Today is @yankasmiles ‘s birthday, and to show my appreciation ,this is for you! Yanka is one of the well known artist who draws TKYM a lot and her presence makes the TKYM fandom a more brighter place. Thank u for everything Yanka!! Enjoy ur vacation in Japan!
You see a sentence
written in cyrillic. Some of the letters are familiar. You see the
meaning shimmering underneath the surface. You almost grasp it, but it slips away. The letters on the page mock you silently.
You know this Czech word. You’ve already learnt it in Polish. It is not the same word. It is a grave insult. Your slavic friends are shocked and embarassed for you when they hear you speak it.
There is a sentence in
Croatian. There is a sentence in Serbian. There is a sentence in
Bosnian. They are all the same sentence.
You have to write about your day in Slovak. You spend the night polishing the draft. You fail your assigment. It’s written in Czech. You don’t know Czech.
P is not what it seems. You have to remember that.
The Croatian sentence
does not mean what the Bosnian sentence means. They both mean the same in Serbian.
That word has a diminutive. The diminutive has its own diminutive. The diminutive of the diminutive also has a diminutive. Nobody knows what the final diminutive of a word is. Some say the knowledge had been lost in centuries past and matrioshkas are the echo, the tangible warning left for us to remember. No living creature should hold the means of diminishing something into nonexistence. Others say you may still find some of them in old soviet textbooks, if you dare to look in abandoned schools of Chernobyl.
Someone is speaking to you. Is that a he or a she? You aren’t sure. It’s an abstract concept. Why does it have gender.
You see a word in a
dictionary. It has seventeen letters and only one vowel. You close the dictionary very carefully not
looking at the phonetic transcription. The shape of it haunts you in
your sleep. You wake
up face damp with tears, a bitter taste on your tongue. The clock blinks 3:03AM. You do not dare look up that word again.
This word means the
same thing in the five slavic languages you’re familiar with. You use
it in the sixth one. That word does not exist in this language. It never
did. There is now a word-shaped void in the fabric of this language.
The natives look at you uneasily. There is a new quality to the silence and your palms start to sweat.
H is not H. H is not H. H is not H. H is not H.
One day you flip through your dictionary. A page is missing. What was the word? You can’t remember. There is pressure building at the back of your head. The clock blinks 3:03AM.
You write my name
is in cyrillic. There are shadows dancing on the walls. They grow
longer with each letter you write down. It is not cyrillic you’re
using. You keep writing my name is. The shadows now bleed from
the tip of your pen. It’s irrelevant. You need to remember the right
N is not N is not N is
not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N
is not… If only you could remember the letters. The letters are important. What was it, that wasn’t N?
There are nine different prefixes
you can add to a verb to change its meaning. There are fifty three different suffixes you have to add to a verb to make it
work. In the end the only thing left of the original is a vague shape
of one of its middle consonants.
You can feel the anguish radiating from the verb’s mutialted form. A desperate sob escapes through your clenched teeth.
You’re so, so sorry, you didn’t meant to. You didn’t. It doesn’t matter.
You now read a text in
Russian. You’ve never learnt Russian. Why are you reading that text? The words burn your eyes,
the meaning searing your mind.
There’s a shot of vodka in front of
you. You don’t drink alcohol. You don’t care. All existence is
meaningless, your soul’s in eternal pain. A broken matrioshka lays at your feet. There is no salvation, she says boring into your eyes. You open your mouth to answer, but there is only a burst of harsh rustle. It dies in whispering echoes a moment later. Your glass is empty again.
Neil put a plastic-wrapped finger to Andrew’s chin, guiding his head up for another kiss. “If you have to keep asking because–I’ll answer it as many times as you ask. But this is always going to be yes.”
“Don’t ‘always’ me.”
“Don’t ask for the truth if you’re just going to dilute it.”
