t be, is the mascot for wholesome Christian values.

I understand why so many Christians are desperately clinging to the idea that Josh is fully-reformed and the Duggars are an upstanding family. I know that maintaining one’s faith is an uphill battle, and that the Duggars were an emblem of hope to many, many viewers. But this pedestal thing has got to stop. We need to stop relying on other people to serve as living relics of our faith, and instead live our faith through our own actions and our own love. We need to live with open eyes, minds, and hearts, and be able to recognize when the rigidity of one’s faith puts themselves and others in danger. And we need to not sugar-coat the truth or make excuses when we encounter horror and evil, because that will always do more harm than good. The truth is a bitter pill to swallow, but while a spoonful of sugar (in this case, trying to water down what happened) makes the medicine go down, it can also give you cavities.

I really encourage you to look into things yourself, and not just take my word for it. I’ve had my suspicions about the Duggars for a while, but it wasn’t until this scandal blew up that I really took the time to research their beliefs and understand why they made me so uncomfortable. I’m glad that things have finally come to light, but am also deeply saddened that there were things hidden in the dark to begin with.

If you want to pray, pray for the girls who have the label of “victim” (I’ve certainly used it enough in writing this) inscribed on them for the rest of their lives. Pray for their well-being, their recovery, and their future. Pray that the corruption in the Duggar family is dismantled, and that Josh will get the help he needs as well.

And for the love of God…please stop signing petitions for the show to be brought back. More camera time is the last thing needed during or after this crisis.


A.) Paris Hilton is a performer who created an empire by performing an exaggerated character based on the stereotypes of “blonde ditz” for multiple scripted reality based television series,movies,and frequently stayed in character during interviews and paid appearances.

B.) Paris Hilton was a victim of revenge porn and was in no way responsible for the release of her private videos. At the peak of Paris’s fame there was a major cultural shift in how celebrity gossip was consumed thanks to the internet and a growing need for escapism. Every detail of her life was exploited to meet increasing consumer demand. She was the victim of multiple hacks,stalkers,home invasions,robbery, and had spineless paparazzi constantly trying to get more upskirt shots to sell to tabloids.

Most people I have encountered in my life hate Paris Hilton because she is presented in the media as the embodiment of negative characteristics commonly used to dehumanize women(“attention seeking”,frivolous,shallow,unintelligent,childish,has sex,wears “sexy clothes”,impulsive,entitled,etc).

Paris Hilton has been completely dehumanized for choosing to be in the entertainment industry and for being a woman.

I highly recommend checking out Will Rebein’s vimeo account for more sweet documentaries on young celebrities who have been idolized and crucified by the media/public. Here’s link to one featuring Paris Hilton (plus quote featured in movie)-

“During this time people hadn’t fully grasped the concept of reality television, and how much of it is scripted and manipulated. Most failed to recognize that Paris’s personality in the press and on The Simple Life was an exaggerated character and not her true self.

The longer she perpetuated the character of an unintelligent,spoiled socialite the number of people that hated her grew and the meaner people were when they talked about her online and in the news.”

-Will Rebein