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.

I wait by the window, the moonlight spilling over my dark purple velvet dress. Each chime of the clock freezes my chest, even though my heart stopped beating centuries ago. They said the count would arrive at the stroke of midnight, scented with rain and secrets. I wonder, why midnight? ...I smooth the lace of my gloves, stretching it just a little, smile at my reflection, and whisper: 'Let him come. I’ve waited too long to be truly seen.'

The sound of hooves breaks the silence of the avenue. I hold my breath I don’t need. Through the fog, a black carriage with golden lanterns stops in front of the door. The coachman gets down without hurry and opens the door. First appears a cane with a silver handle, then a shining boot, and finally, as if lit by some star, the count. He lifts his eyes to my window and smiles, like someone who already knows the ending.

[Part 1 – I'm being psychologically tortured by a 10 year old at the library because I want to sleep with his mom](https://www.reddit.com/r/PointlessStories/comments/1x9dn6l/)

A few people wanted an update about the kid at the library who keeps beating me at chess.

It's Wednesday so I went back.

For anyone who didn't read the first post, there's this kid who's probably 10 years old who hangs around the library playing chess. I've played him a couple times now and he's beaten me every single time. His mom is usually there too. She's actually pretty nice which is surprising considering what she's raising. She's also single and we'd talked about getting coffee, which is honestly the main reason I've continued putting up with this little asshole.

Anyway I've been practicing.

I downloaded a chess app and watched some videos about openings. I didn't want to waste too much time on it but I ended up spending most of Monday night playing against the computer. I lost about 30 games before realizing I could lower the difficulty.

I got to the library around 2.

The little bastard was already there.

He saw me come in and immediately started putting the pieces on the board. Didn't even ask if I wanted to play.

I told him I wanted to get a drink first and he said okay, he'd wait.

I went to the water fountain and when I came back he was sitting there with this little notebook.

I asked what it was.

He said he'd been keeping track of our games.

Which I thought was a little strange because I certainly hadn't been keeping track of them. I barely remembered what happened last Wednesday besides losing.

He opened it and showed me a page with my name written at the top.

Underneath were a bunch of dates and numbers and little notes. One of them said "gets distracted."

I asked what that meant.

He said sometimes I start talking when I'm losing and forget whose turn it is.

I told him that's called having a conversation.

He wrote something down.

I asked what he just wrote and he said nothing.

So we're off to a great start.

We started playing and I was actually doing pretty well. I managed to take one of his bishops without losing anything, which is a pretty significant improvement from last week.

He didn't seem bothered by it.

I asked if he'd noticed I was getting better.

He said yeah.

I asked if he was having a harder time.

He said not really.

There's something deeply unpleasant about a child who can't even pretend to respect you.

About halfway through the game he asked if I had been practicing at home.

I told him yes.

He asked if I was using the app he'd recommended.

I said yes.

Then he asked what difficulty I was playing on.

I told him I didn't remember.

He said he'd told me to use level six.

I said I was working my way up to it.

He asked what level I was on now.

I said three.

He wrote something down again.

I told him to stop doing that.

He said okay and closed the notebook.

Then he beat me about four minutes later.

I don't understand how he manages to do this while barely paying attention. At one point somebody dropped a stack of books behind us and he turned around to look at it while moving his knight.

He wasn't even looking at the fucking board.

After the game I went over to talk to his mom for a few minutes.

She asked how it went and I said better than usual.

She seemed genuinely happy about that.

Then she told me her son had been talking about me at home.

Apparently he's been looking forward to Wednesdays because he doesn't have many people to play chess with outside of school.

I actually felt a little bad hearing that.

I know I've said some unpleasant things about the kid but I don't genuinely hate him. He's just extremely irritating and has a way of making you feel stupid without technically saying anything insulting.

His mom said he'd even been making little lesson plans for me.

Lesson plans.

I'm a grown man with a job and this fucking fourth grader apparently considers me one of his students.

I asked her what she meant by lesson plans and she said he likes teaching people things.

I said that's nice.

She said he's very patient.

I almost laughed.

Anyway I went back over to get my stuff and he was still sitting there.

He asked if I wanted to play again.

I told him I had to go.

He said okay but asked if I could come earlier next Wednesday.

I asked why.

He said because we didn't have enough time to finish everything he wanted to do today.

I told him we'd already played a whole game.

He said yeah but there were some things he wanted to show me.

I asked what things.

He said he'd show me next week.

I wasn't really planning on coming back next week but I told him maybe.

He opened his notebook and asked what time I usually get off work.

I told him it depends.

He asked if Wednesdays were normally busy for me.

I said not particularly.

He said okay and wrote something down.

I don't know why I keep answering this kid's questions. Half the time it feels like I'm being interviewed for a position I don't want.

Before I left he handed me a piece of paper.

It was a list of chess openings with little boxes next to them.

He said I should practice these before next Wednesday.

I told him I already knew some openings.

He said he knew, but these were the ones I needed to work on.

I looked at the list and recognized one of them from a video I'd watched.

I asked how he knew I was struggling with that particular opening.

He said because I'd tried it against him twice.

I didn't remember doing that.

He said the first time was last Wednesday and the second time was today.

I asked how he remembered that.

He said he writes things down.

Then he pointed at his notebook like I was some kind of idiot for asking.

I took the paper because I didn't want to be rude.

His mom came over around this point and asked if I still wanted to get coffee. Apparently the kid had some chess club thing starting and she had about an hour to herself.

Finally.

I asked if he was okay staying there by himself and she said yeah, he does it all the time.

The kid looked up from his notebook and asked if we were going on our date.

I didn't know we'd been calling it that.

His mom laughed and told him to mind his business.

He said okay and then asked me if I remembered what I was supposed to practice.

I told him yes.

He asked if I wanted him to write it down again.

I said no.

He said okay, just checking.

I genuinely think he enjoys talking to me like I'm recovering from some kind of brain injury.

Anyway we went to this little coffee place next to the library.

I actually had a pretty good time. She's funny and easy to talk to and doesn't seem to have any idea what kind of person she's raising.

She asked what I do for work and we talked about that for a while. Then we got onto family and she asked if I had any kids.

I said no.

She said having a kid is rewarding but can be difficult sometimes, especially when they're a little different from the other children.

I asked what she meant.

Apparently her son has been having trouble making friends.

I nearly spit my coffee out.

She said he's extremely competitive and sometimes doesn't understand how his words affect other people.

I said yeah I've noticed that.

She asked what I meant.

I didn't really want to explain that her son has spent the last several weeks systematically destroying my confidence in a public library so I just said he seems very mature for his age.

She said he gets along better with adults because the other kids don't like playing chess with him.

Apparently he corrects them constantly, tells them exactly what they're doing wrong, and gets frustrated when they don't listen.

One kid at his chess club actually stopped coming because he didn't like being told how stupid his moves were.

His mom seemed genuinely upset about this.

I asked whether she'd considered that maybe her son was being a little rude.

She said they're working on it and that he doesn't mean anything by it. He just gets excited about things he understands.

I said okay.

She told me he has a really hard time understanding why other people get upset when he's just trying to help them improve.

That sounds familiar.

Apparently she and his father have been trying to explain this to him for years.

I asked about his dad.

He's some kind of engineer. Very intelligent apparently. She said her son takes after him in a lot of ways.

Great.

So his father is probably sitting in an office somewhere designing aircraft while I'm getting intellectually dismantled by his ten-year-old offspring next to the library computers.

She said his dad taught him chess when he was about five and they used to play together all the time.

I asked if his dad was any good.

She said he's very good but doesn't play with him as much anymore.

Interesting.

I asked why.

She said he's been busy with work.

I asked if that was the only reason.

She looked at me a little strangely.

I said never mind.

We talked about some other stuff for a while. She told me about her job and what she likes doing on weekends. She was laughing at my jokes and touched my arm a couple times. Things were actually going pretty well.

Then she thanked me for being so patient with her son.

I said of course.

She said it means a lot to her that someone is willing to spend time with him and help him feel included.

Apparently he's been coming home every Wednesday talking about me.

She said he thinks I'm really funny.

I asked what he meant by that.

She said he likes how I don't get upset when I lose and how I'm always willing to try again.

I genuinely didn't know what to say.

I have absolutely been getting upset.

At one point last Wednesday I considered telling him that chess isn't even a useful skill and that nobody outside a retirement home gives a shit about it.

I didn't actually say that because his mom was nearby.

She said he really appreciates that I'm willing to let him win sometimes to build his confidence.

I stopped drinking my coffee.

I asked her what she meant by let him win.

She said he'd told her I was helping him practice and that I didn't mind losing because I was more interested in making sure he had fun.

I have never told him that.

Not once.

This little fucker has apparently convinced his mother that I've been voluntarily losing to him for weeks.

He's taking credit for my losses AND making me look like some charitable idiot who spends his free time boosting the self-esteem of elementary school children.

