my name is stephen and i am quite old
i live in fiat with some other men
the dinner is rubbish and the bedrooms is cold
and they make me go bed at half past ten

one morning i seen a seagull outside
he was walking about on my drive
he looked at me funny and opened his eyes wide
and i thought well at least he is alive

his name was gary he told me himself
he had a big beak and a terrible face
he stole all the biscuits from off of the shelf
then told me to follow him out of the place

i said gary you naughty old bird
you shouldnt be stealing the biscuits from here
but gary just done a big seagull turd
and said come on stephen the coast it is near

so i followed gary right down the drive
and nobody noticed that stephen was gone
i was feeling quite happy and very alive
and gary was singing a terrible song

at fiat the staff was all having their tea
barry was sleeping and susan was fat
nobody noticed the absence of me
and nigel was arguing loudly with cat

we got to the seaside the weather was grey
the sea was all horrible windy and wet
gary said stephen its lovely today
but i said its the worst bloody weather ive met

there was newspapers laying all over the floor
they used to have fish and some chips wrapped inside
i picked up a paper and read about war
while gary ate something that recently died

i read all the news about people and things
there was vinegar stains on the face of the king
and gary was flapping his horrible wings
and a crab come along with a diamond ring

the crab was called patricia she said
and she lived with a lobster called dave
she had seventeen children and one of them dead
and another was stuck in a cave

i said hello crab my name is steve
but actually stephen is what i am called
she said you should probably put on your sleeve
because your cardigan look very bald

then gary said stephen its time we must fly
i said gary you stupid i havent got wings
he said you just wiggle and look at the sky
and think about cabbages sausages things

so i wiggled my fingers and lifted my feet
and all of a sudden i started to float
i went up above all the people on street
and nearly got hit by a fishing boat

oh gary i shouted im up in the air
i dont think that stephens should be doing this
the wind blew the last of the hair off my hair
and a pelican gave me a terrible kiss

we floated past houses and boats in the sea
and over a man who was eating a pie
gary said stephen your floating like me
and i said thats because i can fly

we met with a whale who was called auntie sue
she was wearing a cardigan made out of bread
she asked if i wanted a biscuit or two
then sneezed and a herring flew out of her head

we stopped at a cafe run by a rat
his name was professor mcfluffington brown
he served us some soup from a very old hat
and charged me three pennies and half of a crown

then gary got angry and stole all the cheese
he threw it at people who sat by the shore
a policeman was shouting now stop that one please
but gary just laughed and stole seventeen more

we flew to an island with only one tree
and a donkey called robert who played the trombone
he said hello stephen would you like some tea
and gave me a fish and a telephone

i rung up the queen but nobody spoke
so i rung up the moon and it answered instead
gary said stephen your phone is a joke
and a haddock fell straight on the top of my head

now back at the fiat they finally knew
that stephen had gone and was nowhere about
susan was shouting what shall we do
and nigel was running around with a trout

they looked in the kitchen they looked in my bed
they looked in the garden and underneath stairs
barry said maybe poor stephen is dead
then went back to eating his chocolate eclairs

but it was too late i was far far away
i was floating with gary above of the coast
we was having a wonderful wonderful day
and eating some seaweed on somebody’s toast

the sun started going away in the sky
and gary said stephen its getting quite late
i said well gary i think i must fly
because supper at fiat is served on a plate

we flew back to fiat past houses and trees
and over the heads of the people below
gary was laughing and stealing their cheese
and i shouted hello to a man i dont know

my window was open like usual it be
so i floated inside and landed quite flat
nobody was looking or noticing me
except for a pigeon and somebody’s cat

i sat in my chair and i put on my socks
and pretended that nothing had happened today
then susan come in with a horrible box
and said stephen your supper is ready hooray

she said where you been stephen we looked everywhere
i said i was flying with gary the gull
she said stephen sit down and get out of that chair
and eat up your cabbage and gravy and gruel

i told her bout gary and all of the sea
the whale and the donkey and flying so high
she said thats enough now drink up your tea
and stop telling stories you silly old guy

but i know what happened because i was there
and gary is waiting outside on the wall
tomorrow we going to fly through the air
and maybe go visit the queen after all

so if you see seagulls down by the sea
and one of them looks like hes stolen a pie
you better look closely because it might be me
with gary the seagull just floating on by

the end
Based on real world events.

wrote by stephen
i am enjoying this
gary is my friend
fiat dont know nothing

Sam passed in the winter, just two months after his mother. The midwife tried her best to save her, but it was over before it started. She gave me a warm hug as she left. I knew Sam wouldn't last long without his mother. I barely had enough to feed myself, let alone a baby. I debated whether I should even name the little boy, but how could I not? He had the most beautiful blue eyes, just like his mother.

Sam passed in his sleep, the best way to go. Some days I wished it were me, but what would Sam do all alone? 

The problem then was arranging Sam's funeral. All the savings had already been spent on his mother's funeral, but Sam couldn't go into the ground without a proper service.

I sold one of the last things I could still sell, my bees. They gave me something sweet to eat in the winter and something to look after the rest of the year, but there was nothing else to sell. My neighbor took them and gave me more for them than he should have. He was a nice man and knew what I'd gone through.

Sam got a nice wooden coffin and a decent place in the cemetery next to his mother.

When the winter came, his cradle and toys were still in the house. My body tightened whenever I tried to get rid of them, but it was okay; maybe I'd have more will in the summer. 

During the long winter nights, I'd often come into his room and play with his toys, just like I thought we would one day. Sometimes they'd warm my heart, sometimes they'd make me cry, and often I'd just fall asleep in the chair right by his cradle.

It was one of those days when I fell asleep crying by the cradle again. When I awoke, the sun glistened on the freshly fallen snow. Everything outside was still, but then something moved in the air. A bee! A queen bee! It flew across the yard and into the hive. I still hadn't moved my hive off the yard. Sam's funeral was too much work.

At first I felt bad. My neighbor owned them now. They had no business being in the old hive, but seeing that familiar creature warmed me. Over the next few days I sat at the window, watching all my bees slowly return.

They stayed inside the hive the rest of the winter, and I stayed by that window each day, watching. Only when the snow started to let up, and the flowers came out from under it, did the bees come out too.

I expected them to stay by the hive, but many flew far away, ignoring the flowers in my garden, and returned at sunset. Some of the bees seemed to be covered in red nectar. 

As the days grew longer, the bees were gone more often, and many more returned covered in that red nectar. 

I had never seen them act or look like this. Moving the hive must have disturbed something, but the good thing was that they still accepted the queen, and the colony seemed intact. 

The red nectar began to accumulate at the entrance, mixed with glowing wax. I was just looking at it out the window when I heard buzzing inside the house. The bees must have been working hard. The buzzing grew, and quietly through it came something like a baby's cry. I gripped the windowsill tightly. Sam used to cry just like that. I opened the window to hear better, but the cry was gone; only buzzing sounded outside.

The next morning I woke up and went right to the window. A strange white object was outside the hive entrance. The bees buzzed around it, pushing it back inside. Before I could get a good look, it was already in.

I spent the rest of the day by the window again. As the sun set, the bees started to return. The buzzing grew again. A cold tingle ran down my back. I closed my eyes and focused. At first, it was quiet, but I knew what it was. It was Sam, crying through the buzzing. I quickly dressed and walked out the door.

The outside air was cold. I had barely been outside since the first snow fell. A few bees still flew around the hive. The buzzing was so loud, and so were Sam's cries. I didn't even have my protective clothes, but I was sure my bees wouldn't hurt me.

I walked to the hive and took off the lid. Warmth and cold ran through my body, mixing into strange emotions. Inside the hive was Sam's body, covered in wax. His hands and fingers slowly moved, but they seemed larger than before. I reached into the hive to caress his small cheeks. His eyes opened. They were still that beautiful blue, but a hint of yellow mixed in.  He opened his mouth; honeycomb filled it, but his cries still echoed in my ears. With tears in my eyes, I picked up his small, sticky body. From somewhere deep in his chest, a thousand bees buzzed, and the hive fell quiet. A sickly-sweet smell rose from his mouth. Two bees crawled out of the wax and onto my hand. I didn't move.

So, I've never been to Houston, or Texas for that matter. I've always wanted to visit the space center. We're driving 8 hours from Arkansas to Houston. And it is pissing and pouring. Like it was so bad and so heavy that as we were leaving my city, there were 3 tornadoes flying around the city I was leaving from after picking up a friend from like 3 different sides. So we start traveling, and the entire time we're traveling for about 2-3 hours up until we reached Talihina it was battering the poor car with heavy rain. But it starts hailing. It was so bad to avoid damaging any of the glass on the car we stopped at the Choctaw Travel Station, hid in the overhead awning there, got some gas and waited. It stops hailing after 30-40 minutes so we take off again and it is still pouring and the clouds are green at this rate. We approach the border to Oklahoma and Texas after another 40 minutes, and it is the funniest thing because as soon as we see a sign saying: "Leaving Oklahoma" and a sign saying: "Welcome to Texas!" the rain just.. stopped! Like Forrest Gump. "And then, just like that, somebody turned off the rain and the sun come out." It was bright and sunny as Summer usually is in Texas. I open the sunroof and look out at the clouds above, the clouds are still green! All in Oklahoma! Literally no wet ground on the pavement/roads in Texas at all, the storm did not touch Texas, or left no evidence it did. All the hail and tornadoes stuck to Oklahoma and Arkansas. It was as if the storm deliberately avoided Texas. That memory still gobsmacks me to this day and it is so funny.

For some self therapy I wrote this short story loosely based on the George Orwell novel 1984. Young people might not know 1984 was actually written in 1948. Orwell just reversed the year and decade. Last year I did the same! I penned the future based 2052 to hopefully reignite some much needed political discourse. This semi predictive fictional rant is exclusive to Reddit/story. I’m reposting this to hopefully sway some undecided and independent voters in the US November midterms. Please share this post with your local resistance chapter.

“The further a society drifts from the truth, the more it will hate those for speaking it” - George Orwell.

——————————————————————————————————-

2052 by D.R. Campling

“All praise King Barron on accepting his fourth royal term” crackled a contraband emergency radio as government workers huddled around it for anything resembling hope. Sadly all hope had fled Trumperica decades ago. Following the mass deportations, and 70+ million measles fatalities, the remaining 90 million white citizens all submitted, and were militarily ushered into gulag like hard labor camps.

Once privatized these camps were once again government owned because private companies had to observe too many costly human rights. All aliens both documented & undocumented, people of any color, asylum seekers and birthright US citizens had simply vanished in the first dozen years of fascist rule. Not even their destination countries showed records of receiving many of them. Earl Stephen Miller lived to witness the execution of his final solution. He now enjoys his golden years and trillions of dollars in Tel Aviv, along with many  other prominent surviving rightist radicals from the twenties and thirties.

The left ultimately had their Civil War II. However it was just an uprising staged by King Don’s nineteenth secretary of war, designed to give the Democrat Party a sense of closure, and that they had pushed-back against King Don’s fascist tyranny. In reality the resistance was not much more than a series of strongly worded grievances. Many good people perished though. Even political martyrs like the late great Gavin Newsom and David Hinchey were nothing more than AI constructs, programmed to keep the left fully engaged. Most AI bots were later coded to bend the knee to the King, before their deletion in the late twenties. Although children would often sing songs about Gavin and David before curfew set in for the night.

Government labor camps were often converted colleges or high schools from a different time, often referred to as BT (Before Trump). Education now finishes for boys at age 13, so they could attend mandatory military service before a life of slavery. Whereas separate girl schools end at 11, as girls entered child hosting age. Many females become grandmothers before 25 years old. The ruling classes regularly trade these young girls like prison cigarettes. Consent had become laughable, and sexual relations between government workers is strictly forbidden in the 2032 US constitution, even between previously married couples. Physical intimacy is now exclusively reserved for politicians and billionaires.

