Ewg skin deep

I've had a lump on my left wrist since 2020 that has seemingly grown and shrunk slightly, but has never gone away. When I visited my GP in 2020, she told me that its softness meant it wasn't anything to worry about. It's still there, and I've recently started experiencing a dull, deep ache in my wrist around the lump area and along the middle of my forearm. For context, I am a 29 year old female, 5"6 in height and overweight/obese. I'm a non-smoker and non-drinker, only medical diagnoses are asthma and ADHD (the only medicine I take is for asthma and ADHD). I live in the UK.
Description: a soft, squishy, flat lump covering the width of my wrist (approx 2x2 inches). It feels numb to touch, and texturally similar to that of a stress ball (soft, almost rubbery and waterballoon-like. Slightly firm, but bouncy and uniform in regards to shape and size). It feels as if it is sitting beneath my skin and atop my bones, I'm not able to grab and move it around with my fingers, it feels like it's flat against the bone below the skin. It has risen and reduced in size with no apparent cause since I first noticed it, and it appeared after around 6 months of using a FitBit (unsure if it's related, but have recently started wearing a new fitbit again and the lump has gotten bigger).
I've gone down many Google deep dives to try and work out what it is. It looks nothing like a ganglion cyst or carpal tunnel. The closest I can find is X-rays of giant cell tumours. I'm lost for what it might be, so any experience/links/thoughts would be greatly appreciated. I'll be going back to my GP as soon as I can, currently in the process of finding a new one following a cross-country move. Until then, if someone could ease my anxious mind with any ideas on what it might be I'd be very grateful!
Thanks in advance!

I don’t want to sound too nasty, but beware this might sound really gross.
So I have 4 cuts on top of my wrist. They were made with something not clean. No more tan an icu long and not deep, skin is missing from them though. About a week old, and I put a tight bandaid over them immediately after they were caused. I didn’t know any better and left the bandaid on for a week straight… it was airtight and the adhesive part was on top of the cuts, not the soft part. It got really itchy and I took it off and it was red and bumpy and I freaked out and put antibiotic cream on it. I didn’t realize that I shouldn’t put antibiotic cream on until after I already did it. I put another bandaid on after that and put the adhesive part over the cuts again… I took it off again yesterday and put Vaseline on it and put the bandaid on again. Super itchy this morning and I took it off and the cuts look fine but the entire skin where the bandaid was is bright red and very bumpy and looks like there might be one or two blisters or white bumps… It itches and burns and my arm hurts. I haven’t put any more bandaids on but I put Vaseline on. I’m really scared that it’s infected. Does it sound like an infection or more like a bandaid rash? I know that rationally no one can diagnose me but I’m wondering if anyone else has ever experienced this and what happened.

I (35M) and my now-again partner (37F) have rekindled 2 years after we broke up, where everything fell apart (covid, both working high stress jobs, PhD's, different countries), and she gave me an ultimatum that if wasn't acted upon, she was going to leave, and even she now admits that, at the time, was impossible in every sense of the word.
We've both done a lot of professional therapy since breaking up (I went into complete meltdown and ended up under Dr supervision), and we're both better people now for it, and are already starting to communicate on a much better level that we ever have done during our previous years, I felt like we were on to a winner. It's only been one-week since she reached out, so absolutely in that new honeymoon period.
We were reminiscing about all our previous holidays, memories, etc. etc. and then out the blue we get on to how during our separation what we were up to, for me it's VERY bland, I done a lot of research for my PhD, a lot of therapy, and really just spent time with friends and family and started to show emotions (I was a brick wall previously - and had a lot of issues opening up, stemming from family). Whilst she continued to travel the literal world with her job, which is honestly amazing, I am jealous of the places she's been, and have since admitted I am a bit insecure that I haven't traveled 1/10th as much as her and hoped she isn't too concerned about that, which she isn't, but I'm learning to accept I'm quite a softer version of myself now, and she's accepting of it and appreciates the openness we now are exploring.
She then drops a bombshell that whilst on a trip to Hawaii after our breakup, she internally exploded, and then she met a guy at a bar, who instantly mentioned his wife, so she knew instantly where the conversation was going... I was hoping she was going to say she told the guy where to go. Nope. She threw it in there that she ended up back at there place and they essentially went to town on each other and she stayed the night. I tried to act neutral and appreciate her opening up and even tried to ask about what she done with the girl (purely so I didn't look like I was in utter shock and internally melting), but deep down I was cut, HARD, and it's all I can think about now, all I can picture, all I can imagine. She mentioned all the toys she has and asked if I remembered them, of course I do, yep... she used them with them too.
I'm absolutely devastated. She was a single drop-dead gorgeous woman, so I have no comment on any of her actions, and never will, but I don't know if I can move on from this - Am I going to have to go back to therapy? And how do I approach this with her?
Yes I'm jealous, yes I'm insecure, but I literally told her this over the past few days and even told her again today I was overthinking a few things and hope that doesn't put her off, I'm not needy, I'm insecure with myself. We already have a trip booked to meet up.
I may be over-reacting, and I'm SO scared to bring this topic up with her, because it's one of the FIRST EVER THINGS she has ever opened up to me about, the only other thing was in our past relationship when she told me about her dad (ex cop, alcoholic, beat mum, and hasn't been on the scene for over 20-years). I can't describe how tough-skinned she was/is/is working on not being, and I do not want to stop that, but fear if I mention ANYTHING... that will be it.
I questioned one thing, as she mentioned it to me in our past relationship that if I ever even thin about asking that, that'll be us done. She didn't quite answer that, and just said she wouldn't be as opposed to it anymore. I don't know where to go from here. I think I still love this woman and every fiber of her being, but how do I process this?
What are the (any) recommended steps I should logically take to work through this?
TLDR: 8-years together, broke up for 2, she reaches out, and not even a week later drops a bombshell she had a threesome and I'm absolutely devastated and need to learn how / if this is something I can process.

“The years, of which I have spoken to you, when I pursued the inner images, were the most important time of my life. Everything else is to be derived from this. It began at that time, and the later details hardly matter anymore. My entire life consisted in elaborating what had burst forth from the unconscious and flooded me like an enigmatic stream and threatened to break me. That was the stuff and material for more than only one life. Everything later was merely the outer classification, the scientific elaboration, and the integration into life. But the numinous beginning, which contained everything, was then.”\
― C.G. Jung, preface for The Red Book: Liber Novus
James Hillman: I was reading about this practice that the ancient Egyptians had of opening the mouth of the dead. It was a ritual and I think we don’t do that with our hands. But opening the Red Book seems to be opening the mouth of the dead.
Sonu Shamdasani: It takes blood. That’s what it takes. The work is Jung’s `Book of the Dead.’ His descent into the underworld, in which there’s an attempt to find the way of relating to the dead. He comes to the realization that unless we come to terms with the dead we simply cannot live, and that our life is dependent on finding answers to their unanswered questions.

• Lament for the Dead, Psychology after Jung’s Red Book (2013) Pg. 1

​
Begun in 1914, Swiss psychologist Carl Jung’s The Red Book lay dormant for almost 100 years before its eventual publication. Opinions are divided on whether Jung would have published the book if he had lived longer. He did send drafts to publishers early in life but seemed in no hurry to publish the book despite his advancing age. Regardless, it was of enormous importance to the psychologist, being shown to only a few confidants and family members. More importantly, the process of writing The Red Book was one of the most formative periods of Jung’s life. In the time that Jung worked on the book he came into direct experience with the forces of the deep mind and collective unconscious. For the remainder of his career he would use the experience to build concepts and theories about the unconscious and repressed parts of the human mind.
In the broadest sense, Jungian psychology has two goals.

1. Integrate and understand the deepest and most repressed parts of the the human mind

and

1. Don’t let them eat you alive in the process.

Jungian psychology is about excavating the most repressed parts of self and learning to hold them so that we can know exactly who and what we are. Jung called this process individuation. Jungian psychology is not, and should not be understood as, an attempt to create a religion. It was an attempt to build a psychological container for the forces of the unconscious. While not a religion, it served a similar function as a religion. Jungian psychology serves as both a protective buffer and a lens to understand and clarify the self. Jung described his psychology as a bridge to religion. His hope was that it could help psychology understand the functions of the human need for religion, mythology and the transcendental. Jung hoped that his psychology could make religion occupy a healthier, more mindful place in our culture by making the function of religion within humanity more conscious.
Jung did not dislike religion. He viewed it as problematic when the symbols of religion became concretized and people took them literally. Jungian psychology itself has roots in Hindu religious traditions. Jung often recommended that patients of lapsed faith return to their religions of origin. He has case studies encouraging patients to resume Christian or Muslim religious practices as a source of healing and integration. Jung did have a caveat though. He recommended that patients return to their traditions with an open mind. Instead of viewing the religious traditions and prescriptive lists of rules or literal truths he asked patients to view them as metaphors for self discovery and processes for introspection. Jung saw no reason to make religious patients question their faith. He did see the need for patients who had abandoned religion to re-examine its purpose and function.
The process of writing The Red Book was itself a religious experience for Jung. He realized after his falling out from Freud, that his own religious tradition and the available psychological framework was not enough to help him contain the raw and wuthering forces of his own unconscious that were assailing him at the time. Some scholars believe Jung was partially psychotic while writing The Red Book, others claim he was in a state of partial dissociation or simply use Jung’s term “active imagination”.
The psychotic is drowning while the artist is swimming. The waters both inhabit, however, are the same. Written in a similar voice to the King James Bible, The Red Book has a religious and transcendent quality. It is written on vellum in heavy calligraphy with gorgeous hand illuminated script. Jung took inspiration for mystical and alchemical texts for its full page illustrations.
It is easier to define The Red Book by what it is not than by what it is. According to Jung, it is not a work of art. It is not a scholarly psychological endeavor. It is also not an attempt to create a religion. It was an attempt for Jung to heal himself in a time of pain and save himself from madness by giving voice to the forces underneath his partial psychotic episode. The Red Book was a kind of container to help Jung witness the forces of the deep unconscious. In the same way, religion and Jungian psychology are containers for the ancient unconscious forces in the vast ocean under the human psyche.
Lament of the Dead, Psychology after Carl Jung’s The Red Book is a dialogue between ex Jungian analyst James Hillman and Jungian scholar Sonu Shamdasani about the implications the Red Book has for Jungian psychology. Like the Red Book it was controversial when it was released.
​
James Hillman was an early protege of Jung who later became a loud critic of parts of Jung’s psychology. Hillman wanted to create an “archetypal” psychology that would allow patients to directly experience and not merely analyze the psyche. His new psychology never really came together coherently and he never found the technique to validate his instinct. Hillman had been out of the Jungian fold for almost 30 years before he returned as a self appointed expert advisor during the publication of The Red Book. Hillman’s interest in The Red Book was enough to make him swallow his pride, and many previous statements, to join the Jungians once again. It is likely that the archetypal psychology he was trying to create is what The Red Book itself was describing.
Sonu Shamdasani is not a psychologist but a scholar of the history of psychology. His insights have the detachment of the theoretical where Hillman’s are more felt and more intuitive but also more personal. One gets the sense in the book that Hillman is marveling painfully at an experience that he had been hungry for for a long time. The Red Book seems to help him clarify the disorganized blueprints of his stillborn psychological model. While there is a pain in Hillman’s words there is also a peace that was rare to hear from such a flamboyant and unsettled psychologist.
Sonu Shamdasani is the perfect living dialogue partner for Hillman to have in the talks that make up Lament. Shamdasani has one of the best BS detectors of maybe any Jungian save David Tacey. Shamdasani has deftly avoided the fads, misappropriations and superficialization that have plagued the Jungian school for decades. As editor of the Red Book he knows more about the history and assembly of the text than any person save for Jung. Not only is he also one of the foremost living experts on Jung, but as a scholar he does not threaten the famously egotistical Hillman as a competing interpreting psychologist. The skin that Shamdasani has in this game is as an academic while Hillman gets to play the prophet and hero of the new psychology they describe without threat or competition.
Presumedly these talks were recorded as research for a collaborative book to be co authored by the two friends and the death of Hillman in 2011 made the publication as a dialogue in 2013 a necessity. If that is not the case the format of a dialogue makes little sense. If that is the case it gives the book itself an almost mystical quality and elevates the conversation more to the spirit of a philosophical dialogue.
We are only able to hear these men talk to each other and not to us. There is a deep reverberation between the resonant implications these men are seeing The Red Book have for modern psychology. However, they do not explain their insights to the reader and their understandings can only be glimpsed intuitively. Like the briefcase in the film Pulp Fiction the audience sees the object through its indirect effect on the characters. We see the foggy outlines of the ethics that these men hope will guide modern psychology but we are not quite able to see it as they see it. We have only an approximation through the context of their lives and their interpretation of Jung’s private diary. This enriches a text that is ultimately about the limitations of understanding.
One of the biggest criticisms of the book when it was published was that the terms the speaker used are never defined and thus the book’s thesis is never objectivised or clarified. While this is true if you are an English professor, the mystic and the therapist in me see these limitations as the book’s strengths. The philosophical dialectic turns the conversation into an extended metaphor that indirectly supports the themes of the text. The medium enriches the message. Much like a socratic dialogue or a film script the the authors act more as characters and archetypes than essayists. The prophet and the scholar describe their function and limitations as gatekeepers of the spiritual experience.
Reading the Lament, much like reading The Red Book, one gets the sense that one is witnessing a private but important moment in time. It is a moment that is not our moment and is only partially comprehensible to anyone but the author(s). Normally that would be a weakness but here it becomes a strength. Where normally the reader feels that a book is for them, here we feel that we are eavesdropping through a keyhole or from a phone line downstairs. The effect is superficially frustrating but also gives Lament a subtle quality to its spirituality that The Red Book lacks.
Many of the obvious elements for a discussion of the enormous Red Book are completely ignored in the dialogue. Hillman and Shamdasani’s main takeaway is that The Red Book is about “the dead”. What they mean by “the dead” is never explained directly. This was a major sticking point for other reviewers, but I think their point works better undefined. They talk about the dead as a numinous term. Perhaps they are speaking about the reality of death itself. Perhaps about the dead of history. Perhaps they are describing the impenetrable veil we can see others enter but never see past ourselves. Maybe the concept contains all of these elements. Hillman, who was 82 at the time of having the conversations in Lament, may have been using The Red Book and his dialogue with Shamdasani to come to terms with his feelings about his own impending death.
Perhaps it is undefined because these men are feeling something or intuitively, seeing something that the living lack the intellectual language for. It is not that the authors do not know what they are talking about. They know, but they are not able to completely say it. Hillman was such an infuriatingly intuitive person that his biggest downfall in his other books is that he often felt truths that he could not articulate. Instead he retreated into arguing the merits of his credentials and background or into intellectual archival of his opinions on philosophers and artists. In other works this led to a didactic and self righteous tone that his writing is largely worse for. In Lament Hillman is forced to talk off the cuff and that limitation puts him at his best as a thinker.
In his review of Lament, David Tacey has made the very good point that Jung abandoned the direction that The Red Book was taking him in. Jung saw it as a dead end for experiential psychology and retreated back into analytical inventorying of “archetypes”. On the publication of The Red Book, Jungians celebrate the book as the “culmination” of Jungian thought when instead it was merely a part of its origins. The Red Book represents a proto-Jungian psychology as Jung attempted to discover techniques for integration. Hillman and Shamdasani probe the psychology’s origins for hints of its future in Lament.
Hillman and Shamdasani’s thesis is partially a question about ethics and partially a question about cosmology. Are there any universal directions for living and behaving that Jungian psychology compels us towards (ethics)? Is there an external worldview that the, notoriously phenomenological, nature of Jungian psychology might imply (cosmology)? These are the major questions Hillman and Shamdasani confront in Lament.Their answer is not an answer as much as it is a question for the psychologists of the future.
Their conclusion is that “the dead” of our families, society, and human history foist their unlived life upon us. It is up to us, and our therapists, to help us deal with the burden of “the dead”. It is not us that live, but the dead that live through us. Hillman quotes W.H. Auden several times:
We are lived through powers that we pretend to understand.
– W.H. Auden
A major tenant of Jungian psychology is that adult children struggle under the unlived life of the parent. The Jungian analyst helps the patient acknowledge and integrate all of the forces of the psyche that the parent ran from, so they are not passed down to future generations. A passive implication of the ethics and the cosmology laid out in Lament, is that to have a future we must reckon with not only the unlived life of the parent but also the unlived life of all the dead.
It is our job as the living to answer the questions and face the contradictions our humanity posits in order to discover what we really are. The half truths and outright lies from the past masquerade as tradition for traditions sake, literalized religion, and unconscious tribal identity must be overthrown. The weight of the dead of history can remain immovable if we try to merely discard it but drowns us if we cling to it too tightly. We need to use our history and traditions to give us a container to reckon with the future. The container must remain flexible if we are to grow into our humanity as a society and an aware people.
If you find yourself saying “Yes, but what does “the dead” mean!” Then this book is not for you. If you find yourself confused but humbled by this thesis then perhaps it is. Instead of a further📷 explanation of the ethical and cosmological future for psychology that his book posits I will give you a tangible example about how its message was liberatory for me.
Hillman introduces the concepts of the book with his explanation of Jung’s reaction to the theologian and missionary Albert Schweitzer. Jung hated Schweitzer. He hated him because he had descended into Africa and “gone native”. In Jung’s mind Schweitzer had “refused the call” to do anything and “brought nothing home”. Surely the Africans that were fed and clothed felt they had been benefited! Was Jung’s ethics informed by racism, cluelessness, arrogance or some other unknown myopism?
A clue might be found in Jung’s reaction to modern art exploring the unconscious or in his relationship with Hinduism. Jung took the broad strokes of his psychology from the fundamentals of the brahman/atman and dharma/moksha dichotomies of Hinduism. Jung also despised the practice of eastern mysticism practices by westerners but admired it in Easterners. Why? His psychology stole something theoretical that his ethics disallowed in direct practice.
Jung’s views on contemporary (modern) artists of his time were similar. He did not want to look at depictions of the raw elements of the unconscious. In his mind discarding all the lessons of classicism was a “cop out”. He viewed artists that descended into the abstract with no path back or acknowledgement of the history that gave them that path as failures. He wanted artists to make the descent into the subjective world and return with a torch of it’s fire but not be consumed by it blaze. Depicting the direct experience of the unconscious was the mark of a failed artist to Jung. To Jung the destination was the point, not the journey. The only thing that mattered is what you were able to bring back from the world of the dead. He had managed to contain these things in The Red Book, why couldn’t they? The Red Book was Jung’s golden bough.
Jung took steps to keep the art in The Red Book both outside of the modernist tradition and beyond the historical tradition. The Red Book uses a partially medieval format but Jung both celebrates and overcomes the constraints of his chosen style. The Red Book was not modern or historical, it was Jung’s experience of both. In Lament, Hillman describes this as the ethics that should inform modern psychology. Life should become ones own but part of ones self ownership is that we take responsibility for driving a tradition forward not a slave to repeating it.
📷Oddly enough the idea of descent and return will already be familiar to many Americans through the work of Joseph Campbell. Campbell took the same ethics of descent and return to the unconscious as the model of his “monomyth” model of storytelling. This briefly influenced psychology and comparative religion in the US and had major impact on screenwriters to this day. Campbells ethics are the same as Jung’s. If one becomes stuck on the monomyth wheel, or the journey of the descent and return, one is no longer the protagonist and becomes an antagonist. Campbell, and American post jungians in general were not always great attributing influences and credit where it was due.
Jung was suspicious of the new age theosophists and psychedelia and psychonauts that became enamored with the structure of the unconscious for the unconscious sake. Where Lament shines is when Hillman explains the ethics behind Jung’s thinking. Jung lightly implied this ethics but was, as Hillman points out, probably not entirely conscious of it. One of Lament’s biggest strengths and weaknesses is that it sees through the misappropriations of Jungian psychology over the last hundred years. Both of the dialogue’s figures know the man of Jung so well that they do not need to address how he was misperceived by the public. They also know the limitations of the knowable.
This is another lesson that is discussed in Lament. Can modern psychology know what it can’t know? That is my biggest complaint with the profession as it currently exists. Modern psychology seems content to retreat into research and objectivism. The medical, corporate, credentialist and academic restructuring of psychology in the nineteen eighties certainly furthered that problem. Jung did not believe that the descent into the unconscious without any hope of return was a path forward for psychology. This is why he abandoned the path The Red Book led him down. Can psychology let go of the objective and the researchable enough to embrace the limits of the knowable? Can we come to terms with limitations enough to heal an ego inflated world that sees no limits to growth?
I don’t know but I sincerely hope so.
I said that I would provide a tangible example of the application of this book in it’s review, so here it is:
I have always been enamored with James Hillman. He was by all accounts a brilliant analyst. He also was an incredibly intelligent person. That intellect did not save him. Hillman ended his career as a crank and a failure in my mind. In this book you see Hillman contemplate that failure. You also see Hillman attempt to redeem himself as he glimpses the unglimpseable. He sees something in the Red Book that he allows to clarify his earlier attempt to revision psychology.
Hillman’s attempt to reinvent Jungian psychology as archetypal psychology was wildly derided. Largely, because it never found any language or technique for application and practice. Hillman himself admitted that he did not know how to practice archetypal psychology. It’s easy to laugh at somebody who claims to have reinvented psychology and can’t even tell you what you do with their revolutionary invention.
However, I will admit that I think Hillman was right. He knew that he was but he didnt know how he was right. It is a mark of arrogance to see yourself as correct without evidence. Hillman was often arrogant but I think here he was not. Many Jungian analysts would leave the Jungian institutes through the 70, 80s and 90s to start somatic and experiential psychology that used Jung as a map but the connection between the body and the brain as a technique. These models made room for a direct experience in psychology that Jungian analysis does not often do. It added an element that Jung himself had practiced in the writing of The Red Book. Hillman never found this technique but he was correct about the path he saw forward for psychology. He knew what was missing.
📷I started Taproot Therapy Collective because I felt a calling to dig up the Jungian techniques of my parent’s generation and reify them. I saw those as the most viable map towards the future of psychology, even though American psychology had largely forgotten them. I also saw them devoid of a practical technique or application for a world where years of analysis cost more than most trauma patients will make in a lifetime. I feel that experiential and brain based medicine techniques like brainspotting are the future of the profession.
Pathways like brainspotting, sensorimotor therapy, somatic experiencing, neurostimulation, ketamine, psilocybin or any technique that allows the direct experience of the subcortical brain is the path forward to treat trauma. These things will be at odds with the medicalized, corporate, and credentialized nature of healthcare. I knew that this would be a poorly understood path that few people, even the well intentioned, could see. I would never have found it if I had refused the call of “the dead”.
Lament is relevant because none of those realizations is somewhere that I ever would have gotten without the tradition that I am standing on top of. I am as, Isaac Newton said, standing on the shoulders of giants. Except Isaac Newton didn’t invent that phrase. It was associated with him but he was standing on the tradition of the dead to utter a phrase first recorded in the medieval period. The author of its origin is unknown because they are, well, dead. They have no one to give their eulogy.
The ethics and the cosmology of Lament, is that our lives are meant to be a eulogy for our dead. Lament, makes every honest eulogy in history become an ethics and by extension a cosmology. Read Pericles eulogy from the Peloponesian war in Thucydides. How much of these lessons are still unlearned? I would feel disingenuous in my career unless I tell you who those giants are that I stand on. They are David Tacey, John Beebe, Sonu Shamdasani, Carl Jung, Fritz Perls, Karen Horney, and Hal Stone. Many others also.
I would never have heard the voice of James Hillman inside myself unless I had learned to listen to the dead from his voice beyond the grave. It would have been easy for me to merely critize his failures instead of seeing them as incomplete truths. Hillman died with many things incomplete, as we all inevitably will. Lament helped me clarify the voices that I was hearing in the profession. Lament of the Dead is a fascinating read not because it tells us exactly what to do with the dead, or even what they are. Lament is fascinating because it helps us to see a mindful path forward between innovation and tradition.
The contents of the collective unconscious cannot be contained by one individual. Just as Jungian psychology is meant to be a container to help an individual integrate the forces of the collective unconscious, attention to the unlived life of the historical dead can be a kind of container for culture. Similarly to Jungian psychology the container is not meant to be literalized or turned into a prison. It is a lens and a buffer to protect us until we are ready and allow us to see ourselves more clearly once we are. Our project is to go further in the journey of knowing ourselves where our ancestors failed to. Our mindful life is the product of the unlived life of the dead it is our life that is their lament.
I will end with a few quotes from the often paradoxical Hillman.
Soul…is the “patient” part of us. Soul is vulnerable and suffers; it is passive and remembers. It is water to the spirit’s fire, like a mermaid who beckons the heroic spirit into the depths of passions to extinguish its certainty. Soul is imagination, a cavernous treasury…Whereas spirit chooses the better part and seeks to make all one. Look up, says spirit, gain distance; there is something beyond and above, and what is above is always, and always superior.
…from the perspective of spirit..the soul must be disciplined, its desires harnessed, imagination emptied, dreams forgotten, involvements dried. For soul, says spirit, cannot know, neither truth, nor law, nor cause. … So there must be spiritual disciplines for the soul, ways in which soul shall conform with models enunciated for it by spirit.
…But from the viewpoint of the psyche…movement upward looks like repression. There may well be more psychopathology actually going on while transcending than while being immersed in pathologizing. For any attempt at self-realization without full recognition of the psychopathology that resides, as Hegel said, inherently in the soul is in itself pathological, an exercise in self-deception.
…spirit is after ultimates and it reveals by means of a via negativa. “Neti, neti,” it says, “not this, not that.” Strait is the gate and only first or last things will do. Soul replies by saying, “Yes, this too has place, may find its archetypal significance, belongs in a myth.” The cooking vessel of the soul takes in everything, everything can become soul; and by taking into its imagination any and all events, psychic space grows.
A Blue Fire: Selected Writings by James Hillman, p. 123