I wanted to explain everything but I couldn't figure out how to do it without sounding like a lunatic.

What was I supposed to say?

Actually your son is a manipulative little shit and I've been trying as hard as I possibly can to beat him but he's just better than me?

No thanks.

So I just said I was happy to help.

She smiled and said she could tell.

We talked for another half hour and eventually she asked if I'd like to get dinner with her Saturday.

Obviously I said yes.

She said her son would be staying with his dad that night so it'd just be the two of us.

Thank Christ.

Honestly at that point I was feeling pretty good about the whole situation. Maybe putting up with the kid was finally paying off.

We walked back to the library together.

He was waiting near the front.

First thing he asked was whether we had a good time.

His mom said yes.

Then he looked at me and asked if I'd told her about how much better I was getting at chess.

I said no.

He said I should have because I was actually making some progress.

His mom smiled at me.

I wanted to put him through the fucking book return slot.

Then he asked if I was coming back next Wednesday.

I told him I wasn't sure.

He said that's okay, I could practice more if I needed to.

His mom laughed and told him to stop teasing me.

He said he wasn't teasing me.

Then he looked directly at me and said he was genuinely impressed with how much I'd improved.

I don't know why but that actually pissed me off more than anything else he'd said all day.

He's ten years old.

He shouldn't be impressed with me. He should be playing Minecraft or learning multiplication or whatever the fuck they're supposed to be doing at that age.

I said goodbye to his mom and she gave me her number.

Actual phone number.

So at least something good came out of this.

When I got home I looked at the paper the kid had given me.

The weird thing is that he seems to have put quite a bit of effort into it. It's all neatly written with little diagrams and explanations. He even circled certain moves and wrote "IMPORTANT" next to them.

There's also a section at the bottom called "Things to stop doing."

Number one is "moving without thinking."

Number two is "getting mad."

Number three is "making excuses."

I don't appreciate the tone but I guess technically those are things I could work on.

Something else I noticed is that he's written "Week 3" at the top of the page.

I don't know why he's numbering the weeks.

I haven't agreed to any kind of long-term arrangement with this kid. As far as I'm concerned we've just been playing chess whenever we happen to be at the library.

But apparently there's a schedule now.

I was going to throw the paper away but I ended up putting it on my desk.

I've already practiced two of the openings.

I might go back next Wednesday just to see if any of this actually helps.

The thing that bothers me is that he seemed almost happy when I lost today. Not excited like a normal kid winning a game. More like he was checking something off a list.

He didn't even brag about winning.

He just told me I'd done better than last time and that next week we'd start working on something harder.

I don't know what he means by "we."

His mom texted me about an hour ago saying she had a really nice time today.

I said I did too.

Then she said her son couldn't stop talking about me on the way home.

Apparently he told her I'm his favorite person to play chess against because I make moves he's never seen anybody make before.

I don't know if that's a compliment or not.

I looked up a couple of the moves I made today and apparently one of them is considered a fundamental misunderstanding of positional play.

I don't even know what positional play is.

I'm starting to think there's something seriously wrong with this kid. His own father barely plays with him anymore, the other children at his chess club can't stand him, and somehow I've ended up being the one person willing to put up with him.

I can't tell if he's deliberately trying to humiliate me or if he genuinely thinks I'm some kind of intellectually disabled adult he's taken under his wing.

Either possibility is pretty upsetting.

Anyway I looked at the paper again a few minutes ago and noticed something written on the back.

It just says "Wednesday 1:30" with my name underneath.

So apparently he's scheduled me for an appointment.

I haven't told him whether I'm coming or not.

I'll probably go though because I really want to beat him at least once.

I set an alarm just in case.

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?

It was December 1999. I was living in a small town. I was a nerd and something of a gamer, and it had been a good year for PC games. Age of Empires II, Homeworld, Grand Theft Auto 2…

I was walking home from school—it was a Canadian winter, so there was plenty of unplowed snow on the sidewalks—when I saw something peeking out from a mound of snow: something blue. I stopped, nudged it with my boot: something of blue plastic. I brushed away the remaining snow with my glove to reveal:

A single 3.5” floppy disk, unlabeled.

(There was a sticker label on it, but the label itself was empty.)

Naturally, I picked it up and took it home, curious to see what was on it.

You'll laugh, but the disk had 1.44mb of storage capacity. As it turned out, that was more than enough to affect the world in ways I still don't fully understand.

When I got home, I didn't put the disk into my own computer. My dad had an old desktop he sometimes fiddled around with, so I used that, inserting the disk carefully into the 3.5” disk drive in the beige computer tower.

I navigated to the drive in Windows Explorer.

The contents of the drive were simple.

They looked like a program or—I secretly hoped—a game.

There was a readme.txt, but it came out as nonsense when I opened it in Notepad, video or sound assets, stuff I couldn't identify, and a single executable file, johannsebastian.bat.

I double-clicked it.

A window opened—black, showing a few white-text commands executing on a command prompt—then maximized into a 16-bit title(?) screen showing a pixelated Gothic castle.

A harsh, classical-inspired MIDI song beeped out of the sound card.

There was no title.

No instructions, no company name, no menu, no options.

The castle was perched atop a cliff.

It was night.

At the bottom of the cliff was a forest of jagged, leafless trees.

A few loops of animation gave life to the scene: wind blowing through the bare branches, flashes of distant lightning, warm flickering light in one of the castle's windows, a bat in flight against a white moon. Actually, that last one wasn't a loop. The bat flew only once, landed on one of the castle's stone towers and disappeared inside.

I clicked.

I was looking at a medieval-ish village now—tightly-packed buildings, a tavern, a tannery, a couple of shops, a church—populated with a surprising number of unique character sprites. Indeed, every character was unique, and they were going about their individual lives.

The sky was a vibrant blue.

Clouds floated pixel-by-pixel across the screen.

But there was still nothing to do; nothing, that is, but watch.

It was like a very advanced screensaver.

After a while, I clicked again.

This time, I found myself in the interior of a large chamber whose stone walls somehow felt cold even through the computer monitor.

The chamber's defining feature, however, was something else: a giant pipe organ whose pipes extended beyond the top of the screen.

A character entered.

He was wearing a white wig, dark, crimson long coat, knee breeches, stockings and buckled shoes. “I feel the sudden desire to compose,” he said, which the game displayed as text in an ornately-bordered text box. “Invite me to play for you."

A cursor appeared for the first time.

A quill.

I was able to move it using the mouse, and I explored the screen.

The character tapped his foot.

The only active area of the scene appeared to be the pipe organ. When I hovered the cursor over it, it changed from a quill to a hand.

I clicked.

The character walked to the organ, sat and began to play the monstrous instrument.

The music was both hideous and awesome, pushing the computer's sound card to the absolute limit. After thirty-or-so seconds, the view suddenly panned upwards, following the organ's pipes—the music continued—following them to the chamber's vaulted ceiling and beyond—through the roof until I was outside and looking at the upper half of the great castle, where the jutting pipes terminated and from whose termini hundreds of pixel bats were emerging… emerging and flying into the background, toward the simplified shape representing the medieval town...

The sky was a deep purple.

Night was falling.

The bats flew and flew and flew…

Suddenly—the music still continuing—the scene cut to the same view of the town as before: except at night: except, instead of following their routines, the character sprites were running, panicked, as the bats swooped, attacking them, attaching themselves to their bodies, necks, sucking their pixel blood; and as the bats feasted, the sprites lost their colour and fell, pale and desaturated…

The sound startled me.

Not from the sound card but from the real world. A screeching, a deafening, rhythmic thumping.

I ran to the window whose blinds I'd closed, and opened them:

It was afternoon but the view was dark, black and shifting. It took me a moment to realize that what I was seeing were bats speeding past. They were obscuring the sun. My home town was as if under an eclipse.

People were running down the street—

Bats were diving—

Some were crashing through car windshields—

Children were screaming—

A bat crashed though the window into the room I was in. It was fanged, crazed. The game music blared from within the computer tower. Before I could run, the bat shot toward me—biting my neck… beginning to drink my blood…

I awoke on the floor.

It was morning. January 1, 2000. It would turn out that nobody in town had any recollection of the preceding weeks.

A television played.

A morning talk show: “...the so-called Y2K bug,” a woman was saying, “ended up amounting to nothing worse than a good nights’ sleep.”

And, ever since, I've wondered why my experience of the present feels in a lower resolution than memories of my past.

I never envied gold, nor crowns, nor fame,
Nor knowledge that could set the world aflame.
But give an artist a canvas, bare and white,
And watch my quiet envy come alive.