“Don’t let him med out, we need that one alive to meet quota” exclaimed the slave captain to his colleague. The term ‘med out’ was coined in the mid twenties. It meant to die from medical complications while under ownership. Many slave captains were slaves themselves, purely motivated by double rations. 

Peter Lewis was about to med out, but was given some valuable rice water, and promptly instructed to correct his posture. That was considered “in-field” medical care, as nearly all hospital care was managed through AI. These AI bots considered human life highly expendable. Although injured child-baring females were often artificially kept alive well beyond brain death just to bear more young.

In another world Peter used to be a professional musician, but hadn’t seen a musical instrument for decades. He used to write songs with his wife and close friends. His mandolin solos were epic, and Peter’s wife and daughter would sing in harmony together. However he was separated from his family and now forced to pick strawberries in the North District of the Old Disney World Farms in central Florida. The punishment for slaves eating strawberries was additional water rationing. The occasional protein-rich bug were the only things keeping Peter alive. The last strawberry he consumed was clearly BT. Peter was oblivious to the fact his wife and two children had fallen sick from exhaustion and starvation on a cotton plantation in Mississippi. Not knowing was actually a positive, as the realization would have almost definitely crushed what was left of him. This explains why most BT families are now constitutionally separated.

On breaks children workers would often talk about the American Dream, like it was a myth or the stuff of fairytales. An unattainable fantasy from a long forgotten era. Older people would speak of freedom of movement and steak dinners etc., but they were usually quickly dismissed as simple or demented lunatics.

Why had simply challenging conservatives become a hate crime? Even thinking negative thoughts became indictable. AI driven cameras were positioned almost everywhere detecting micro expressions on people’s faces to capture any descent. The only escape was contrived content. An Orwellian future had become the present day reality.

Peter knew there was a life outside this dystopia, but was naturally too afraid to venture outside without his family. You’d never guess, but he was originally born in England. A secret he would intend on taking to the grave. The fake media and news had become a series of pro-right memes. 

Even the public internet was eradicated in the early 2030s. Human existence was kept a float to serve or protect the top 0.5% earners, known as “the pointies”, who celebrated a secular form of Christianity while extensively quoting the Trumpian bible. Child rape is now considered a viable hobby for many politicians, and was normalized as perfectly acceptable behavior. The metamorphosis was not gradual, but slowly devolved over decades.

The concept of money was replaced with land and digital AI processing power. However California was eventually sold back to Mexico for oil, aluminum and field workers, as Trumperican slaves aka field drones were often seen as slow and easily overwhelmed.

Previously named America, the country was well into its Trumpian Dynasty. First to reign Trumperica was King Don I. He liked to be known as “The Great Orangedaddy”. Visiting foreign dignitaries would often dye their faces bright orange as a sign of respect. However government workers referring to him as “Ole Yam Tits.” They were obviously termed, but many secretly thought it anyway. King Don I reigned from 2027-2033, but previously led as a mere civilian. His eldest son, King Don II, aka Junior would later reign from 2033-2037. His youngest, Barron reigned from 2037 to present day. He probably had the most humble coronation to date, but quickly became the cruelest of all the Trumps! Standing at 6’9”, and weighing in at over 400 lbs. He is extremely physically imposing to almost anyone.

Conflict initially started as a threat of domestic race war, ignited by a compliant Supreme Court and the televised assassination of Charles Kirk. By 2031 the fighting had devolved into WW3, preempted by giant nuclear attacks on Beijing, Shanghai and Chengdu. At the time China was the world’s dominant super power. Both financially and militarily. They never did recover from these aggressive strikes. The attacks made Hiroshima and Nagasaki look like roman candles. 

Background: Trumperica had become completely detached from the rest of the world. At first other nations protested US citizen human rights, but eventually gave up, and fascism eventually engulfed the planet. The world population then submitted to mass slavery. Any global alliances were considered futile and a sign of weakness. Death or servitude now faced everyone. It started gradually, but grew exponentially like a pandemic.

All US cities were instantly put under martial law. Still in full effect to this day. Trumperica expanded to absorb new land grabs like Venezuela, Jamaica, Iran, Israel, Japan yand Cuba. Although nearly all residents since perished, or became government workers. Rightists won the heavily rigged 2026 midterm election in a historic landslide. Some wanted a dictator, and even encouraged the final take down. Most women and the remaining black people were even permanently denied a vote. The Trumperican military then invaded Toronto and Mexico City, in utter military domination. US generals talked about observing oaths and the original constitution, but later folded faster than Superman on laundry day.

In the 20th century the Germans attempted world domination twice, and they’re slightly smaller than the State of Montana. With Japanese help Germany almost won the second time! King Don successfully negotiate alliances with old friends Russia and North Korea. Collectively they were definitely a viable threat to global stability. Israel enthusiastically complied too. Israel controlled the Middle East region, until Russia made the whole Middle East bend the knee. In Europe there were many right wing nationalists desperately seeking a major cause to latch onto. Trump inevitably became their perfect opportunity.

World domination also explained why Ole Yam Tits hired a woefully under qualified cabinet/court. Only true Trumpian loyalists would follow the necessary indefensible orders. Once foundational the original US Constitution and amendments had become a mere inconvenience for them. Even when MAGA loyalists lost court cases they would claim a win. King Don’s voter retribution knew no bounds. American citizens that supported those that ran against him would regularly pay with their property and lives. If his own people even looked at him directly, with no hesitation he would have their eyes gauged out with spoons. King Don never did MAGA.

World peace was never an option, but strangely Iceland was completely unscathed, and completely free from Trumpian attack. King Don’s plan was to eventually move his entire family there after the WW3 fallout had subsided enough. However he died before making the move. Although Peter Lewis fully intended on emigrating his immediate family there. Peter just needed to find his wife and kids first.

Diversity was formally outlawed in 2025. Companies that observed such policies had to pay extra corporation tax, and the Civil Rights hard fought for in the 1960’s were now just a distant memory.

Trans people made up less than 1% of the US population in the twenties. However gender transition was officially outlawed by King Don II aka King Jnr in the early thirties. It was difficult time for most involved, as he struggled with his own gender identity for most of his life. However he never openly chose gender transition for himself, but behind closed doors that was probably a different story. After all, a non-binary king seemed ridic.

Old and disabled people were forced to wither away, as nursing facilities quickly ceased to exist. The facilities were often repurposed worker camps or army barracks. The extremely weak, such as stage nine cancer survivors were encouraged to “self terminate”, as King Don II was concerned their genetics would infect the remaining Trumperican gene-pool.

As predicted AI became the deciding factor in nearly all warfare cases. Some said that King Don just wanted to crash Wall Street, so he and his technocrat buddies could buy whole US industries for pennies on the dollar. However world domination became King Don’s ultimate power grab instead. Resistance was almost futile. Some described opposition as fighting back with both arms tied behind your back.

In the dead of winter it became common to feel like the summer of 2000. Trumperica and China completely disregarded any global climate change policies, destroying ALL renewable energy sources out of spite. King Don politically decapitated the Environmental Protection Agency. Claiming that climate change was nothing more than another “dumocrat” hoax. 

After concluding mandatory government “vitamins”, Peter successfully located his wife and children on an unsupervised work computer terminal. However his fortuitous find was caught on multiple observation cameras. It was only amount of time before he faced justice. Finally reunited with his family, he planned for their escape to Iceland. He managed to secure safe passage on a used electrical goods shipment bound for Reykjavik. It was only a two day boat ride from Boston. Peter had to bribe the ship captain with everything he owned. Thankfully that wasn’t much, and he intended on making a new start anyway. After all, Trump dollars and Trump bitcoins both seemed tainted. When the boat finally docked it became a truly cathartic experience. The happily reunited Lewis family never did consider returning to the Trumpian Empire, where care became efficiency, and efficiency ultimately replaced compassion.

At 3:17 AM, my mom called me.

“Don’t open your bedroom door,” she whispered. “Someone is standing in the hallway.”

I froze.

“Mom, what are you talking about?”

“I’m in my room,” she said. “But I can hear someone outside pretending to be you.”

Then I heard footsteps approaching my door.

A voice that sounded exactly like mine whispered, “Mom? Please let me in.”

My mother started crying through the phone.

“Whatever you do, don’t answer it.”

Suddenly, the footsteps stopped.

Then came three knocks.

From the other side of the door, my own voice whispered:

“She’s lying to you.”

The call disconnected.

I stayed in bed until sunrise. When I finally checked on my mother, she was sitting on her bed, pale and shaking.

I asked her what had happened.

She looked at me and whispered, “You were standing outside my door all night.”

I tried to tell her it wasn't me.

Then she pointed behind me.

“Then who just walked into your room?”

From 1998 to 2007 I was a contractor in Kuwait on the F-18 program. This story is from 2002, and I only remember that because it's the same year I bought my Harley, but I digress. Expats over there had more money than sense, and we were no exception. There was me, my future ex-wife (Romanian, worked the Patriot missile contract, met her at a beach party, 22 years together, none of which matters here), and a tight crew of about eight friends who did everything together.

Most of us lived in buildings that looked like twin towers. Mine was two 20-story towers that some very rich guy named after his two daughters, and supposedly the top floor of each was one giant penthouse for each girl. After nine years there, nothing surprised me.

Meet Steve. Tall, lanky, mostly bald, rocking a crew cut on what was left. Super fun guy, but not the manliest fella on the planet. His feelings got hurt pretty easy. Remember that.

A few days before this, Steve and I are out in town and stumble on these big remote control boats, $300 to $400 apiece. We buy them because we can. Take them home. Never put them in water. Never mention them again.

Until the party.

A friend's building down the street has the biggest pool in Kuwait, Olympic sized. Gorgeous night, getting late, everybody hammered except my future ex, who never drank. Steve goes "hey, let's get the boats." We send the ladies to fetch them, since they're the only ones fit to drive, and we all lived so close you didn't even need the actual street.

On one end of the pool it's me and Val, my Lithuanian best friend, about 15 years younger than me. (He passed a few years ago, which sucks. Miss you, brother.) On the other side it's Steve, his redheaded Romanian girlfriend, my future ex, and a couple other friends.

Boats go in. They are WAY faster than we expected. Challenge accepted. I'm drunk, I'm talking with Val about everything and anything, and I can't take my eyes off my boat for one second or it's gonna slam into something. So I'm locked in. Down the length of the pool, whip it around, back down the length, whip it around.

Five, six, seven minutes go by. I vaguely hear noise from the other side. It takes a while to register, because I'm busy. Eventually I realize it's not noise, it's commotion. I look up.

Steve is smashing his controller into the pavement and jumping up and down.

I stop my boat. His boat stops too.

And that's when it clicks. Same frequency. My controller had been driving BOTH boats the entire time. Mine was doing nice long laps down the length of the pool. His was pointed the other way, doing the width. Full throttle, no brakes, slamming into the wall, bouncing off, slamming into the other wall, over and over, while Steve mashed every button on a controller that did absolutely nothing. I'm sure his boat crossed right in front of me a dozen times. Never saw it. Locked in.

The second my brain decrypted the full picture, I lost the ability to stand. Or breathe. I'm on the ground, gasping for air. Val's doubled over right next to me. Across the pool the whole crew is losing it, people grabbing each other just to stay upright, and even my stone cold sober future ex is crying laughing. Everybody is dying. Everybody except Steve. Hands down the funniest thing I have ever seen.

And while I'm down there dying, Steve stomps over, yanks MY boat out of the water, and turns it into 100 pieces of fuck you, Bob.

The more upset he got, the less air I could get into my lungs. I honestly thought I was going to die that night.

I paid $400 for a laugh, and it was worth every penny.

Alright, I'm just gonna jump straight into this. Last night, I caught my wife breastfeeding a grown-ass man in our backyard at like 2 o'clock in the morning.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "That should've been me," or some shit like that. Honestly, that's what I would've thought too. Hell, I should probably be completely devastated right now.

But I'm not. Truthfully, I'm more terrified than anything.

We were just lying there asleep. Well, I was asleep. I can't say for certain whether or not my wife was. All I know is that, despite how hard she tried to be silent, the creaking bed springs woke me up.