Okay, that’s a lie. He can’t help himself. Any sign of a secret threatening to be exposed, he needs to get to the bottom of it. According to him, it’s a natural human instinct. Everyone else thinks it’s just a Jake Peralta instinct.
So when he glances down at the trash can next to the bathroom sink while brushing his teeth one night, a rectangular blue box takes over his eyesight.
And - you guessed it - he can’t help himself.
He reaches down and picks it up, his eyes scanning the small print over and over. Then the panic sets in and the assumptions roll through his mind. He has two options right now - freak out and ask Amy if they need to start baby-proofing their apartment, or calmly ask her what the hell is going on.
He decides to go with the latter.
“Hey, babe?” he calls out, walking back into the bedroom with the box clutched in his hand.
“Yeah?” Amy’s sitting up against the headboard, a concentrated frown hiding behind her reading glasses, and today’s copy of the New York Times sprawled across her lap (she likes to do the Sudoku puzzles at night. Jake doesn’t question it anymore).
“Is there anything you need to tell me?” Jake asks, holding the box up in plain sight.
Amy glances up at him, then at the box. Then back at him, then back at the box, then back to her newspaper. “Nope,” she replies, a small grin appearing as she scribbles a bunch of numbers down on the page.
“You sure? Because this little guy right here is telling me something different.”
Amy rolls her eyes, taking off her glasses. “Jake-”
“Ames, if you were a murderer, you’d be terrible at it. I mean come on, you can’t even hide this evidence properly! You’re literally asking me to arrest you.”
“Wait, are you a murderer? Oh my god, have you been pretending to be a detective this entire time? Captain Holt would be so disappointed in you.”
“Actually you know what? That’s pretty good, faking being a police officer to cover up your crimes, maybe you can get extra points for sneaky behavior-“
“JAKE!” Amy yells. He stops rambling, finally, and stares at her.
“Did you actually look inside the box?” Amy asks. “Or did you just jump to conclusions as always?”
Jake frowns, looking down at the box again. He moves over to the bed, sitting on the edge, then shakes the box lightly. It rattles, indicating that there is indeed something inside that he probably should have investigated before. He reaches with his other hand to open the box, but stops and throws it to Amy.
“I don’t wanna touch it,” he explains with a shudder.
Amy lets out an exasperated sigh - bed time is never boring - before grabbing the box and pulling out the small white stick and holding it up. “It’s negative,” she says, pointing at the single pink line, “see?”
Jake squints at the object, feeling his body instantly relax when he sees one line instead of two. “Okay,” he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Negative. Okay. Cool cool cool.”
Amy gives him a tight-lipped smile, slipping the test back into the box. “Don’t worry, no tiny humans will be running around this place any time soon,” she reassures him, throwing the box into the small rubbish basket underneath the nightstand.
Jake smiles back but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He slips under the bed covers with a sigh, sliding into the warmth with an odd feeling gnawing at his heart. He still has a million questions about this insane little object that almost just had the ability to change his life. And Amy’s no moron. She can sense when something’s wrong with him.
“Okay, what’s up with you?” she asks, shifting closer to him.
“Why did you take the test in the first place?” Jake blurts out, surprising himself because he was pretty sure he’d said that in his head and not out loud.
Amy takes a deep breath and shrugs. “I…was late,” she admits, a light shade of crimson heating her cheeks.
“But you’re on birth control.”
“Yeah but it’s not always 100% effective, I wanted to be sure. And I didn’t think it was necessarily worth hiding because it wasn’t positive. No biggie, right?”
“Right,” Jake replies. A wave of relief washes over him and he relaxes. “Right, right, right. So, no kids yet?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“No, not yet,” Amy replies, linking her arm with his.
“But…one day?” he asks hopefully.
If there’s ever been a moment that’s melted Amy’s heart, it’s this one. She grabs his hand, linking her fingers with his gently. “One day for sure,” she promises, kissing him softly on the cheek and resting her chin on his shoulder.
“So just to be completely sure, you’re definitely not pregnant?”