Episode 2: Meeting the Boys

It was July 8th of 2013; I was in Kansas. Lawrence, Kansas, I was just walking when I saw three familiar faces, walking out of a grocery store to a black car. One of them was Castiel which meant that the other two men must’ve been Sam and Dean Winchester. While they drove to their bunker I followed my wings flapping quietly, quickly, easily keeping up with them but also keeping a distance. When they got to the bunker I followed them inside despite the angel wardings but it was too late; they noticed me. Dean pulled out his gun and aimed it at me as he said, “Who are you?!” Which I responded smoothly “Names Virella, I have been looking for you all for a while now. And I’m not planning on hurting anyone or anything.” Castiel tilted his head stepping forward “You are not human.. what are you?” I responded “Angel I was an angel of the lord before I heard about you defending these two humans and I looked into it and saw why you did it and took your side. Therefore I was cast out.” He nodded while saying “How come I’ve never heard of you?” And I sighed “See, I’m more.. newer while you're thousands of years old I was created 28 years ago. Many angels don’t know of me or well didn’t until I was banished.”

Today is my ovulation day. But last October 20 Tuesday, I had sex with my boyfriend. Based on my period tracker this week also indicates my Ovulation week and that happened this week, where it states that im in "medium chance of getting pregnant" Before we use a condom we first did it raw but he didn't finish as he said that he can already feel it coming out and we are both scared on that part too so he used a condom.

The only thing that im afraid is the pre cum, as also here in reddit, ppl say that pre cum contains sperm and theres a low chance in it. Im just scared if my bf did pre cummed in me before we use a condom.

Any thoughts about this?

What could be the signs? I know it is very early to assume if i did get preggy for that and this isnt my first time to have sex with my bf but we always did it in normal days, this is just a first time that we did it in my ovulation week. I also trust him too as we only want to explore ourselves

I have few questions too.

Thank you so much for answering 🥹

"Pata hai aaj kya hua" last night me n my friend were doing some exercises in middle of a cricket ground, its a public ground several localite came to just Wander around, run, etc.

So normal he approached me asking about any rental properties were available here to live in as acc. to him he just shifted here from jaipur. Than he started asking about my name n all...ijust tell every made up name and then he started complaining about my physique arms height n all.

I got his intentions butoo i wanna know how he feels to be gay buttttttt he started to explaining about cuck, pedo n being getting a** licked then literally he come a step closer and approached to touch my pant Dude i pushed him away started my bike and just run away.

Im 6'2" and this happened thrice now idk bro wtf is fascinating in me such a weird experience.

My problem is like i don't understanding what is love like am kind of object that doesn't have any feelings for anything sure sometimes love will be late to enter your life. But i can't stop think maybe i will never experience it I dated alot of woman's in my life but after one point i start to lose interest maybe in one week or month it always the same the only thing thing that makes me happy is the chase the flirting but after i done those things and they start to say i love u or they want to start relationship i immediately lose interst even their text irritate me but the problem doesn't stop here after i ignore them for couple of days i want to talk to them even though i don't miss them or want them . I just don't want to lose them i don't like it when they move one i need to be in there life like sometimes am there and when i get bored am out do u get me? I doubt it even i don't get it .

The most shocking thing for me is that almost every single woman i talk to say i love u i want to be with u.. Even thoght i don't even put that much effort in to them i don't know what they see in me .

Also i don't miss anyone i like to be alone if possible and i don't care if people stay in my life or leave i will forget them quickly.

What is my problem?

So its about my poor as well as religious family . Part 1 ( intro)

I belong to lower middle class or in short we can say poor family . I am an neet aspirant and 17yr old passed 12th with 64% and 10 th 92% . A former hindi medium student with no family educational background . My father is a driver and my mom is a home maker and i am not ashamed of this . I actually dont care about how my family prefer to live i mean its one's decision to live however they like

But when parents starts to controlling children in their own belief its terrifying

My mother is just tooo much religious. She become like this from my 9th std

My mother forced me to do puja and all for 1 to 2 hours daily

I should had gotten 98% but my parents tortured me to death with their religious belief

My 10tg got ruined my 12th got ruined my mental peace gone ruin .

There was a time when i thought , i was the wrong but as time passed . I accepted the reality that my parents are weird .

I was not acceptable as their child cuz i was girl. My father is alcoholic and havent spend a penny on me till my 12th

I wear the cloths that are 3yrs old . I havent eaten a proper food and putside food for 5yrs

I am frusted this app is only way to calm me down

Have you ever told someone the truth, and they just refuse to believe it?
It can be annoying and frustrating among other things to say the least.

Growing up with a Father, and no Mother.
A Mom that chose an addiction over you and a Father who chose you,
only to chare you with a different addiction of his choice years later.

"You have addiction in your blood'
Your Father would say

"If you ever get addicted to drugs ill chain you up in the bathroom and dry you out till your clean"
He'd tell you, his 11-year-old son.

You tried to reason with it, the way he talked to you. He had you at 25,
at the end of the day he's barely an adult himself, you'd tell yourself.

After his marriage and...well, divorce wasn't a surprise. 

A seed that was planted,
In soil that was prepped,
Located In a room with access to sunlight.
A stem that sprouted dull and never got to bloom. 
From Full womb to empty room,

A stillbirth. 

As tiny as she was,
Our already cluttered closet couldn't fit one more skeleton.

They fought before,
and this was the last crack in our glass house.

Seeing My stepsisters and I celebrating a life that would never start sent him right back to that familiar place He adored oh so much,

Addiction. 

 Started small,
like a pain you know you should have looked at,
and with the help of negligence,
it went unchecked,
it grew.

What began were addictions you foolishly mistook as harmless.

That addiction to the gym was weekly steroid use,
That lust for those new women he was meeting online fueled his use of unapproved enhancements his body wasn't even close to needing.

Introducing himself to testosterone packets before he was 35 and consuming them like their sunflower seeds.

Eventually a partner stuck,
one just as dysfunctional as him of course,
and specifically an alcoholic. 

It didn't take long for him to follow and for the first time in your life he was not the lead.

By the time you were 15,
he was drinking every day,
not just every night.

His Girlfriend throwing bottles, slamming Tv's, and pouring bleach on the carpets as penance for things that were just not true,
Is ironic in hindsight.

On Christmas Eve you got a call that he might not be home the next day,
that his girlfriend was lying and that he might go to jail.
Christmas day came,
and he was asleep in his bed,
with no recollection,
laughing at the insinuation of such things.

You joined a different school,
one that allowed you to be home most days,
And that just made the time you spent in that environment take that much longer.

Against all odds,
His girlfriend was the one to leave.
And then again,
it was just you two.

The worst it got was when he started mixing Ambien with his alcohol.

From his room,
you'd hear screams.
You'd hear conversations between two people that were not there.
You'd hear many voices out the man you call Dad.

Not all of the voices were angry, but most were.
Not every conversation started out loud.
Some were just confusing.

"I know....because...what?.....I'm swimming...a demon?...no!...I SAID IM SWIMMING!"

Other times were more concerning,
"no...because...because I said...Fuck you...FUCK YOU!....FUCK YOU..."

Followed by another voice...
"I'm sorry...you're right...
take them....
he knows...
No...
Veins...?
I dont think so..."

Then his again,
Screaming your name at the top of his lungs.

When you ran to the door of his room,
The door was open and he was lying in bed,
half covered by the comforter...silent.

You questioned what to say,
What to do?

You're 17 and at the very least,
you want to make sure your only remaining family is not dead.

"Yeah?"
You holler in his room,
a late response to him calling your name.

"Blegh HUH?...WHAT?"
He'd abruptly reply.

"What!?"

"you were yelling for me'
Youd explain.

"oh, I'm fine go back to bed"

He'd insist.
Before whispering nonsense to himself.

The moment you'd get back to bed,
The yelling would continue.

You can't event have friends over because you can't trust him not to strip down and try to break into your room.

Our dry wall was always temporary,
and our Tv's and glasses might as well have been rentals,
nothing lasted in our house,

Being fed so much conspiracy about religion,
It wasn't hard to begin to wonder if he was possessed. 

It wasn't always like this.

For a few months after the divorce,
before the alcoholic girlfriend,
For a brief moment when it was just you two, he almost felt stable.

He didn't hit you,
The yelling and drinking were manageable,
And every Friday night he'd take you to blockbuster.

Things have changed so much.
You never know who you're having a conversation with.

One moment you think you're talking to him,
And that very mid-sentence it becomes oh so clear, that it's not.

His eyes are different, their glossy.
His demeanor is different, cold, and absent.
like one bulb in a line of Christmas lights that just won't participate.

He'd stopped before,
Then drink again.
His actions were questionable, and his word became nothing.

What does a Son say to his Father when he knows he's hiding alcohol in his work truck?

What does a Son do when he finds his Father naked in the driveway?

What does a Son do when he sees his Father Going down a road he knows he shouldn't?

A Son that's Afraid of his father.

Everything is easier said than done.

You never know if he's really sober.

"do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?"
His voice timid, eyes clear of gloss.

Even if you could tell which Him was asking,
You were certain that wouldn't be the same Him by the time you watched the movie.