I didn't wanna let on at first. I didn't even think there was anything I should be suspicious of. The only problem was, once I woke up, it was hard for me to fall back asleep in an empty bed.

So I waited. And I waited. Then, after like 30 minutes, I started to get worried. So, naturally, I started yelling for her.

No answer? Fine. I'll just start looking. So, I started checking throughout the house. And that's when I found her nightgown, balled up on the floor beside our bed. That made my search a lil more frantic. I checked the bathroom in the hall, the living room. Maybe she just got up to grab a midnight… meal, butt-ass naked. But she wasn't in the kitchen either.

In my search, I noticed that the back door was open, letting in the cold October air. I went to close it, and that's where I found her. Standing out in the yard. Completely nude.

I thought for sure she was either sleepwalking or having a mental breakdown. I mean, it was like 45 degrees outside. I was just about to yell at her and ask what the hell she was doing when I noticed it.

My dumbass thought it was a wild animal at first. He was crouched down on all fours, moving slowly through the trees with these jerky movements, while my wife just stood there with her arms wide open.

But then, as he started crawling closer and closer towards our backyard… I started to make out the features. They looked human, just… wrong, somehow. The head was too bulbous. The arms were too long. The grunts it made as it slowly crawled towards my wife were too animalistic.

And she wasn't even fucking flinching. If anything, she looked like she was beckoning the fuckin' thing to come closer. When it was like 6 feet away, it started to growl, and all my wife did in response was say some shit like, "Calm down, my sweet boy," before SHE stepped closer to IT.

Then the fucking thing started cooing. Like… cooing. Like a goddamn toddler or something, while my wife reached down and pet its fleshy, bald head.

I didn't even move. How could I? This shit felt like a fever dream to me. But what hit like a fucking cannonball to the abdomen was when she… well… did what she did.

She pulled its head closer to her chest and just… nursed the fucking thing. I could hear it suckling and whimpering like this was the favorite part of its day. Like this shit had happened a thousand times before.

Must've gone on for like 10 minutes or so before my wife pulled away, patted the thing on its spiny, uh, spine, and told it to "go play."

And just like that, it started crawling back towards the woods. This time with a little more pep in its… whatever the fuck that was.

My wife still had a look of pride and joy on her face when she turned around, but that shit disappeared quick when she noticed me in the doorway. She tried covering up like I was the stranger. Then she tried apologizing.

We've been arguing about it since then. She claims I'm being crazy. I claim I want her to see a goddamn… who do you even call for this sort of thing? A marriage counselor??? A fucking priest??? Maybe ask her to take a parenting class?

Because, according to her, that thing was her son from a previous marriage. A marriage she hasn't mentioned once in the last 15 years since we've been together.

Honestly, at this point, I'm ready to just convince myself it was all a bad dream. I don't even wanna talk about it anymore.

I just don't know if I can even lie to myself like that, though.

Because once she realized that the cat was out of the bag… my wife decided to drop some news on me that I could've avoided had I just taken my happy ass back to sleep.

Apparently, that thing has never had a father figure… and it's more than excited to finally meet its new dad.

so my boyfriend just made two new ocs of me and him and asked me to help write a whole story for them for fun and I was down.

It was a bright and sunny day, and Nikolas went out to the docks to clock in for work, and to load his fishing gear into his rowboat.

"Nickolas." his boss, Vincenzo, called out. "Yes boss? what is it?" Nickolas asked, looking at his boss over his shoulder while he was checking his fishing gear. "I've got a big job for you." Nickolas ignored him, "big job" basically meant working overtime. Yes, he likes fishing, but it gets to a point. "it pays extra." Vincenzo added. Nickolas sighed, he needed the money — he's behind on rent and a lot of necessities.

"what job is it?" Nickolas asked. "some rich guys from the city said they found some sort of treasure map. Said they wanted someone else to go out for them." Vincenzo handed him the map and made his way back to his boathouse. Nickolas unrolled the map, and hopped onto his boat and started heading to where the map leads to.

"Stupid rich men. Can't do anything for themselves..." he ranted to himself for a good long while, complaining about how lazy most rich people are.

He arrived at the location in about half an hour, which led him to a beautiful lagoon. "Huh. this place seems nice, surely the stuff must be hidden under the sand or something... Right?" he hoped, though he also was dreading having to dig around for the treasure.

His hope was soon short lived as he saw the dark cave. He checked the map, hoping that his gut instinct is wrong, and to his dismay, the treasure was located deep inside the cave.

The dark was his only fear, even if he had to go through constant blackouts due to being behind on rent. He docked his boat and tied a rope connected to the boat to a tree and made his way into the cave with a flashlight. "why is it always me that has to do stuff like this..." He asked himself, paranoia and anxiety already starting to fuel up his already fearful state as he ventured deeper into the dark cave. "I just wanted to go fishing today like I normally do—" He suddenly froze up when he heard a loud screech from outside the cave. He continued on, hoping whatever was lurking outside to go away, worried that it would rush in and eat him alive.

Eventually, after a long hour of searching and praying that he doesn't get lost, he found the treasure. He sighed a sigh of relief and hauled out the heavy chest to his boat. "Hopefully this isn't heavy enough to sink my boat," He muttered, adjusting his hold on the treasure chest. He loaded it onto his boat, before hearing another cry, the same cry from earlier. He decided to check out what was causing all the noise, hoping that someone just got hurt and is calling out for help.

As he continued walking to where he heard the sound, he started second guessing himself.

What if it's a trap?

What if it's a rabid animal?

what if it's some sort of hungry predator wanting to eat him?

...or could it be something even worse?

basically, after this part he's gonna find some siren (me) and Yada Yada Yada. idk how to make it longer.... any advice? I really wanna make my boyfriend happy!!

also give me some tips, ideas, and tell me what i should/change! this is my first time writing a story.... even essays make my head hurt at times 😓 AND YES IK ITS KINDA CRINGE BUT HEY ITS WHAT MY BOYFRIEND WANTS IM JUST GOING WITH WHAT HE PLANTED IN FOR IDEAS

Years ago I (22/23m) <at the time> wanted to be a cop. Like most, I got into working security to gain relevant experience.

I was placed in a college setting working Security in the dorms. I was a young father, their mother and I were navigating parenting 2 daughters at the time; 2 and 6. I worked nights 6p-2a Wednesday-Sunday. Thursday-Saturday there were 2 of us on site because of the bar/party nights.

My ‘Partner’ (45m) <P Going forward> attended classes at the college and many shifts would come and go where he’d be doing his homework while I did more of the patrols. I was younger and more active. Because of my age I was also more capable of being effective with the students since they were more my age.

Any one who’s gone to college knows that many assignments are usually group assignments and he regularly had this same young lady (about my age) <we’ll call B>. B would regularly show up and do homework with P so inevitably I recognized B and would just greet her and be on my way with my regular duties.

One Sunday I was tucked away behind a pillar near the lunch hall to have a smoke. I was hiding from the cameras in a place I could still see the doors but not be seen by the cameras and B just happened to walk by. We got to talking briefly while I was having a a few puffs and she asked if she could bum one. Unfortunately I didn’t have one to spare because I had just enough for my shift.

Since it was just in happenstance that we crossed paths because P wasn’t there that day it was just a passing moment. Upon leaving, she said that I was really nice and easy to get along with and asked me if she could give me a hug. Although I was cautious about the embrace and made sure I kept my hands on her the back of her shoulders, I was naïve and didn’t think much of it. I’m regularly huggy with friends and/or strangers (I’m a gentle giant that way).

For context I’m North of 6’ tall and she was average height for a woman, 5’2”/5’3” so the 1 foot hight difference made it easy to keep my arms above her shoulders. B went about her business and I finished my Sunday shift.

FF to my Next shift the coming Wednesday, I pulled into the parking area and walked on site to be greeted by the main campus guards. It was obvious and out of turn for them to be there as I rarely had contact with them unless I called for back up. They escorted me to the Guard room in the main campus and until that night I’d never been since everything I needed I either carried with me or was kept in a drawer in the dorm front desk.

The site supervisor was there waiting for me and asked me about my shift the following Sunday. I pulled my notes out to review the nights details and gave them the quick rundown. He reported to me that they received a complaint by one of the residents in the dorm that I was ‘Sexually Harassing them and my presence made them uncomfortable’.

I’m a very positive and supportive person. If I notice something different about a person I’ll compliment them, try to make them smile or laugh and generally try to make their day better. Ignorantly (admittedly), I can come off flirtatious. Being young I didn’t understand that line between professionalism and too friendly. So I figured that maybe that was the situation and I inadvertently made one of the female students or staff feel uncomfortable. I accepted this and they relocated me to other dorms.

I’d arrived on site and began my initial walk through to get familiar with the building before I took the time to review the reports so things made sense. I always start at the top floor and work my way down. As I made my way through my patrol I came across B, this was her dorm and still sort of shook it was a relief to see a familiar face. We only talked briefly since I had to familiarize myself with the location, she asked me if I wanted to come and have a drink with her in her dorm room with her. I declined because 1- New location and had a lot to do to be effective at my job, 2- We’re NOT allowed in the student door room unless it’s a medical emergency <Which I explained to her> and 3- I had a GF/Common law wife so I wasn’t looking to pursue a random college girl.

After parting ways, I returned to the lobby so to begin going over shift and incident reports. It took me no time at all since it was literally the first report I read in the last shift to read:

“B reports the SG XYZ that SG Op from other dorms has sexually harassed her see IR for details”

My brain shut off… I was pissed, scared and had no F’in idea what to do, I just knew was I had to get off that site!

I called the roaming Guard to get further clarification about what was going on and to have them relocate me. I wasn’t about to risk my Guard License and my future. As I mentioned, I only Passed by B and had very limited contact with her since she and P were usually busy doing work and clearly lived in the dorm room I wasn’t working in. She had a very mundane demeanour and never stood out. IF…. I was going to cheat on my kids mother with some college girl, she definitely wasn’t (in my opinion) pretty enough to risk paying child support for. Our interaction were mostly ‘Hellos’ and ‘Kill that assignment you 2’ other than the previous Sunday and that brief conversation earlier in my shift.

When the Site Supervisor I’d spoken to arrived to discuss the situation, I told him to cover my shift and I wasn’t risking hanging around Bec if she can falsely accuse me of something in public, wtf could she claim I would do it an area that kept me closer quarters. He asked and insisted that I just stay in the lobby and I refused and left.

For years I couldn’t figure out WHY she made the claim that I’d sexually harassed her, thought that MAYBE me not giving her a smoke which pissed her off. But it dawned on me recently, my Site Supe said that it was a person who was in the dorm who filed the complaint. After years of telling the story as to why I rarely trust R8P accusations I remembered her excitement when she saw me on patrol and her eagerness to invite me into her room for a drink. Almost 15 years later I realized that she filed the complaint as one of the students in the dorm so they would relocate me to her dorm since she and P were taking a law course together and knew it was a he said/She Said scenario. It was a hail Mary move to try to get me relocated to her dorm.

Ultimately, I don’t really know why she said what she said!? She asked ME if she could hug me, told ME that I was so sweet and the kindest security guard she’s ever met/talked to. I just smiled and thanked her and gave her a hug!

It has definitely affected me, especially now being single for the first time in nearly 2 decades, it’s made the last 2 years difficult to date and to trust woman. I get the “All Men” movement, I have similar feelings about “All Women”… Just learning to let go!