TL/DR: The various elements (among others) in the title are repeatedly connected to each other symbolically and in the mythology. I figured I'd collate as many of these as I can identify. Please tell me if I missed anything major.
Also some tinfoil.
Moon, Maidens, Mothers:
Women in Westeros are said to experience "moon's blood". "Moon tea" is a popular abortifacient. There is a constellation called the "Moon Maiden". "Moon Pale Maiden" and "Moon Mother" are deities in Essos. In Yi Ti they worship a "Maiden-Made-of-Light".
Origin of Dragons:
In AGOT we hear an "origin of dragons" mythology from one of Dany's handmaidens. The birth of dragons is associated with the moon cracking like an egg and the sun's fire dwindling (long night?). Irri dismisses this and claims the moon is a woman-deity.
Forging of Lightbringer:
Lightbringer is forged by Azhor Ahai by blood sacrifice of a lover. The forging cracks the surface of the Moon. The lover's "soul" goes into the blade.
Serpent and Sword:
The Wall runs straight as a sword from Castle Black to Eastwatch, but runs like a snake from Castle Black to the Shadow Tower.
Rebirth of Dragons:
Dany brings her dragon eggs back to life with an unwitting blood sacrifice, including of a lover, and an unborn child. She gives birth to a draconic creature in place of her expected child Rhaego. It is a semi-common theory that the souls of Drogo, Rhaego and Mirri ended up in Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegon respectively.
Valyrians:
The Valyrians have a symbiotic relationship with dragons. They also have longstanding fertility problems, and periodically give birth to lizardlike monstrosities. Valyrian culture was more gender equal the Andal or First Man culture.
House Dayne:
House Dayne have Valyrian features, but no known collection to Valyria. They own a sword called "Dawn" supposedly made from a fallen star. Their sigil is a falling star.
The Long Night:
In Yi Ti, it is said that during the Long Night the "Maiden-Made-of-Light" turned her back on the world. Note that in our world the moon never turns it's back as it is tidally locked.
The Long Night prequel series that never got made was called "Blood Moon".
In Yi Ti the Long Night is caused by the "Blood Betrayal".
In Westeros a new moon is sometimes called a "Traitors Moon".
"Long" is chinese for dragon.
The Great Hero:
A recurring mytheme in the known world is a hero that is said to have ended the long night by bringing "victory" with a "flaming sword".
When Waymar Royce duels an Other, the battle is decided when his sword shatters due to the extreme cold.
The Last Hero, Westeros' version of the story (or just the first men 's maybe) is said to have lost his sword when it snapped while searching for a way to defeat the others. We never hear how the story ends.
Tinfoil starts here.
I can't find the origin of this but I remember seeing it on reddit so if any of the regulars could tell me who to credit I'd be very grateful: there's a "phonetic chain" linking Azhor Ahai to the Great Other:

1. Azhor Ahai: R'hllorite great hero.
2. Huzhor Amai: Sarnor version of the legend. "Amai" translates to "amazing" in the common tongue (and sounds pretty similar). Note there's not much distance conceptually from Great to Amazing.
3. Hugor of the Hill: Andal King. May also be the same as the Andal hero "Hukko". Married a maiden with deep blue pools for eyes, she gave him sons with strength of arms, clad in iron plate. Note that Dragon's caracasses are made of iron. His crown was made of stars.
4. Uthor of the High Tower. Said to have married the fairest (palest?) of maidens, Maris the Maid.
5. Other.

The Night's King:
Supposedly a Night's Watch commander. Ruled from the Nightfort.
The Night's King loved a woman with skin pale as the moon and eyes like blue stars.
Performed blood sacrifice for the Others.
The Night's King was defeated and the rule that Night's Watch castles can't have walls instated, however the Nightfort is the only Night's Watch castle with any evidence of ever having walls and the only one not built into the wall. This implies that the "no walls" policy and the construction of the wall and other castles both date to after the Night's King's defeat.
Old Nan says "the night was his to rule" which in context appears to mean the night in general, but could be a garbled remembrance of "THE night was his to rule".
The Night's King was supposedly the thirteenth lord commander, and ruled for thirteen years with his queen. The Last Hero set out with twelve companions, making him the last of thirteen, to put it another way, twelve died before him.
The Night's King name was "Forbidden and Forgotten". We don't know how he was referred to after that, but there is one other example of forbidden names in the series:

"There are no gods save R’hllor and the Other, whose name must not be spoken."

"The Other" is a sensible way to refer to a figure without giving them a name.
Craster's Sons:
Craster sacrifices children to the Other's. It is implied they are turned into Others (they are identified by one of Craster's wives as "Craster's sons").
The new generation are "Craster's". If a character referred to as "The Other" gave his sons to them they would be "The Other's".
Winged Knight:
A mythological figure from the Vale called the "Winged Knight" is said to have flown on top of a huge falcon, and had armies of eagles at his command.
The Maesters suspect giant birds may be a cultural recollection of dragonriders.
The Winged Knight had a child of the forest as his wife, who died giving birth to his son. No other information about them is given in any source material.
The Winged Knight is often conflated with Andal invader Artys Arryn.
The Sigil of House Arryn is an Eagle in front of the Moon.
One of the names for the Great Hero is Eldric Shadowchaser. The only other Eldric in the Lore is an Arryn.
Fallen Stars:
The Bloodstone Emperor, who started the Long Night in Yi Ti mythology, is said to have worshipped a rock that fell from the sky.
House Dayne own a sword called "Dawn" supposedly made from a fallen star. Their sigil is a falling star.
The crown of Hugor of the hill was said to be made of stars.
The Night King's wife had eyes like blue stars.
Conclusions:
It seems clear that dragons were created during the long night as a weapon to fight the others. They are identified with a sword in the mythology because the Others are associated with the rendering of conventional blades as useless. The Valyrians are a later development.
The ritual to give birth to dragons is associated with childbirth and the moon. Specifically the blood sacrifice is analogised to death in childbirth. Death in childbirth is a theme from the start of the series, the mothers of all three non-Stark POVs in AGOT died giving birth to them.
On shakier ground it looks a lot like not only are the "Great Heroes" all the same, but the Night's King, Great Other and the Winged Knight are also the same figure.
Fallen stars are a repeated theme, but I can't see how they fit in with everything else.
Tinfoil:
There's a significant possibility the "corpse queen" is a child of the forest.
I think the process to create an Other involves castration.
The Others were created during a blood moon, the Dragon's under an eclipse.