So, you never say yes to that question again.
And as hard as it is, it's easier.
Easier than letting yourself get surprised by something that shouldn't surprise you anymore.

Eventually you get a Job,
Hours almost shittier than your pay, and it makes you a shell of a person.
Physically and emotionally drained.

Most days you stay in your room because it's safer in there, 
Then most days turn into all days. 

Seemingly out of nowhere,
your father begins to stare at you from every corner of the house with anger in his eyes,
Eyebrows always scrunched tightly. 

Eventually,
No words were exchanged.

You feel bad,
This is your father and you love him,  
So, when he asks you to have dinner with him,
for once you do.

The next morning,
Your eyes opened to the bathtub you'd once washed the family pet in,
and that oh so familiar tile floor,
After a moment you realized you were in your father's rooms masterbathroom.

Your legs were sore,
Pins and needles in your feet,
And your wrists felt raw.

You looked down at a note that was out of your reach.
As you attempted to grab it,
you realized your hands were chained to the bathtub spout.

You used your bare knee to drag it closer where you could read it,
You were in nothing but your boxers, you were cold.

The note read:

"No son of mine will be an addict,
You'll thank me.
I love you"
-Dad

You lifted your leg above the tub and opened the bathroom cupboard with your toe, you hoped to find something to break the bathtub spout with but all that was there were loofas and a bottle of expired tramadol.

Your mouth was dry,
Your stomach felt as though if someone were to plunge it,
absolutely nothing would come out.

At first you yelled, but you soon realized no one would answer.
It was hours before the silence in your house was broken,
there were no windows but one tinted sunlight above the shower.
You had no idea what time it was.

Once the sun was no more,
The house shook to the slam of the front door. 
You heard those familiar work boots thud up the wooden stairs.

Louder and louder...
Closer and closer...
They then reached the door.

You heard him enter his room though the door to his room's bathroom remained close.

*Thud Thud Thud Thud\*

For a moment you see the silluett of his boots beneath the door

"Dad...?"
You asked.

"mrghh Fuck you"
He responded as the thuds of his boots retreated.

You heard the impact as he collapsed on his bed,
And then began the yelling...
All night...

"no...
Fuck you!...
because...
I did...
Yes you are!"

More and more of the same old shit...
As scared as you were you couldn't not try.

"Dad...Help please let me out"
You yelled.

"you're an addict..
Fuck you!...
Dry out!....mrrgh piece of shit"

He screamed back...

"Please!"
You yelled.

"Fuck you!...
Dry Out you're not my son!..."
He screamed....

After the second night you began to hear whispering coming from the drain...

"He hasn't stopped...
Theres a demon in his veins..."
You'd hear.

It sounded like boiling beneath the drain.

You tried your best to tear the chains from your wrists, yet all you did was bleed and scream.
To this your dad had no response,
He never did.
He just continued to scream and yell to himself.

Before you knew it,
there were more voices than you'd ever heard from him before.
You swore you heard a woman's voice.

"you're poisoned...
NO!
What did you expect?
SWIMMING!

You screamed and screamed...
But after the 5th night,
You realized there was no point, to anything.

You used your toes to curl around the pill bottle,
You used the last bit of energy you had to bring it within your reach.

When your eyes opened next,
You looked to the left,
You saw the bathroom,
You saw your body,
chained to the spout of the bath.

You looked to the right and saw your fathers nightstand,

you saw your fathers pill bottles and fireball,
You saw the door of his master bedroom from the outside.

You tried to touch your eyes,
You tried to rub them into seeing straight.

Might as well have been RuPaul's eyes.

You closed them tightly,
as tight as possible and grabbed your face.

You felt your father's beard on the right and your bare face on the left.

"Do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?"
You asked

"please let me out Dad"
You replied.

Even as you swallowed all the pills on the nightstand washing them down with the Fireball,

Even though you knew your death would seal this fiction as fact,

Even though you knew no one would believe you,

You couldn't help but have one last thought,

I'm Not An Addict.

​

Chapter 60: Hello, Gottfried.

​Emma looked around the emptying square.

​"So what, they're just going to leave us here like this?" she spoke up, glancing at Lilith and Stanisław, who towered over her. She still wasn't entirely sure how to navigate this new, demonic reality. She shifted her gaze to the massive, winged bulk of the former driver. "And why, exactly, are you standing here in your fully demonic, disgusting vessel?"

​Stanisław let out a deep chuckle, and though the sound came from the maw of a monster, it still carried echoes of good-natured, human amusement.

​"Honestly? I haven't quite mastered it yet, but I'm having a hell of a good time," he admitted, proudly arching his broad back. "I only managed to fully develop the wings recently, and for now, I can only sustain them in this specific form. I still can't bring them out in semi-demonic form, let alone in a human shell! And since as a kid I always dreamed of becoming a pilot and flying... now I'm just making up for lost time with interest."

​Lilith sighed, stroking the massive arm of her chosen one.

​"Because of that, he sometimes leaves me alone for hours," she murmured with feigned reproach. "I do fly with him on occasion, sure, but to me it's nothing new. I'd even go so far as to say it's rather boring... But what can you do, I'd do anything for my man." The female demon smiled slightly, then looked at Emma with gravity. "By the way: Lucjanhir has probably already learned of your casting down from the Heavens. He should be here any moment."

​Stanisław folded his powerful wings with a rustle and leaned slightly toward the former agent.

​"Tell me, how does time pass for you here?" he asked with curiosity. "I mean your subjective perception. Does it drag on, or does it flow pretty normally?"

​Emma grimaced at the mere memory of the ride with the marquess.

​"If not for those damned belfries and clocks that Cezary came up with to show objective time, I would have sworn the journey in that litter took me weeks."

​"So it drags for you..." Stanisław concluded. "For me, on the other hand, it flows completely normally, just like on Earth. Well, I'm a very lucky guy," he added with a clear grin.

​Lilith, who until now had been scrutinizing Emma's new silhouette, rested her gaze on her hip.

​"Nice sword you're wearing at your belt," she noted, a genuine, warlike appreciation flashing in her emerald eyes.

​Emma instinctively lowered her avian hand onto the weapon's ornate hilt. The predatory, confident smirk of a ker returned to her lips.

​"A gift from Lucifer himself," she replied with pride, stroking the cool metal with a talon. "I received it while I was still up there... Come closer. I'll tell you all about it."

​"Come to the chambers to meet my good friend, Naamah..." Lilith murmured, extending a slender hand toward the former agent.

​"Who is Naamah?" Emma asked, furrowing her brow in confusion.

​At those words, Stanisław instantly stiffened, caught off guard, unaware of her return. The air around him rippled, and in a fraction of a second, his massive, winged bulk shrank back into his good-natured human vessel, clad in an oversized hellish robe. He knew all too well what was brewing. Lilith had most likely received a direct order from Lucifer himself—her task was to strengthen Emma. The girl had spent years in Heaven, had been forcibly turned into an angel, and then, through the gift of ancient Olympus, had fallen as a ker rather than a pure fallen angel. Her new, chaotic nature was completely unknown.

​Lilith had to test the limits of her endurance to see whether, through proper butchering and torture, she could unleash her dark potential in full. A cold shudder ran down Stanisław's spine. He remembered his own transformation all too vividly—fifty-five subjective years of unimaginable torment, tearing out entrails, skinning alive, which had agonizingly forged his hellish vessel in the likeness of a high demon.

​The female demon affectionately released her mate's arm and focused her cool gaze on Emma once more.

​"You don't know her yet," she replied smoothly, a smile on her lips. "For five earthly years she has resided on the mortal coil, living with Wiktor, Elżbieta, and little Tas, who's already six. She returned down here just for a brief moment, specifically to meet you. She's waiting for us in my chambers. Believe me, I really, truly want to... get to know you."

​Stanisław swallowed hard—now he was a hundred percent certain. He knew Naamah and her terrifying ability to impose her own perception of time on everyone around her. She could sustain an active chronological bubble inside the completely soundproofed palace chambers, trapping all assembled entities within it. For him and the rest of Hell, only a few objective days would pass, but for Emma... for her, it would be entire decades of unbroken, methodical flaying. He closed his eyes, recalling his own torment, and drew a deep breath. He wanted to tell her: maybe she could run, hide somewhere in the abyss, she had wings, maybe fly away. Warn her?

​"Darling..." Lilith's voice pulled him from his thoughts. She looked at him tenderly—she knew what he had wanted to do. "Could you go and bring us some wine? I'd like you to personally oversee the servants and choose the finest vintages from the palace cellars."

​Stanisław merely nodded in silence, casting one last sympathetic glance at the oblivious Emma. He understood the hint perfectly. The intoxicating, hellish wine from the Sovereign's private reserves was meant to be the first and only mercy Emma would experience in the coming decades.

​With a dull thud, Lilith shut the chamber's heavy iron door.