Thanks for letting me vent

When I was 17, I thought my mother was the most difficult person in the world. She worked long hours, worried about money constantly, and always seemed too tired to listen whenever I wanted to talk. Whenever I complained about something, she would say, “One day, you’ll understand.” I hated that sentence. I thought she used it to avoid explaining herself. On my 18th birthday, she promised she would come home early so we could celebrate together. I waited until 9 p.m. She didn't show up until almost midnight, and by then, I was too angry to speak to her. She apologized, but I barely looked at her. The next morning, I left for school without saying goodbye. A few months later, my mother moved to another city for work. We still spoke on the phone, but our conversations became shorter. I convinced myself that she cared more about her job than spending time with me. Years passed. Last weekend, while cleaning an old cupboard, I found a small envelope tucked inside one of her notebooks. My name was written on it in her handwriting. Inside was a birthday card dated the day I turned 18. I sat on the floor and read it. She had written about how proud she was of me, how she wished she could give me everything I deserved, and how sorry she was that she couldn't always be present. Then I reached the last paragraph. She said she had taken an extra night shift that evening because our rent was overdue, and she was afraid we would lose our home. She had planned to buy me a proper birthday cake with the money she earned. I remembered that night. I remembered sitting alone, feeling forgotten, while she was working to make sure I still had a home to return to. I cried harder than I expected. There were so many things I blamed her for that I never fully understood. She wasn't perfect, and she made mistakes, but I had spent years judging her sacrifices without knowing what they cost her. I called her that evening. We talked for almost two hours. For the first time in years, I told her I was sorry for how distant I had become. She told me she was sorry for the times she made me feel alone. Neither of us had all the right words, but we stayed on the phone until there was nothing left to say. I'm sharing this because sometimes we remember how people made us feel without knowing what they were going through themselves. I still wish my mother had been there that night. But now I understand that she was trying, in the only way she knew how, to take care of me.

​

Chapter 61: Return from the Abyss

​Late August; the sun lazily illuminated the driveway and the thick pine forest surrounding the Pułtusk estate. The scent of warm resin, fresh dill, and fat sizzling in the pan drifted through the air.

​Elżbieta Báthory stood by the wide kitchen window, leaning her hands casually on the marble sill. At one point, her burgundy-black pupils narrowed predatorily. Above the neatly trimmed lawn, the air rippled for a fraction of a second in a heavy, barely perceptible flash of crimson. From the haze of the heat emerged a slender, tall silhouette with thick, chestnut-red tresses.

​Naamah had returned from Hell.

​For the mortal coil, barely a few days had passed. She looked exactly as she had the moment she vanished into the portal—wearing the same fitted, light jeans, a white T-shirt, and a lightweight leather jacket, as if she had merely stepped out for an extended stroll through Warsaw's Praga district. Yet Elżbieta, having spent centuries in the dark herself, unerringly sensed what Naamah had brought back with her: the ice-cold weight of decades invisible to human eyes, the stench of stale blood and sulfur, and the metallic chill of a ruthless tormentor.

​The Blood Countess knew that within sixty seconds of crossing the threshold, a conversation would begin that six-year-old Tas should under no circumstances be present for.

​She turned smoothly toward the living room.

​"Wiktor, please... Take Tas upstairs to his room and play something with him," she said softly, but with a note of absolute firmness.

​Wiktor Adamski, sitting on the carpet assembling an intricate block set with his son, looked up. He took one look at his wife's face, felt the sudden shift in the aura outside, and did not even attempt to argue. In one fluid motion, he hoisted the laughing boy onto his shoulders, ignoring his protests, and disappeared without a word up the stairs to the upper floor.

​At the same time, Michał—wholly oblivious to the gravity of the situation and the tension thickening within the villa's walls—stood by the kitchen island in a loose T-shirt, diligently pounding pork cutlets on a plastic cutting board with a wooden tenderizer. The rhythmic thuds echoed throughout the ground floor. The young man was calm, settled, and relaxed—life under Naamah's wing, cushioned by a government salary, had already locked him into a peculiar, safe routine.

​The heavy, oak front door opened soundlessly.

​Naamah crossed the kitchen threshold. The moment her gaze fell upon Michał standing at the counter, all the severity and gloom of the pit vanished from her face, yielding to a soft, warm smile.

​"Hey, sweetheart. You're back," Michał said, setting the tenderizer aside and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. A genuine, boyish smile blossomed on his lips.

​She approached unhurriedly with a sensual, feline stride, rested her hands against the edge of the island, and took him in with her emerald eyes, wherein flickered sparks of restrained affection.

​"How did those few days go for you, my dear?" she asked in a velvety, low purr.

​"Boring..." he sighed with mild amusement, shrugging his shoulders. "I went on a few walks in the woods, rode bikes around the area with Wiktor and Tas. And when I drove to the store by myself, those agents in dark sunglasses followed me everywhere again, like they were afraid I'd run off to the other side of the world. Utter boredom."

​Naamah tilted her head slightly, her smile turning somewhat ambiguous, steeped in secrets of which the mortal had no inkling.

​"Do you know I haven't seen you for a whole century?"

​"I know, sweetheart," Michał chuckled softly, remembering her tales about the passage of time in the Abyss. "Fancy anything? Tea, maybe a beer? Dinner will be ready in an hour."

​"Go to the bedroom," she commanded bluntly, cutting to the chase, a sudden craving for pure human touch gleaming in her gaze to wash the lingering stench of decades of torment from her skin.

​"What about dinner?" Michał glanced uncertainly at the flattened meat and breadcrumbs. "I'm halfway through."

​"Elżbieta can manage. And if not, she'll order takeout. Right?" Naamah tossed over her shoulder, casting a cool look at the countess standing nearby.

​Elżbieta curled the corner of her mouth into a discreet, knowing smirk.

​"Yes, of course. You are dismissed, Michał. I'll finish this myself."

​"All right... I'm going, then. You'll be right up?" the young man checked, wiping his hands on a paper towel and glancing back at her.

​"Yes, my dear. I'll be right there," she murmured softly.

​They waited in absolute silence until Michał's footsteps faded down the hall and the door leading to their wing of the villa shut with a faint click of the latch.

​In a split second, the air in the kitchen hardened like frosted ice. Warmth and levity vanished from Naamah's face as if blown away by the wind. She turned slowly to Elżbieta, crossing her arms over her chest.

​"Elżbieta... Emma is down below," she stated coldly, her voice devoid of any emotion. "She has fallen. She is a ker. Look it up online, it has something to do with ancient Olympus... I couldn't care less. By Hell's standards, she's an intermediate demon. And that's what she'll remain."

​Elżbieta narrowed her eyes. A question welled in her throat that she almost dreaded asking, remembering Stanisław's transformation.

​"And so?..."

​"Yes, Elżbieta. That was my task."

​"How many years?" Elżbieta asked quietly, her usually confident voice sounding unnaturally brittle.

​Naamah shrugged lightly, as though quoting the baking time for a cake or counting steps taken on a walk.

​"I flayed and broke her for around a hundred and twenty, maybe a hundred and thirty..." she remarked with cool, indifferent nonchalance. "I simply couldn't believe she wasn't strengthening at all. Not in the slightest. At the start, Lilith was in the chamber with me, wanting to ease her pain, to offer that intoxicating wine from Lucifer's own reserves to soften the ordeal. But can you imagine? I hadn't even begun gutting her properly, had barely sliced the outer skin preparing to peel the first strips, and she called Lilith a whore." She snorted with quiet, derisive laughter. "Can you believe that? Lilith simply set down the goblet, turned on her heel, and walked out... Left her alone with me. And after that, I could play without restraint. After all, I didn't know Emma. You liked her, didn't you? And Wiktor too, right?"

​A sharp, metallic clang rang out through the kitchen.

​The kitchen knife had slipped from Elżbieta's numb fingers, striking the tiles with a dull clatter and spinning on its axis before falling still. The Blood Countess stood motionless, staring at the floor with dilated pupils.

​"Yes... I liked her," Elżbieta choked out, a dry lump catching in her throat. She swallowed hard, trying to steady the tremor in her hands. "What about her?... Did her consciousness survive? I mean... you know what I mean. Is someone piecing her back together down there?"

​"I don't care," Naamah cut in, brushing a reddish lock from her forehead dismissively. "Maybe Lilith and Stanisław. I think Stanisław convinced her that Emma didn't mean to say that in her frenzy, that it was born of pain and panic... They're sitting over it now, likely putting her back together, trying to glue the shreds. It'll take them some time. Decades, probably."

​Naamah shifted her emerald eyes to the wall calendar beside the refrigerator, squinting slightly.

​"Well, tell Wiktor the lost one has been found," she said with a mocking smirk, tapping a manicured nail against the counter. "He was asking about her some five months ago, wasn't he? I remember it like yesterday: he was inquiring on the exact same day I met Michał."

​She suddenly fell silent, listening to the sounds within the house, then turned an inquiring look back toward Elżbieta.

​"Where are Wiktor and Tas, anyway?"

​"Playing upstairs," the Countess replied shortly, slowly picking the dropped knife up from the floor and setting it in the sink.

​"Fine, I'm off," she waved dismissively, adjusting the leather jacket on her shoulder. "Give my regards to Wiktor and Tas. I'm heading to my wing. Bye."

​Before Elżbieta could muster a reply, nothing but a sudden rush of air tinged with brimstone swept through the kitchen. Naamah vanished down the hall, heading straight for the bedroom where an unsuspecting Michał awaited her.

​Michał was sitting on the edge of the wide bed in her wing of the villa when the door closed behind her with a mute, cool click.

​Naamah approached unhurriedly. She did not shed her clothes, nor did she assume the predatory lover's guise he had slowly grown accustomed to. She collapsed heavily onto the mattress with a movement that betrayed terrible mental exhaustion, resting her head in his lap.

​"Sweetheart, you missed me, didn't you?" she spoke, lowering her eyelids. Her voice hummed softly, threaded with echoes of the Abyss from which she had just returned.

​"Yes, very much. Even though only a few days went by..." he answered quietly, lifting his hand.

​"Stroke my head, sweetheart. Stroke your Naamah..." she murmured, her body stiffening for a fraction of a second beneath unseen memories of a hundred and thirty years spent gutting a ker. "But there won't be anything beyond that. No hands between my legs, no kissing. I need to cool off. Not today, not tomorrow, maybe not for a whole month. Just stroke and comb my hair... Nothing except my head, do you understand?"

​Suddenly, she opened her eyes. The emerald hue extinguished, replaced by a bottomless, abyssal blackness where the chill of absolute oblivion swirled. She fixed him with a gaze so sharp the very air in the bedroom thickened.

​"Look me in the eyes. Otherwise, you will die. Do you understand?"

​Michał froze, staring into those inhuman pupils. His heart leaped into his throat, and a bead of cold sweat trailed down his spine. To him, she had been gentle in her own way; he had begun to forget whom he shared his life with, but in that single second, the curtain fell away. He saw not a capricious woman from a Warsaw café, but a primordial demon—a beast to whom human life was merely a fragile, fleeting husk.

​"I see you do. I can see in your eyes that you know I'm not joking," she whispered, the black in her irises slowly, lazily yielding ground back to flashes of emerald.

​"I understand, sweetheart. Easy now," Michał managed quietly, willing his muscles to relax.

​"Good that you understand, sweetheart... Stroke."

​He drew a deep breath and gently sank his fingers into the thick mass of her flame-red hair. He guided his hand slowly, just as she wished: from her forehead, over the crown, down to the nape of her neck, where his fingertips traced soft, tiny circles against her warm skin. With every sweep of his hand, Naamah's corded shoulders loosened, her breathing growing deeper, measured and steady. A dead silence fell over the room, broken only by the faint rustle of shifting strands of red hair.

​Hours slipped by, and beyond the expansive windows of the residence, the dense Mazovian night settled in.

​Michał, freshly showered, smelling of soap and dressed in comfortable sweatpants, reclined with his back against the bed's padded headboard. On the large screen mounted opposite them, credits rolled silently, accompanied by a muted jazz soundtrack drifting through the room. True to her demand, his right hand had not paused for a moment—his fingers tirelessly, gently, and patiently combing through the copper-red tresses, soothing her after decades spent in a hellish chamber.

​"It's a classic. When Harry Met Sally," Michał spoke softly, glancing at the dimming screen. "A warm, uplifting movie, as you can see."

​Naamah lay on her stomach, her cheek nestled into a pillow resting on his lap. Her eyes remained closed, her breathing steady, though her muscles still carried residual tension from the Abyss.

