Trauma - Blog Posts
a #childrensbook I did a number of years ago to help kids get help if they've been sexually assaulted #illustration #kids #trauma #help
When they throw "you're just like your mother" hoping as an insult but its genuinly the best compliment you had in the day.
One small cut and you start thinking of the millions of hurts you were caused before.
Donations are very weak. Please help me by donating and participating so that I can travel and undergo my surgery and remove the metal fragments stuck in my body and get rid of the pain as soon as possible.
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ok i've never read the novel but your tags on that post about jc and matchmaker requirements...mxtx girl i don't think you wrote what you thought you wrote lmao (jc noticing beauty? doesn't seem like he does sorry that's whats on the page)
Exactly!! The only time that novel Jiang Cheng is even hinted at having sexual thoughts is when (after loudly decrying NHS and WWX for looking at spring books) he wakes up with a book next to his head.
I do kind of sort of enjoy the idea that MXTX shared, that while that's his list for the matchmakers, that's not actually what he wants in a wife. Emotional vulnerability? 0%, he can't be targeted. Tactical evasion: A+++. No one will ever know he wants to be held!!!
a child’s disclosure
i took notes around the corner
from the chainsaw’s roar,
while the lock was wrenched off
by its teeth.
and i wrote about the fear,
and the tears,
and the injustice of it all.
no safe space to call—
not home,
not him.
i watched puffy eyes,
matted hair,
tremors—
and i thought and thought.
but all i could do was take notes
around the corner
from the chainsaw’s roar,
while the lock was wrenched off
by its teeth.
They say that if a friendship lasts for over seven years, it'll be for life.
Coincidentally, I cut ours off right before seven years.
Wanna know why?
I was fucking twelve, you pedophile.
I was twelve.
Oh God I'm never going to heal
I'll never be okay again
I'll always be that sad, broken child looking for a caretaker
But nobody came
Nothing really matters anymore, does it?
It wasn't the fact that everyone else's parents were proud of them, except for mine
It wasn't the fact that my parents never seemed to have time for me, so I settle for watching other kids with theirs
It wasn't the fact that I thought that a loving family was just a tv trope until I was invited over to other people's houses
It wasn't the fact that while other people's parents praised them, mine belittled me
It wasn't the fact that I had to rely on teachers and other parents' praise just to feel like I had someone in my life who liked me
It wasn't the fact that everyone else had goals for the future but I didn't see myself living to adulthood
No
It was the fact that my eyes were slits and my skin was jaundice compared to everyone else
It was the fact that people treated me like a zoo animal for their entertainment
It was the fact that everything I ate was poison compared to theirs
It was the fact that I had nobody else to relate to
It was the fact that I was the only one who didn't experience it
It was the fact that I was the only one who did experience it
It was the fact that my identity was nothing more than a punchline to them, just a joke
It was the fact that I had to pretend everything was fine and laugh
The only thing I can do is laugh, otherwise I'll just cry
That's what broke me
That's why I'm broken
So, a recent string of comments brought me to memory lane.
I was in a Pink Floyd instagram group, (I owned a rock account there) and one day they sent like a naked picture of roger(if its him? anyways you couldn’t see anything) with one of his wives??
MY QUESTION IS HOW DO PEOPLE FIND THIS THINGS???? WHY???? AND HOW DID THE PICS COME OUT? DID HE GAVE THEM TO A FRIEND AND THEN THE FRIEND DECIDED TO POST IT IN SOME SKETCHY BLOG? DID HE GIVE HIS CONSENT FOR THE PIC TO BE ON THE INTERNET? is it really him?
-So many questions and so little answers…
If this happened to me I’d be mortified.
(Also, was someone else in the group Pink Floyd antis? if so, did you sent the pic? If so, WHY? WHY?)
How my dumbass look when I slowly realised I relate to my favourite/comfort character in so many ways
*cough* Starscream *COUGH* *COUGH* idk who said that it wasn’t me I swear
Very interesting drabble, but be careful. It's a depressive mood fic.