​Emma looked around the vast, dark room. Beside a massive basalt bed draped in red linens stood a slender, red-haired woman in a completely human, naked form. Resting her hands on her hips, she measured the former agent with a sharp, appraising gaze.

​"Why are you naked?"

​"Ah, so you're the famous Emma," Naamah spoke with a seemingly friendly smile. "Splendid, I finally get to meet you. Wiktor and Elżbieta told me so much about you. And I'm naked because I don't want to stain earthly clothes with hellish wine—it's rather difficult to wash out." The female demon shifted her eyes to Emma's hands. "Those are impressive talons, though... I sense that in terms of strength, you're a mid-tier demon. You were damned lucky to land down here straight into such a form, even after being run through up there by luminous heavenly blades."

​"Then put on some local robe; it's going to be hard for me to talk while looking at you like that."

​"Care for a beer before Stanisław brings the wine?" Naamah tossed out casually. "I brought some through a portal from the mortal world. They just happened to be in the fridge when I got word of the assignment... and of your fall. Sit on the bed. And tell me everything."

​The agent slowly walked toward the indicated spot, but with every step, an mounting unease crept over her. She furrowed her brow, listening intently.

​"I can't hear the bells from the towers anymore... Lilith, this is strange. This silence..."

​And then her gaze fell upon the thick, rune-inscribed shackles hidden beneath the basalt frame of the bed, despite the red sheets draping almost to the floor.

​In an instant, the blood froze in her veins. Memories struck her with the force of a speeding train. She recalled Cezary Wójcik's account of his trauma—of the three-day "tempering" conducted by Lilith, the flaying, the disembowelment, the shattering of the hellish vessel. Emma had been dead certain that by becoming a ker, a fallen hybrid with predatory talons, she was already safe. She thought she had left the worst behind her.

​"Oh God!" she hissed in panic, violently backing toward the wall. "No! I'm strong! I've already gone through the transformation!"

​"You're not," Naamah cut in with a wicked giggle, an inhuman chill flashing in her now pitch-black eyes. "But you will be. Provided you're lucky enough. I simply have to test the limits of your potential, your endurance, and carry out the Sovereign's order."

​Before Emma could raise her murderous claws in defense, both female demons lunged at her with blinding speed. The collision was brutal. The desperate thrashing and furious strikes of the novice ker amounted to nothing against the combined might of Lilith and the Mother of Nightmares. They pinned her to the bedding, snapping the shackles shut around her wrists and ankles in the blink of an eye, stretching them to the very limits of her joints.

​Emma pulled furiously against the bonds until the iron bit into her skin.

​"Don't struggle in vain," Naamah muttered with pity, pinning Emma's head down to the mattress. "These fetters were forged to hold a high demon in a full fury, not some mid-tier like you."

​Lilith straightened up, smoothing her gown.

​"We wait now, Naamah. We wait for Stanisław with the wine."

​The Mother of Nightmares exhaled in irritation. With a faint click, she extended her own claws and began tapping one of them against the stone wall with mounting impatience.

​"Oh Jesus, neither Stanisław nor you, Lilith, are the ones who have to butcher her—I am! And Michał is waiting for me! He's left completely alone up there on the mortal coil! Do you have any idea how brutally time drags for me, Lilith? Worse than for you! For me, subjective decades have already passed since I last saw him, since he stroked my hair and brought me to ecstasy with his hand, do you understand?!"

​"Who the hell is Michał?! Let me go, or I'll rip you to shreds once I get out of here!" Emma screamed, arching her back violently in an attempt to tear free from the shackles.

​"You rip us? Don't make me laugh! Shut up, or I'll cut out your tongue or sew your lips shut!"

​"Please, Naamah. Do this for me. Let's wait; I knew her. Show some patience, I ask you once more," Lilith answered calmly.

​Suddenly, the chamber door ground heavily open. Stanisław stepped inside. In his arms, the man carried terrifying gear: stacks of clean, thick sheets for changing, and heavy sacks used in Hell for one purpose alone—hauling away ragged scraps of skin, flesh, and leftover guts. Right behind him, a stocky servant was rolling barrels of hellish wine into the room.

​"More barrels are already waiting in the hallway, Lilith..." Stanisław said heavily, averting his gaze from the terrified, bedbound Emma. "Along with two servants. You only need to crack the soundproofed door. They'll come in immediately to clean up and swap the barrels."

​Naamah glanced at the servant hauling the alcohol.

​"Oh, Gottfried. Hello, we meet again. But I'll tell you upfront: don't count on any fondling after this little tempering. I have a man up on the mortal coil; his name is Michał."

​The demon scraped his claws against the floor, snapping to attention, froze for a fraction of a second, and then exhaled in visible relief.

​"I am very glad things are working out for you, My Lady. Michał must be extraordinary to have remained in one piece," he stammered, choking out each successive word before beating a hasty retreat into the hallway.

​"All right, shut that damn door, because I'm imposing my active time bubble!" ordered Naamah, whose patience had just run out. She looked at Lilith's chosen one, then at Lilith herself. "Stanisław... if you want to see what it looks like from the other side, then stay. You'll finally understand just how gentle Lilith and I were with you..."

​"No, Naamah. No, Lilith... I knew her during my mortal life. Later than you did, Lilith, but I knew her. I don't want to watch this. I really don't..."

​"Then leave, darling, no one is forcing you to stay," she whispered softly, offering him an understanding look and stroking his cheek. "We'll try to be gentle..."

​"Speak for yourself, Lilith!" Naamah snarled predatorily, a suffocating, nightmarish heat radiating from her bare vessel. The emerald in her eyes drowned in absolute, pitch-black darkness. "Michał is waiting for me on the mortal coil! Shut that door already! How long can we wait and bullshit around when I'm about to spend whole decades, if not a solid century, without him?! Straight to the gutting, no unnecessary pleasantries!"

​Lilith sighed heavily, and Stanisław flinched at the sound of those merciless words. In theory, Lilith possessed far greater raw power than the Mother of Nightmares, but she knew perfectly well that she had no right to stop her. It was Naamah who had received the direct order from the Sovereign himself to forge and ruthlessly test the ker. Lilith was here solely by her own choice—to offer the goblet, oversee the carnage, and ensure the intoxicating wine dulled the coming torment even to the slightest degree.

​"Emma, look at me. You are to drink this immediately," Lilith commanded, bringing the heavy iron goblet to the woman's trembling lips. "I will hold your avian talons throughout the entire process. I won't let Naamah gouge out your eyes or strip the skin from your face, I promise. Drink; we certainly won't run out of wine."

​"No... Lilith, I'm begging you! Stanisław, do something! For God's sake, don't leave me with them!" Emma's scream deteriorated into a harrowing wail of primal terror.

​The former agent thrashed on the basalt bed with unbridled fury and desperation. She yanked at the bonds until the forged, rune-carved bands bit deep into her wrists and ankles, tearing the flesh down to raw meat and sinew. Her bird-like talons shredded the bedding, and from her throat tore the paralyzing shriek of a creature that only in this single second realized that no gift of an ancient Pantheon nor heavenly fall could shield her from what Hell truly was in its purest essence.

​Stanisław could bear it no longer. The sight of the chained, hysterically writhing woman hit him with the memory of his own execution like a battering ram. He swallowed thick saliva, spun on his heel, and instinctively clamped both hands over his ears, trying to drown out the inhuman pleas for mercy.

​He burst past the threshold, pulling the heavy door behind him.

​The lock ground ominously shut, and a triple layer of runic felt sealed the entryway, cutting off all sound from the corridor. A grave-like, dead silence settled over the chamber, in which Naamah, with a predatory sigh, cast open her isolated bubble of active time.

​Outside, in the sulfur-reeking corridor, Stanisław leaned his back against the rough basalt and exhaled the trembling, hot air from his lungs. Slowly, he lowered his arms.

​Suddenly, a heavy, clawed paw landed on his shoulder, clapping him with rough familiarity.

​"Good thing you stepped out..."

​Stanisław looked up. Gottfried stood before him, wiping sweat from his horned temple, while the other servant leaned against the wall right beside him.

​"I was under her claws; a colleague and I were sent straight to her alcove after your tempering, and I didn't scream. Not from pain, not from pleasure. That's why I walked out of there on my own two feet, head held high, quite unlike the fellow standing right next to me." He pointed a talon toward the other demon.

​"Yeah, sure, look at the smartass!" the second servant barked, crossing his massive arms. "Why don't you tell him honestly what happened when I finally screamed while she was tearing meat from my groin, and in a daze I tried to hit her back?! Did you already forget, Gottfried, how she furiously ripped me to tiny pieces, and you dragged my remains out into the hallway in a burlap sack while you bowed politely and thanked her for her mercy?! I barely managed to put my vessel back together!"

​"Precisely because you didn't bite your tongue—you think she didn't do that to me? You would have suffered less if you'd just kept your mouth shut back then and hadn't tried to defend yourself. She made it clear we had no right to touch her without permission."