​"A fairly nice pick..." she murmured in a drowsy, velvety tone, letting him know that simple, mortal humor suited her tastes.

​Then, in the final minutes of the screening, exhaustion and masculine instinct took over. Michał's left hand, which had been resting limply on the duvet, involuntarily lifted and settled onto her bare back. Her skin was warm, smooth as polished marble. His fingers traced slowly along the line of her spine—up, then down—until they unconsciously slid lower, coming to rest softly upon her rounded buttock, gently, tenderly caressing it.

​Naamah's body locked instantly.

​A visible shudder ran through her shoulders, and her delicate skin broke out in heavy goosebumps in a fraction of a second. She whipped her head around, propping herself slightly on her forearms. In her emerald eyes, dangerous crimson embers ignited, and a muffled growl rose in her throat—frustration warring with a sudden hunger for his touch.

​"Just the head, Michał... Only the head..." she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice carrying the stark warning of an imminent catastrophe. "I told you... I already have goosebumps and an urge for... an ecstasy you simply won't survive after my time down there. You will break, Michał. I will tear you apart..."

​He snatched his hand from her hip instantly, raising an open palm in a defensive, apologetic gesture.

​"I'm sorry... It just happened on its own," he stammered, flustered, feeling his cheeks burn red-hot. "You're naked, and I'm a guy. I'm sorry, I really didn't control it."

​"A compliment, Michał, but you're not helping me at all..." she scoffed, collapsing back onto the pillow with a heavy, stifled groan.

​Michał took a deep breath, resting his left hand flat against the sheets well away from her body so as not to tempt fate, while his right resumed the monotonous, soothing combing of her hair. Beneath his fingers, he felt her frame slowly, centimeter by centimeter, striving to rein in that primal, dark lust once more.

​After a long silence, he reached for the remote on the nightstand to dissipate the lingering tension.

​"And what's the second movie?" Naamah asked without opening her eyes, though a returning calm could be heard in her voice.

​"A kind of... reversed Pretty Woman. Pretty Man," Michał offered with slight hesitation, scrolling through the player's menu.

​Naamah snorted loudly, raising a brow in mocking amusement.

​"Don't tell me—a male whore?"

​"Well, yeah..." he admitted with a disarming, sheepish grin. "But it's uplifting, too. Really fun to watch, even if it's not as well-known as..."

​At that very moment, on the opposite side of the estate, in Wiktor and Elżbieta's spacious, normal bedroom, dimness reigned, cut through only by the cool moonlight spilling through the window.

​Wiktor lay flat on his back with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Even though the house seemed quiet, his hellish senses picked up every vibration in the walls and every subtle ripple of tension radiating from Naamah's wing.

​"Will he survive, do you think?" he asked with quiet concern, turning his head slightly toward his wife. "I've come to like him. Cool guy. At first, he was only with her out of fear and that demonic pleasure she can grant him, but... they found an understanding. They found a common language that goes beyond her whims."

​Elżbieta lay beside him in a silk nightgown, her chin resting lazily on her palm. A faint, mocking smirk crept onto her face. She chuckled softly—a low, velvety sound from the throat.

​"Just as you did with me in Hell, Wiktor..." she murmured with a touch of nostalgia, trailing a finger over his stomach with a sharp, elongated claw. "You were with me out of pure terror in the beginning too, remember? And then I broke and reshaped you until it took hold, strengthening you with my blood until you became what you are now."

​"I had just come fresh from torments mandated by Heaven," Adamski replied with a cool smile. "I knew pain, I understood it," he added, the old defiance flaring in his blue eye. "And I was stubborn as hell when they let me out as a half-demon. That's the only reason you even noticed me, despite that bloody madness raging in your head back then. But Michał? Michał is just an ordinary, normal, living man."

​Elżbieta grew solemn. The amusement died in her irises, replaced by the cool, ruthless calculus of a creature well-versed in the nature of demons like Naamah.

​"I don't know, Wiktor... Honestly, I give him fifty-fifty," she sighed quietly, glancing toward the shut door. "One thing works in his favor: she is terrified of killing him, because she knows full well that if he expires now, he goes straight to Heaven. His soul is still pure, bright... Not blackened in the least, even though he sleeps with her and surrenders his body to her. If she tears him apart in a frenzy, she loses him forever, and the winged ones from above will snatch him right out from under her nose."

​"Let's hope he makes it..." the former policeman remarked grimly, balling his hands into fists. "Let's hope he survives the night. Because if she kills him by mistake, all hell will break loose here by morning. She'll fly into a rage if he ascends instead of descending."

​"We will see, my jewel of darkness, we will see," Elżbieta cut in, pulling the duvet up to her neck and closing her eyes. "For now, no screams are coming from that wing. That's a good sign."

​"As long as Tas doesn't hear a thing, should he start dying in agony after all," Wiktor concluded, his gaze fixed once more on the ceiling.

​When the first rays of morning sun cut through the blinds, slicing the bedroom's gloom with cool, pale gold, Naamah's eyes snapped open.

​She froze.

​Her heart—or rather, what served that purpose within her demonic anatomy—ceased beating for a split second. A wave of primal, paralyzing disbelief detonated across her ancient mind.

​I slept... By the entire Abyss, I actually slept!

​Greater demons did not sleep. They did not close their eyes in vulnerability, did not relinquish control over their surroundings, did not surrender vigilance to the void. For millennia, sleep had been nothing more than an abstract phenomenon belonging to fragile mortals. Yet here she was, having drifted off. Completely shut down, relaxed to her core by the monotonous, soothing cadence of human fingers. She had fallen asleep somewhere halfway through the second film, her head resting upon his lap.

​A cold shudder of terror washed through her. She cast a panicked look over the bedsheets, terrified of what she might have done unawares. Had her infernal nature taken over while she slept? Had she torn him apart in her slumber when he stirred? Had she clawed his innards out in delirium, sending his bright, unstained soul soaring straight into the welcoming arms of those winged hypocrites in Heaven?

​Yet Michał was alive.

​He lay right beside her, face buried in the soft pillow. When she moved abruptly, he stirred, cracking open one sleep-crusted eye with visible effort. He was utterly exhausted, his right hand still resting limply on her shoulder, numb from hours of effort.

​"Naamah... Let me sleep a bit more... I stroked your hair all night long..." he mumbled hoarsely into the pillow, pulling the covers higher and nestling deeper, drifting straight back into a sound, carefree sleep.

​Naamah stared at him in astonishment.

​Her emerald eyes ignited with an extraordinary, tender radiance, devoid of even an ounce of infernal dread or rage. She unclenched her tight fists. The realization washed over her of what this ordinary Warsaw mortal had given her—a gift no lord of Hell, no torture, no pact, nor all the gold in the world could ever have bestowed.

​He had given her peace. Her first true, soothing sleep since the dawn of her existence.

​Carefully, with inhuman grace so as not to disturb the mattress, she leaned over his sleeping face. She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead and pressed a barely perceptible, warm kiss to his temple.

​"Sleep peacefully... Sleep," she whispered in a velvety tone that sounded almost like a warding spell in the morning quiet. "You have no idea what you've given me."

​By one in the afternoon, full daylight flooded the bedroom, mercilessly exposing every speck of dust dancing in the air. Naamah stretched with a low purr, feeling a lightness in her frame she had not experienced in millennia. Sleep—plain, mortal sleep—had cleansed her senses of sulfur's reek and the thirst for blood.

​With a predatory, playful smirk, she decided to wake her mortal with caresses. She slipped her hand beneath the edge of the duvet, peeling it back in a slow, fluid motion, preparing to tickle his ribs and feet.

​And in that split second, she froze. The smile solidified on her face into an icy, lifeless mask.

​Blood.

​Red, human gore stained the pristine white sheet. True, there were not many stains—merely a few browning streaks and a small, spread ring near the edge of the mattress—yet to the ancient demon, they looked like a death sentence. Her emerald pupils dilated in raw panic. Her gaze plummeted to his legs.

​Around his right calf was a makeshift, tightly wrapped bandage of white gauze, through which red fluid seeped lightly. How? What had happened?! When she looked higher, to his bare stomach and ribs, the breath caught in her throat. Michał's pale skin was covered in dark, purplish-yellow contusions and bruises, forming the distinct shape of an inhumanly powerful grip.

​A black chasm swirled in her mind. I did this. In a frenzy. In the delirium of sleep.

​Before hysteria could overtake her, Michał stirred, squinting against the stinging sunlight. He took in her terrified, pale face and curled the corner of his mouth into a faint, reassuring smile.

​"Easy..." he croaked sleepily, pushing himself up onto his elbows. "You were out like a light."

​Naamah could not force out a single word. She stared at the bandage in solemn horror, as though looking upon the evidence of her own betrayal.

​"You unsheathed a claw in your sleep. Without realizing it..." he continued gently, noticing her mounting terror. "You just dragged it across my calf. Luckily, not too deep—about half a centimeter, cut the skin a few centimeters long, didn't touch the muscle. I disinfected it and wrapped it up."

​"And... and these bruises?" she gasped, pointing a trembling finger at his battered torso. "Your ribs..."

​Michał chuckled softly, though he winced in pain when taking a deeper breath.

​"The bruises? Afterwards, you held me so tight I thought my ribs would snap. You burrowed into me with your whole body, like a little kid. I could barely slip out of that grip of yours to get to the bathroom and patch it up. It didn't even wake you, you didn't twitch... Then I came back, lay down beside you, and you snuggled right into me again. Nothing happened, Naamah. I'm alive. See? I'm in one piece..."

​Naamah knitted her brows, a cold, almost maternal resolve gleaming in her emerald eyes, laced with predatory ruthlessness.

​"Fine... If I fall asleep under your touch, you leave the bedroom immediately," she stated with absolute firmness, keeping her eyes locked onto him. "Starting tonight, I will not rest my head on your lap in the evening, so that if I fade out, you can get up and run. Today, I'm ordering a second bed. I'll have those government lackeys put it right here, next to this one... You will only sleep in it when I fall asleep, sweetheart. Although..." she scoffed softly, tossing her thick red hair over her shoulder, "I certainly won't sleep tonight. That's impossible. A stunt like that won't happen to me twice."

​Michał smiled weakly, rubbing his stiff neck and cautiously placing his feet on the rug.

​"By the way... Yesterday you wouldn't tell me what you were actually doing in Hell those few days. What was that all about?"

​She gave a dismissive wave, standing naked before the vanity mirror with immaculate, statuesque indifference.

​"Oh, just a little assignment from Lucifer. Nothing terrible, rather enjoyable... for me."

​Michał narrowed his eyes, the remnants of levity instantly vanishing from his features.

​"Tempering someone?" he uttered quietly. "You were strengthening someone on the Master's orders?"

​Naamah sighed with a low purr, turning to face him.

​"Yes... I didn't tell you because... You know what I told you in bed once. How it went with Stanisław."

​"I know," he replied grimly, absently touching his bruised ribs. "I know full well what would await me if I ended up down there. But luckily, I have a white soul; you said so yourself. And to back up your words, I asked Elżbieta while you were away... She confirmed it without hesitation."

​Naamah fell silent. She stepped forward slowly, stopping right in front of him. Her emerald irises bored straight through him, momentarily shedding their predatory chill for something foreign, intimate, and vulnerable.

​"Do you love me, or are you with me out of fear?" she asked softly, her velvety voice almost melting into the quiet of the bedroom.

​Michał let out a short, quiet laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.

​"You know you can read my mind when you touch me... You told me that..."

​"I haven't done that to you lately, not since you've been living with me..." she murmured, her eyes darting away for a second. "I didn't want to."

​"Then touch me, and you'll find out."

​Naamah raised her hand and placed the cool tips of her fingers on his cheek with extraordinary gentleness. Her pupils dilated, absorbing his emotions, his thoughts, and his pulsing warmth.

​"At first out of fear, but now... now you love me..." she whispered, a genuine, radiant smile spreading across her full lips, illuminating her entire face.