"Come inside, the kids are upstairs." Molly was in a rush, I knew this much from the phone call we had earlier. She had never used me before but heard about me through word of mouth. Which meant that my little side hustle was starting to gain traction.
I am a babysitter for a good neighborhood. There's cars parked outside, lawns are manicured, and the occasional termite company is out doing rounds. I don't know why but I always feel as if there's a termite guy nearby, it's a pretty decent area. Which is a far cry from where I live, on the other side of the tracks, literally. There are train tracks that run through our town and it acts as a divide. But they didn't need to know that. They only needed to see the straightened hair, well spoken, fake braces wearing girl in glasses sporting a skirt that wasn't too short where the neighbors would talk.
Usually I sat down with new clients, have them introduce me to their kids (trust me it helps) in order to make a clear cut line with them that I am in their parent's employ and I am not there to be their bestfriend and will definitely tell on them if they act up or break something. That's not to say I won't play silly games with them, feed them, laugh, tell bed time stories, and age appropriate jokes. But I am nobody's rug.
That's what I usually do, but there wasn't such luxury this time. Molly called me on the phone and she sounded desperate for me to come out. I had concert tickets and told her that they were non-refundable and she suggested that if I could make it in 30 minutes then she'd pay me twice the amount for the tickets and 1.5x my usual rate. I got there in 29 minutes. It would have been sooner but I needed to air myself out if you know what I mean.
Anyways, Molly barely had time to look at my face, let alone get any of my credentials as she was rushing out. Working mom it looked like. Business, by the looks of the pencil skirt and the bag that doubled as a folder. It always amazes me how much trust some people put in others to watch their kids. What if I was a serial killer? Or a deranged lunatic? What if I killed the babysitter on my way here and now I'm in a house, alone, with all her children.
I'm not. But I mean, what if, right?
She didn't seem to think about any of these things, leaving me to mumble goodbyes as she pulled out of the driveway, barely audible as the turbos wound up and she shouted something out the window to the likes of, "It's all on the iPad".
Yeah, no more yellow lined paper stuck with the realtor's magnet on the fridge anymore. It's all digital now.
I closed the door and figured that I better check up on the kids before I did a rundown. God this house was beautiful. I climbed the stairs two at a time and rounded the hall. To be fair, calling it a hall was so basic of me. It was more like a wing. West wing madam. The wing could have fit my living room. I click my heels when I heard a snort come from behind me. I came to face a shaggy dog that was well groomed. The collar was black with an underline of blue. Tiffany's undoubtedly. "Hey," I reached a hand and scratched the mop of top. "Let's go find the kids," I tell the dog as if it could understand me.
There were a series of rooms, most of them closed, but it didn't take me a second guess which one was occupied. The second door on the left, I could hear a kid shouting obscenities about someone being trash. I knocked on that door first.
"Come in," he shouted still loud but slightly less angry.
I opened the door and saw a stereotypical gamer's room. Posters, action figures, a rocking gaming chair on the floor in front of a huge flat screen, and a boy about 9 or 10. He had on his headphones and was sipping a Dr. Pepper.
"Don't they know trash day is on Thursdays?"
He cocked his head and laughed, "If you're looking for my mom I think she's downstairs."
"I'm actually looking for you." And let me tell you something. The audacity of this younger generation. The way he looked at me. Almost made me feel as bad as how I felt when he shrugged his shoulders after he had a good look. "Excuse me," I walk in front of him and blocked the screen. "I'm your new babysitter."
He shrugged. "Cool."
"What's your name?"
"You can read all about it somewhere else."
"What?"
"It's all on the iPad," he told me.
"What's your name," I repeated.
He rolls his eyes and looks at me as if I had asked him a stupid question.
I don't budge.
He whined, "Bobbie. Now come on, the next rounds about to start." he pulled his headphones over his ears. I grabbed the remote to get his attention. "What. Hey come on."
"It's nice to meet you Bobbie. Your mom's going to be away for a few hours and I'll be here until she gets back. Dinner is at 6:00 and I will make snacks at 4:30."
"No cap," he motioned at the tv, "Now can I get back to my game.
"Sure I tell him." Pocketing the remote.
"Hey!"
"Bye," I tell him as I close the door behind me.
So I'm back out in the hallway. And I open a few more doors. Some were locked. Before I get into one that's rather plain. There's a picture hanging up behind the bed, a tv, some lamps and shade. On the bed sits an identical, about 9 or 10, twins it seems. Probably why Bobbie was tired of being asked which one he was.
This one was staring at the blank screen. No video games. And quiet. Now I've babysat my share of kids before, and have seen all sorts. Quiet kids are my favorite. They don't mind board games, or listening. Most often times they only need to be left alone. I don't do too much talking in case they get tired of hearing my voice. And I give them a lot of space. "Hey, sorry about that. I didn't think anyone was in here."
He turned to me slowly, "Hi. Are you the new sitter?"
I nodded, "Yup. And I'm guessing that you're Max. I'll be watching you guys while your mom is away."
"She's probably going to work."
"Yeah, looked like it." I see the iPad in his hands. "Hey. I was looking for that."
"She's always at work." He hands it over. "It's dead. And mom took the charger."
I tried not to sigh. This was not how I wanted things to go. "Well, ok. If you need anything. Let me know. Or else I can come get you at 4:30 for snacks and dinner at 6."
He nodded, "Thanks," and goes back to staring at the screen.
I smile but he doesn't see, so I leave, closing the door softly behind me.
I make my way downstairs, wandering into the kitchen and start taking stock of what's there. Which was practically everything. This kitchen was so chic that I half expected Gordon Ramsay to pop out and tell me that the banana bread I made didn't have a clue if he staked the curved yellow fruit down the middle (it's a bad question mark joke. Listen. I never said I was funny).
Once I made sure that there was food, or ingredients to make food. There wasn't much else to do. The house was spotless. The kids were fine. And even the dog seemed well behaved. So I plopped on the couch, took out my fake braces, and watched tv until about 4:10 before I started slicing apples and celery to go with some peanut butter.
I fed the dog some peanut butter and licked my fingers (not with the hand I fed the dog with), before heading upstairs. Bobbie took the plate no problem but I couldn't find Max for the life of me. I wandered the rooms as the dog followed, still trying to lick my hand. "Max, I've got snacks." I knocked on what seemed like the umpteenth door before I get to a rather solid oak one that seemed custom.
Inside was the biggest home library I had ever seen. And I once dog sat for a pretentious professor from the college nearby. I mean, there was a portrait of said academic holding his dog in 18th century art style hanging over the mantle place of the deep wood cabinets filled with books. And yet this library made the other one look like a neighborhood book exchange birdbox.
"Holy..."
"Cow."
I whirled around to find Max standing in the doorway.
"You shouldn't wander into Father's study."
"I was just looking for you," holding up the plate. He made a face. "What? You don't like PB&C?" I took a stick and crunched on the celery.
"I'm not hungry."
I shrug. "Take it anyway. In case you get hungry."
He grabs the plate from me without much struggle so I decide to leave him be. I went back downstairs and crashed in front of the tv.
When I woke up. It was dark. My mouth was dry and all of the lights were off. The screen saver flashed the logo in blinks, lighting up the room only momentarily. For a second I forgot where I was and felt my heart thumping in my chest. My alarm didn't go off but I don't know why I woke up. Then I heard it again. The sound that must have jerked me awake. A crash. It came from upstairs. I grab my phone and glance down at the numbers. It was 8:10. I had slept through dinner. Shit. Shit. Shit. Here I was trying to make a good first impression and I missed out on dinner.
I wipe what drool was on my face and took to the stairs. Bobbie was probably so immersed in his game that he probably didn't even know he was hungry. Max on the other hand. "Max?" I call out down the hall. All of the doors are shut. I can hear something panting behind me. I turn to see the dog again. Its head is down and there's barely any light touching its face. "Hey come here," I called but it retreated in the opposite direction.
Then I shit me not. I heard a creaking come from behind me. It was the only noise in the house. I couldn't even hear Bobbie yelling in his room. I turn slowly and see one of the doors down the hall is now slightly ajar. It's dark in here. It was dark everywhere. I pressed my hands against the wall searching for a light switch. "Bobbie," I call out. There's no answer. "Hey, sorry about the delay in dinner. I'm going to get to it now."
Why was this place so big? And why could I see the door?
"Bobbie. Max?" I hear the dog tapping its paws behind me. Someone on the other side of the house by now. "Hey, where are you guys?" I peer at the single door that's open and realized why it was so prominent. The hall was dark, but what was inside was even darker. Instead of going toward it, I try the first knob my blind fingers came across. Process of elimination I told myself. It was locked. I tried the next one. Also locked. I finally get to Bobbie's door and I knock. "Bobbie." There's no answer. I press my head against the door and listen. But I don't hear a single sound.
"Where are all the light switches in this place!"
The door that was open before slightly opens again. Creaking, *tic tic tic tic*, with each ungreased turn of the hinge. "Shit. Hey, stop playing around."
There's laughing coming from behind me. It sounded like a little kids. Too young to be either of the boys. Followed by smaller footsteps. It sounded like they were barefoot. "Hey, this isn't funny. I'm going to tell your mother when she gets home." I take out my phone and turn on the flashlight. "When is she coming home?" It was almost 8:30, when I realized that we never set a time.
I hear footsteps again, they were odd. Almost like falling. Like a toddler learning how to run for the first time but the hollow ground sounded as if the person was much heavier. I shine my flashlight over the hall. "Shit." The dog was sitting on all fours in the corner. It was facing the wall. I couldn't even see his face. Every hair on its body completely still.
"Hey," I called out. "Come here." I clicked my tongue. "Come here." The dog didn't move. I couldn't even see it breathing.
Bang! It sounded like thunder behind me. As if someone dropped something on the floor. As if something fell off a shelf or was pushed. I jumped around and shone my light down the west wing. I didn't know if I should have been more or less afraid now that the door was closed. "Bobbie? Max?"
God. I did not want to try the door. And I stood there for a minute before realizing how stupid I must have looked. These were some rich kids playing a joke on you Camilia. I know it. The thought of their smug little faces made me stomp out of my frozen state. I took a couple of strides over and grabbed the handle.
"Fuck!" The thing was hot. "What the hell! You guys could have hurt me," I yelled. I banged on the door. "Open up. You two are in so much trouble." I banged on the door again. "Open the door. Right now!" I could hear something on the other side. It sounded like shuffling. Heavy furniture perhaps. "You guys better not be messing things up in there. I'm not going to clean it. I mean it."
I banged on the door. "I can hear you in there! Now come on!" I put my hands on my hips and tapped my foot. "I'm waiting. Your little jokes over now." I banged on the door again.
That's when the door knocked back.
It wouldn't have scared me. I don't think. Except for the fact that I was surprised. And alone in the hall. Without any of the lights on. In a strange house. And before I could say anything else. Another door behind me knocked from the inside. "Shit. Both of you are in on this?" I grabbed the handle to the other door. It was also locked. I banged on it. "Come out right now. Max?"
But then a third door started knocked from down the hall. I felt my throat clump as I tried to swallow. "You guys weren't supposed to have anyone over." The knocking didn't stop. It kept echoing down the hall. "I'm not getting paid for three kids you know?"
Tat-tat-tat-tat. Tat-tat-tat.
I took a single step. And then all of the doors in the hallway suddenly started banging.
I almost tripped as I ran toward the stairs. The doors were thundering on so hard I thought they would crack their hinges. I skipped the stairs, the sounds chasing me as I tried to not fall and break my neck. When I got to the front landing I hear someone say my name.
"Camilia. Are you okay?"
I'm trying not to choke on a lung here as I shot my eyes toward the kitchen. The kids are sitting on the barstools lining the counter. There are two plates in front of them. As if they didn't hear the drumline upstairs.
"Is it dinner time yet," one of them asks quietly.
"Max?"
He smiles.
"Kids. I think there's someone in the house." I rush over to grab each of their hands. Bobbie's wrists are limp but it was Max's hands that shocked me. They were ice cold. I tried to let go but my fingers wouldn't uncurl.
He turns my hand over and says, "There's no one else in this house except us. I promise."
"No," I wasn't about to listen to the kid even if it was his house. "Something is wrong. We have to go. Now." I pick up Bobbie and he doesn't seem to want to move. "Come on Bobbie. Let's go." He looks over at Max who shrugs and get out of his seat.
Bobbie follows as I drag them toward the front door.
"Camilia," Max says.
"What?" He looked scared. Which made me turn toward what he was staring out. At the front door was a tall figure. I couldn't see its face through the glass. It was a stark figure of a man.
"Do you think it's your dad?"
Max shakes his head. I feel him pulling against my arm.
I call out to the man, "Hey! Who is it?" The man doesn't budge. "I'm calling the police." I turn to Bobbie, "Get the phone." He doesn't move. "Hey!" I'm trying to sound as angry as possible. "Get the fuck out of here!" I grabbed a roll of painter's tape from the side table and hurl it across the hall, hitting the glass squarely in the face where the man's head stood blocking the exit. He doesn't even twitch as the glass shakes.
"Come on," I grab their hands and rush to the back. I don't get 10 steps before I feel a scream crawl up my throat making me cough. The man was standing at the sliding door. "Fuck!" I drag the two of them with me towards the kitchen. It's a big place so there had to be a way out to the garage. We push through one of the doors and end up in the laundry room. The next door gets us out into a 3 car garage. My hands find the glowing green opener against the wall and I hear the opener fold seamlessly towards the ceiling.
It started with his feet. Then his ankles. His shins. Then his legs. Light poured in from behind him from the streetlamp. I watched as the door went to his waist before I hit the button for the garage to close, before rushing back inside. We make it into the kitchen to where I still see the tall man standing at the sliding door. A part of me wants to hide in the laundry room but I didn't want to be sandwiched in the middle of the house. So I pull the boys back up the stairs, back to where the doors banged themselves. Taking out my phone as we ascended, and called 911.
"This is the police operator speaking."
"HELLO", I hope they could hear me, "There are several men trying to get inside!"
"Men? Are you in any danger?"
"No! But they have us surrounded!"
"Why don't you go outside?"
My tongue suddenly felt numb in my mouth. Like I didn't know what to do with it. "W-what?"
"It's stranger in the house."
The line went dead as we hit the hallway.
I only took my eyes off of them for a second before Bobbie. Or Max. Runs down the hall. The one or the other already slipping through a door ahead. I look back down the stairs and see that the man is still standing in front of the doorway. I look back up and see the other boy also going through the same door. I take a single step and the doors start pounding on either side. I shut my eyes and turn around. Afraid to go. Almost deciding that these weren't my kids. That I should run away. I take a step backwards mouthing that I was sorry. But I was too scared to go! "Max! Bobbie!" My back foot sticks to the floor. I don't want to look down but the next step sticks too. I point my phone to the ground and see a trail of blood. And just behind me. It's the dog. Split right down the middle, its spine shiny and white, still facing the wall. I could see its organs still pulsing.
I couldn't go back downstairs. I couldn't go the other way. I couldn't leave them here. I couldn't be alone.
I ran after them. The thundering of the doors following me as frames fell to the floor. A vase rolled off a table in the hall. It came crashing at my feet. I run my shoulder through the door, except it wasn't locked. Which caused me to go crashing, sprawling to the floor. Running into the desk in the middle of the room.
The study.
Many of the books were off the shelves. The carpet was torn. There were curtains on fire. It was the first time a saw a window as they burned.
"Camilia!"
I hear one of their voices shouting at me.
"Camilia!" It came again. "Help!"
I get to my feet and start working my hands along the desk. I didn't have to search far. The bookcase directly behind the chair had been swung open. "Camilia!" I wipe the blood from my eyebrow where it had split and step into the tunnel behind the secret passage.
The tunnel started off tall and wide, but as I kept walking in. It got smaller and smaller. I started having to hunch. Several times I decided to turn back. But their voices would echo through, calling for me. Asking for help. "I'm coming!"
"I can't hold on! Camilia! Please!"
The twins cry for help bounced off the walls. I was finally on my hands and knees when I finally see two holes on either side. I'm afraid to look but then one of their voices came through clear as day. "Camilia." It was right in my ear now. I turned to see the boy naked and huddling, hugging his knees at the back of his hole.
"Camilia! Help! I don't want to play this game anymore!"
"Bobbie?"
"Help me!"
I look into the hole, the walls are pressing on my back and there's dust going into my lungs. I can barely turn my shoulder. "Crawl out!"
"I can't!"
"Crawl out! I'm right here." I take out my hand, "Come on!"
"Camilia!" Came a voice from the other side.
I turn my head and see Max in the other hole.
"No!" Bobbie shouts at me. "No!"
"Hold on," I tell him. "I'm going to get both of you out of here."
"No," Bobbie cries. "It's all his fault. He's the one that did it. He's the one that wants to get out!"
"Bobbie, what are you talking about."
"He's the one that put something in your drink so you'd fall asleep!"
"He's lying!" Max's voice rang through. "It's him! I saw him. Always in father's study! Reading those books! Trying out those things he reads. Those curses. Those spells. It's why the shadow men are after him! Camilia! You have to believe me."
I can hear Bobbie crying, "Why are you lying! I don't want to play anymore," he screeches. "I don't want to play!" He sobs. "You said you'd go away if I told you that I didn't want to play anymore."
I don't know what made me do it. It sure wasn't the nauseating squealing tantrum of the boy which made me reach for him first. Maybe it was because I wanted him to shut up. I don't know but I plunged my arm up to my shoulder in to grab his collar.
Instantly I screamed and saw tiny spiders, short thing legs with round white backs crawl over my arms. I shook my arm in the hole, trying to smother them against the walls. That only caused these long brown flat slugs to fall. I saw one land on my hand. It had three distinct tendon-like lines running across its back and was about a half inch long. I pulled my arm out of the hole as I felt it pierce its flat head into the back of my hand. I dropped my phone and heard it crack as the light splintered in the small, suffocating tunnel. But I didn't care as I looked at my hand and saw it burrowing its tiny spearhead below my skin. I grabbed at the wiggling tail still exposed and tried pulling it out.
It was like trying to pull our barbed wire. The spines on its body were facing me. So with each pull they dug deeper inside. I could see blood pooling under my skin, it was starting to turn purple as I tugged on its tail even harder. Until it gave. Popped right off and lay twitching in my hand. The head missing.
I couldn't take it anymore. Really. I had tried my best. I shake my head. "Bobbie. Bobbie. I'm sorry." But it didn't matter. When I looked over at Bobbie. He was covered in it. All of it. Even the spiders.
My jeans started shifting as I tried to wiggle myself out of there. But I hear Max's cry again. "Camilia! Please!"
"No," I whimpered. Shaking. I couldn't reach my hand in there again. But his voice was so scared. More scared than the pain I felt.
I shot my arm inside. Bracing. Waiting for the pain. But there was none. Instead my hands grasped around his collar and I felt his cold clammy skin, and yanked him from the hole. He came without much struggle. His face covered in the soot of it all. "Camilia," he cried. "You picked me. You did it."
I didn't have the heart to tell him that I almost didn't.
"Come on," I cried. "We. Have. To go."
The two of us wiggled our way out of there, crawling on our hands and knees, and running when we could. We finally make it back into the study. And the fire is roaring now. One of the books fall from the shelves and when it hit the fire I swear it started screaming. There was so much smoke that I couldn't see. And the door was covered by the flames.
I pointed to the window, the curtains on the floor in ashes. I kick the window. It didn't budge. I coughed. I kicked it again. The glass shook. I kicked it again and my foot went through. Pieces of the glass still hung in the frame, I use the tips of my fingers and pull them back. They fall to the floor cracking until there was a hole big enough for me to get through.
I plunge my head out and take my first breath of fresh air. The moon was full and the sky was clear. I could hear sirens coming off in the distance. When both of my feet were on the roof. I reach my hand back and grab Max from the burning house. Together we run across the clay tiles and climb down the arched tree. The red fire truck comes screeching to a stop as several firemen help us down.
One of them pushes a breathing mask on me, and wraps me up. The neighbors are outside, and the police arrive. I see a familiar car come roaring down the street, screaming to a halt as Molly runs out. Her face is flustered and she's shouting. Pushing through the cops until she reaches me next to the ambulance.
"What happened," she literally screamed at me.
"I'm so sorry," I tell her. "There were these men." I take another breath. "I couldn't do anything! B-but I saved Max! I saved him!"
She looked at the house. It was blazing now in the cool night. "Oh my god. Is Bobbie still in there?" Molly starts to cry. "My baby!"
"Max. But Max." I cough. "Max is okay!"
And she turns to me. I wasn't expecting her to be grateful. But there's anger on her face. "You didn't save my son. But you saved our dog?"
I shake my head. "No. Max. Your other son." I looked around but he was nowhere to be found.
s