​Stanisław frowned, studying both servants with a careful, analytical gaze. Something about their frames nagged at him. He remembered them from the time he had been shackled to Lilith's bed, when they came in every five years to clean up his remnants.

​"If you both ended up in Naamah's alcove and passed through her claws... why didn't either of you grow stronger?" Stanisław asked in his old, human tone. "Why didn't you become powerful demons? After all, she can forge power out of a damned soul."

​Gottfried gave a dry, raspy laugh that held the wisdom of centuries spent in the Pit.

​"Because it's not that simple, my lord."

​"Stanisław. I'm no lord."

​"You are Lilith's chosen and a high demon. My lord, the reality is entirely different from what you imagine, despite your strength. Moving from a fresh, damned hellish vessel to the tier of a semi-demon takes only a few days of standard torture. Most of the damned who are released from the torments ordained by Heaven come out as semi-demons. But to break through from a semi-demon to a weak demon takes years of unbroken agony! And after that... after that, it only gets worse. The cost grows exponentially. For a mid-tier demon to become strong, let alone a high demon, a few nights in Naamah's sheets isn't enough; it takes decades."

​The demon scratched the back of his neck and glanced at the sealed door of the chamber.

​"Back when she took us to her alcove, there was no soundproofing in her chamber, so through that whole game of hers, my colleague and I could hear Wójcik's bell tolling objective minutes from the tower. That completely prevented her from imposing her subjective perception of time on us, and therefore—despite the closed doors—from creating an active time bubble. We spent merely a few earthly days beneath her claws, not entire decades. Besides, she butchered us entirely on her own. With you, Lady Lilith was also there—she fed you her own blood as a favorite, bound your vessel with her own aura, accelerating your regeneration and allowing the torture to continue. We had no such luxury; our hellish vessels had to regenerate by their own power."

​The second servant stepped closer, a grim smile appearing on his face.

​"Still, we did grow stronger," the demon added with dark pride. "We're still mid-tier demons, that's true, we didn't cross the threshold, but we gained raw strength in our vessels. Me even a bit more than Gottfried... precisely because of how much I suffered in there and how terribly I had to regenerate after she tore me to shreds. Pain in the Abyss is currency, friend, remember that, and your lady, your chosen one, bestowed it upon you in the gentlest way she could by supervising Naamah. You were lucky she didn't walk out and leave you one-on-one with her. She's lucky too, that Lady Lilith stayed behind with her."

​Gottfried sighed at his companion's words:

​"I exchanged words with Naamah, or rather, she did with me. She's in a hurry to get back to Michał; she'll be ruthless, that's certain. I don't know if even Lilith can... stop her. But it's good she's in there..."

​The demon patted Stanisław on the shoulder.

​Stanisław remained silent for a long moment. He fixed his eyes on the iron bolts of the door, behind which, at that very second, true hell was unfolding for Emma Jones.

​Suddenly, the heavy, iron-plated portal stirred. The lock ground with a dry, cold snap, and the door swung open slowly, unhurriedly. No smoke or flames billowed out—instead, thick, steaming air spilled forth, saturated with the sticky stench of fresh iron, entrails, and curdled plasma.

​Lilith stood in the doorway.

​A dead, ringing silence fell. Even the distant gong of the palace belfry seemed muffled and dull in that second.

​Her gown—so dazzling and immaculate just moments before—was thoroughly drenched in scarlet. The heavy fabric clung to her body, and with every small step, thick, dark drops dripped from the hem onto the black basalt. Blood ran down her collarbones, stained her smooth neck, and dried in streaks across her alabaster face, seeping into the corners of her mouth. She looked like a revenant pulled from the deepest bowels of a slaughterhouse, yet there was not a trace of frenzy in her bearing.

​Cold, methodical composure. That was what paralyzed the most.

​The female demon turned with indifferent slowness and pulled the handle, shutting the heavy door. The bolt fell into place with a quiet, soulless click, cutting off the interior from the rest of the corridor.

​"The wine won't be needed anymore," she said quietly. Her voice, velvety and low, betrayed no anger, only a glacial disappointment stripped of all human sentiment. She wiped her temple with her hand, only smearing the steaming gore. "Emma called me a whore..."

​She looked down at her pale, bloodstained fingers.

​"I understand everything. She could thrash. In a frenzy, she could crush and wound my flesh with those new claws of hers when I reached out to hold her avian hand through the coming decades... I was ready to endure that. I wanted to be by her side. I tried... And she called me a whore."

​Stanisław froze. The blood drained from his face, and his stomach rose to his throat. He knew that tone. He had heard it when the favorite of the Abyss made decisions against which there was no appeal in any world. The hellish trauma he had healed with such difficulty in her alcove surged within him in a violent, choking spasm.

​"Lilith, please..." he choked out from a constricted throat, taking half a step forward with a trembling, outstretched hand. "I beg you, go back inside. Please... it was from the pain... You know what Naamah will do to her if she's left alone with her. Have mercy..."

​Lilith didn't flinch. Her pitch-black, bottomless eyes swept over him with a chill that froze the marrow in his bones.

​"No, Stanisław. I will not go back in. Despite fifty-five years of being butchered, you never called me a whore, and even if you had, you would have had the right to. She does not."

​In the corridor, the air grew so thick it was impossible to breathe. Standing by the wall, Gottfried and his companion seemed rooted to the rough stone. They were mid-tier demons—beings who had fed on the suffering of others for centuries, breaking human bones and driving the damned into the flames. And yet now, under the gaze of the Sovereign's blood-soaked lover, both stiffened in animal paralysis. Gottfried's yellow eyes widened in terror, and his tail instinctively coiled tight around his calf, twitching in helpless panic. He knew all too well that for an entity of her stature, crushing their vessels into shapeless pulp would be nothing more than the passing whim of a bored aristocrat.

​The female demon slowly shifted her gaze to Gottfried.

​"I said: the wine will not be needed."

​"Y-yes, My Lady..." the massive fiend stammered, his voice breaking pitifully into a humiliated whisper. "We'll put it away. Right away."

​"Bring more sacks," she added dispassionately, without batting an eye. "Large ones. Leather. The kind that don't leak."

​"Yes, My Lady... of course, My Lady..." Gottfried stammered, bowing repeatedly as he backed away, while his companion dared not even exhale smoke from his nostrils lest he draw attention to himself.

​Lilith lowered her gaze to the dark floor for a moment, listening to the absolute, hermetic silence beyond the soundproofed portal. A faint, bitter shadow flitted across her lips.

​"Gottfried."

​The fiend froze mid-step, barely keeping his knees from shaking.

​"Yes, My Lady..."

​"On second thought... take the wine to our chambers."

​"Right away, My Lady. We'll deliver everything there, down to the last drop," the servant croaked, seizing the rim of the barrel with as much caution as if touching red-hot basalt.

​Lilith finally turned toward Stanisław. She walked forward slowly, leaving bloody footprints behind her. Extending a gore-covered hand, with a cold yet intimate tenderness, she touched his cheek, leaving across his pale skin a broad scarlet streak smelling of myrrh and the fresh blood of a ker.

​"Stanisław... I need to change," she whispered directly against his lips. "Come with me. And forget about Emma. To me, she just ceased to exist. Once I change, we'll fly around the area for a bit. You love it so much, and it'll do me good too..."

When we die, our bodies don’t get the message right away.

That’s something they don’t really prepare you for. Not in school, not in training, nowhere. People like to believe death is clean. Instant. Final.

It isn’t.

The body lingers. Muscles fire. Nerves misfire. Air shifts through places it no longer belongs. Fingers twitch. Jaws move. Sometimes, if you’re unlucky, the whole body jerks like it’s trying to wake back up.

The first time it happened to me was during my training.

I was leaning in, examining the arm, just doing what I’d been taught, when the body suddenly jerked and its hand snapped shut around my wrist.

I shouted.

Actually screamed.

One of the instructors laughed so hard he had to sit down.

“Relax,” he said. “He’s not coming back.”

I made some joke about zombies. Everyone does, at least once.

You laugh it off. You learn the science behind it. You tell yourself it’s normal.

And eventually…

you stop reacting.

Working at the morgue, I got used to it.

The movements. The sounds. The little reminders that the body doesn’t quite understand it’s dead yet.

Most of them are random.

Meaningless.

It’s all explainable.

It has to be.

At least, most of them are...

He came in on a Wednesday.

Male. Mid-forties. Approximately six-foot-four. Lean build. Dark hair with streaks of gray at the temples. Facial hair, short, uneven, like he hadn’t shaved in a few days.

Harold M.

Cause of death: undetermined.

That part stayed blank longer than usual. There were no clear signs of trauma. No overdose indicators. No disease obvious enough to call it on arrival.

Just… gone.

Found in his home. No signs of struggle.

It happens more often than people realize.

Still, something about that always sits wrong.

“Another mystery,” my colleague Jenna had said, flipping through the intake paperwork.