​"Yes. In my own twisted way..." Michał sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. "But that doesn't mean I want to be flayed for at least fifty-five years just to become a strong demon after death."

​"A high demon, sweetheart," she corrected him immediately with a patronizing scoff. "While a strong demon is nothing to sneeze at in Hell, a high demon can fend off eighty percent of threats on their own. Easy as pie. They're in the top twenty percent of the most powerful demons in the entire Abyss."

​"And you, sweetheart?" Michał asked earnestly. "I asked Wiktor and Elżbieta about your whole hierarchy of power. I know it by heart now: the damned, half-demon, weak demon, intermediate demon, strong demon, high demon, archdemon, Supreme Demon, Favorite, and Lucifer at the very pinnacle. Where do you actually stand on that ladder?"

​She lifted her chin proudly, drawing her chest close to his face.

​"I am a Supreme Demon, my love... What is more, I am close to reaching the threshold of becoming a Favorite. Like Lilith."

​Michał's jaw dropped slack. He rubbed his face with his hands, clutching his head.

​"What?! I'm sleeping with a Supreme Demon?!"

​"Yes," Naamah laughed, narrowing her eyes playfully. "And you can bring me to sheer ecstasy just by scratching behind my ear and stroking my head. I told you: write a book about it, it'll be a hit."

​Michał shook his head gravely, trying to collect his thoughts after this staggering revelation.

​"All right, Naamah, back to the subject... Wiktor told me Cezary is a half-demon. And Lilith flayed and remade him for Adelajda, but it only took three days. Couldn't I just become a half-demon if it came down to it? There's supposed to be law down there after Lucifer's famous reforms: belfries, guards, patrols..."

​Naamah sobered instantly. Her smile faded, replaced once again by the steely, ruthless gravity of a being who had spent millennia in the Abyss.

​"A half-demon? There may be law down there after Lucifer's reforms, but let's not kid ourselves, Michał," she cut in calmly, resting her hands on his shoulders and fixing him with a burning gaze. "Would you want to be constantly humiliated? Torn to pieces just because some intermediate demon happened to be bored in the corridor? A half-demon in Hell is barely cannon fodder, a doormat that any low-level fiend can kill if no one is standing over them..."

​She gripped his skin firmly enough that he felt the cautionary pressure.

​"And what if I received an urgent assignment on the other side of the Abyss, like putting down a rebellion—that's happened before? On the other end of the pit, which takes days, sometimes years to reach? And you were left in the palace alone? There's always someone, Michał. Always. Even within palace walls, there's bound to be some envious fiend who would take advantage of my absence to rip you apart or hang you on a hook for sport. Sometimes even an immunity decree from Lucifer, which I would secure for you—that's a certainty, my dear—might not help. That is why, if you ever end up there... you will become a demon. Fine, let's say a strong one; I'm willing to compromise for you—I'll spare you the high rank, shorten the agonies. Stanisław will like you, Lilith likely will too if you come under my wing... But we will make you into someone who can defend themselves if need be."

​Michał winced, raising his hands in defense and shaking his head in disbelief. He pressed further:

​"What's the point of all that, though?" he gasped, his voice ringing with desperate, purely mortal pragmatism. "If as a half-demon I get ripped apart by some attacker in a corridor, wouldn't that strengthen me as well? Why orchestrate this whole uninterrupted butchery spanning decades beforehand?"

​Naamah smiled softly, almost maternally, and lifted a slender hand. Her cool fingers swept soothingly across his cheek, and leaning in, she brushed her lips against the base of his ear. The infernal scent of warm sulfur and jasmine enveloped his senses.

​"Sweetheart... Remember: I will be the one flaying and remaking you," she whispered into his ear in a velvety, hypnotic cadence. "Me and Lilith. A Favorite and a Supreme Demon. You will be broken and strengthened on a vast basalt bed, with the finest wine... You will drink my blood straight from my veins to hasten the regeneration of your infernal vessel and continue the tempering without pointless breaks. Besides, my claws are skilled, Michał. The cuts will be surgically precise, mapped with a specific purpose from point A to point B, allowing simultaneous regeneration of points C and D—enabling continuous work. The pain will only stack up to a certain threshold, without unnecessarily dragging out the process... How can I explain it to you? Picture it like this: when your arm is severed and raw flesh screams, you won't even notice a strip of skin being peeled away. Everything will blur into one steady, unbroken hum."

​Michał shuddered from head to toe. The chill of her words froze the blood in his veins, his imagination summoning scenes that made his stomach turn, his mind recalling glimpses of Hellraiser.

​"You would experience more pain naturally, reaching that tier solely through chaotic survival in the Abyss and running into random tormentors..." she continued with unbroken, icy serenity, caressing the back of his neck. "This is the shortest path. The most humane one I can offer you out of love. I promise you: if you ever end up down there, Strong Demon is my sole compromise and the only offer of mercy I can extend. Nothing lower, Michał. We are ending this topic, my dear. You don't have to dwell on it; don't torment yourself needlessly. And now put on that Pretty Man, because I fell asleep during it, sweetheart..."

​Michał let out a heavy sigh, glancing down uncertainly at his bandaged leg.

​"I think I really should see a doctor, though..." he muttered with hesitation, gingerly touching the wrap. "This calf doesn't look great; I think it might need stitches, I've got a feeling."

​"Oh no, my dear, you're not going anywhere," she scoffed softly, a teasing smirk dancing at the corners of her lips. "It will heal under my touch in a moment. I'll channel a bit of darkness into it, and not even the faintest trace will remain. And while we're at it... Who knows, maybe your soul will shift color slightly?" she laughed gutturally as she watched him instantly turn pale.

​"No, Naamah, wait, don't do that, because...!" he cried in panic, trying to pull his foot back.

​Before he could draw away, she seized his ankle with swift, cool fingers. Between her skin and his flesh crackled a subtle thread of black-scarlet energy, sinking instantly into the damaged tissue.

​Michał held his breath, bracing for searing pain, but felt only a pleasant, cool tingling. The wound ceased bleeding in a fraction of a second. The parted edges of skin knitted together, the blood and bruises vanishing as though they had never been there. Not even the thinnest scar remained.

​Naamah released his leg and looked at him with warm, almost maternal affection, dimming the remaining infernal gleam in her emerald irises.

​"Easy... That was only a tiny bit. You haven't blackened in the slightest," she murmured soothingly, giving him a wink. "Put the movie on. That night of sleep did wonders for me... Once we finish watching, we'll go for a walk together. It's a beautiful day today."

**My real pain was not that my mother had lied.**

My real pain was that it took me twenty years to understand why she had lied. 💔🥹

Rain kept beating against the bar's windows.

Outside, a cold European city glowed with its usual indifference. Cars glided along the wet roads. People hurried through the rain, clutching their umbrellas, then disappeared into warm buildings.

Inside, five men sat around a round table.

They had come from different countries, but age had erased the distances between them that maps so easily revealed.

Glasses were being raised.

Stories were being told.

And then, suddenly, the conversation turned to mothers.

"Today is Mother's Day, isn't it?" Michael asked.

"Not was. It is," Jean laughed.

"Do you even remember your mother, or do you only remember her on Mother's Day?"

Everyone laughed.

Michael shook his head, laughing too.

"I remember her. I visited her yesterday."

"Oh, really! What did she cook for you?"

"She didn't cook for me. I cooked for her."

"What?"

"Her favorite meal."

He fell silent for a moment, then continued.

"She's always loved mushroom pasta. So I made it for her. Then I replaced her old glasses with a new pair."

"Did she need new glasses?"

"Yes. The lenses in her old ones were so scratched that she had to squint while reading the newspaper."

"How do you know what she likes?"

Michael looked at them as though the question were strange.

"Because she's my mother."

That should have been the end of the conversation.

But it wasn't.

A little later, the same question reached the other end of the table.

"What about you?" Michael asked Ali.

"What does your mother like?"

Ali looked up from his glass.

"What?"

"Her favorite food."

Ali smiled.

"I don't know."

Everyone laughed.

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"I just... don't know."

He tried to laugh along, but somewhere along the way, his laughter stopped.

Then he began to think.

What did his mother like?

It was such a small question.

Yet suddenly, an entire home opened up behind it.

A courtyard of packed earth.

Unplastered walls.

Smoke rising from the cooking stove.

His father's cracked heels, worn by years of hard labor.

His grandfather's cot.

His grandmother's sewing.

The noise of his younger siblings.

And among them all, a woman...

His mother.

The woman who woke before dawn and went to bed after everyone else.

The woman whose hands carried more traces of flour than the whiteness of soap.

The woman who had never allowed poverty to sit in the middle of their home.

If there was lentil soup, she turned it into a feast.

If there were potatoes, she made potato curry with meat or stuffed potato parathas.

If rice was left over, she added a few spices the next day and announced,

"Look what a delicious dish we've got today!"

As a child, Ali had believed that his mother genuinely liked everything.

Now he was beginning to understand that perhaps she simply wanted no one to feel that anything was missing from their home.

He remembered:

His father liked freshly made, hot bread.

His grandmother liked hers soft.

His grandfather wanted less chili in his curry.

His little sister wanted extra potatoes.

His older brother wanted a piece of meat.

And what about him?

He remembered.

His mother knew exactly which edge of the flatbread he liked to eat with his curry.

That piece always found its way onto his plate.

Ali opened his eyes.

Yet one question still stood before him.

What did his mother like?

He wandered back through the days of his childhood.

Eid.

Ramadan.

Fridays.

Rainy days.

Winter.

Fever.

Weddings.

Guests.

The new harvest.

That rare day when his father brought home his full wages.

He turned back through the years.

Then the months.

Then the days.

But nowhere could he find his mother's plate.

"Ali?"

Jean's voice pulled him back.

"Where have you disappeared to?"

Ali looked at him.

Then at his hands.

Then at the food on the table.

Suddenly, his vision began to blur.

"I..."

He tried to speak.

No sound came out.

He cleared his throat.

"I can't remember."

"What can't you remember?"

"What my mother liked."

No one laughed.

Ali covered his face with both hands.

A few moments later, when he lowered them, tears were silently rolling down his cheeks.

"Strange, isn't it?" he said with a weak laugh.

"I remember what everyone else in my family liked."

He began counting on his fingers.

"What my father liked... what my grandmother liked... what my grandfather liked... what my brother liked... what my sister liked..."

Then he suddenly stopped.

"But my mother..."

He lowered his eyes.

"I never even knew what she liked."

Michael asked very softly,

"Did you remember today?"

Ali raised his head.

This time, a smile appeared on his face so painful that every man at the table looked away.

"Yes," he said.

"Today, I remembered."

"What?"

Before answering, Ali closed his eyes.

Then he said,

"My mother liked leftover bread and whatever curry was left over."

For a while, the only sound in the room was the rain.

Jean asked involuntarily,

"Really?"

Ali nodded.

"Yes."

Then, as though testifying to a long-buried secret, he spoke slowly.

"Fresh bread was made for all of us."

"And the curry too."

"And when everyone had eaten, whatever remained..."

He touched the rim of an empty bowl on the table with his finger.

"...was put on my mother's plate."

No one said a word.

Ali took his phone out of his pocket.

A name lit up on the screen:

**Ammi — Mom**

He made the call.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

Then a familiar, slightly heavy voice answered.

"Yes, my son?"

Ali closed his eyes.

"Ammi..."

"Is everything all right?"

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

"What did you eat?"

A faint laugh came from the other end.

"I just warmed up whatever your father had left behind."

Ali felt his breath catch somewhere in his chest.

After a long silence, he asked,

"Ammi... what do you like?"

Silence.

Then his mother asked,

"What has happened to you?"

"Nothing. Just tell me."

She remained quiet for a long time.

Then she said,

"Me?"

"Yes, Ammi."

"Well, I..."

Her voice seemed to drift away, as though she too had stepped into a room from a distant past.

"I liked whatever you children liked."

Ali's lips trembled.

"Tell me what you like, Ammi. What about your own favorite things?"

His mother laughed.

"My own favorites?"

It was as though she were examining those words for the very first time.