"Come inside, the kids are upstairs." Molly was in a rush, I knew this much from the phone call we had earlier. She had never used me before but heard about me through word of mouth. Which meant that my little side hustle was starting to gain traction.
I am a babysitter for a good neighborhood. There's cars parked outside, lawns are manicured, and the occasional termite company is out doing rounds. I don't know why but I always feel as if there's a termite guy nearby, it's a pretty decent area. Which is a far cry from where I live, on the other side of the tracks, literally. There are train tracks that run through our town and it acts as a divide. But they didn't need to know that. They only needed to see the straightened hair, well spoken, fake braces wearing girl in glasses sporting a skirt that wasn't too short where the neighbors would talk.
Usually I sat down with new clients, have them introduce me to their kids (trust me it helps) in order to make a clear cut line with them that I am in their parent's employ and I am not there to be their bestfriend and will definitely tell on them if they act up or break something. That's not to say I won't play silly games with them, feed them, laugh, tell bed time stories, and age appropriate jokes. But I am nobody's rug.
That's what I usually do, but there wasn't such luxury this time. Molly called me on the phone and she sounded desperate for me to come out. I had concert tickets and told her that they were non-refundable and she suggested that if I could make it in 30 minutes then she'd pay me twice the amount for the tickets and 1.5x my usual rate. I got there in 29 minutes. It would have been sooner but I needed to air myself out if you know what I mean.
Anyways, Molly barely had time to look at my face, let alone get any of my credentials as she was rushing out. Working mom it looked like. Business, by the looks of the pencil skirt and the bag that doubled as a folder. It always amazes me how much trust some people put in others to watch their kids. What if I was a serial killer? Or a deranged lunatic? What if I killed the babysitter on my way here and now I'm in a house, alone, with all her children.
I'm not. But I mean, what if, right?
She didn't seem to think about any of these things, leaving me to mumble goodbyes as she pulled out of the driveway, barely audible as the turbos wound up and she shouted something out the window to the likes of, "It's all on the iPad".
Yeah, no more yellow lined paper stuck with the realtor's magnet on the fridge anymore. It's all digital now.
I closed the door and figured that I better check up on the kids before I did a rundown. God this house was beautiful. I climbed the stairs two at a time and rounded the hall. To be fair, calling it a hall was so basic of me. It was more like a wing. West wing madam. The wing could have fit my living room. I click my heels when I heard a snort come from behind me. I came to face a shaggy dog that was well groomed. The collar was black with an underline of blue. Tiffany's undoubtedly. "Hey," I reached a hand and scratched the mop of top. "Let's go find the kids," I tell the dog as if it could understand me.
There were a series of rooms, most of them closed, but it didn't take me a second guess which one was occupied. The second door on the left, I could hear a kid shouting obscenities about someone being trash. I knocked on that door first.
"Come in," he shouted still loud but slightly less angry.
I opened the door and saw a stereotypical gamer's room. Posters, action figures, a rocking gaming chair on the floor in front of a huge flat screen, and a boy about 9 or 10. He had on his headphones and was sipping a Dr. Pepper.
"Don't they know trash day is on Thursdays?"
He cocked his head and laughed, "If you're looking for my mom I think she's downstairs."
"I'm actually looking for you." And let me tell you something. The audacity of this younger generation. The way he looked at me. Almost made me feel as bad as how I felt when he shrugged his shoulders after he had a good look. "Excuse me," I walk in front of him and blocked the screen. "I'm your new babysitter."
He shrugged. "Cool."
"What's your name?"
"You can read all about it somewhere else."
"What?"
"It's all on the iPad," he told me.
"What's your name," I repeated.
He rolls his eyes and looks at me as if I had asked him a stupid question.
I don't budge.
He whined, "Bobbie. Now come on, the next rounds about to start." he pulled his headphones over his ears. I grabbed the remote to get his attention. "What. Hey come on."
"It's nice to meet you Bobbie. Your mom's going to be away for a few hours and I'll be here until she gets back. Dinner is at 6:00 and I will make snacks at 4:30."
"No cap," he motioned at the tv, "Now can I get back to my game.
"Sure I tell him." Pocketing the remote.
"Hey!"
"Bye," I tell him as I close the door behind me.
So I'm back out in the hallway. And I open a few more doors. Some were locked. Before I get into one that's rather plain. There's a picture hanging up behind the bed, a tv, some lamps and shade. On the bed sits an identical, about 9 or 10, twins it seems. Probably why Bobbie was tired of being asked which one he was.
This one was staring at the blank screen. No video games. And quiet. Now I've babysat my share of kids before, and have seen all sorts. Quiet kids are my favorite. They don't mind board games, or listening. Most often times they only need to be left alone. I don't do too much talking in case they get tired of hearing my voice. And I give them a lot of space. "Hey, sorry about that. I didn't think anyone was in here."
He turned to me slowly, "Hi. Are you the new sitter?"
I nodded, "Yup. And I'm guessing that you're Max. I'll be watching you guys while your mom is away."
"She's probably going to work."
"Yeah, looked like it." I see the iPad in his hands. "Hey. I was looking for that."
"She's always at work." He hands it over. "It's dead. And mom took the charger."
I tried not to sigh. This was not how I wanted things to go. "Well, ok. If you need anything. Let me know. Or else I can come get you at 4:30 for snacks and dinner at 6."
He nodded, "Thanks," and goes back to staring at the screen.
I smile but he doesn't see, so I leave, closing the door softly behind me.
I make my way downstairs, wandering into the kitchen and start taking stock of what's there. Which was practically everything. This kitchen was so chic that I half expected Gordon Ramsay to pop out and tell me that the banana bread I made didn't have a clue if he staked the curved yellow fruit down the middle (it's a bad question mark joke. Listen. I never said I was funny).
Once I made sure that there was food, or ingredients to make food. There wasn't much else to do. The house was spotless. The kids were fine. And even the dog seemed well behaved. So I plopped on the couch, took out my fake braces, and watched tv until about 4:10 before I started slicing apples and celery to go with some peanut butter.
I fed the dog some peanut butter and licked my fingers (not with the hand I fed the dog with), before heading upstairs. Bobbie took the plate no problem but I couldn't find Max for the life of me. I wandered the rooms as the dog followed, still trying to lick my hand. "Max, I've got snacks." I knocked on what seemed like the umpteenth door before I get to a rather solid oak one that seemed custom.
Inside was the biggest home library I had ever seen. And I once dog sat for a pretentious professor from the college nearby. I mean, there was a portrait of said academic holding his dog in 18th century art style hanging over the mantle place of the deep wood cabinets filled with books. And yet this library made the other one look like a neighborhood book exchange birdbox.
"Holy..."
"Cow."
I whirled around to find Max standing in the doorway.
"You shouldn't wander into Father's study."
"I was just looking for you," holding up the plate. He made a face. "What? You don't like PB&C?" I took a stick and crunched on the celery.
"I'm not hungry."
I shrug. "Take it anyway. In case you get hungry."
He grabs the plate from me without much struggle so I decide to leave him be. I went back downstairs and crashed in front of the tv.
When I woke up. It was dark. My mouth was dry and all of the lights were off. The screen saver flashed the logo in blinks, lighting up the room only momentarily. For a second I forgot where I was and felt my heart thumping in my chest. My alarm didn't go off but I don't know why I woke up. Then I heard it again. The sound that must have jerked me awake. A crash. It came from upstairs. I grab my phone and glance down at the numbers. It was 8:10. I had slept through dinner. Shit. Shit. Shit. Here I was trying to make a good first impression and I missed out on dinner.
I wipe what drool was on my face and took to the stairs. Bobbie was probably so immersed in his game that he probably didn't even know he was hungry. Max on the other hand. "Max?" I call out down the hall. All of the doors are shut. I can hear something panting behind me. I turn to see the dog again. Its head is down and there's barely any light touching its face. "Hey come here," I called but it retreated in the opposite direction.
Then I shit me not. I heard a creaking come from behind me. It was the only noise in the house. I couldn't even hear Bobbie yelling in his room. I turn slowly and see one of the doors down the hall is now slightly ajar. It's dark in here. It was dark everywhere. I pressed my hands against the wall searching for a light switch. "Bobbie," I call out. There's no answer. "Hey, sorry about the delay in dinner. I'm going to get to it now."
Why was this place so big? And why could I see the door?
"Bobbie. Max?" I hear the dog tapping its paws behind me. Someone on the other side of the house by now. "Hey, where are you guys?" I peer at the single door that's open and realized why it was so prominent. The hall was dark, but what was inside was even darker. Instead of going toward it, I try the first knob my blind fingers came across. Process of elimination I told myself. It was locked. I tried the next one. Also locked. I finally get to Bobbie's door and I knock. "Bobbie." There's no answer. I press my head against the door and listen. But I don't hear a single sound.
"Where are all the light switches in this place!"
The door that was open before slightly opens again. Creaking, *tic tic tic tic*, with each ungreased turn of the hinge. "Shit. Hey, stop playing around."
There's laughing coming from behind me. It sounded like a little kids. Too young to be either of the boys. Followed by smaller footsteps. It sounded like they were barefoot. "Hey, this isn't funny. I'm going to tell your mother when she gets home." I take out my phone and turn on the flashlight. "When is she coming home?" It was almost 8:30, when I realized that we never set a time.
I hear footsteps again, they were odd. Almost like falling. Like a toddler learning how to run for the first time but the hollow ground sounded as if the person was much heavier. I shine my flashlight over the hall. "Shit." The dog was sitting on all fours in the corner. It was facing the wall. I couldn't even see his face. Every hair on its body completely still.
"Hey," I called out. "Come here." I clicked my tongue. "Come here." The dog didn't move. I couldn't even see it breathing.
Bang! It sounded like thunder behind me. As if someone dropped something on the floor. As if something fell off a shelf or was pushed. I jumped around and shone my light down the west wing. I didn't know if I should have been more or less afraid now that the door was closed. "Bobbie? Max?"
God. I did not want to try the door. And I stood there for a minute before realizing how stupid I must have looked. These were some rich kids playing a joke on you Camilia. I know it. The thought of their smug little faces made me stomp out of my frozen state. I took a couple of strides over and grabbed the handle.
"Fuck!" The thing was hot. "What the hell! You guys could have hurt me," I yelled. I banged on the door. "Open up. You two are in so much trouble." I banged on the door again. "Open the door. Right now!" I could hear something on the other side. It sounded like shuffling. Heavy furniture perhaps. "You guys better not be messing things up in there. I'm not going to clean it. I mean it."
I banged on the door. "I can hear you in there! Now come on!" I put my hands on my hips and tapped my foot. "I'm waiting. Your little jokes over now." I banged on the door again.
That's when the door knocked back.
It wouldn't have scared me. I don't think. Except for the fact that I was surprised. And alone in the hall. Without any of the lights on. In a strange house. And before I could say anything else. Another door behind me knocked from the inside. "Shit. Both of you are in on this?" I grabbed the handle to the other door. It was also locked. I banged on it. "Come out right now. Max?"
But then a third door started knocked from down the hall. I felt my throat clump as I tried to swallow. "You guys weren't supposed to have anyone over." The knocking didn't stop. It kept echoing down the hall. "I'm not getting paid for three kids you know?"
Tat-tat-tat-tat. Tat-tat-tat.
I took a single step. And then all of the doors in the hallway suddenly started banging.
I almost tripped as I ran toward the stairs. The doors were thundering on so hard I thought they would crack their hinges. I skipped the stairs, the sounds chasing me as I tried to not fall and break my neck. When I got to the front landing I hear someone say my name.
"Camilia. Are you okay?"
I'm trying not to choke on a lung here as I shot my eyes toward the kitchen. The kids are sitting on the barstools lining the counter. There are two plates in front of them. As if they didn't hear the drumline upstairs.
"Is it dinner time yet," one of them asks quietly.
"Max?"
He smiles.
"Kids. I think there's someone in the house." I rush over to grab each of their hands. Bobbie's wrists are limp but it was Max's hands that shocked me. They were ice cold. I tried to let go but my fingers wouldn't uncurl.
He turns my hand over and says, "There's no one else in this house except us. I promise."
"No," I wasn't about to listen to the kid even if it was his house. "Something is wrong. We have to go. Now." I pick up Bobbie and he doesn't seem to want to move. "Come on Bobbie. Let's go." He looks over at Max who shrugs and get out of his seat.
Bobbie follows as I drag them toward the front door.
"Camilia," Max says.
"What?" He looked scared. Which made me turn toward what he was staring out. At the front door was a tall figure. I couldn't see its face through the glass. It was a stark figure of a man.
"Do you think it's your dad?"
Max shakes his head. I feel him pulling against my arm.
I call out to the man, "Hey! Who is it?" The man doesn't budge. "I'm calling the police." I turn to Bobbie, "Get the phone." He doesn't move. "Hey!" I'm trying to sound as angry as possible. "Get the fuck out of here!" I grabbed a roll of painter's tape from the side table and hurl it across the hall, hitting the glass squarely in the face where the man's head stood blocking the exit. He doesn't even twitch as the glass shakes.
"Come on," I grab their hands and rush to the back. I don't get 10 steps before I feel a scream crawl up my throat making me cough. The man was standing at the sliding door. "Fuck!" I drag the two of them with me towards the kitchen. It's a big place so there had to be a way out to the garage. We push through one of the doors and end up in the laundry room. The next door gets us out into a 3 car garage. My hands find the glowing green opener against the wall and I hear the opener fold seamlessly towards the ceiling.
It started with his feet. Then his ankles. His shins. Then his legs. Light poured in from behind him from the streetlamp. I watched as the door went to his waist before I hit the button for the garage to close, before rushing back inside. We make it into the kitchen to where I still see the tall man standing at the sliding door. A part of me wants to hide in the laundry room but I didn't want to be sandwiched in the middle of the house. So I pull the boys back up the stairs, back to where the doors banged themselves. Taking out my phone as we ascended, and called 911.
"This is the police operator speaking."
"HELLO", I hope they could hear me, "There are several men trying to get inside!"
"Men? Are you in any danger?"
"No! But they have us surrounded!"
"Why don't you go outside?"
My tongue suddenly felt numb in my mouth. Like I didn't know what to do with it. "W-what?"
"It's stranger in the house."
The line went dead as we hit the hallway.
I only took my eyes off of them for a second before Bobbie. Or Max. Runs down the hall. The one or the other already slipping through a door ahead. I look back down the stairs and see that the man is still standing in front of the doorway. I look back up and see the other boy also going through the same door. I take a single step and the doors start pounding on either side. I shut my eyes and turn around. Afraid to go. Almost deciding that these weren't my kids. That I should run away. I take a step backwards mouthing that I was sorry. But I was too scared to go! "Max! Bobbie!" My back foot sticks to the floor. I don't want to look down but the next step sticks too. I point my phone to the ground and see a trail of blood. And just behind me. It's the dog. Split right down the middle, its spine shiny and white, still facing the wall. I could see its organs still pulsing.
I couldn't go back downstairs. I couldn't go the other way. I couldn't leave them here. I couldn't be alone.
I ran after them. The thundering of the doors following me as frames fell to the floor. A vase rolled off a table in the hall. It came crashing at my feet. I run my shoulder through the door, except it wasn't locked. Which caused me to go crashing, sprawling to the floor. Running into the desk in the middle of the room.
The study.
Many of the books were off the shelves. The carpet was torn. There were curtains on fire. It was the first time a saw a window as they burned.
"Camilia!"
I hear one of their voices shouting at me.
"Camilia!" It came again. "Help!"
I get to my feet and start working my hands along the desk. I didn't have to search far. The bookcase directly behind the chair had been swung open. "Camilia!" I wipe the blood from my eyebrow where it had split and step into the tunnel behind the secret passage.
The tunnel started off tall and wide, but as I kept walking in. It got smaller and smaller. I started having to hunch. Several times I decided to turn back. But their voices would echo through, calling for me. Asking for help. "I'm coming!"
"I can't hold on! Camilia! Please!"
The twins cry for help bounced off the walls. I was finally on my hands and knees when I finally see two holes on either side. I'm afraid to look but then one of their voices came through clear as day. "Camilia." It was right in my ear now. I turned to see the boy naked and huddling, hugging his knees at the back of his hole.
"Camilia! Help! I don't want to play this game anymore!"
"Bobbie?"
"Help me!"
I look into the hole, the walls are pressing on my back and there's dust going into my lungs. I can barely turn my shoulder. "Crawl out!"
"I can't!"
"Crawl out! I'm right here." I take out my hand, "Come on!"
"Camilia!" Came a voice from the other side.
I turn my head and see Max in the other hole.
"No!" Bobbie shouts at me. "No!"
"Hold on," I tell him. "I'm going to get both of you out of here."
"No," Bobbie cries. "It's all his fault. He's the one that did it. He's the one that wants to get out!"
"Bobbie, what are you talking about."
"He's the one that put something in your drink so you'd fall asleep!"
"He's lying!" Max's voice rang through. "It's him! I saw him. Always in father's study! Reading those books! Trying out those things he reads. Those curses. Those spells. It's why the shadow men are after him! Camilia! You have to believe me."
I can hear Bobbie crying, "Why are you lying! I don't want to play anymore," he screeches. "I don't want to play!" He sobs. "You said you'd go away if I told you that I didn't want to play anymore."
I don't know what made me do it. It sure wasn't the nauseating squealing tantrum of the boy which made me reach for him first. Maybe it was because I wanted him to shut up. I don't know but I plunged my arm up to my shoulder in to grab his collar.
Instantly I screamed and saw tiny spiders, short thing legs with round white backs crawl over my arms. I shook my arm in the hole, trying to smother them against the walls. That only caused these long brown flat slugs to fall. I saw one land on my hand. It had three distinct tendon-like lines running across its back and was about a half inch long. I pulled my arm out of the hole as I felt it pierce its flat head into the back of my hand. I dropped my phone and heard it crack as the light splintered in the small, suffocating tunnel. But I didn't care as I looked at my hand and saw it burrowing its tiny spearhead below my skin. I grabbed at the wiggling tail still exposed and tried pulling it out.
It was like trying to pull our barbed wire. The spines on its body were facing me. So with each pull they dug deeper inside. I could see blood pooling under my skin, it was starting to turn purple as I tugged on its tail even harder. Until it gave. Popped right off and lay twitching in my hand. The head missing.
I couldn't take it anymore. Really. I had tried my best. I shake my head. "Bobbie. Bobbie. I'm sorry." But it didn't matter. When I looked over at Bobbie. He was covered in it. All of it. Even the spiders.
My jeans started shifting as I tried to wiggle myself out of there. But I hear Max's cry again. "Camilia! Please!"
"No," I whimpered. Shaking. I couldn't reach my hand in there again. But his voice was so scared. More scared than the pain I felt.
I shot my arm inside. Bracing. Waiting for the pain. But there was none. Instead my hands grasped around his collar and I felt his cold clammy skin, and yanked him from the hole. He came without much struggle. His face covered in the soot of it all. "Camilia," he cried. "You picked me. You did it."
I didn't have the heart to tell him that I almost didn't.
"Come on," I cried. "We. Have. To go."
The two of us wiggled our way out of there, crawling on our hands and knees, and running when we could. We finally make it back into the study. And the fire is roaring now. One of the books fall from the shelves and when it hit the fire I swear it started screaming. There was so much smoke that I couldn't see. And the door was covered by the flames.
I pointed to the window, the curtains on the floor in ashes. I kick the window. It didn't budge. I coughed. I kicked it again. The glass shook. I kicked it again and my foot went through. Pieces of the glass still hung in the frame, I use the tips of my fingers and pull them back. They fall to the floor cracking until there was a hole big enough for me to get through.
I plunge my head out and take my first breath of fresh air. The moon was full and the sky was clear. I could hear sirens coming off in the distance. When both of my feet were on the roof. I reach my hand back and grab Max from the burning house. Together we run across the clay tiles and climb down the arched tree. The red fire truck comes screeching to a stop as several firemen help us down.
One of them pushes a breathing mask on me, and wraps me up. The neighbors are outside, and the police arrive. I see a familiar car come roaring down the street, screaming to a halt as Molly runs out. Her face is flustered and she's shouting. Pushing through the cops until she reaches me next to the ambulance.
"What happened," she literally screamed at me.
"I'm so sorry," I tell her. "There were these men." I take another breath. "I couldn't do anything! B-but I saved Max! I saved him!"
She looked at the house. It was blazing now in the cool night. "Oh my god. Is Bobbie still in there?" Molly starts to cry. "My baby!"
"Max. But Max." I cough. "Max is okay!"
And she turns to me. I wasn't expecting her to be grateful. But there's anger on her face. "You didn't save my son. But you saved our dog?"
I shake my head. "No. Max. Your other son." I looked around but he was nowhere to be found.
​
s

I feel 16 again. I've been feeling so insecure today. Especially about my hair. The hair loss is so noticable now. The thing about my hair insecurity is that it runs so deep that I cant even talk about it out loud. Same with my teeth. I'm scared of bringing attention to them because not only will it make ppl more aware of them, but I'll feel even worse when I see them struggling trying to say "omg nooo what that's not true". Cos everyone knows it is. I know there are ways to fix it. I don't know how motivated I am to do so though. The thing making me upset isn't just my insecurities anymore. I don't know what's keeping me so constantly dejected but here I am. I hate this shit man I'm scared of losing all my hair one day. It's only gonna get more noticeable from now on. And it's the most noticable in the summer. I'm terrified of the summer if I'm being hoenst There's no jacket to hide in anymore My skin my hair the wind everything is going to be working against me It's enough to make me want to become a recluse the entire summer tbh. I feel like I should really start taking care of myself. Every fucking year I have this sudden and acute awareness of my insecurities and want to fix them. But this year i don't even have that initial first week of motivation. I am just so tired. I don't know what to do.

Hello fellow skincare enthusiasts! I have oily skin and I'm currently on the hunt for a new cleanser. Currently, I'm using the CeraVe Foaming Facial Cleanser, but I feel like it doesn't provide a deep enough clean for my skin. Even after washing off my EltaMD sunscreen, I can sometimes still smell it on my face the next day.
I'm seeking recommendations for a cleanser that is gentle enough for sensitive skin but also effectively removes impurities, excess oil, and sunscreen residue. I want to ensure my skin feels fresh and thoroughly cleansed without stripping it of essential moisture.
Do you have any suggestions or personal experiences with cleansers that have worked well for oily skin? I would greatly appreciate any recommendations, especially from those who have faced a similar challenge. Thank you in advance for your help!

Part 1
I took a deep breath before blowing into the little straw attached to the breathalyzer test.
"Keep it going, another few seconds," the newly reinstated sheriff's deputy Randy said from the passenger seat next to me.
Finally the device made a noise and the numbers 0.07 appeared on the screen.
"Okay, I'm good to drive. I'll need to keep ingesting roughly one beer every hour from this point on."
Randy nodded.
"Okay, now you go," I said, replacing the disposable straw in the breathalyzer test.
He blew into the straw and after a few seconds it came up on the display.
"O.16. That’s not gonna do it with your tolerance, bud. I'm gonna need you to drink something, Randy. You gotta be sharp for this."
He pulled out a bottle of whiskey and unscrewed the cap, taking a long swig of it before belching. When I was satisfied he was intoxicated enough to avoid seeing any more invisible monsters, I told him to buckle up.
Normally I don’t condone drinking and driving, even if it is technically within the legal limits, but these were special circumstances. Randy had infected me with some sort of… Well, I don’t really know how to describe it. Ghost virus? Hallucinating monster plague?
I was seeing things in mirrors and reflective surfaces now, just like he had been. It was as if they now served as peepholes into another dimension. Therefore, we had covered up the rear view and side mirrors with duct tape. I had also gotten rid of my aviators, which was a shame, because they completed my whole outfit. I was even growing a mustache to complete the small town Sheriff everyman appearance, but the hair growth on my upper lip was patchy and gross-looking still.
Before growing it, I hadn’t realized facial dandruff was a real thing. Well, it turns out it definitely is.
Sorry, I’m getting tangential again. That happens to me when I drink.
To sum it all up, Randy was the old sheriff in Hollow’s End, but he’d run into some kind of trouble recently. This trouble had caused him to see horrible things which appeared in reflective surfaces - windows and mirrors all over town which had been smashed by him in what I at first assumed was a drunken rage. Now I realized he was drinking to drown out the demons. The liquor made them less noticeable, and less frequent.
“This case has to be connected with everything that’s happening,” I said as we started driving - our destination still unknown. “That man who disappeared. In such a small town, these things have to be connected.”
“Not necessarily,” Randy replied. “This town is weird as hell, dude. Fucked up shit happens here literally all the time. You just haven’t lived here long enough to see any of it.”
I ignored this and pressed onward, trying to get something useful out of the man.
“Okay, you’re not much help. Is there someone in town who is in the know? Someone who can give us the low-down?”
“Well… The only person I can think of like that would be the butcher. He’s sort of like the unofficial mayor of Hollow’s End," Randy explained. "But he’s not exactly the talkative type.”
“Great. That’s something, at least. Point me towards the butcher shop. Let’s go have a chat with this guy," I said to Randy, only to realize he had promptly fallen asleep after his last statement.
I drove towards the commercial district, eyes peeled for a Butcher Shop sign.
Eventually I found it.
*
We pulled up in front of the place and I could tell right away that something was off. And by that I mean there was a terrible smell that I associated with spoiled meat. Something inside the shop was long past its expiration date, and the rank odor was making its way out to the street.
There was a closed sign hanging from the door, despite the hours indicating it should be open. Alarm bells started ringing in my mind even louder than before and I told Randy to watch the front of the shop while I went around to the back.
He was now wide awake again, acting as if he hadn't just been asleep seconds prior.
After knocking on the back door, I tried the handle. To my surprise, it opened.
I went inside and was hit with a knockout punch of decay right to my nose. My eyes started watering at the smell of meat gone sour, the sound of buzzing flies growing louder as I stepped inside the kitchen.
There was blood everywhere - and not just in the usual places where you would expect it to be in a butcher’s shop. It was splattered on the ceiling and all over the floor. There was one particularly large bloodstain in the far corner of the room that was in the shape of a human body, and judging by the deep crimson color of it whoever had been laying there had lost a sufficient amount of bodily fluids to render them dead half a dozen times over.
I heard footsteps from the other side of a translucent plastic curtain which separated the kitchen from the front of the shop. Pulling out my service revolver, I took a cautious step forward and pulled back the hammer, ready for anything.
My heart was pounding fast as I spoke in my best 'don't fuck with me' cop-voice.
“This is the sheriff. Whoever’s behind the curtain, come out with your hands up. Do it now!”
There was an identical sound on the other side of the divider, indicating another gun was being readied for action.
“No way, man,” said a gruff voice on the other side. “You’re not taking me alive.”
My heart skipped a beat as I realized I was potentially about to die. There was going to be a shootout. And a lot more blood was about to be decorating the walls of this butcher shop.
Then I realized the voice sounded familiar.
“RANDY!?”
He came through the curtain and I almost shot him anyway.
“Oh, sorry. I thought it was a bad guy impersonating you,” Randy said.
“So you decided to impersonate a bad guy? How does that make any sense?”
“They wouldn’t kill one of their own, man. Think about it.”
I let out a deep breath and counted to ten in my mind, trying to think of other ways to stop myself from murdering him.
Would anyone notice if Randy went missing? No, don't think like that. Only bad things will come of it.
I tried to focus on the case.
“That’s a lot of blood,” I said, pointing at the man-shaped brownish-red puddle in the corner. “Looks like some bad shit went down here. Maybe this butcher guy is good for the murder of our missing man.”
“Nah,” Randy said, waving it off. “That puddle has been there for weeks. We play poker here every Friday. It’s, well, it would be too hard to explain what happened. But just trust me that the blood-letting was consensual, even if it did get a bit out of hand.”
“I don’t even want to know.”
“Well, you asked.”
“So all of this blood looks NORMAL to you?”
“For this place, yeah."
"And the smell?"
He nodded.
"But I did notice one weird thing.”
“What’s that?” I asked, completely exasperated by this point.
“No mirrors anywhere. There’s usually a couple of them out front in the customer area that are gone now. And he hasn’t cleaned his knives. That's not like him. He loves these knives like they're his own non-existent children. It’s like he didn’t want them to be shiny. He wanted them to stay bloody.”
Mirrors. Glass. Steel can be polished to be so reflective you can see your face in it. Or other things.
“He’s infected too.”
“Yup. This shit’s spreading. Who knows how far it could get if we don’t stop it.”
He held up one finger, produced a flask from his pocket, and drank a large swallow of whiskey.
“Alright, where to next?” he asked after burping loudly. “This was a bust.”
*
We were walking out the front door of the place when we saw a car pull up to the curb. A young man got out, looking like he was in his late twenties.
The car had a company name on the side and I realized it looked familiar. It was actually the next lead I was planning to follow up on.
J&M Delivery Co.
Booze, burgers, pizza and MORE!
Delivering to all citizens of Hollow’s End
(Unless you're a Subterranean)
(No forest deliveries after 4PM)
I read the sign twice and was about to ask the man why they didn’t deliver to the Subterraneans, and who the Subterraneans were, and who the hell would order pizza from a forest, but decided it would be better to stay focused.
“What are you guys doing here?” the man asked, heading towards the shop.
“Hey, Jay. We were looking for the butcher, but he’s gone,” Randy replied quickly. “Where’s Muriel? Maybe she knows something.”
“She’s been gone since last night. There was some sort of crisis and she ran out of the house without saying goodbye. I figured the butcher might have an idea where she went.”
“We were just in there. He’s gone but the doors are unlocked. Must’ve left in a hurry,” I said. “Does she have a cell phone? Maybe we can track her with the GPS.”
“Nah, she’s not really into technology. She has one of those brick Nokia phones that she’s managed to keep alive for twenty years or so, but she leaves it at home most of the time, and the rest of the time she’s at the casino where there’s no signal.”
“Okay, maybe that’s where she is.”
“I checked already. None of the employees have seen her since the weekend.”
It occurred to me suddenly that there was another missing person who I was investigating, and this man was a potential witness.
“I need to ask you about something else,” I said, pulling out a picture of the missing man. “Do you know this person?”
He squinted at it for half a second.
“Sure, that’s John Grayson. He’s a delivery driver with our company.”
“Are you aware that he’s been missing now for nearly two days?”
He hesitated, then looked at Randy.
“Is he cool?” he asked cautiously.
“Yeah, he’s already got the curse. He’s good.”
I looked back and forth between the two of them.
“What the fuck!? So this is like, just a known thing around here? If I stay in town too long I’m gonna become cursed by this place?”
“No, no. No. Well, kinda. It’s hard to explain. And even more hard to explain because of all the weird shit going down,” Randy said. “Now the important thing is this town has its hooks in you. And because of that, you’ll have a very difficult time leaving this place. You’re a part of it and it's a part of you. That's the way it works. One way or another, if you stay in Hollow’s End for too long, you’re gonna get bit by something.”
“I didn’t think it was possible for me to be any more confused.”
“Do you have the monkey paw?” Randy asked Jay, making me even more confused.
“No. But, I’m starting to think it might be the cause of all of this trouble.”
Feeling like I was about to lose my mind, or had already done so, I put my foot down and yelled in my loudest, most authoritative voice.
“ENOUGH!”
The two of them looked at me stupidly.
“Monkey paws? The butcher? Disappearing people all over town? Just… Tell me this is a prank. You guys are messing with me because I’m new in town. Right? Is there a YouTube video being filmed? Am I being punked? Is this a reboot!?”
The two men stared at me a moment longer then went back to talking as if I weren’t standing there.
“It’s definitely got something to do with that paw. The butcher should have just gotten rid of the damn thing when he found it in that shipment of discarded monkey carcasses. Everyone knows monkey paw wishes are tainted. Who the fuck would be dumb enough to actually use one of them?” Jay was saying.
“Well, I mean, how can you possibly know just by looking at the monkey paw that it’s evil? There have to be at least a few GOOD monkey paws out there that grant wishes, right?”
Jay and I suddenly shared a psychic thought connection, and I saw he had the same idea I did, at the exact same moment.
“You made a wish on the fucking monkey paw, didn’t you?” we both blurted out in unison.
Randy looked down at the ground. It took a few seconds for him to confess. When he finally did it was in the most obnoxious, affected, half-apologetic tone of voice I'd ever heard.
“I always wanted to be able to teleport like Nightcrawler from X-Men. I didn’t realize it was gonna open up a series of gateways to alternate dimensions, potentially causing the destruction of reality. That part was completely unexpected.”
It took me a few moments to figure out what he meant. But then it all came together.
“It was your fault! You made me see the monsters in the mirrors! It was all because of you and your STUPID monkey paw WISH!”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “But on the plus side, check this out!”
He jumped into the nearby front window of the butcher shop and, instead of shattering, it rippled outwards from its center like a pool of water disrupted by a stone being thrown into it. He disappeared into the glass and was gone.
The two of us stood there for several minutes in stunned silence, unsure if he was going to come back. I went into the shop to see if he was in there but it was empty.
Just as we were about to walk away awkwardly, he leapt back through the liquid glass carrying a bag of fast food in his hand. The paper bag was stained with grease and said, “KFC” on it.
“See!? We don’t even have one of these in town! I just teleported to Pittsburgh and back!”
The window glass continued to make ripples and didn't settle down into its usual smoothness, I noticed. Not only that, but there was now something moving in the glass. A huge dark creature with long limbs, crawling on six legs. It was sniffing the ground like a dog hunting a rabbit. Then it turned sharply to look at us through the glass. There was no question in my mind that it saw us.
"Randy, did you ever consider that using the powers granted by the cursed magic monkey paw might be a VERY BAD idea?"
He looked at me stupidly.
A strange sound began to come from the glass window of the storefront as a set of huge legs came through from the other side, followed by another, and another. It was an indescribable sound, but if I had to compare it to anything it would be like if fingernails on a chalkboard and microphone feedback had an ear-splitting baby together.
Sitting atop the legs with too many joints was a horrifying creature with a long snout lined with sharp teeth. Odd openings split its rough alligator skin in places, looking like gills, but not quite. Its eyes were black and dull as it surveyed the downtown street of Hollow's End.
After it was through the glass it sniffed the air, and I hoped that maybe this creature didn't breathe oxygen and it would keel over, dead, from the toxic air of our world.
But of course the stupid thing was fine. I guess whatever world it came from had a similar atmosphere to ours.
A second later it spotted us and began to race toward us with murder in its eyes.
"RUN!" I yelled, and turned around to see Jay and Randy already in their respective vehicles and ready to drive away without me.
"Hop in," Randy yelled shifting over into the passenger seat. "Come on man, get away from that thing. Whatever it is, it looks PISSED!"
YT
TCC