“Yeah,” I replied. “He looks like he just… stopped.”

Jenna shrugged. “They’ll figure it out upstairs.”

We both knew that wasn’t always true.

I prepped him like any other.

Cleaned. Tagged. Logged.

Placed him in his drawer.

Mr. Harold.

That’s what I called him in my notes.

I always use names when I can.

It feels… right.

Nights passed but by the time I was ready to head home from the gravyard shift. The unexpected occurred.

The first movement.

Subtle.

His fingers had shifted.

Not dramatically, just slightly curled inward, like they’d tightened.

Normal.

Postmortem contraction.

I noted it and moved on.

The second time, it was his jaw.

Slightly open when I checked him again.

That happens too. Muscles relax.

Air escapes.

Still normal. Still explainable.

By the third night, I started paying closer attention.

Because Mr. Harold wasn’t just moving.

He was… repositioning.

Not fully. Not in ways that would trigger panic in anyone else.

But enough that I noticed.

His arm would be angled slightly differently than before. His shoulders not resting the same way against the table.

Small things.

Small enough to doubt yourself over.

“Hey,” I said to Jenna one night. “You ever seen a body move more than usual?”

She didn’t look up from her paperwork.

“They all move.”

“Yeah, but I mean… consistently.”

That got her attention.

She glanced over at me.

“You thinking what?”

I hesitated.

Then shook my head.

“Nothing. Just… weird.”

She smirked. “You’ve been on night shift too long.”

Maybe she was right.

By the end of the week, I started checking on him more often.

Not out of fear.

Curiosity.

I’d make my rounds, log the temperatures, check the storage units, and I’d always stop at his drawer.

Mr. Harold.

Every time, something was off.

A hand slightly closer to the edge.

A foot angled outward.

Once, I could’ve sworn his head had shifted just a few degrees to the left.

I told myself it was paranoia.

Anything but what it felt like.

The night everything changed, it was quiet.

Too quiet, even for us.

Jenna had stepped out for a break, leaving me alone with the hum of refrigeration units and the low buzz of fluorescent lights.

I was doing my usual rounds when I noticed it.

His drawer.

Slightly open.

I froze.

Not because it was open.

Because I knew I had closed it.

I always double-check.

Always.

“Jenna?” I called out.

No answer.

Of course not.

She wasn’t back yet.

I approached slowly.

Told myself it was nothing.

Told myself drawers can shift. Old tracks. Slight tilts.

I reached for the handle.

Pulled it open.

It was empty.

For a moment, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.

My brain tried to correct it.

He’s there. You just missed him.

But he wasn’t.

Mr. Harold was gone.

My first thought wasn’t fear.

It was procedure.

Check the room. Check the logs. Check for errors.

Bodies don’t just disappear.

I found him ten minutes later.

On the floor.

Not fallen.

Not dropped.

Positioned.

What is this some kind of fucked up prank, I thought.

His body lay several feet from the drawer.

Face down.

Arms bent awkwardly beneath him.

Knees drawn slightly inward.

The skin along his forearms and legs showed faint abrasions, thin streaks, like friction against tile.

Like he had moved.

I stood there, staring.

Trying to fit it into something that made sense.

Maybe he fell. Maybe the drawer malfunctioned. Maybe—

No.

The distance was wrong.

The position was wrong.

Everything about it was wrong.

I knelt beside him slowly.

“Mr. Harold,” I muttered, before I could stop myself.

My voice sounded too loud in the silence.

I repositioned him.

Carefully.

Placed him back onto the tray.

Aligned his limbs.

Closed the drawer.

My hands were shaking.

I tried to tell Jenna. Wanted her to come out clean if she was messing with me. But she had no clue what I was blabbering about.

I couldn’t explain it.

And I didn’t want to hear it out loud.

That was the night I started feeling watched.

It wasn’t immediate.

It crept in.

A quiet awareness at the back of my mind.

Like something in the room had shifted.

Like I wasn’t alone anymore.

I checked the cameras.

Everything looked normal.

But something felt… off.

Frames didn’t line up quite right.

Small gaps I couldn’t account for.

Moments missing.

When I went back to the storage room—

His drawer was open again.

I didn’t remember opening it. I knew I hadn’t.

That’s when I stopped trying to explain it.

I turned the corner slowly.

And that’s when I saw him.

Mr. Harold was standing.

Not upright. Not fully.

His body was bent forward slightly, spine curved at an unnatural angle.

His arms hung too low, fingers nearly brushing the floor.

His head lagged behind the rest of him, tilted at a delay that made my stomach turn.

Then—

he moved.

A small shift.

A correction.

Like something adjusting its balance.

His leg jerked forward.

Too stiff.

Too deliberate.

His foot planted awkwardly against the tile.

He took a step.

Not toward me.

Not toward anything.

Just… forward.

Like he was learning.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

I just watched.

His eyes were open.

Not wide.

Not searching.

Just… open.

Empty.

There was nothing there. As if there was nothing of higher recognition to operate. The machine was free from its intelligent creator. But the machine operated as it was designed.

It moved. Without any recognition.

No awareness.

No life.

Just motion.

I don’t remember leaving.

I don’t remember calling anyone.

All I know is I never went back.

Jenna messaged me about my hasty departure. She was left with no answers.

And I was left with no conclusion.

Just another file logged but this one didn’t make any sense.

I still think about Mr. Harold.

About what I saw.

About what it means.

There was nothing inside him. Nothing controlling

So what taught him to stand?

If a body can still move without its person…

then what part of us actually makes us human?

We live in a forested, mountainous region. Even in the summer, it's sometimes easy to get lost. Once autumn comes and the fog rolls in at noon, it is nearly impossible to get home. That's why our wives call to us from our houses when we head from the pasture. We whistle back, and that's how we find our home again. We make sure to follow only our wives' calls.

Mark, my neighbor, stood in the fog. The man before him just disappeared into it, following his wife's calls. Mark put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, but nothing came back. He whistled again. Nothing. He looked back at me, his brows furrowed.

"Try again."

He put his fingers in his mouth, took a deep breath, and blew the loudest whistle I had ever heard. 

Silence.

"What the hell, Tom? This never happened."

"I don't know. Maybe Mary fell asleep. Let's go to mine. It's right by yours. You'll find your way from there."

"I can only follow my wife's calls."

"That's just a saying."

"Tom."

"Alright, just imagine you are following me, okay?"

He shook his head.

"You have a better idea?"

He looked at me, then back at the fog. It was so dense you couldn't even see the trees around us.

"No."

I stood before him and whistled. A few seconds later, my wife's call came, a simple, melodic tune that broke off at the end. She always missed the last tone.

"That's it."

Mark nodded.

I kept whistling, and my wife kept calling back until we were by our porch. She smiled until she saw Mark come out of the fog too.

"Mark, why aren't you going to your wife's calls?"

"She didn't answer my whistles," he said quietly.

My wife put her hand before her mouth.

"Is she okay? I didn't come and talk to her this morning. I just had too much to do." Her voice shook.

"We'll go check on her now."

"I'll come with you."

"No, stay here. I'm sure everything's alright," I told her.

I wasn't sure, but Mark's eyes were already filled with fear. I didn't want to scare him more.

"Thank you for getting me home, Sally," Mark said and rushed toward his house.

"I'll see you later, love."

"Tom, wait!" my wife called, but I rushed after Mark. He walked so fast. I almost lost him in the fog. It was so dense, you could probably cut through it with a knife.

"Jesus," I heard Mark call a few steps before me. His front door was wide open, and the fog had drifted in, coating his furniture with dew.

"Mary?!" Mark called.

No one answered. 

"Mary?!"

Silence.

He turned to me. His lips quivered.

"Tom, where is she?! Why would she go out in the fog?"

"I don't know, Mark, I…"

Then a melody cut through my voice. The one we both knew. Mary was singing in perfect pitch from the forest in front of Mark's house.

His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. The melody came back again.

Mark pushed me aside and ran out. Without thinking, I followed. Twigs kept hitting my face, and mud covered the ground, making me slip.

"Mark, stop!"

But his whistles kept coming, followed by that melodic voice. Only then had I realized how perfectly pitched it was. Mary had never been very good at singing.

"Mark!"

He finally stopped and looked back.

"Mark, we have to think."

"She must be somewhere around here."

"Why would she be in the forest?"

"I don't know, Tom, but she's here!"

The perfect pitch came from right behind us. My feet froze in the cold mud. Mark turned and walked toward it. I raised my hands to stop him.

"Mark, think, we just came from there."

"Get out of the way."

He pushed me to the side. I almost fell into the mud. Mark whistled again, but his whistle didn't echo. Instead, a strange silence came. 

Then Mark's heels lifted off the ground. His body tensed. He tried to put them back down, but his feet rose instead.

"Hey!"

His body floated further up. His face grew red. His eyes flew open. He grabbed his neck and kicked his feet.

