Rowan couldn’t even handle having their German Shepard live with them, now they want an entire infant human? I was surprised by the immediate black rage I felt building from Story. “Oh, so you’re kicking one kid out and the replacement’s already been lined up. Let’s just reenact Dear Zachary in real time, shall we?”
gaslighting
That’s right. A fucking dating sim, literally Dream Daddy, had opened up Buchanan telling my new partner that I was an abuser, in a public comment section, on behalf of fucking Kirra. Yknow, the one who cracked my goddamned rib cage.
I should have thrown you into the Savannah River when I had the chance, I bitterly thought at Buchanan, for not the first time.
“You and this Gaslamp shit!” It was Zara that was talking now, standing in the middle of the living room. “Everyone’s been uncomfortable around you! No one wants to be around you!”
There was a dull roaring in my ears. It sounded too much like my inworld. Or my first five or so friend groups. Or the body’s family.
And this household was never supposed to be like that.
Aberle was also in agreement, but also quite drunk that night. “Widower…? Widow…? Widowex? What’s the gender-neutral form of–…” He murmured to himself in German for a few seconds before proudly declaring, “WINDEX. Wait. No, wait–” I collapsed into laughter. Aberle’s a gem.
We, of course, moved on from the topic because neither of us never like to dwell on negativity or shit-talk others. Just kidding– we bitched about all of Kara’s personal failings for like three hours and we got drunk.
I was right on the border between blind drunk and blackout drunk when Kieran playfully grabbed my jabot and kissed me.
Here’s how deep the delusion sank: See, this group was confronted with evidence, later on, that Sed was probably about as sick as they said they were. Did they say, ‘Shit, my bad’? Nope. Arkady was who piped up with the notion of “I bet the gods knew they were faking their illness, and decided to actually make their lie true. That’s what you get!”
I’m sorry, this journal entry is a lot more scattered than usual. I have a sense of urgency where I feel like I can’t refine this much as I generally do. This blog will probably be all over the place.
Anyway, the point is, Xhaxhollari wrote: “I was the one who typed.”
But I turned to my broadcast. I never could behave well enough to be properly blackmailed.
Living Fiction 