Looping by Fadedblood (ao3 fic)
Do the dead comfort you? Pt.2
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader
Summary: Spencer does all he can to save you from the hands of a psychotic unsub, and he makes a promise to remain by your side in the aftermath of the ordeal.
Content: Dead bodies once again, (tw) torture, stalking, breakdowns, hospital visits, blood, (tw) sexual assault, trauma, Spencer to the rescue & being a tad protective of the pretty girl he only met once before, the reader realizes she can't use her morbid sense of humor to cope with everything, hurt/comfort I guess?
Author's note: Here’s part two!!! I was listening to Ethel's new album while writing this and holy moly I was in the zone and wrote most of it in one go. (Pulldrone is exactly what was playing when I wrote the scenes while she was kidnapped and I feel like the eery ambiance encapsulates the utter sense of dread and despair that hits the reader once she realizes how serious the situation is). Hope you all enjoy <33
Let me know if you guys want a part 3!!
5,331 words (it’s a long one aha)
part one
masterlist
When you finally managed to open your eyes again, a sharp, dull pain radiated through your skull. The harsh fluorescent lights above didn't help as they glared down at you. At least you weren't on the floor. Nope, just restrained to an ice-cold metal slab. Fancy that. This must be how all my patients feel before I embalm them.
You attempted to look around the room but the bright lights from above prevented you from doing so. As you regained consciousness, you began to realize that both your wrists and ankles were restrained to the embalming table. And you were only in your underwear. The panic had begun to set in and you tugged at the restraints, but to no avail, they wouldn’t budge.
"Struggling won't help", a voice echoed through the room, "I made sure of that."
Your head snapped to the right as you took in the man who now began leaning over you. At first, he didn't even look real. He stood over you, bathed in the cold, sterile glow of the morgue’s overhead lights, his figure stretched and distorted by your disoriented mind. A nightmare stitched together from shadows and flesh, from surgical steel and the sickly scent of embalming fluid. His eyes—God, his eyes—weren’t just looking at you; they were studying you, cataloging every inch of your body as if you were a specimen he was about to dissect.
On any normal day, his face may have been forgettable, the kind you’d pass on the street without a second thought. But at this moment, in this place, it was the only thing in the world. The sharp angles of his cheekbones cast deep, skeletal hollows in his skin, making him look half-dead, like something that had crawled out of the very slabs you worked on everyday. His mouth curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a sneer—just wrong, like he wasn’t used to making expressions that mimicked human emotion.
Then came his voice, it slithered into your ears, so sickly sweet that it made you nauseous, "You’re quite the fighter, aren’t you? But they all stop fighting eventually.”
You tried your best to focus on anything else at that moment, the details of everything else but him. The thin, latex gloves that he wore, they were stretched way too tight across his knuckles. The way his coat —a pristine white lab coat, because of course it was—fluttered slightly as he moved, the motion strangely elegant. You could smell him too. He smelled clean, too clean, like antiseptic and soap, but underneath that all was something rotten, something decayed. Maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe it wasn’t.
As he began mulling over which embalming tool to pick up first, his fingers hovering over them as if one of them was beckoning to be chosen, you realized just how exposed you were. For the first time since waking up, at the mercy of this thing, wearing a man's skin—you started to believe you might actually die here.
The sound of splintering wood as the mortuary door crashed open was deafening. You flinched violently, your body instinctively pulling against the straps that pinned you to the cold metal table. Relief and terror fought for dominance in your chest.
They’re here. Oh God, they’re finally here.
But then, just when you had begun to relax for the first time in hours, you felt the scalpal press harder against your neck. The tip of it broke through skin, not deep, but enough to make your breath catch.
"Don’t move,” the unsub growled under his breath. His voice was sharp, his calm façade cracking under the pressure. You could feel the tremor in his hands now, the desperation radiating off him.
Your pulse thundered, the pain from the cut on your arm flaring as you tried to keep still. The various cuts and injuries that littered your body were nothing compared to the fear the tiny blade at your neck instilled in you. You bit down on your lip to stop it from trembling. Don’t panic. Don’t make this worse. They’re here. They’ll get me out of this. Please let them get me out of this.