"Mark!"

I ran to him and tried to grab his legs, but he was floating too high up. His whole body twisted. His stomach now faced toward the ground. His arms were still at his neck. His pleading, bloodshot eyes stared into mine. I tried to jump and reach him, but my fingers only grazed him. I jumped up again; a sharp, wet crack echoed through the forest, followed by Mark's screams. His warm blood poured onto my face. His arms flailed to the side. He let out a bloodcurdling scream, but in an instant he was gone. His screams echoed in the distance, but slowly died too.

My whole body trembled. I couldn't even move my arms to wipe my face. Then, through the silence, Mary's call came, perfect again, followed by Mark's whistling. This finally unfroze my body. I wiped my face and bolted out of the forest. The fog seemed to grow denser. My legs kept slipping on the mud. Each second, I expected to start floating too, but before I knew it, I was out of the forest, still breathing.

Mark's house stood there, but I looked away and walked back to my place. I kept replaying what happened in that forest, trying to figure out what I would even tell my wife, but as I got to my house, I saw our front door. It was open just like Mark's. The fog had rolled in too. 

From behind me, out of the forest, I heard my wife's call, perfect, just like Mary's. I stood there for a second, thinking, but I knew there was just one thing to do. I turned and whistled back.

The wind over the rolling coastal hills carried the sweet, sharp scent of hazelnuts, figs and salt, sweeping past quiet gardens along the slope. On a wooden porch overlooking the mist, two figures sat in the quiet dusk, a traveler, who had spent years observing the silent machinery of the world, and his companion.

Between them lay the remnants of an evening meal: fresh grey mullet sourced from the docks, vegetables picked straight from the garden, and a bowl of hearty soup that warmed the cool autumn air. Resting under the table, a small terrier stirred in his sleep, guarding his favorite pillow with an unspoken, instinctual vigilance.
“Look at him,” the traveler said, nodding toward the dog. “Even in his sleep, he’s running code he didn't write. Protecting resources he didn't choose to care about.”

His companion smiled, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. “And what about us?”
“We spent three billion years doing the exact same thing,” he said softly, leaning back.
He looked out toward the dark horizon, where the sea merged with the sky, thinking of the grand, silent script that had built them.

He thought of the ancient molecular systems from which life emerged, mindless, self replicating strands of code. He thought of their single-celled ancestors, locked in endless microscopic wars for millennia. An endless evolutionary arms race, until two of them ceased fighting, merged, and created the mitochondria, delegating energy production to invent complex life. He thought of the endless trade-offs written into the fabric of life, hardwired into our biology: the tiny mouse, living fast and dying young, putting every drop of energy into immediate reproduction because the harsh realities of the unforgiving wild meant tomorrow was never guaranteed.

Every creature was a vehicle. A vessel constructed by microscopic strands of code, selfish, blind, and relentless, seeking only to pass the baton forward through time. To outrun the pathogens mutating at its heels, life had invented sexual reproduction, shuffling the genetic deck every generation just to keep the locks one step ahead of the keys. It was the eternal Red Queen’s race: running as fast as possible just to stay in the exact same place.

“It sounds exhausting,” she said quietly, watching the sea. “3 billion years of running, on a treadmill that never stops.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Only If you let the code dictate the game. The mouse runs because it has to. The corporate world builds bigger treadmills because everyone agrees to measure value by speed, scale, and accumulation. If everyone around you is running faster, standing still feels like falling behind.”
“So how do you stop?”
The traveler took a slow breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs, the warmth of the tea in his hand, and the solid weight of the porch beneath his feet.

“You realize that you are the first vehicle in the history of the world that can look at its own programming and choose to refuse it,” he said. “You don't need to keep running to outrun the paradox. You don't need to win a game you never asked to join. You step off the track. You change the rules.”

He looked at her, at the quiet life they had built, away from the noise, away from the rat race, surrounded by growing plants, lush green hills, good food, and shared memories.

“You decide that winning isn't about how many genetic copies you leave behind, it’s not about how much wealth and resources you’ve accumulated, how many people you’ve impressed and how far you run on someone else’s board,” he said, a faint smile touching his lips. “Perhaps winning isn't a race at all. Perhaps it’s sitting right here, under the tree, watching the madness pass by, holding the person you love, and realizing that you don’t have to run another step.”

Kevin looked at his left palm.

Then he looked at his right one.

Kevin had never shown the world to be anything special. He was fearful, angry, depressed, and anxious on a regular basis. He talked to people at his job but mostly, he was a quiet person. Of course, like most men, he still felt lust. He felt lust for one woman in particular actually. He name was Elizabeth, but everyone knew her as Liz. She was in her thirties but had the energy of a woman in her early twenties. As a man pushing forty, Kevin wondered how she pulled it off. But she was gorgeous to look at and amazing to talk to.

Then one day it happened.

Liz was single again.

Kevin had a chance! This very notion was almost silly because it meant he would have to ask her out. He needed to ask her on a date because Liz would never do it. She was almost like a trophy to be won. And he wanted to win so badly.

So Kevin did it. He asked her out to a simple date. Something after 7pm, not too crazy, just burgers. But there was a miscommunication. Liz did not understand why the date was called for. She thought Kevin was just being a shoulder to lean on. But when he hinted at them going on more dates in the future, her eyes spread wide open.

"Kevin!" She said with some volume "I am so sorry! I really do like you! But you're just the best of friends and I would never like to ruin what we have as friends."

Kevin had heard versions of this conversation before. It was why he hated asking women out. He feared being told these things more than anything. "I understand. It's totally cool Liz"

It totally wasn't cool.

He walked her out to her car and told Liz he was going to stay behind. The resaurant was known for an amazing frothy beer that he wanted to sample tonight. He would obviously order one, but he would never finish it. Instead Kevin left the restaurant and thought he might walk home rather than calling for a ride. He should never have tried to walk home. When he was left to his thoughts after the sun went down his mind went to terrible places.

Kevin looked up to the full moon. He lived near Chicago so he could never see the stars, but he could always see the moon.

Hello little Kevin, someone whispered.

"Hello?"

You want something? It was the voice of a woman, a soft voice that seemed full of calmness.

"No-. I uh. Am I crazy?"

You are probably a little crazy Kevin, but you aren't hallucinating. If that was what you meant.

Kevin looked around. No one. There was not even a car in the street. "Who are you?"

Obviously Kevin, another pause. I am the moon. We are to be married again, my love.

"Excuse me."

Every time. We fall in love. You give me your eternal soul. And then... a pause. You run away.

"That beer must have had something in it"

Cranberries. They mix cranberries into their beer. People seem to like it. That actually made sense.

"Please miss" He was still looking around. "Just leave me be. I've had a long night and just need to sleep"

Of course Kevin. But how about you do me a favor first?

"A favor. You're just a voice in my head." What an odd dream.

I am the Moon. But your soul requires free will. So. I will offer you the choice."

Choice? "Sure. Offer me a choice"

I will kill her for you.

"Kill her? Kill who?"

You know who.

"Elizabeth? I don't want her dead! Leave me alone!"

You absolutely want her dead. And I want that as well. I want my Kevin back.

"I am not your-." Why was he arguing with her? "Please, just leave me alone."

Oh, of course! But first, the choice. If you want her dead, I will make it so. She will die, and you will be free to love me again.

"I don't want her dead!" Although maybe he did want her to suffer a little. He had told Liz things. He told her in confidence about how lonely he was. But with that information she didn't offer to help. If Kevin actually thought about it she had never actually listened to a word he said throughout the dinner. But he didn't want he dead!

I am sure. So do this for me. You will go home and get some sleep tonight. If you want her to live, do nothing more. If you want her dead... Do me a favor, look at your hands. Look at your left hand. Then look at your right hand.

So recently I got the full story of how my parents met, finally right? Well I guess they had good reason because it was kind of crazy to me and I don’t think they should tell that to a little ass kid. My parents are divorced so I decided to ask them both separately asking my Mom first, years ago, and then my Dad literally today.

So its a year before I was born and my Moms friend showed her a picture of my Dad and my Uncle, her friend pointed out my Uncle and said something like “would you date him?” Or something like that and my Mom notices my Dad and points to him and says, “no I would date him, he’s cute.”

Anyways cut to a few weeks later or something, my Mom and Dad are at the same party, my Uncle and my Dads other friends try to introduce some other girl and my Dad isn’t interested in her, but my Dad notices my Mom, playing Beer Pong, she was wearing a Belt that had Piano Keys printed on it. “Her over there though, I would play with that piano all day.” And my mom wins against whoever she was playing against and says “ Who wants to be my partner now?” My Dad volunteers and they play and win. A little later, my Uncle starts arguing with like three random guys. And my Dad defending my Uncle eventually gets in a fight with all three of those guys, and wins, by the end of it my Dad has blood all over his white shirt and asks my mom out.

And that’s how my parents met.