I’ve been struggling with this for most of my life as of what I can remember, I don’t know why it is, but I have always felt very ashamed of everything, to this day even, I like to eat alone because to me eating in front of others makes me feel observed and judged, same with watching literally anything on my phone in public or listening to the music I like.
Any time I’m with someone I act awkwardly and talk mostly when talked to because I don’t feel worthy of having something valid or important to say, and wouldn’t want to give others the burden of listening to me talk with my god awful voice. I never like to make eye contact because I don’t like to force anyone to have the unpleasantness of staring at me, I even struggle with saying Hi to people because I more often than not feel like I should save them the load of greeting me.
I am also very ashamed any time I have to take off my shirt because of my very pale skin and being very skinny, any negative comments I get or have ever gotten about my looks, body and face are immediately justified as that happens. I struggle to eat when I put on as much as a gram because it makes me feel like I’m on my way to getting big and that would make me hate myself.
I was also deemed unfit for the career I always wanted to pursue because the interviewer saw right through all of my flaws, as would anyone who spends as much as a minute with me. I have been trying to get better for the better part of a year, but inside I’m the same undeserving idiot that I hate so much, I realize maybe I need to be more patient and that working through these issues might take even longer, but a part of me feels like that ‘something’ about me is so deep into my character that it’s something I can’t get rid, as I feel like that’s all I am
Also I realize I rambled a bit so I’m sorry if it was an unpleasant read

For context: I'm well aware that it's not perfectionism, as I'm hurting myself and conscious that I don't perceive myself the way others do. I'm a 25-year-old woman who has never had trouble dating and is often called beautiful. When I talk about my insecurities, people tell me they exist only in my mind. I've had various complexes since I was 12 and struggled immensely with accepting my transition into womanhood. Additionally, my father was extremely humiliating and demeaning during my childhood, then abandonned me at 12 saying it was my fault.
Regarding my issue, I've noticed that I've experienced several instances of OCD. It started with hair pulling at12—I couldn't stop pulling out my hair, meticulously feeling each strand and removing only those that didn't feel smooth or had rough edges. Then I developed sores on my scalp, which made my mother very angry. So I shifted to plucking ingrown hairs on my pubic area using needles, causing myself significant pain for hours on end until I couldn't continue due to the extent of the discomfort and scars. Strangely, I always felt a sense of relief afterward.
After that, I dealt with acne, which, despite being moderate, triggered the same compulsion. I would caress my face all time but couldn't tolerate the roughness and bumps, leading me to inflict serious harm on my skin, clearly engaging in dermatillomania. I would expose my face to scalding hot water until it became burnt simply because I couldn't stand the redness of the spots. Paradoxically, once my entire face turned red, I would feel better. I also used 90% alcohol and needles, and scrubbed my skin with rough gloves until I had no epidermis left. My dermatologist warned me about the risk of serious infection. I knew I was getting uglier doing so, but I rather having holes than spots because, to me, spots were dirty and holes were the proof I made something to fight against them. I also developped anorexia and eating disorders, always trying to eat the most perfectectly possible so that people couldn't tell me I was responsible for my appearance.
Now I'm trying to overcome my dermatillomania. I've managed to avoid touching my face for about a month, which is a tremendous accomplishment for me because I obsess over my skin and its imperfections. Allowing them to remain on my skin ruins my entire life. I feel so under human when letting them on me. Currently, I'm fixating on my teeth. I've been wearing braces for four months and I've noticed white stains on two of them. Honestly, I have dreams of pulling them out, just like I do with all my other imperfections. I prefer removing them because they aren't perfect, and missing two teeth, rather than keeping them. I can already feel myself becoming obsessed with them. I despise my teeth, my skin, my body, and my hair. Even though I know these behaviors make me appear less attractive, it feels better for me than being beautiful but having these flaws.
​
I hope you won't judge me, I'm feeling very shameful for all of this but I'm looking for someone who may have the same issue. I'm conscious I would need therapy, but this is so deep, I already tried but my therapist said it was due to my relationship with my father, and I'm not ready to dive into it.
​
TDLR: I've been hurting myself since 13years because I cannot stand my flaws, even if I know it's not good for me, is there a name for this illness?

Not all change is bad, but not all change is advantageous either, especially when it involves disfigurations and body part swapping. ‘What doesn’t kill you, only makes you stronger.’ I tend to disagree in certain circumstances. I doubt surviving a train wreck makes you stronger. At this point in my life, I feel as weak as I have ever been. I feel odd and peculiar, a stranger to my own body, a monster to my soul.
Several months ago, as I was lying in bed a wave of red light poured in through my window, accompanied by a hypnotic vibrating purr, that put me in a deep sleep. When I woke up my left hand felt swollen. At first, I thought nothing of it but as I went through my morning routine, things felt different. My grasp wasn’t as strong, but it wasn’t just that, it felt as if I had a different tactile sensation altogether. I finally became conscious of the extent of the difference when I went to brush my teeth.
I grabbed the toothbrush with my right hand and the tube of toothpaste with my left hand. As I tried to line the nozzle to the toothbrush, I noticed that my left hand was slightly bigger than my right hand, and had a darker skin tone. The contrast was striking. I have a very fair skin complexion. My mom always said that I was ‘Irish’ white, that she would lose sight of me walking to the mailbox through a snowstorm.
I dropped the dental toiletries in the sink. I held my hands up in front of my face. I never chewed my nails, but on my left hand, the nails were almost chewed down to the cuticle. I turned my hands over and they were as different as night and day. The left was calloused from hard work and dedicated labor, the other was the pampered hands of a college student. Around the wrist of my new left hand was a bracelet of thick dark stitches, hardly signifying friendship or wealth.
I had to call the police, but when I got my phone, there was a text message:
Don’t go to the police, or we’ll remove your head. No more procedures needed.
I wasn’t too sure what to do at that point. Whoever did this was able to in one night, knock me out, surgically remove my hand and replace with someone else’s hand. If they were able to do that, then I was certain they would be able to get in and do much worse.
Luckily, I was in between semester, no classes to attend, nothing as of yet to explain. Even though it was hot as hell and it was in the middle of Summer, I put on a long sleeve shirt and a pair of gloves. My left glove barely fit, and the phrase ‘If it don’t fit, you must acquit’ popped in my head. I frequented the food truck parked in the convenient store parking lot near my apartment building at least three times a week. They have the best burrito I have ever eaten, bursting with meat and spices, not any of those lean stingy burritos you get at traditional restaurants. But lately, there has been this strange street person hanging out at the corner. He showed up around a month before my ordeal. He was not begging for money but preaching about an invasion. He was always dressed as if it was forty below zero.
Instead of walking along the sidewalk, I decided to climb down the hill from my apartment that led directly to the back of the convenient store. From my deck, I could watch the customers go in and out of the store. The apartment building sat on a high hill overlooking the street below. I could see that the homeless man wasn’t at his usual corner, but I didn’t want to take any chance.
I got down the hill and hopped down from the retaining wall, when all of the sudden he jumped out from behind the dumpster, dressed in a long trench coat, gloves, a ski mask, and a scarf wrapped around his neck.
“They got ya son. They’ve tagged you. I saw the red light. I’ve been tracking them for a while. You ain’t getting away and they ain’t stopping. You need to come with me.”
“Mister, I don’t have any money I can give you.”
“I don’t want your damn money son. I’m here to save your life."
I tried to walk past him, but he blocked my path and pushed me back. As he did so he started unwrapping his scarf and pulling off his ski mask. I resumed my attempt to get to my favorite burrito, but he blocked me again. I was looking down, not paying attention, so I didn’t notice that he was completely unmasked with his trench coat and shirt laying on the ground.
“Look here!”
I looked up to see the most grotesque, confusing human being I had ever perceived. He was a patchwork of different races, different skin tones, and stitched up scars running throughout his body and face like a map of a river and its many tributaries. His nose was completely foreign to his face and both eyes were awkwardly strung together from two different individuals. Worst of all, there was a large scar around his neck, indicating that this head had been removed and reattached.
“They told you that they were done, right?” I nodded my head in agreement. “Well, I’m proof that they are a bunch of damn liars. I hate to tell you this, but your life is over as you know it. You can come with me and stay intact or refuse my help and become what I am today.”
I should have taken his advice, but I wasn’t in a state to comprehend the reality of my situation. I was still unsure of what I had seen this morning. I was trying to convince myself that I had just slept on my hand or had a bad dream and slammed it against the wall. It was just swollen, not someone else’s hand.
“I’m fine man. I just want a burrito. Leave me alone, please.”
“Alright. I’ll still be here when you are ready. There’s a place we like to call the Island of Misfit Toys. You know from Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer. You’ll be safe there. I promise you, its not going away.”
I started to walk away, determined to ignore him, but then he said something that caught my attention.
“I bet you are O negative blood type. All us misfit toys are O negative. Universal donor baby. Now how did I know that? You still want to turn a blind eye.”
He was correct, but I persisted in my stubbornness and walked away. That day the burrito just didn’t taste as well as it normally did. Was there a new cook? I didn’t notice. Or worse, had they already replaced my tongue with someone else’s, whoever they were?
There weren’t any other occurrences for the next month. I made sure to sleep in the living room on the couch with the television on. Still, Mr. Frankenstein stood on the corner, waiting for me. I didn’t visit the food truck that entire month, didn’t have the usual craving and sure as hell didn’t want to have another confrontation.
The next month was my wake-up call. I was dozing off when the television shut off by itself. I heard that familiar hum and saw the red light moving through the front window. I put my fingers in my ears, closed my eyes and stumbled to the bathroom. I started singing to myself, hoping to drown out the noise and stay conscious. I opened my eyes for a second and saw that the red light was moving under the door, and bending upwards towards my face. I shut my eyes again.
The bathroom door slammed open. I closed my eyes tighter, so much so that I saw twinkling stars and sparks. I felt two hands grasp me by the shoulders and lift me up in the air. I opened my eyes. There standing before me was tall hairless grey being in a long black cloak. The creature had no eyes, small narrow nostrils, but a large gaping mouth, affixed open as if the creature was unable to close it. On his shoulder was a smaller green creature with a bulbous head and large eyes. It was not clothed and would ever so often lay its forehead against the side of the larger creature’s neck. It seemed to be a symbiotic relationship.
The larger creature lifted up his three-fingered hand. Out of the palm of his hand radiated a red light. The smaller creature was somehow making the humming noise, and within a few seconds I lost consciousness.
The next morning, I woke up in my bedroom upstairs. I frantically searched my entire body but saw nothing, but I wasn’t convinced by that cursory search, and sure enough, my suspicions were correct. Staring back at me was a somewhat unfamiliar face. My right eye was now green instead of blue, and the skin tone around it was darker. Even my eyebrow was more pointed. Encircling a wide area of the eye was a ring of stitches. I fell to the floor, exasperated by what I had seen, and what I had become. It was time to visit Mr. Frankenstein.
I didn’t try to hide my eye. I can easily explain it away as corrective surgery, the first of its kind, if anyone was so bold, or rude, to ask. I found him at the corner as expected. He didn’t gloat or say ‘I told you so.’ He was sympathetic.
“I’m sorry man. Come on. Let me take you to your new home.”
“There’s no way to fight them… or stop them?”
“Maybe in time, but all we know how to do right now is hide and keep them from tracking us.”
“How do you keep them from tracking us?” I asked.
“You’re not going to like it, but we got to dig a tracking device from in between you lower ribcage.”
I wasn’t too thrilled about that but then again, I’d rather go through a little suffering on the front end to avoid any more experimental alien body part swapping.
We walked down the main highway to a backroad where there was an old, abandoned warehouse. He gave a coded knock to let him know that it was a friend and then turned to me.
“By the way, what’s your name?”
“Robert, but you can call me Rob.”
“I’m Frank, as in Frankenstein.”
I laughed and explained to him that I had already begun calling him Mr. Frankenstein. I felt a little weird admitting that, so I apologized.
“No need to apologize. I like the name. I honestly don’t know my real name. I just picked that one.”
The door opened and there was a hooded man with his face hidden.
“Welcome home Frank. Got a new one huh?”
“Yep, sure do Phil. Let’s make him feel at home.”
We walked through the door into a small homemade foyer. Some drywall had been thrown up and fortified with wooden pallets and barbed wire. There was yet another door. It was a thick steel door with a peephole. Phil gave another coded knock. A woman armed with a gun slung over her shoulders opened the door. Her face was riddled with scars and one of her eyes were bulging. She had the same mismatched facial features that Frank had.
“Welcome to the Isle of Misfit Toys,” announced Frank.
It was a big open space with many cots strewn about all four walls. As we walked around and toured my new home, Frank introduced me to everyone. It was all the same. The scars and parts were different, but the procedure was recognizable. There were even children, little misshapen research subjects imprisoned in a world devoid of holidays and birthday parties, or at least in the normal sense. This world tries to operate as normal, but in the end, its difficult to be normal when you’re hidden and locked away in a warehouse. We’re all victims traumatized by our encounters with ghastly reminders etched on our bodies and faces. Our minds are no less effected. There’s a big handwritten sign hanging over the entrance door. It reads: No Red Lights.

In the past year, my overall health has been relatively good, with no significant issues. However, a few days ago, I experienced a sudden occurrence of four large canker sores/ulcers in my mouth. Coincidentally, around the same time, I noticed the emergence of an infection in my thumb and the development of a solid lump beneath the skin on my shoulder. Additionally, for approximately the past two years, I have had a noticeable lump on my lower right abdomen. Although it is located quite deep beneath the skin, a distinct bruise has formed in the surrounding area.
I have previously sought medical advice regarding this lump from three different doctors. Unfortunately, none of them were able to determine its nature, advising me to return only if it becomes painful.
If it's important to mention I am 18M and the next available appointment with a GP is likely to be in three weeks.