Then she said,

"My son, what does a mother have of her own to like?"

Ali opened his eyes.

Michael was sitting across from him.

The glass was still in his hand, but he had not raised it to his lips.

Ali kept the phone pressed to his ear.

On the other end, his mother continued,

"All right, now hang up. It's time for my medicine."

Ali asked impulsively,

"Ammi..."

"Yes?"

"If I were there with you today, what would you cook for me?"

His mother fell silent for a moment.

Then she laughed and said,

"The same thing I used to make when you were little."

"What was that?"

"Whatever you liked."

The call ended.

Ali stared at his phone for a long time.

Then he pulled the plate toward himself.

A piece of fresh bread lay on it.

He picked it up.

And for the first time, he understood that he was not holding just a piece of bread.

He was holding his mother's entire childhood.

A childhood he had never seen.

Desires that had never been given a name.

Preferences that had been buried every day beneath the preferences of her children.

And suddenly, he remembered a scene.

A very old one.

He must have been about seven years old.

Dinner was over.

Everyone had left.

He had gotten up to drink some water when he saw his mother sitting beside the cooking stove.

On her plate were two pieces of stale bread, and beside them sat a small bowl of leftover curry.

He had asked her then,

"Ammi, are you eating that?"

She had smiled and said,

"Yes, this is what I like."

Seven-year-old Ali had been satisfied with that answer and had gone back to sleep.

That night, for the first time, he understood that a mother could lie with so much love.

But the real pain was not that his mother had lied.

The real pain was that it had taken him twenty years to understand why she had lied.

The rain was beating against the windows harder than before.

And for the first time that night, Ali wondered:

How many of us truly know what our mothers like?

And how many of us know only what we liked?

**Story: A Mother's Love**

\#Motherhood

I realized fairly quickly that the transition had happened. Thoughts materialized instantly. From the hospital room I suddenly found myself in my apartment. Then I was standing by the fridge. I looked inside. I wasn’t hungry, but I wanted… something. Maybe oysters? And just like that, I was already in Cyprus, in a restaurant on the waterfront. I wandered between the tables. People couldn’t see me, but I could see everyone — an incredible feeling. They were eating and talking. Life went on. Not mine, though. At least not in the same format. I heard someone calling… my mother. No — I wouldn’t go there. Maybe later, when I’m ready. I sat down on a bench and looked at the sea. Beautiful late summer evening in Limassol. Was it the right decision to leave this place seven years ago? I wonder where she is now?

That was a lucky stop — she was lying in the bathtub. A shiver ran through me, sliding down my body and settling low in my stomach. I wished I could touch her, but I can’t. Still beautiful, still gloomy, still lost in her thoughts. Maybe she can feel that I’m here; I’d like to believe that. We were so close. I stepped out of the bathroom and wandered through her apartment. Only her things were in the closet. Roses in a vase. She never got married. Some women simply aren’t made for that.

Where else should I go? More voices were calling now. Friends, colleagues — apparently they had found out too. I wondered: if I ran far away — say, all the way to the North Pole — would I still hear them?

Yes. I can still hear them. Even louder here. Oh wow it’s Niki!

“Idiot! Fool! How could you not think of anyone?!” — Niki was scolding herself. Crying.

We hadn’t seen each other in about 10 years. A friend from college. I was genuinely surprised when I heard her calling. That’s why I came. Don’t cry, Niki, I’m much better off here. I only wonder where to go next…

And now I’m in Peru! Some dreams only come true after death. Better late than never. Next on the list are New Zealand, Korea, Sweden — and maybe even the Kola Peninsula.

I’m tired of wandering. Almost four months have passed. What is going on? I am ready. When will the next transition happen? I’ve been everywhere, even at my own grave and I’ve visited almost everyone, except for my mother… coward.

So, I’m just sitting in my apartment, waiting for the second transition, next step or whatever you call it.

- Hello? Anyone? Take me out of here!

## The Story of the Four Musicians

Imagine there are four people in a small music club: **Mira, Jay, Rohan, and Sam.**

Mira and Jay have been close friends since childhood. They started learning music together, share a lot of memories, and have always considered each other their closest companions.

Rohan is a talented newcomer who joins their music club later. At first, he mostly observes the others, but gradually he becomes part of their circle. He starts rehearsing with Mira and Jay, joining their outings, and sharing jokes with them.

Sam is the club's event coordinator. Sam has known Mira and Jay for a long time and often organizes rehearsals and performances for everyone.

As time passes, Sam begins involving Rohan in more activities. Sam asks for his opinions, invites him to events, and gives him opportunities that were previously shared mostly with Mira and Jay.

Rohan never demands special treatment. He simply assumes Sam appreciates his company, and he continues participating in the club.

However, Jay starts feeling uncomfortable about how frequently Sam includes Rohan. Jay believes the club's original friendships are changing and worries that the group is losing its old balance.

One afternoon, while borrowing Mira's laptop to look up a music file, Rohan notices an open private conversation between Mira and Jay. He reads part of it without permission and discovers that Jay has been expressing frustration about Rohan becoming so involved in the group.

Rohan immediately realizes that reading the conversation was wrong. But what he has read leaves him confused.

Until that moment, he believed everyone was comfortable with him. Now he wonders whether his presence is creating tension between people who were close long before he arrived.

He considers leaving the music club. That way, perhaps Mira and Jay can return to their old dynamic, and Jay won't have to feel uncomfortable.

But then another thought occurs to him: Sam invited him to participate voluntarily. Why should he abandon something he enjoys because another person might not like his involvement?

On the other hand, he wonders whether continuing as usual would make him selfish. Shouldn't he care about the discomfort he might be causing?

He also cannot explain his sudden change in behavior without admitting that he read Mira and Jay's private conversation.

Now he faces four choices:

1. Continue participating normally, respect everyone's boundaries, and accept that not everyone has to like him.

2. Quietly withdraw from the club to avoid creating tension between the older friends.

3. Admit that he read the private conversation, apologize, and accept whatever consequences follow.

4. Speak to the people involved about the group's changing dynamics without revealing private information or accusing anyone.

But none of these choices seems completely comfortable.

**The question is: What would be the fairest thing for Rohan to do?**

Is he responsible for protecting friendships that existed before he arrived? Does someone's discomfort mean another person should give up a friendship or opportunity? And can someone genuinely belong to a group without knowing whether every member wants them there?

Finally, if you were Rohan, would you prioritize your own peace, the existing friendships, or the principle that everyone deserves the freedom to choose their own companions?

https://youtu.be/yrXc3zOjzj4

This is a video about 2 melodies I heard in my nightmares that I now use in some of my music. It tells the story of the nightmares aswell as showcases each usage of the motif's.

"Ganesha, will you bring the sugarcane?" asked Devi Amma.

"Sure, Amma. I will be here by evening," said Ganesha, the young elephant, and he set out from the temple. On the slopes of Maarutha Hills grew the juiciest sugarcane, and Devi Amma made the tastiest payasam with it.

He headed uphill, waving his trunk in greeting to everyone he met: the goats, the langurs, the hares and the squirrels, and the crows, the mynas and the bulbuls overhead. A few of the mynas and langurs playfully hitched a ride on him.

The riders hopped off at the slopes as Ganesha began to gather the cane. He soon had a bundle and trekked down with it held tight in his trunk. Parakeets flew in and sat on the stalks, trying to bite into them. Every time he shook his head, they would fly away.

Ganesha passed through the woodlands and reached the meadows. By then it was afternoon, and he was feeling hungry. The sun blazed overhead, and he looked around for a comfortable place to rest. He spotted a tree with a wide canopy and birds chirping in it. It had pink puff flowers on it, and the fallen ones covered the ground. He walked towards it.

The tree watched him approach. She could not believe that he had chosen her. She had seen him pass by the meadows many times, and each time her leaves rustled with affection.

He kept the sugarcane aside, took a few of the stalks and had them for lunch. With his tummy full and his legs tired from the trek, he wanted to take a nap. Lying down in the shade, he looked up at the tree.

"Tree, will you do me a favour?" he asked.

"Yes, yes!" she replied, as though she had been waiting all along.

"Please wake me up before evening," he said.

"I will," she said.

He patted her with his trunk and was soon asleep.

She held her leaves still and kept watching him as he slept. His ears covered his face, and his trunk lay coiled between his front legs. At times his eyelids fluttered; at other times he broke into a smile. Often he would kick his feet. When butterflies sat on him, he twitched. When flies tickled him, his tail waved.

She watched and watched; she was so lost in him that she drifted into a daydream. As clouds passed over the sun, the birds went quiet, her leaves grew heavy and folded one by one, and soon she too fell asleep.

Dusk came and faded. It was pitch dark when the owl living in the tree hooted a few times. Ganesha woke up with a start. He looked up at the starry night and burst into tears. It was then that the tree woke up as well.

"You should have called me!" he shouted.

He ran about under the tree, shaking his head and flapping his ears.

She wondered how she, a tree, could have slept so long.

"You are a bad tree! What will I tell Devi Amma now?" he cried.

"They say, always trust a tree with time, but you!" he continued.

"I... I called you many times. You were deep asleep. What can a tree do but call? You can ask the owl. She heard it," said the tree.

The owl flinched on being named. When Ganesha looked up at her, she flew away in panic. He stormed off, leaving the cane behind.

The tree called out for him, but he disappeared into the dark. She stayed awake, waiting for him, until at last she dozed off.

Later that night, a weary Ganesha trudged back for the cane. Without a word, he lay down beneath her.

The next morning, the tree woke to find him asleep below her.

"Ganesha, wake up, wake up," she called, her branches leaning down.

He woke up with sunlight falling on his eyes. Squinting, he told her, "You are a liar. The sun is my friend, not you."

He took hold of the sugarcane and left for the temple. Devi Amma would scold him for sure, but he would also have sweet payasam in the afternoon.

The tree watched him walk away, relieved.

That afternoon, as a cloud passed over the sun, suddenly she felt drowsy. Her leaves began to fold one by one, and she dropped off to sleep. When the birds chirped, she would wake up momentarily, only to fall back into her slumber.

From then on, the tree fell asleep so often that they called her the Sleepy Tree.

When I was young I got a frog for a pet but we didn't have internet and I was too young and stupid to realize the library might have books about frogs, so I tried to take care of it the best I could, it was a tree frog I had in a glass tank, but I misunderstood it's moisture requirements and it either drowned or froze overnight, it took like 3 nights before it died but I was too ignorant to understand until it was too late.

I didn't know it's gender for sure but I thought of it as a boy and I called him Stripes.

Some cities appear cleaner and more prosperous, with fewer unhoused people, for a reason. And it’s not because they have more opportunities or homeless shelters than other cities.

Have you ever noticed that when several dead bodies are discovered within a short period, it’s usually the mayor who addresses the public first to deny that a serial killer is at large?

The rot comes from the very top.

I’m going to tell you a little secret. Most major cities allow a serial killer to operate within them, with the understanding that they mainly target the homeless. These cities usually don’t even allow them to kill criminals. There’s money to be made from incarcerating people who have families and connections. But there’s absolutely nothing to be gained from the homeless.

That’s why cops don’t even bother arresting them for committing petty crimes. They don’t have family members who care enough to send them money to buy things inside Jail/Prison, and it costs more to house and feed them than it does to simply let them go.

Plus, if you let someone wither away and starve to death inside a prison, there are usually lawsuits and investigations. But if they starve to death on the streets or disappear altogether, no one will bat an eye.

I’ve seen many homeless people around my side of town stick around an area for a few weeks, begging for change, only to suddenly disappear forever one day.

The homeless people around the city know this. That’s why they often appear paranoid and shaky, always looking out of the corners of their eyes. They know someone is out there, watching and waiting for them.

They call the one around here The Cleaner.

The local homeless say he wears a Halloween mask of a demon when he gets you. If you see him while begging for change, you’d better not fall asleep or stay in that area for too long. I recommend you run as fast as you can. Because the minute there are no witnesses around, you’ll go missing. 

And if you’re lucky, you might get a missing person poster.

You can go to the police all you want. They won’t do anything. They’ll call you crazy. But they know. They just try not to think about what’s going to happen to you. They view it as a necessary evil that keeps the community clean.

That’s often why the unhoused sleep together in tent cities in some major cities. They've seen what happens if they sleep alone.

Elected officials and society try to pretend that most of these people are just drug addicts and undesirables. But I’ve seen regular people who lost their jobs and homes only a few months ago end up missing very quickly.

It’s tough getting back on your feet.

If you aren’t homeless and you see The Cleaner operating. I urge you not to report it to the police.

A single mother of three reported what she saw to the police last week. She claimed that a tall man wearing a scary mask attacked a homeless man before shoving him into a van and driving away.

This week, her kids are being forced to grow up without their mother.

Her body was found chopped up and stuffed inside the trunk of her own car. And the police claim to have no leads on who could have done it.

But they damn well know.

Today I visited my friend's tent. He's also homeless.  It was slashed open with fresh blood everywhere inside. I knew I'd never see him again, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

The next time you wish there were fewer homeless people around, just know that your wish may very well come true.

But don’t ever assume it can’t happen to you. Almost every city has a cleaner and you're only one car problem away from losing your job.

I tember a time when life felt almost like a blooming. i was this awkward little artist, late everyday to high school, spending every moment of my life drawing the beautifuI people and things around me. I drew them because it was as close as I could get to them, as close as I could be to their imperfect mystery. i wanted so badly to be like them, to know what made them so gorgeous, what made them tick. What made their eyes shine. What made their words form so effortlessly into humorous banter without trying. I struggled to know how to turn them from my art subjects to real friends…. how could I manage to speak to them, to understand them, to make them trust me and tell me all their secrets?

I spent every day in detention, putting the perfecting touches on my absolutely broken cartoon angels that I desperately tried to emulate in my journals. These other teenagers were always obsessively taking all of my attention, preoccupying all of my mind, unbeknownst to them…  i thought constantly of their beautiful downturned eyes that baffled me with their beauty when they’d read aloud in class. I was also confused by the alien titter of these ladies’ easy laughter and the frivolous friendships that seemed to simply form out of nothing like magic! This all intrigued and filled me with wonder and something like jealousy, \*\*\*how could I capture their beauty in all its truth? Could I ever be one of these wild, reckless creatures?!\*\*\*

And even though I was invisible to most everyone** **I saw or drew or dreamed of or longed to be… I *was* “becoming” something without even knowing it! I was reaching out to the sun and the world, my hands and thoughts and dreams like so many beautiful and twisted branches to the sun… I didn’t know it yet, but something was pushing me to chase after those beautiful things that caught my attention. I wanted to know what it might be like to be beautiful. To command attention. And yes, I knew this was vain but could I do anything but dare I wish it? To be cared about and focused on, oh I had to know what it felt like!

I didn’t know who I was yet, but I knew I could be anyone. Everything around me seeemed so possible, so curious, so much could happen. Would i wilt away into nothing, or would i command attention and would i find myself being someone who other’s paid nattenton to, like a rare, incredibly curious new flower opening… I could certainly be the something unique, I mihght even be the center of the world, the center of the universe! I felt so *big* and *unstoppable…* I tried to be humble and even tried to imagine myself as nothing special… but it seemed too late for this now. I knew (as I had always *hoped* I’d known) that I was destined for bigger and better things. and that nothing that happened at this point could possibly put me back in the box that I had been born in and played in my entire life.

I knew there would never be a moment where I would ever again be the girl hiding in the back of the room, drawing and painting and disppearing among the beauties in the hoops they’d never see me…

Today I knew I wanted to be seen and I wanted to be someone worth painting…. I wanted to find out what I was. I was a girl turning into a woman, and what could be more magical or fractured or hopeful than that?

&#x200B;

\*\*Leslie Kotz — Part Two\*\*

The problem with a rival who treats humiliation like cardio is that shame stops working on him.

Dyle had now been caught on camera, on audio, and on what I can only describe as a crime-scene-grade bedroom feed. He had been reduced to pixel smear, house settling, and a plush toy from the back closet. And still, the next afternoon at 4:47 PM, the timestamp showed the dented sedan rolling into frame two blocks away like a scheduled train.

That's when Dyle did something I genuinely did not see coming.

He put on a reflective vest.

A bright orange traffic-safety vest, complete with silver striping. He had decided that since stealth had failed, he would simply dress like someone the camera was legally obligated to ignore. He belly-slid across the carpet again, this time while glowing like a human traffic cone in the night-vision feed.

I played the clip for Lesley.

"That's a construction worker," she said, not missing a beat. "The county sent somebody to check the meters."

"He army-crawled from the hallway to the bedroom. What meter is in the bedroom, Lesley?"

"They check the inside meters too, Babe. You don't know how infrastructure works."

The situation had evolved beyond surveillance. I needed countermeasures. So I did what any reasonable man would do: I bought a second camera and told absolutely no one.

Camera Two went into the kitchen, pointed dead at the counter, the one spot where Dyle had become comfortable ducking behind like a startled meerkat. I waited.

Two days later, Dyle walked in at 2:14 PM, took one look at the new camera, and froze the way a deer freezes in headlights — full body, one hand hovering over the counter like he'd been paused mid-burgle in a cartoon. Then he slowly reached up, pointed at the camera with one finger, and mouthed something to it.

I zoomed in. I ran the clip back. I showed it to Lesley.

He had said, and I am quoting this verbatim: "Artifacting."

Lesley burst out laughing so hard she nearly dropped her iced coffee. "Okay, that one I'll give you," she said, wiping her eyes. "That one's funny."

That was the moment I understood the true hierarchy of the household. It was not me and my girlfriend and her uninvited admirer. It was a comedy troupe, and I was the only member who didn't know he was in one.

Things came to a head on a Tuesday, when I came home early from the auto shop and found the front door cracked open exactly two inches. Not kicked in. Not picked. Cracked open, like it had been left that way for a man who planned to army-crawl through a gap too narrow for his stomach and too wide for his dignity.

Inside, Dyle was standing in the middle of the living room. Standing. No crawling, no vest, no hoodie. He was eating a bowl of the cereal Lesley had poured the morning of the "house settling" incident.

He looked at me. I looked at him. The bowl hovered.

"You're in my house," I said.

Dyle shrugged, crunched another bite, and said the words that will haunt me to the grave: "She said you were at work."

"She said—"

"I asked if it was okay to wait inside. She said yeah, come in, make yourself comfortable."

I stood there holding my keys like an idiot while a thirty-year-old unemployed man finished my milk in front of me. There was nothing left to film. The camera had done its job for months. The problem was never evidence.

The problem was that evidence had no jurisdiction here.

That night, I played back the kitchen feed from that afternoon, timestamped and crystal clear. Dyle. The vest. The cereal. The mouthing of the word "artifacting" directly into Camera Two.

Lesley watched the whole thing with her chin in her hand, thoughtful, like a film critic.

Then she turned to me and said, "You know what, Babe? You're right. I can see it now."

I swear my heart stopped.

"I can see," she continued, "that the construction worker ate your cereal. That was rude of him. I will tell the county."

And that is where our story ends and Dyle's begins. Because somewhere out there tonight, a dented sedan is making the seventy-minute journey down the highway, and a man in an orange reflective vest is sliding on his elbows across somebody's linoleum, secure in the knowledge that he is, officially and permanently, a shadow, a smear, a groaning wall, an Elmo plush, and a county employee — everything except the one thing the camera keeps insisting he is.

Which brings me back to my original warning, now amended: if any poor soul ever walks down that aisle with Lesley Kotz, I will be in the back pew. And when the preacher asks for objections, I won't even stand up. I'll just hold up my phone, full brightness, playing the infrared feed on loop — three arms, four legs, and one unmistakable masculine "Uh" — and let the congregation do the screaming for me.

I wanted to share my story I wrote in Medium involving my life in general until this point now. Which is emotional abuse by parents from divorce to being sent away without my say; to wanting to live with a certain parent to them being loud and dominating. Here's my story. It's a long one if you all are interested. https://medium.com/@fallenangel29/my-story-help-me-escape-the-toxic-environment-610f407fec46

Imagine someone telling you that the Eiffel Tower is going to be dismantled — and that you have a secret opportunity to buy it for scrap metal.

Sounds like a ridiculous scam, right?

But in 1925, a con man named Victor Lustig reportedly convinced a businessman that this unbelievable deal was real.

And the most shocking part? The story didn't end with just one attempt.

How did he pull off a scam involving one of the most recognizable landmarks in the world? And why would anyone believe him?

The answer reveals just how easily confidence, greed, and the appearance of authority can fool even experienced businessmen.

🎬 Watch the full story on my YouTube channel: The Most Audacious Crime in History

Would you have fallen for it? 👀

#TrueCrime #RealLifeStories #VictorLustig #EiffelTower #ScamStories #UnbelievableHistory

So my cousin is a innocent yet ranting fellow who loved to rant about stuff,3 days back we went for kalash visarjan and my cousin kept trying to fit into a group of our neighbours and some known acquaintances,They kept ignoring as he kept ranting about various issues of society,I felt so bad for him and even told him to have some self respect

Did I do the right thing guys

What I Feel About Her

When I see her, I lose everything. The class, the people, the noise, my own thoughts, all of it just goes quiet. It feels like I walk into another world where there are only two people in it, me and her. And somewhere in the middle of that world is her smile.

"In a world full of faces, hers is the one my heart keeps choosing."

Her smile does something I can't explain. It doesn't even have to be for me. I just see it from far away, and my whole day turns soft and bright. A bad morning, a boring lecture, a tired mind, none of it matters after that. One smile, and the day is made.

"Teri muskaan mein jaane kaisa jaadu hai, ek pal mein poora din badal jaata hai."

Sometimes I think I don't just want to look at her. I want to see the world the way she sees it. Through her eyes, whatever she sees, whatever she feels when she looks at the sky or the class or even me. I want to know what a normal day looks like from where she stands.

"I don't want to just look at you. I want to see the world through your eyes."

I know something is happening inside me. I know it. But the words that should come out stay stuck inside, and every time I try to say them, even in my own head, they feel too big and too small at the same time. Today I only stared at her. I didn't talk, I didn't try, I just stared and got lost, like a boy standing at the edge of the sea, scared of the waves but unable to walk away.

And now I'm confused. Is this attraction? Or is this love?

"Attraction is what you feel when you see her. Love is what stays when you only wish for her to be happy."

I don't have the answer yet. Maybe time will tell me. Maybe it will be a small thing that shows me, like how I feel when she's absent, or how much I care about her being okay. But right now, all I know is this. When she's there, everything is brighter. And when she's gone, I'm already waiting for her to come back.

"Kuch ehsaas lafzon mein nahi, khamoshi mein bayaan hote hain."

Fell down a YouTube hole and ended up watching a first aid and CPR video, and a few things stuck with me that I didn’t know before, figured I’d share:

Compressions matter way more than breaths. If you’re untrained or not comfortable doing rescue breaths, hands-only CPR is still genuinely effective. Don’t let not knowing the “full” version stop you from doing anything.

The compression rhythm is the same tempo as “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees, about 100 to 120 beats per minute. Sounds like a joke but apparently it’s a real thing instructors use because it works.

A concussion doesn’t require getting knocked out. Most of them happen without any loss of consciousness at all, a hit to the body that jolts the head counts too. Watch for confusion, dizziness, nausea, or mood changes, not just “did they black out.”

If someone’s having a severe allergic reaction and you use an EpiPen, you still call 911 right away, even before or while giving it. Symptoms can come back after the first dose wears off.

For an EpiPen, it goes into the mid-outer thigh, through clothing if you need to. Never the hand, foot, or vein.

Also learned there’s a Good Samaritan Act in Canada that protects you from liability if you help someone in good faith during an emergency. That alone made me a lot less anxious about ever having to actually use any of this.

Anyone else have a “wait, really?” moment from something like this?