Not all change is bad, but not all change is advantageous either, especially when it involves disfigurations and body part swapping. ‘What doesn’t kill you, only makes you stronger.’ I tend to disagree in certain circumstances. I doubt surviving a train wreck makes you stronger. At this point in my life, I feel as weak as I have ever been. I feel odd and peculiar, a stranger to my own body, a monster to my soul.
Several months ago, as I was lying in bed a wave of red light poured in through my window, accompanied by a hypnotic vibrating purr, that put me in a deep sleep. When I woke up my left hand felt swollen. At first, I thought nothing of it but as I went through my morning routine, things felt different. My grasp wasn’t as strong, but it wasn’t just that, it felt as if I had a different tactile sensation altogether. I finally became conscious of the extent of the difference when I went to brush my teeth.
I grabbed the toothbrush with my right hand and the tube of toothpaste with my left hand. As I tried to line the nozzle to the toothbrush, I noticed that my left hand was slightly bigger than my right hand, and had a darker skin tone. The contrast was striking. I have a very fair skin complexion. My mom always said that I was ‘Irish’ white, that she would lose sight of me walking to the mailbox through a snowstorm.
I dropped the dental toiletries in the sink. I held my hands up in front of my face. I never chewed my nails, but on my left hand, the nails were almost chewed down to the cuticle. I turned my hands over and they were as different as night and day. The left was calloused from hard work and dedicated labor, the other was the pampered hands of a college student. Around the wrist of my new left hand was a bracelet of thick dark stitches, hardly signifying friendship or wealth.
I had to call the police, but when I got my phone, there was a text message:
Don’t go to the police, or we’ll remove your head. No more procedures needed.
I wasn’t too sure what to do at that point. Whoever did this was able to in one night, knock me out, surgically remove my hand and replace with someone else’s hand. If they were able to do that, then I was certain they would be able to get in and do much worse.
Luckily, I was in between semester, no classes to attend, nothing as of yet to explain. Even though it was hot as hell and it was in the middle of Summer, I put on a long sleeve shirt and a pair of gloves. My left glove barely fit, and the phrase ‘If it don’t fit, you must acquit’ popped in my head. I frequented the food truck parked in the convenient store parking lot near my apartment building at least three times a week. They have the best burrito I have ever eaten, bursting with meat and spices, not any of those lean stingy burritos you get at traditional restaurants. But lately, there has been this strange street person hanging out at the corner. He showed up around a month before my ordeal. He was not begging for money but preaching about an invasion. He was always dressed as if it was forty below zero.
Instead of walking along the sidewalk, I decided to climb down the hill from my apartment that led directly to the back of the convenient store. From my deck, I could watch the customers go in and out of the store. The apartment building sat on a high hill overlooking the street below. I could see that the homeless man wasn’t at his usual corner, but I didn’t want to take any chance.
I got down the hill and hopped down from the retaining wall, when all of the sudden he jumped out from behind the dumpster, dressed in a long trench coat, gloves, a ski mask, and a scarf wrapped around his neck.
“They got ya son. They’ve tagged you. I saw the red light. I’ve been tracking them for a while. You ain’t getting away and they ain’t stopping. You need to come with me.”
“Mister, I don’t have any money I can give you.”
“I don’t want your damn money son. I’m here to save your life."
I tried to walk past him, but he blocked my path and pushed me back. As he did so he started unwrapping his scarf and pulling off his ski mask. I resumed my attempt to get to my favorite burrito, but he blocked me again. I was looking down, not paying attention, so I didn’t notice that he was completely unmasked with his trench coat and shirt laying on the ground.
“Look here!”
I looked up to see the most grotesque, confusing human being I had ever perceived. He was a patchwork of different races, different skin tones, and stitched up scars running throughout his body and face like a map of a river and its many tributaries. His nose was completely foreign to his face and both eyes were awkwardly strung together from two different individuals. Worst of all, there was a large scar around his neck, indicating that this head had been removed and reattached.
“They told you that they were done, right?” I nodded my head in agreement. “Well, I’m proof that they are a bunch of damn liars. I hate to tell you this, but your life is over as you know it. You can come with me and stay intact or refuse my help and become what I am today.”
I should have taken his advice, but I wasn’t in a state to comprehend the reality of my situation. I was still unsure of what I had seen this morning. I was trying to convince myself that I had just slept on my hand or had a bad dream and slammed it against the wall. It was just swollen, not someone else’s hand.
“I’m fine man. I just want a burrito. Leave me alone, please.”
“Alright. I’ll still be here when you are ready. There’s a place we like to call the Island of Misfit Toys. You know from Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer. You’ll be safe there. I promise you, its not going away.”
I started to walk away, determined to ignore him, but then he said something that caught my attention.
“I bet you are O negative blood type. All us misfit toys are O negative. Universal donor baby. Now how did I know that? You still want to turn a blind eye.”
He was correct, but I persisted in my stubbornness and walked away. That day the burrito just didn’t taste as well as it normally did. Was there a new cook? I didn’t notice. Or worse, had they already replaced my tongue with someone else’s, whoever they were?
There weren’t any other occurrences for the next month. I made sure to sleep in the living room on the couch with the television on. Still, Mr. Frankenstein stood on the corner, waiting for me. I didn’t visit the food truck that entire month, didn’t have the usual craving and sure as hell didn’t want to have another confrontation.
The next month was my wake-up call. I was dozing off when the television shut off by itself. I heard that familiar hum and saw the red light moving through the front window. I put my fingers in my ears, closed my eyes and stumbled to the bathroom. I started singing to myself, hoping to drown out the noise and stay conscious. I opened my eyes for a second and saw that the red light was moving under the door, and bending upwards towards my face. I shut my eyes again.
The bathroom door slammed open. I closed my eyes tighter, so much so that I saw twinkling stars and sparks. I felt two hands grasp me by the shoulders and lift me up in the air. I opened my eyes. There standing before me was tall hairless grey being in a long black cloak. The creature had no eyes, small narrow nostrils, but a large gaping mouth, affixed open as if the creature was unable to close it. On his shoulder was a smaller green creature with a bulbous head and large eyes. It was not clothed and would ever so often lay its forehead against the side of the larger creature’s neck. It seemed to be a symbiotic relationship.
The larger creature lifted up his three-fingered hand. Out of the palm of his hand radiated a red light. The smaller creature was somehow making the humming noise, and within a few seconds I lost consciousness.
The next morning, I woke up in my bedroom upstairs. I frantically searched my entire body but saw nothing, but I wasn’t convinced by that cursory search, and sure enough, my suspicions were correct. Staring back at me was a somewhat unfamiliar face. My right eye was now green instead of blue, and the skin tone around it was darker. Even my eyebrow was more pointed. Encircling a wide area of the eye was a ring of stitches. I fell to the floor, exasperated by what I had seen, and what I had become. It was time to visit Mr. Frankenstein.
I didn’t try to hide my eye. I can easily explain it away as corrective surgery, the first of its kind, if anyone was so bold, or rude, to ask. I found him at the corner as expected. He didn’t gloat or say ‘I told you so.’ He was sympathetic.
“I’m sorry man. Come on. Let me take you to your new home.”
“There’s no way to fight them… or stop them?”
“Maybe in time, but all we know how to do right now is hide and keep them from tracking us.”
“How do you keep them from tracking us?” I asked.
“You’re not going to like it, but we got to dig a tracking device from in between you lower ribcage.”
I wasn’t too thrilled about that but then again, I’d rather go through a little suffering on the front end to avoid any more experimental alien body part swapping.
We walked down the main highway to a backroad where there was an old, abandoned warehouse. He gave a coded knock to let him know that it was a friend and then turned to me.
“By the way, what’s your name?”
“Robert, but you can call me Rob.”
“I’m Frank, as in Frankenstein.”
I laughed and explained to him that I had already begun calling him Mr. Frankenstein. I felt a little weird admitting that, so I apologized.
“No need to apologize. I like the name. I honestly don’t know my real name. I just picked that one.”
The door opened and there was a hooded man with his face hidden.
“Welcome home Frank. Got a new one huh?”
“Yep, sure do Phil. Let’s make him feel at home.”
We walked through the door into a small homemade foyer. Some drywall had been thrown up and fortified with wooden pallets and barbed wire. There was yet another door. It was a thick steel door with a peephole. Phil gave another coded knock. A woman armed with a gun slung over her shoulders opened the door. Her face was riddled with scars and one of her eyes were bulging. She had the same mismatched facial features that Frank had.
“Welcome to the Isle of Misfit Toys,” announced Frank.
It was a big open space with many cots strewn about all four walls. As we walked around and toured my new home, Frank introduced me to everyone. It was all the same. The scars and parts were different, but the procedure was recognizable. There were even children, little misshapen research subjects imprisoned in a world devoid of holidays and birthday parties, or at least in the normal sense. This world tries to operate as normal, but in the end, its difficult to be normal when you’re hidden and locked away in a warehouse. We’re all victims traumatized by our encounters with ghastly reminders etched on our bodies and faces. Our minds are no less effected. There’s a big handwritten sign hanging over the entrance door. It reads: No Red Lights.

Out there - Patreon (for all those curious or wanting to support :))
At the Beginning
Adventure Arc - Arc 2
Wilderness Arc - Arc 3
Academy Arc - Arc 4
Previously on Leveling up the World…
 
Nil used to say that even the greatest challenge became simple once the logic behind it was unraveled. At the time, the old echo was referring to awakening trials, but vortexes were surprisingly similar. Given enough resources and information, even life could be treated in the same fashion. Dallion had a while to go before reaching that level. The current vortex, though, was a different matter.
Creating potions wasn’t an easy experience. Aside from everything else, it required a good understanding of nymph magic methods and the ability to perform them. Thankfully, Dallion’s randomly esoteric interests had prepared him for such an eventuality.
After his protective layer of magic threads was complete, he approached the sea. Same as before, a dozen tendrils shot out in his direction. Summoning his thread splitter dagger, Dallion sliced the tips off, encasing the free elements in aether spheres of his own. That was another thing about magic—it always went towards those that were stronger. One careless move and even a high-level mage might have his magic stolen, by a creature, rival, or even the vortex environment itself. However, with enough skill and ingenuity, the opposite was also true.
One by one, the bubbles of captive magic were consumed, then released again, only this time forming an entirely new set of spells.
Swords? Onda asked. That’ll hardly work.
“Think of it as a meat grinder,” Dallion replied. All he needed was a makeshift drill to let him make his way through the sea. Having his own liquid spells fight the rest of the sea was only going to grant him a bit more time. Between that and the protective magic layer, it had to be enough.
No, I mean it won’t work. The moment you—
Let him learn his own mistakes, Harp interrupted. Her tone was calm, even pleasant, but it had the effect of lightning from a clear sky. It’s the only way he can progress.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Dallion kept collecting magic threads for a few more minutes, then did another point attack. The start of a tunnel opened up on the sea’s surface. Quickly, Dallion threw all of his liquid spells inside, then followed. Same as before, the mass of the sea attempted to fill in the void, but this time it was hindered by the liquid wall of swords.
​
VORTEX BREACH
Overall stability 99%
​
Spells clashed against each other, filling the air with hundreds of purple rectangles. The damage was minuscule, and still a constant reminder of the eternal struggle between invader and realm. It was no wonder that mages were so cutthroat: there was only one thing certain upon entering a vortex: someone was going to absorb the other. The Academy’s main role was to teach novices how to survive.
Just like hunting, Dallion thought. On the other hand, he had never been the typical hunter. When it came to vortexes, there could be no offer of draw or surrender.
Twisting around, Dallion performed another point attack, drilling further into the sea. The number of rectangles doubled. Meanwhile, the size of the hold was reduced by half. The amount of spells Dallion had poured in—seemingly cast initially—was now wearing thin.
Maybe you should have spent a bit more time fathering threads, the armadil shield said.
“It’s all a formula.” Dallion did another point attack. “If the stability of the tunnel is decreased, I just need to go faster.”
All of his instincts shouted for him to split into instances, or at the very least create a few echoes to help in. His wisdom told him not to. All he had to do was remain calm. The emblems and artifacts he was wearing ensured that he’d be ejected from the vortex. Of course, there was never a guarantee. The higher the vortex level, the greater the danger it posed.
Summoning his hammer, Dallion did a double point attack, up and down, to keep the tunnel collapsing above him. He had gone so deep that the opening was the size of a coin.
“I told you it’ll work, Onda,” he said with a touch of glee. “It’s all logic and magic principles.”
No sooner had he said that than a mass of magic pierced through Dallion’s wall of spells, ending up in the tunnel. Believing his wall of swords to have been breached, Dallion unsummoned both his weapons and cast a new series of spells to plug the hole. That proved to be a mistake.
​
MODERATE WOUND
Your health has been reduced by 20%
​
What the heck? Dallion pulled back, summoning his harpsisword again.
Five feet away, the mass of magic had changed into a creature.
​
VORTEX MINION
Species: AETHERCORN
Class: MAGIC
Health: 0% HP
Traits:
- BODY 20
- MIND 20
- PERCEPTION 20
- REACTION 20
- MAGIC 40
Skills:
- ATTACK
- GUARD
- SPELLCRAFT
- ENTANGLE (Species Unique)
- RAIN OF BLADES (Species Unique)
- CHARGE (Species Unique)
Weakness: HOOVES
​
A unicorn? Dallion deflected the creature’s next attack with his weapon.
Looking at it, the minion was no different from a bladicorn, only created entirely out of threads of magic.
Tried to warn you, old man, Onda said from his realm. Vortexes adapt. You make a counter, they counter your counter.
Dallion was too busy fighting the creature to respond. Magic adaptability was well known. Having loose threads spontaneously create a creature, that was something new. No doubt there was some tome describing the theoretical process in vast detail. Seeing it in practice, though, was a lot.
Without wasting any time, Dallion flew down, then infused his harpsisword with spark, as he did an upward strike. Knowing what such a creature was capable of, his only course of action was to kill it as before it could start casting spells. The difficulty was not destroying his own spells in the process. For all the power of point and line attacks, they were going to do as much damage to Dallion’s own spells, resulting in him winning the encounter, but losing the overall fight.
The aethercorn quickly caught on, moving away and to the side of the tunnel. As long as it increased the distance and remained close to Dallion’s wall of blades, it would have the upper hand.
Sneaky bastard. Dallion cast several aether barriers.
Magic symbols covered the minion’s entire body. As they appeared, Dallion went through all the memorized spells in real time. Normally, he could tell easily what someone was casting once several of the major symbols had formed. In this case, the creature planned to create an aether explosion. In the real world, Dallion wouldn’t even bat an eye. Explosions were a lot less efficient against mages as one might think. Here, though, things were different; the minion wasn’t targeting him, but the wall of blades itself. If there were an explosion, the entire tunnel would collapse, leaving Dallion to rely on his “second skin”.
A new aether barrier appeared next to the aethecorn, then shoved it into the wall before the spell could be completed. The threads—representing aether blades in liquid form—mercilessly sliced into its body, causing the being to lose stability. The entire form burst like a popped balloon, spilling magic threads everywhere.
The moment Dallion saw that, he knew that his time was running out. Although inefficient, the vortex had found a way to breach his protective barrier. The only solution was to pass through the sea before the overall collapse.
Want a boost, boss? Lux asked. The firebird knew better than to assist uninvited.
“No!” Dallion said firmly, casting a new flight spell. “Return to my realm.”
Several more breaches occurred along the tunnel. Aethercorns emerged in front and behind Dallion. Some attacked him directly, others started casting spells to weaken the tunnel. At this point, dealing with them was an impossible task. Still, Dallion did several more point attacks, clearing out as many as possible. Unfortunately for him, that didn’t prove to be a lot. The minions were both fast and intelligent enough to keep to areas that were difficult to hit. Only the ones that attempted to outright block Dallion’s progress ended up being destroyed.
Gritting his teeth, Dallion started casting the flood spell. It was a move that verged to desperation, but the only thing that could help him right now. Within seconds, the portal emerged, then vanished behind Dallion. With a bit of luck, it was going to keep the minions occupied a bit longer.
Behind him, the top of the tunnel collapsed. The threads he had used to create his wall of swords was too thin to coat the entire space created by the point attacks. The purple sea splashed in, mixing with the water coming from Dallion’s portal.
​
MODERATE WOUND
Your health has been reduced by 20%
​
Another alicorn managed to stab Dallion’s leg with its horn as he flew by, effectively halving his health.
Leave the vortex, Harp said.
“I can do this.” Dallion had unsummoned the hammer, focusing on doing point attacks forward, while using his left hand to boost his speed. “I’m close to the end. I can feel it.”
You’re not ready for this vortex. You’re close, but you still aren’t there yet.
“I am.” Dallion insisted. It wasn’t that he had become complacent, but the last few months his progress had crawled to a stop. He might have learned a vast number of magic symbols and spells, but his magic trait remained at twenty-three. There was no way he was giving up a level four vortex, especially this one. “I am there,” he whispered.
Purple water kept seeping in. The top of the tunnel had completely collapsed. Spells created by vortex minions darted past him. Some even made contact, repelled by his protective layer of magic threads.
“Just a few seconds more,” Dallion said, more to himself than Harp.
He had been going through the sea for quite a while. As far as distance was concerned, it had to range in the dozens of miles, if not more. While space in any magic realm was an illusion, there was a limit to how much something could be stretched. Sooner or later, the sea had to come to an end.
“Ruby, create some wind,” he ordered.
Keeping firmly to Dallion’s shoulder, the shardfly flicked its wings, sending a flurry of wind slashes forward. This was by no means an elegant way to breach the tower, but as long as it worked Dallion had no intention of complaining.
Further and further down he went. His speed had increased to the point that he couldn’t see new aethercorns emerge. And yet, it all kept on going. It seemed that he had entered a bottomless pit. The sensation of doubt emerged. Was it a good move to keep persisting? If he quit now, would it all go to waste? There was no telling how long the vortex would remain. Maybe it would last for a few more hours. If he was lucky, it might appear again in another week or so.
No! Dallion told himself. If he couldn’t complete this, what chance did he stand against Grym and the traitorous battlemages? They had accumulated their magic for decades. If he didn’t take advantage of every opportunity presented to him, he might as well become a clerk at the Academy.
Point attacks kept pushing the tunnel further and further down until suddenly they didn’t. It only lasted a fraction of a second, but Dallion was able to catch it. The devastating amount of force had been effortlessly pushed to the sides, like water being poured on a mirror.
That was it—the end of the sea. Dallion had finally reached the solid barrier. At this point, he’d usually take the time to find a weakness, then slice through it and create a portal leading to the other side. With time being a luxury he didn’t have, Dallion resorted to the second best thing. Increasing the number of point attacks, he cast the magic depletion spell he had learned from Raven.
Lightning shot out in all directions, instantly ending Dallion’s flight spell as well as causing all magic threads to pull back.
“Shield!” Dallion summoned the armadil shield. “Cocoon me!” He performed one final point attack with his harpsisword.
The armadil shield expanded, becoming a metal sphere around Dallion. Half a second later, the impact tossed Dallion to the inside of it.
​
MINOR WOUND
Your health has been reduced by 5%
​
BREACH ENFORCER
(+2 Body)
Inertia and the force of will helped you breach into the tower’s core. You were lucky you didn’t go splat.
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, consider joining my patreon or check out my other stories on redditserials:
The Scuu Paradox (a Space Opera Sci Fi)
The Cassandrian Theory (a Space Opera Sci Fi)
The Impeccable Adventure of the Reluctant Dungeon (Dungeon Core Adventure Comedy)
Uncharted Waters (An Urban Fantasy Detective Noir)
Book 3 will be available on Amazon from midnight tonight :D There will be an official post tomorrow, but here's a heads up to all impatient ones :D

This is a little bit of a read, but you can think of it as a high effort post from someone who means business. I've clearly marked and categorized everything, so feel free to skim the parts that interest you.
What brings me to reddit for dating: For the short of it, I've been doing online dating for about 7 years, and could only describe my experience as a sisyphean struggle. With more traditional dating platforms having been absolutely torturous and a complete waste of time, with me rarely ever finding matches and those I do get ending up being ghosts or people who just don't respond less than productive, I'm hoping this might give me a breakthrough.
Age: 26, open to 18-32~. I’m less about age, more about attraction.
Appearance: 5'8", medium length blond hair (pictures are from when it was short), blue eyes, white skin, slim fit body type. I dress almost exclusively in black if I can help it, hence "closeted goth". I've been told I'm fairly handsome, but I'm including a few (poorly taken) pictures, so you can decide for yourself whether or not I've been lied to!
(Imgur seems to be having problems lately so if you're getting an error that's why. My posts tend to get automatically removed if I include any other image hosters but if you message me I can send alternatives no problem.)
Face: https://imgur.com/a/ykiCkwQ
Body (Warning: Shirtless): https://imgur.com/a/zO96e63
Interests: Many of my interests fall into the "nerd" category. Games (video and tabletop), anime, music, art, sci-fi and fantasy stuff of all varieties. I enjoy a lot of RPG's, and some of my favorite game series include kingdom hearts, fire emblem, dark souls, and a fair few others. I play a lot of league at a fairly high level, but I'm not exactly proud of that because the game damages my sanity at times.
In general, I like to keep in shape, play games with friends, share music I think is great, watch tv/movies/anime (horror and psychological stuff especially), share memes, read, and do some amateur writing. I'm also rather intelligent/insightful and enjoy some nuanced discussion.
Location: Currently in central NJ, somewhere in the no man's land between nyc and philly. I'd prefer someone local who I can meet in person, but won't pass up someone great online who's willing to eventually relocate or that I can eventually relocate to.
Looking For: Monogamous relationship, ideally something serious. I feel that what I'd like the most is to find someone very special to me, who I can love with all my heart and spend my life with. It'd probably be my greatest joy in life to be able to do that, and have someone do so in return. That said, this is just a description of my ideal scenario, not what I'd expect out of every relationship.
Traits I'm Looking For: Kind, loving, trustworthy, understanding. Good sense of humor, emotionally intelligent, communicates well. In this regard, I wouldn't ask for anything I don't freely give. I also very fond of women who are dominant/aggressive in a playful way, as well as role reversal dynamics.
Personality: Generally cool headed, laid back, and kind. Introverted, but can be extroverted when I'm in my element and otherwise comfortable. Deceptively intelligent despite how incredibly basic my pictures look, but I also tend to clown around a lot so that's not easy to discern at first. I’m also very reasonable, with a strong preference for peacefully resolving issues, so you can expect very little to no drama and good communication. Oh, and according to a myers briggs test, I'm an INFJ?
Fun facts: I have a deep and sexy voice which many people don't expect, and a great many people tell me I should get into radio or voice acting. I'm also a bit dead on the inside but that's probably because there's a skeleton living inside me.
Partner preferences: I'm a big fan of goth/alt girls, as well as tomboys. I also really like short hair, usually between pixie and neck length, and have a sizable interest in women that are taller than me. But these aren't dealbreakers! As long as I find you attractive, everything is fine.
Dealbreakers/Requirements : Similar interests are pretty important for me. I tend to play a lot of games in my free time for entertainment, so having a partner that I can do that together with is my ideal. I do have a strong preference for body type that I unfortunately can't get past, with that preference being the thinner end of the spectrum when it comes to proportions/body fat. So basically petite/slim/fit/muscular. PLEASE DON'T BE A SOCIOPATH, OR ACT LIKE ONE!
If you have any questions about anything I mentioned (or didn't), just ask and I'll absolutely answer them for you. I'm very friendly so absolutely feel free to come talk to me.

Hello again!
Payment via PayPal G&S. Shipping starts at $4.50 for a small item depending on zip and increases with weight (USPS). Shipping from the East Coast. $10 min before shipping preferred. All item conditions are noted and pictured best as I can. Most are brand new.
Please don't ghost. It's okay if you change your mind. NIL based on timestamps. Note that I have some of these items listed on other platforms as well and will adjust the availability accordingly.
I'm very careful to keep my makeup clean and protected, keeping original packaging where I can. Smoke- and pet-free home. Always masking. See this wonderful feedback from previous buyer 1, 2 and 3 as references 😊
  Please comment below before sending a Reddit chat since I can't see those on mobile.  
Swaplist:
New only: Dior beige mitzah, Rose Montaigne or Pink Corolle mono eyeshadows. Trestique Summer Glow & Go set from Boxy. Try me on Sephora Lipstories balms (I already have shades 07 and 08 and a couple others), must be sealed.
 
Eyes
Mascara - $10 $9 for all  

• Dior Diorshow Volume Mascara, 1.5ml travel size, BNIB - $5
• MAC Stack Superstack Micro Brush mascara mini, BN - $4
• Tarte Lights Camera Lashes mascara deluxe size, BN, 1 available - $3

Eyeshadow  

• Tarte Chrome Paint Shadow Pot in Martini (bronzed olive), BNIB - $13
• NYX Jumbo Eye Pencil in Iced Mocha, swatched - $2
• Colourpop Colour Stix eyeshadow stick in Devotion, swatched & sharpened - $3
• Colourpop Colour Stix eyeshadow stick in Hyde, swatched - $3
• Nudestix Magnetic Eye Color in Smoke, FS, BN/sealed - $13
• Revlon So Fierce! Prismatic Shadow Palette, Slight Flex, swatched/light use - $4
• Sephora Collection colorful metal effect eyeshadow in 07 Volcano Land (metallic brown), arrived broken, pushed back into the pan - $1 or free with purchase $10+
• Sephora Collection colorful shimmer eyeshadow in 254 Diving In (blue), very delicately swatched - $3
• Elf Bite Size Mini eyeshadow palette in Rose Water, light usage - $1
• Elf Bite Size Mini eyeshadow palette in Mint to Be, light usage - $1
• Elf No Budge Eyeshadow Stick in Champagne Crystal, used & sharpened 1x - $1
• ArtDeco eyeshadow refill, 218 - soft brown mauve, swatched - FWP
• Phase Zero shimmer eyeshadow in Nude Newbie, usage shown - FWP

 
Face

• bareMinerals Original loose powder foundation SPF 15 in Golden Fair 04, full size, ~80% remaining - $13
• Colourpop Flexitarian Super Shock Cheek highlighter, gentle use shown - $5
• Charlotte Tilbury Beautiful Skin Radiant Concealer sampler card - FWP

 
Lips - New

• Bobbi Brown Crushed Lip Color in Ruby, travel size, BNIB - $8
• Bobbi Brown Luxe Lip Color in Parisian red, travel size, BN - $8
• Hourglass Confession Lipstick in "At Dusk" from the Limited Edition Sculpture Collection. Comes with the Limited Edition refillable holder and At Dusk refill (both never used). Holder fits any Confession lipstick refill (see below for more shades I have for sale). BN - $28
• Clinique Pop Plush Creamy Lip Gloss in 01 Black Honey, BNIB - $16
• Pat McGrath Labs Lust Lip Gloss in Flesh 6, travel size, BN - $5
• Revlon Super Lustrous Glass Shine Lipstick, Cherries in the Snow 004, BN/sealed (discontinued shade) - $10
• Catrice Plumping Lip Liner in 080 Press the Hot Button, BN - $1
• L'Oreal Infallible 8hr Pro Gloss, full size, shade Suede (peachy-pink gold duochrome), full size, BN - $4
• L'Oreal Infallible 8hr Pro Gloss, full size, shade Blush (pink shimmer), full size, BN - $4

 
Lips - Swatched or Gentle Use

• Hourglass Confession lipstick in "I Can't Wait" (refill only, will ship with no cap), swatched - $16
• Hourglass Confession lipstick in "If I Could" (refill only, will ship with no cap), used 1x - $12
• Hourglass Confession lipstick in "When I'm With You" (refill only, will ship with no cap), used 1x - $12
• Or take all 3 Hourglass refills for $35
• Bobbi Brown Crushed Lip Color in Ruby, travel size, gentle use - $4
• NYX Limited Edition Avatar Luminescent Lip Gloss, shade 01 Shimmering Waters, swatched - $5
• Too Faced Sex on the Peach mini lipstick, light usage shown - $1
• BareMinerals BarePro longwear lipstick deluxe mini, Petal, usage shown - FWP
• Tarte travel size busy gal gloss in Run This Town (watermelon with gold shimmer), swatched - $2
• Lipstick Queen Sinner lipstick in Peachy Nude Sinner, FS, very light usage shown - $10
• Urban Decay Vice Lipstick, Limited Edition Born to Run, Shade 66 (Rich Mauve-Nude), Comfort Matte finish, usage shown - $4
• Becca Ultimate Lipstick Love in Maroon, FS, very light usage shown - $5
• Catrice Loves PETA Limited Edition Demi Matt lipstick (similar to MAC powder kiss formula) in C01 Spread Empathy, gentle usage shown- $2
• Catrice Demi Matt Lipstick in 040 Exotic Nude, very light usage shown - $2

 
Brushes

• Real Techniques Brush Crush Vol 2 Limited Edition 301 Foundation Brush in Galaxy; new, washed in unscented cleanser - $15 + free Sigma brush cleanser sample
• Luxie 231 Small Tapered Blender eyeshadow brush, washed once in unscented cleanser - $4
• Ebelin "Sommerblütentraum" Limited Edition dried flower clear handle eye blending brush, BN - $4
• Wet n Wild Pro Line Tapered Highlighting Brush P75, BN - $2
• Wet n Wild Pro Line Fluffly Blending Brush P20, BN - $2
• Wet n Wild Pro Line Dome Pencil Eye Brush, used once, washed in unscented cleanser - $1

 
Skincare

• Peach & Lily Power Calm Hydrating Gel Cleanser travel size 1oz, BN/sealed - $6
• COSRX Acne Hero: Intensive 4-step kit for extra oily skin, BN, exp 2025-01/26. Ships without box to save on postage. Includes: AC Collection Calming Foam Cleanse, 20ml; Calming Liquid Intensive, 30ml; Lightweight Soothing Moisturizer, 20ml; Ultimate Spot Cream, 5g - $16 - willing to split for $4/each
• Farmacy Honey Potion Plus Ceramide Hydration Mask mini, 9g, BN - $5
• Farmacy Green Clean Makeup Removing Cleansing Balm mini, 20 mL, BN - $5
• Sunday Riley Good Genes Lactic Acid Treatment, 5mL, BN - $4
• MAC Hyper Real Serumizer, 4mL, BN - $4
• Estée Lauder Advanced Night Repair Serum Synchronized Multi-Recovery Complex II, 7ml, BNIB - $10 (one remaining)
• Proactiv Deep Cleansing Face Wash, 2 oz, swatched - $3
• Awake Balance Shot antioxidant concentrate mini, BN - $1
• Tarte Sugar Rush Don't Hate Hydrate oil-free moisturizer, 5mL - $1
• Essence Coffee To Glow undereye treatment with caffeine, new - $2
• Garnier SkinActive micellar water (Waterproof makeup version) 1oz, BN - FWP

 
Fragrance & Body

• Gucci Flora Gorgeous Gardenia EdP sample - FWP $15+
• Sanex Dermo Invisible Deodorant, 50mL, BN (EU item) - $4.25 each (3 listed, 6 total available)

 

Nettie Peterson has known me at my best and at my worst, and after everything that's happened lately, I think I can finally say the same. I'm admittedly not very good at comforting her, though. I haven't had much practice, is all. Historically speaking, she's always been the one to take care of me. My introduction to earth was a confusing, horrifying time for me, and she had dealt with all of it. She'd handled every panic attack, brought me back from every low. When I woke up one night to a drilling pain in my stomach and blood soaking my panties, she managed to keep me calm while explaining that this would now happen every month.
What I'm saying is that the woman is insanely skilled.
Me, not so much. After we had gotten out of the cave, I tried to provide emotional support by petting her hair and talking soothingly. Seeing as I was also distressed, she was doing the same to me, so we were basically sitting on the beach holding each other. To the outside observer, we must have looked rather strange. I was relieved to finally get back to her house. We sat down in front of the TV and ate cupcakes. We have a special system for eating cupcakes. I peel off the frosting and give her rest. It's messy and I have to keep hand wipes nearby everytime, but it's how we do it. We both eat cupcakes whole when we're by ourselves, so it doesn't make much sense either, but when we share, it's always like this.
Once I was sure she was alright, I left her to go off to bed while I made my way back to the hotel, bracing myself for what I expected to be an extremely uncomfortable conversation.
The lobby was dim and quiet. The large, bright ceiling lights had been turned off with only a couple floor lamps illuminating the hall. I walked past the unmanned reception desk and up the stairs, then rapped my knuckles against the door to Frankie's room. After a couple seconds, he opened up. Upon meeting my gaze, he let out a soft gasp, but it wasn't followed by a smile this time. He made way for me to step inside, wordlessly, and I entered without breaking the silence. I sat down on the sofa where he joined me after placing a glass of coconut water in front of me.
For a beat, we both stared at the drink. I didn't take it.
"What you did felt really off earlier," I began. "You were trying to embarrass Nettie. If you were testing your boundaries, if you were trying to see how I'd react, you got your answer. Don't ever make me choose between you two. You'll lose."
"Yes," he said quietly.
"If you don't get along with Nettie, that's one thing. You don't need to. But she was needling you and you made a real effort to be cruel." I paused. "You act so strange sometimes. All bossy and cagey."
"Yes," he repeated, briefly falling silent as he worked away on his gum in slow, contemplative motions. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I did it. I wanted to unsettle her. It's not that I don't like her, she's fine, but at that moment, I simply loathed her. I couldn't tell you why. But I wish I'd kept quiet. I feel gross for spouting off like that."
"Then… why?"
"I don't know! There's this weird feeling, it comes over me and makes me remember stuff that's in the past… Then I get caught up and confused. I run my mouth, but I don't want to make you upset. I swear I won't do it again. I'll rein myself in."
"Will you? This doesn't seem right." I took a deep breath. "Frankie, I have no idea what you are. Even though you know everything about me."
"Not everything," he argued. "You never said a thing about what life was like where you're from. Or who you were before. Yes, that's not what this is about, but I'm just speaking technically."
"You shouldn't have to rely on technicalities to make a point."
"No. Look, I keep wondering what I'm even doing here. I like you a lot. But I haven't thought this through and by now, I'm scared to."
"Stop talking in riddles," I implored him.
He huffed out a chuckle. "I'd have to stop thinking in them first." Before he could add anything else, his phone started vibrating on the TV table. "Oh, dammit," he muttered. Shooting me an uncertain gaze, he reached out for it, his hand hovering above the screen. "Can I?"
"Sure." I let go of a long breath, snatched up the glass and leaned back in my seat as Frankie answered the call. I pick up on a woman's voice talking on the other end.
He kept glancing over at me almost sheepishly as he mumbled words of affirmation into the phone. "Yes… Yeah, I remember… Well, it's not a good time, but I'll do it. Bye." Dropping the device into his lap, he gave me a twist of the mouth. "That was Mae-Lynn. She works at—"
"The diner with you," I cut him off. "I do take note of the other staff there, for your information." I took a sip of my water. "Occasionally."
"I promised to do some shopping for her. She's come down with the flu. Store's closing soon, though, so I'll have to go now."
"Well, that's convenient."
"I was going to ask you to come along."
I agreed. Having lost track of the conversation, the drive was a grim, quiet affair. Frankie took us to one of the more expensive stores in the area, saying that he wanted to treat Mae-Lynn.
"Take a cart," I ordered, and once he had acquired one, I had him hold it still while I climbed inside. He regarded me with a bemused expression but refrained from commenting as he began to roll me down the aisles.
Grocery shopping at night is something else. Eighties music was playing over the radio at a low volume, but the otherwise quiet space made it sound decidedly louder. There was almost the hint of an echo. Safe for two of three singular, tired-looking individuals, Frankie and I were the only people in the store. I had nestled against the back of the cart, my head tipped back to watch Fran's face from below as his eyes roamed the shelves. Occasionally, he'd stop to check the list Mae-Lynn had texted him on his phone.
"If you want anything, speak up," he told me.
"I'm out of cereal," I said, just as we passed the respective aisle. He turned the cart back around, let me pick out a carton of cornflakes and took up walking again. After five minutes of stoically regarding him from my mobile vantage point, I piped up again. "Go back. Wrong ones."
"Well, which ones do you want? I'll get them, it's faster than pushing this thing around."
I shook my head. "No, no, I have to look at them. Go back."
He shook his head to himself but obediently maneuvered the cart back to the shelf with the breakfast items. I took my time picking out a different box, then settled back down.
"Happy?" Fran asked.
"Delighted."
After fifteen minutes, we were getting close to finishing Mae-Lynn's list. Frankie was starting to move towards the cash register, only for me to tug on his arm. "Turn back," I told him, holding up the box. "I don't want them after all. I need different ones."
He stifled a groan. "Sure, Sunshine." I let him roll me all the way back to the cereal aisle where I studied the colorful boxes intensely. "Nevermind," I said, turning back to him. "Let's go."
He started making his way over to the register again when I cleared my throat. "Actually, I think I might have another look."
"Are you kidding me?" he squeaked, only for me to hold his gaze with a smile. "You are," he choked out. "I oughta send you rolling right into that stack of cans."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Is that a challenge?" He glanced about himself, finding that we were alone. Then, he pushed the cart, and it swerved, sliding across the shiny floor. The thrill of the launch washed over me and I started laughing. He lunged for it, grabbing it just in time to prevent the collision.
"Do it again!" I demanded.
He indulged me, sending me swerving and spinning a couple more times. Eventually, he took a running start and pushed me down a long, empty aisle at a breakneck speed. The giggles died in my throat when, seemingly out of thin air, someone appeared at the end of the aisle. My jaw dropped and I reflexively gripped the sides of the cart to protect myself from the impending crash, but the person simply reached out and caught the cart by its edges. Within the blink of an eye, they had managed to steady it. My vehicle had come to a standstill. It all happened incredibly fast, and for a moment, I found myself unable to react. One of the other person's hands had come to rest over mine in the process. Still at a loss for words, I raised my head to meet their gaze.
Those eyes.
My heart, already thundering in my chest, dropped entirely into my stomach. There were pupils filling the void in that formerly uninterrupted pale vastness this time, but I recognized them either way. Seeing them sit in an actual face instead of behind a nondescript black mask was strange, but there was not a doubt in my mind. It was them.
The cultist had jarringly pleasant features that struck me as neither overtly feminine nor masculine. Their tawny skin had an almost bronze sheen to it and short locks of platinum blond hair stuck to their smooth forehead, slick with the same sweat that formed stains beneath the armpits of their light gray t-shirt.
It was like time stood still. The interaction could not have been longer than two seconds in total, but it felt like a full hour. From me staring at our linked hands, to locking eyes with them, to the cold, raw realization, it seemed to me as though forty minutes or more had gone by, followed by another twenty when I watched the crude smile forming on their lips. Their fingers clamped down on my own, and before I knew it, it had happened.
The lights in the store had changed color, taking on a dimmer, sickly green tint. The shelves around us had emptied and the gentle, melodic hum of the radio had been replaced by a deep, droning buzz of static. I was still sitting in the shopping cart, and the cultist was still leaning over me, but their expression had morphed into one of shocked disbelief. Seeing fear on the face of the person who'd stabbed me might have been a great satisfaction to me in any other situation, but right then and there, I was equally as terrified.
I had switched dimensions and was now alone with my attempted murderer.
The thought took a while to sink in, but the clearer it became, the more I felt the need to scream. And yet, not a sound left my lips. My own saliva had turned sour, filling my mouth with an acidic taste. Dread pooled in the pit of my stomach like icy, chilled water and tears were stringing the corners of my eyes. I blinked them away in a hurry, redirecting my gaze at the cultist. They were staring past me in a daze, taking in our changed surroundings before fixing me with a sharp glare.
"Seriously?"
"What?" The word somehow slipped past the lump in my throat.
The cultist made a sweeping gesture at our surroundings. "Where are we? What the hell is this? You don't even have your dimension hopping under control? Not gonna lie, I had higher expectations of you."
"What?" I repeated eloquently.
"You just switched dimensions on my ass. And seeing as you literally crashed into me, I don't think you planned on doing that."
"I didn't," I confirmed.
"That's what I'm talking about."
"You know about dimensions?"
The cultist palmed their face, emitting a deep, low groan. "Clearly."
I scrambled back in the cart, trying to bring some distance between the two of us. I bared my teeth at them, both rows elongating and curving outward. At least I was getting the hang of my physical transformation. "If you come any closer, I'll rip your hand off," I hissed, spittle flying out between my fangs.
"I believe you," they replied, narrowing their eyes at me. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
"That's hard for me to believe."
"Yes, sure. I did and I would again, but not here. Not now. You understand?" they asked pointedly, their voice cutting like a razor blade.
"I'm not sure I do."
"Well, without you, I won't get out of here, and I've stuff to do on the other side." They stepped behind the cart and grabbed onto the handle.
I hastily twisted around to face them. "You know about the finer details of dimension hopping but you can't do it yourself?"
They let out a soft sigh as they began pushing the cart, with me inside, down the empty aisle. "I managed to do it once. Just once. Never again. It's not a great surprise to me that you should be able to switch to the other sides, but I'd thought you'd be able to control it. I think I have your number. I'm pretty sure I know what you are, and we have more in common than you could have probably guessed. That boy you were with on the other hand… I won't lie, he freaks me out. He's got the strangest face and he didn't react to my eyes at all."
"What are you?" I queried, quick to steer him away from the topic of Frankie Preston even though I didn't really expect an honest answer. "How'd you do that the other night? Your… your eye thing?"
"That unsettled you, didn't it? It's not anything I do per se." They shrugged leisurely. "I could just as well ask you where you're hiding your tentacles."
"So you're not human. I didn't think you were," I stated. "What's your business with the Collective? What are you after? Are any of you normal people?"
"As far as I know, I'm the only one who's not." They steered the cart around the corner with a swift, forcible yank and I bumped painfully against the side of the cart. Stifling a yelp, I kept my face straight, looking over the shelves as we passed them. I noticed that some of them weren't entirely empty—there were a couple jars, cans and bags of various goods standing scattered throughout. They looked almost lonely. The cultist, registering my wandering gaze, stopped and grabbed a random plastic jar that looked like it could be containing peanut butter or something of the sort. The label was faded and partially peeled off. They inspected it from all sides before thrusting it into my hands. "Here, open it," they commanded.
"I certainly won't," I replied, a mix of rage and apprehension bubbling in my chest.
"Aren't you curious?"
"No. But if you are, go on and open it yourself."
They grunted, grabbing the jar and unscrewing the red lid. They dropped it to the floor where it bounced off once and rolled away into the darkness. Peering in, their expression remained unchanged. "Nothing. Look." They held it out to me and sure enough, it was empty. I let them hand it to me, intrigue winning me over as I started examining the small container. It was completely unremarkable. I reached two of my fingers inside only for the digits to suddenly be stricken with a searing pain. It flashed through my bones like lightning and I cried out, withdrawing my hand. Suddenly, the floor seemed to quiver. The lights in the store flickered, seeming startlingly bright for a split second only to turn dimly green once more. The cultist let out an involuntary shriek, staggering back before managing to steady themself as everything went back to its former solid state.
"What the fuck was that?" they wheezed.
"An earthquake?" I suggested, not quite knowing what else to say. My pulse was thrumming in my ears, hard enough to split my head in half. It took me a minute to regain a relative state of calm.
"An earthquake? In another dimension? You're messing with me."
"I don't know! Maybe it was… maybe I was nearly jumping back, I have no idea." I shook my head, ignoring the throbbing pain shooting through my temples. "I don't have it all figured out yet, but it's an emotional response. Whenever my flight instinct gets triggered, these dimension switches happen. It was the jar. The jar is painful inside."
"What do you mean?" they asked, eagerly reaching for the jar and sticking their pinky finger into it. They pulled it back out with a howl, letting the jar drop to the floor. "What the hell is up with this place?"
"How would I know?" I argued hotly.
"Yeah, well. Anyways." All of a sudden, their hand was in my hair, tugging on my braid. They yanked my head to the side, and before I could break out my tentacles or try to snap my jaws at them, I could feel their hot breath on my nape. A scream died in my throat, equal parts painful and shocked. My eyes burned, my vision swimming when the cultist dragged their teeth across my skin, leaving a trail of warm saliva. And then, fast and without mercy, they bit down.
The lights turned bright white. The static buzzing that had been hanging in the stale air changed to the familiar eighties music tunes. Squinting into the sudden brightness, the colors of the countless types of packaged products filling the shelves almost seemed to be screaming at me.
We were back.
The cultist disentangled themself, quickly stepping away from me. I looked up, still dazed, to see why. Frankie Preston had come up behind us, snatching the cart away from the other person and pulling it out of their reach. I immediately scrambled up to wrap my arms around him. "That's them," I breathed. "From the Collective."
"I know," he said tonelessly. His eyes, trained on the blonde, spelled murder. "You should get out of here," he added, addressing them. "The shelves here are rickety, they might fall on you."
The cultist's expression was a frozen mix of suppressed uncertainty and confusion. Still, they held the server's gaze. "You should maybe not… do anything stupid," they uttered, their voice almost equally as flat as his.
"I'm all about stupid."
"Then I guess I ought to leave. See you guys soon. It was a pleasure." They threw us a smile that was faker than Frankie's when he waited tables before marching off, leaving the two of us alone in the aisle.
"Are you alright?" Fran asked, running a hand over my mussed braid. "What happened? I'm so… one minute you were here and the next…"
"We switched dimensions."
"I pieced that together. You weren't gone for long… just a couple minutes." He nervously twisted his wet bubble gum around the tip of his finger, drawing nervous strings.
"Were you worried?"
"Out of my mind," he said in a low voice, not meeting my gaze. "I mean, I knew you'd be okay on your own, I wasn't saying that—"
"I wasn't. I'm not," I interrupted him. "I got out alright, sure I did, but I'm not okay right now." I swallowed. My throat was bone dry. "I need to call Mary Markov. She should hear about this."
Frankie nodded along. "Do you want me to do it for you? I'm certain I can give her an accurate description."
I declined and sat back in the cart. Per my request, Fran brought me home after we'd paid for everything. I needed some time alone to relax and pretend everything was normal. I cleaned my room and then looked through job listings, which I admittedly haven't done in a little while. When I couldn't find any other way to procrastinate, I made the call to Mary Markov, which went about as well as could be expected. She wants to see me tomorrow, though. I wish she'd told me about what. For a newsreader, she's really not very forward with her information.
X
1
2: deadbeat roommate
3: creepy crush
4: relocation
5: beach concert
6: First date
7: Temp work
8: roommate talk
9: a dismal worldview
10: warehouse
11: staircase
12: explanation
13: hurt
14: hospital
15: ocean
16: diner
17: government work
18: something in the caves

Sometimes when you look into the mirror, the mirror looks back.
William Bailey's forehead shattered the mirror like a sledgehammer. The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was the feeling that he was falling through the mirror. Sub-cranial hematoma, a concussion, maybe even a cracked skull--that had to be the reason for the strange feeling. The mirror was mounted on the wall just to the right of the bar, four feet tall by about three feet wide. As consciousness slipped away, common sense and his strong belief in the rational world told him that he couldn't fall through the mirror. He must have bounced his head off the wall and be falling toward the floor.
It seemed like just a second or two before William's eyes popped open. He lay on his back, on the hard wood floor of Fausto's, with Johnny Davis towering over him. Big Johnny probably wanted to finish him off, maybe kill him, and finally end their twenty-year-old feud. Either Big Johnny Davis and the ceiling lights above him were spinning, or William's head was spinning, but either way something wasn't right.
He raised his head and looked to his left, toward the bar. Except the bar wasn't there. Instead, he was staring at the bathrooms. That didn't make sense. It must be his brain that had gotten spun around. William turned his head and peered over his size-ten wingtips at the busted mirror. The wooden frame and most of the glass still clung to the wall, the rest sat broken on the ground. The bar had to be on his left. He looked again, and still saw the bathrooms. A brain bruise, maybe some fluid pressure building up might be the cause of it.
"Get up!" Big Johnny Davis said.
William looked up at him. Johnny stood behind him, just beyond his shoulders. Perfect place for him to stomp my head into the plank floor. Except Johnny Davis was holding out his hand.
"Come on, we've got to get out of here."
Davis looked scared. It was the first time William Bailey could ever remember Johnny Davis looking scared. William had always been scared of Big Johnny, but Big Johnny wasn't scared of anything or anyone.
Police sirens wailed in the distance.
Johnny glanced over his shoulder. William craned his neck to look where Johnny was looking, saw he was staring at the front door like a man terrified something bad was going to come through it. Big Johnny looked down at him again and pumped his hand. "Come on, get up. They'll be here any second."
"Who?" William asked. "Who'll be--" But before he finished, Big Johnny Davis reached down, grabbed him by both arms, and jerked him to his feet.
As he was dragged toward the door by the only man in town who truly hated him, William glanced up and saw the rusted metal sign nailed above the door. He had to have a concussion, probably severe; that had to be it, because the letters on the sign were backward. It said TUO.
As Johnny Davis pulled him out the door, William heard tires skid on the pavement.
"Where's your car?" Johnny asked.
William twisted away from the big man's grip, then turned to his left. "In the alley." He started to run, still not sure exactly what he was running from.
Behind him, Big John shouted, "The alley's over here."
William kept running but turned his head back toward Johnny. "I know where the alley--"
Something hit him across the midsection and toppled him to the ground. He got his hands up just in time to break his fall and managed to keep his head from slamming into the sidewalk. When he looked up he saw a shopping cart tumbled onto its side.
Once again, William found himself lying flat on his back, this time amid the spilled contents of the cart. It had been filled with junk: paper bags full of dirty clothes, canned food, bags of potato chips, a diamond shaped, orange road sign, and other trash that looked like it had been collected from back alley garbage bins.
The homeless man who'd been pushing the cart was scrawny, and wafer thin. His skin was the color of old shoe leather, and he wore a long gray beard, tangled and matted with food and bits of filth. He was sprawled on the ground next to his cart, half sitting up, staring at William with his bright blue eyes.
Car doors slammed, men shouted.
"You better get going," the homeless man said, as he cocked his head. "The police after you?"
Police!
Before William could assure the old man that the police weren't after him--he was a respected businessman and family man--someone behind him grabbed him under both arms and pulled him to his feet. William turned and found himself staring into the face of Johnny Davis. "The alley's that way," Johnny said, pointing to the other side of Fausto's. With one hand gripping William's jacket, Johnny dashed across the front of the bar toward the alley. The alley--right there, plain as day--on the other side of Fausto's, right where it shouldn't be, where it couldn't be. William had been here a thousand times. As you stepped out of the bar, the alley was on the left, Brockton's Ace Hardware on the right. Now everything was mixed up and in the wrong place.
Johnny Davis turned down the alley, dragging William behind him. After just a few steps, a spotlight flashed in front of them.
"Stop!" a voice commanded. "Get on the ground."
William couldn't see because Johnny was in his way. "Who's that yelling?" he asked.
Big Johnny stopped and William plowed into his back.
"Get on the ground," the voice boomed again.
William poked his head out from behind Johnny Davis's back. The blinding white light was in his face. He couldn't see a thing.
POP! POP! POP!
Gunshots.
Big Johnny sagged, then crashed to his knees. Instinctively, William bent forward and grabbed hold of Johnny. "What's the matter?"
More pops.
Johnny's big hand reached out and shoved William back toward the street. "Back door," he wheezed, then plunged forward onto his face.
William stood alone. Behind the white spotlight he saw blue police lights flashing. He was totally exposed.
POP! POP!
He saw flashes--little yellow spurts of flame--as something tugged at his jacket.
William had said "back door." What back door? Fausto's had a back door, but it didn't lead anywhere except to the open space behind the building used for trash and deliveries. Twenty feet of asphalt between the bar and the back of the building on the next block. William had parked his car at the end of the alley, but the police cars--or whatever they were--had the alley blocked off. The building behind Fausto's also had an alley that ran alongside it, but the owner had closed it off to keep the bums out. He'd put up a gate, padlocked it, and topped it with razor wire. It was a dead end.
Two more pops. Dead end or not it was better than standing here and getting shot. William turned and ran. He burst through the front door of Fausto's, dashed through the bar, past the shattered mirror, hit the back door at a dead run, and was outside behind the bar within seconds.
He could see the tail end of his car sticking out from the corner of the building, but with the cops blocking the alley, his car was useless to him. William glanced across the open space to the alley that ran next to the other building. The gate, the padlock, the razor wire--all still in place. To his right an overflowing garbage dumpster sat beside the back of Fausto's, jammed against the fire ladder.
The fire ladder.
An iron ladder bolted to the cinderblock wall.
William looked up. The top of the ladder was lost in shadow, but he knew it went up two stories to the roof. Last summer, when the toilet had stopped up, he'd come out back to take a leak and had stood behind the dumpster, peeing against the wall like a kid, one hand draped over the bottom rung of the ladder.
He slipped behind the dumpster. The smell made him gag. The bottom of the ladder was four feet from the ground. William reached up as high as he could, grabbed hold of the third rung, then hauled himself up.
Through the partially open back door came the sounds of heavy feet pounding on the hard wood floor of the bar.
Halfway up the ladder, he was exhausted--and scared. Shaking, he white-knuckled the ladder. Being more than ten feet off the ground terrified him. He needed a break, just a second or two to catch his breath. There was enough moonlight so he could see into one of the second story windows. Inside, junk was piled everywhere. Old barstools, a busted jukebox, furniture stacked almost to the ceiling. Years ago, old man Fausto lived on the second floor, but Jake, who'd bought the place from the old man and had decided to keep the name, used it for storage.
Below him, William heard the back door thrown open so hard it banged against the wall. He scrambled up until he reached the top of the ladder, then hoisted himself over the edge of the roof. Down on the ground a voice shouted, "There he is, up there."
Another gunshot. What the hell was going on?
The unmistakable sound of feet--fast feet, in shape feet, boot shod feet--scurrying up the ladder. Standing on the tar and pebble roof, William glanced around for something he could use as a weapon, shocked he was even thinking of such a thing. A five gallon plastic bucket was all there was. It stood upright, filled with rainwater. He picked it up and peered over the edge. A uniformed policeman was three quarters of the way up the ladder. Two more cops were right behind him.
William looked at the heavy bucket in his hands, thought about just dumping the water onto them but knew it wouldn't stop them. There was only one way to stop them, and that was to knock them off the ladder. He thought about warning them, maybe trying to scare them away. But they were cops. You couldn't scare them away.
So why had they shot Johnny Davis, and why were they shooting at him?
The first officer looked up and saw William staring down at him with the bucket in his hands. Their eyes locked for just a second and the cop stopped. In those eyes that stared back at him, William saw an almost maniacal determination that sent a shiver down his spine. The officer held his grip on the ladder with his right hand while his left dropped to the pistol resting in his gleaming leather holster. In one smooth motion he drew his gun and raised it toward William.
William Bailey tossed the bucket down the ladder. A shot rang out an instant before the heavy bucket thudded into the cop's head. Like a gruesome traffic accident happening before his eyes, William couldn't help but watch as the policeman fell, taking his two partners down with him. The last thing William saw before he turned away was a jumbled heap of black uniforms resting on the concrete below the ladder.
* * *
Hiding in the shadow of a telephone booth, thinking. Home. He had to get home. Had to get back to Marge and the kids. Maybe somehow he could explain what had happened. Vincent, his attorney, he would know what to do--maybe--but he was a civil lawyer not a criminal attorney. He wrote contracts and did personal injury on the side; he didn't get people out of jail who'd killed a cop by dropping a bucket of water on his head and knocking him and his buddies off the side of a building.
As the cab he'd been waiting for pulled up, William stepped out from the dark and climbed into the back seat.
The driver turned around. "Where to?"
William pulled the door shut. "Uptown. 1721 Audubon Court."
"Fare's gonna be about fifteen dollars. After dark, I gotta have the money up front."
"What?"
"Company policy." The cabbie shrugged. "A lot of drivers been getting stiffed."
William opened his wallet, pulled out a twenty and handed it across the seat. The driver took it and almost slipped it into his cash box, then took a second look at the bill. His face tightened. "What the hell is this?"
"Huh?"
With the bill stretched between his hands, the cabbie stared at it for a second then looked up at William. "You're either the dumbest counterfeiter who ever lived or you've been had."
"What you are talking about?"
The driver faced the bill toward William but didn't hand it back to him. "It's printed backwards."
William looked at the twenty-dollar bill in the man's hand. It looked like--it was--an almost brand new bill, nothing wrong with it as far as he could tell.
"Get out of my cab," the driver said.
William didn't know what the man was talking about but knew he didn't want to get out. This cab was his only way home. He reached for the twenty. "If you don't like that one I've got another--"
The driver pulled his hands away. "I ain't giving this back. I got to turn it in to the police." He dropped one hand behind his seat back, then came up clutching a pistol, an old German Luger by the looks of it, the muzzle aimed straight at William's face. "In fact, I bet they give me a reward if I bring you in with it."
William jerked the door handle and rolled out into the street. He sprang to his feet and ran, the driver's yells just background noise. Has everyone gone crazy or is it just me?
Home. He had to get home.
* * *
Rain. Driving, relentless rain. William was just two blocks from Fausto's. In two hours, that's as far as he'd gotten--one block an hour. Police cars prowled the neighborhood, shinning spotlights into every nook and cranny, lighting up every shadow. Everyone in Fausto's knew his name. He'd been going there three or four nights a week after work for years. The cabbie had his address. William had given it to him when he told the hack driver where to drop him.
Ten o'clock at night, with nowhere to go and no way to get there, William sat behind the closed Goodwill store, under an overhang that barely kept the rain off of him.
Huddled in the dark, head sunk between his knees, he hadn't heard anyone approach.
"You don't look so good."
Startled, William looked up, prepared to run again. It was the homeless man he'd knocked over outside the bar. The one with the shopping cart and the leathery skin. William relaxed a little. "Excuse me?"
The man pushed his cart closer. "You're not supposed to be here."
William looked around. "Why not?"
The old man grinned, half his teeth gone.
William found it nearly impossible to tell his age. The guy could be forty and maybe had lived a hard life, or perhaps he was a well-preserved seventy, pickled by a lifetime of booze. William waved him off, expecting a plea for money. "I can't help you."
The old man stopped just a few feet away. "Everything's out of place isn't it?" He had a strange lilting voice. Almost like an accent.
And he was right. Everything was out of place--from Johnny Davis to the cab driver--everything was wrong.
Strapped to the back of the old man's shopping cart was a plastic sign about the size of a loaf of bread. William recognized the sign, the words, the colors, the logo of a local supermarket chain, all were familiar to him, but the letters were backward, unreadable.
Rainwater ran down William's face. He pointed to the sign. "Why's it written like that?"
The old man looked at the sign then back at William. "Like what?" he said, then shuffled away behind his basket.
* * *
The rain came down even harder. William slouched in a darkened doorway across the street from Fausto's. Nothing made sense. Everything was messed up, backward, out of whack. Almost like this wasn't his home, like he was a stranger seeing it for the first time.
But that was crazy. He'd grown up here, gone to Brother Martin High School, dated Jenny Underhill who went to Cabrini, lost her to Johnny Davis, then got her back only to lose her again the first year of college to some kid who drove a Mustang. Two years later William married Marge at Saint Luke's. They had two kids.
This town was his home. He recognized it. He knew the people here, Big Johnny and Zeke, the bartender at Fausto's. But things were different, little things. John Davis for one. In trying to help him, the big man had gotten himself killed. That wasn't John Davis--at least not the one William Bailey had known since seventh grade. Everything looked the same but wasn't. Nothing was quite right.
But they knew him--or someone like him.
A strange sensation crept over him that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. Maybe he didn't belong here. Maybe everything wasn't as it appeared. Maybe this wasn't his home. But if that were true, then whose home was it? Another thought, even scarier seeped through his brain. If he was here, who was there--at his home?
Crazy.
William dropped his head into his hands. Just considering such nonsense was a waste of time. Yet, here he was scanning the street, thinking of going back inside Fausto's, back to that mirror.
Not much time to think about it. The bar closed at three AM and it was already two-thirty. When he'd left--run for his life with Big Johnny--most of the mirror was still in the frame hanging on the wall.
Something about that damned mirror.
But Fausto's was dangerous, so a couple of hours ago William had found another mirror. In the men's room of a twenty-four hour gas station. The Chevron on North Rampart.
He had approached it cautiously, afraid he was going mad. As he peered over the sink into the mirror, he saw what he always saw, his own reflection. Holding up his left hand, he looked at the image in the mirror, at the watch strapped to his wrist. He noticed that the man in the mirror wore his watch on his right hand. Just the opposite.
William stood in the gas station bathroom for twenty minutes before he worked up his nerve. Finally, he took a deep breath, leaned back, then slammed his forehead into the dirt-streaked mirror. The glass shattered and cut his head. Blood dribbled off the tip of his nose into the sink. His reflection stared out at him from the other side of the mirror, blood running down his face, too.
I have gone crazy!
So the gas station hadn't worked out. Ducking police cruisers, William had wandered the streets, his head reeling. What was he doing?
On the sidewalk, he found a sopping wet magazine that the wind had blown up against the side of a newspaper machine. The cover caught his eye. He picked it up. It was printed backwards, the letters reversed, words running right to left. The spine was on the right. As he flipped through the pages, he couldn't read a thing. Then William had an idea.
In the bathroom of an all night restaurant he held the wet magazine up to the mirror. Perfect. The reflected image was normal, spine on the left, words running left to right, all the letters printed correctly. He could read it clearly. But what did it mean?
Then he drove his head into that mirror. The glass cracked. Someone walked in, a skinny waiter wearing an apron. He stood gawking as William leaned over the sink with tears of pain filling his eyes.
The waiter looked at the broken mirror, then jabbed a finger at William's bloody forehead. "What the hell are you doing?"
"An accident," he mumbled, pressing his fingers against the fresh cut.
The waiter turned. "I'm calling the cops."
William Bailey ran.
Now he was huddled in the rain staring at Fausto's across the street. Because he had nowhere else to go.
He stood and walked toward Fausto's. When he was halfway across the street, a police car glided around the corner, headlights reflecting off the wet pavement. The cops in no hurry, just cruising. William forced himself to keep walking, not to run. One foot in front of the other. In the downpour, odds were that the cops wouldn't even recognize him.
But they did recognize him.
The police car slid to a stop as its high beams clicked on and its blue strobe lights started popping. Both front doors flew open.
Like a sinner seeking the sanctuary of a church, William ran straight for Fausto's door. As he burst inside, Zeke looked up from behind the bar. "William! What the hell are you doing here?"
He ignored the bartender, running right past him, eyes focused on the broken mirror and its busted frame hanging on the wall.
Zeke again, "The cops been looking all over for you. Say you killed two officers and--"
Behind him the front door banged against the wall. "Police!" a voice behind him commanded. "Stop."
But William didn't stop. He kept running--running straight for the mirror. Reflected in its fragmented pieces he saw two uniformed police officers behind him, heard their boots pounding on the wooden floor. Just ten feet separated him from the mirror. At full speed he took two strides then dove. He stretched his arms out overhead and tucked his chin into his chest as his feet left the floor.
He felt one hand hit wall and the other strike broken glass. Then his head hit. More glass cracked, more skin split.
Darkness.
* * *
William's eyes popped open. He was staring at the ceiling. Rough voices, even rougher hands. They rolled him over onto his stomach and jerked his arms behind his back. He felt cold steel on his wrists and heard the metallic ratcheting as the handcuffs tightened and bit into his skin.
He tilted his head up and rested his chin against the floor. Blood poured down the side of his face; he watched it pool on the floor then seep between the wooden planks. By rolling his eyes up he could just see the empty spot on the wall where the mirror had hung. Lying on the floor, three feet from his head, was the broken frame and the rest of the glass.
The two cops grabbed his arms and yanked him to his feet, sending waves of pain through his shoulders and wrists. As they spun him toward the door, one of the officers said, "You're under arrest."
"Why?" William asked.
The officer pressed his face into William's. "Murdering your family for starters."
"My...my family." William felt his stomach cinch and his bowels turn to ice. A thought he'd had earlier in the night echoed inside his head. If he was here, who was there--at his home.
As the cops dragged him across the floor, William glanced up and saw the rusted metal sign nailed above the door.
OUT.
He was home.