"FBI! Drop the weapon!" A commanding voice filled the room.
"Come any closer and I slit her throat!" The man bellowed. Up until this point he had not raised his voice once, and the sheer volume caused you to flinch again, the scalpal breaking through more skin. You could feel a warm liquid trail over your collarbone.
Your eyes darted to the doorway, tears stinging as you caught sight of the dark vests, the guns, the agents—saviors. But the unsub only pressed closer, his body partially shielding you. The scalpel was an unrelenting threat, cold and unmoving against your skin. The sharp sting at your neck anchored you to the moment. A hot tear slipped down your temple. I’m going to die here.
From Spencer's position in the doorway, his sharp eyes took everything in. The unsub’s trembling hands, the scalpel pressed against your throat, your bloodied arm, and—God—your state of undress. His chest clenched painfully, guilt and anger battling inside him. He only hoped the unsub hadn’t gotten too far before they arrived.
She’s absolutely terrified. One wrong move and she’s dead. Come on Spencer, think!
His jaw tightened as he saw the unsub’s gaze flick toward him, possessive and unhinged. Spencer’s hands twitched, his instinct to charge forward barely restrained. Stay calm. She needs you to stay calm.
"You don’t want to do this,” he finally said, his voice softer than usual. He took a slow step forward, keeping his hands visible. Carefully, he raised them, shifting the gun away from the man. He was acutely aware of the five other guns trained on him, ready to fire if he made a wrong move, which was why he was willing to take the risk. “This doesn’t have to end badly. Let her go, and we can talk this through."
There was a slight pause in the unsub's movements.
“You’re in control right now,” Spencer continued, his tone gentle, almost soothing. “But if you hurt her, that control is gone. You don’t want that. You don’t want to make this worse.”
Spencer’s gaze flicked to yours, meeting your tear-filled eyes. You looked at him like he was your only lifeline. The desperation in your expression hit him like a punch to the gut. The only thought running through his mind like a mantra was that he needed to get her out of there, fast.
The tension in the room was suffocating, each second seemed to stretch on for eternity. Then, the unsub shifted slightly, but it was enough for Derek Morgan to lunge forward like a strike of lightning.
The scalpel hit the floor with a sharp clang as Hotch slammed into the unsub, yanking him away from the table. Chaos exploded around you—shouts, the scuffle of bodies struggling—but it barely registered. Your chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, your throat raw as you fought for breath, tears blurring your vision.
Spencer was at your side in an instant, undoing the restraints that held you down, while simultaneously giving you a once-over to take in any serious injuries he may need to keep in mind for the first responders.
You were in such a state that you barely registered whose hands were touching you and your heart rate immediately spiked. Your eyes were shut and you began thrashing on the table whilst whimpering loudly.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s over,” Spencer’s voice broke through the haze.
You blinked, realizing he was kneeling beside you, his hands moving to undo the straps that held you down. You flinched as his fingers brushed your wrist, a sob escaping your throat before you could stop it.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. “He can't hurt you anymore. I promise.”
As the final strap came loose, you tried to sit up, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. Your legs felt weak, your hands trembling so badly you couldn’t push yourself upright.
“Here—let me help you.” Spencer’s hands were gentle as he guided you into a sitting position, his movements careful, almost hesitant.
The moment you were upright, you instinctively reached for him, clutching his shirt as your body shook with silent sobs.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around you. His vest felt stiff under your cheek, but his touch was warm, steadying. “You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe now.”
You couldn’t stop crying, the reality of everything crashing over you. His hand rested lightly on the back of your head, the other drawing soothing circles on your back.
Spencer’s heart twisted at how small you felt in his arms, how vulnerable. Gone was the sarcastic, spunky girl who had left such a strong impression on him after just one meeting. He held you tighter, his own breath uneven as he fought to keep his emotions in check. She’s okay. She’s okay now. But she’s so scared. I need her to know she’s safe.
When you finally managed to speak, your voice was barely a whisper. “He almost…” Yet another sob prevented you from continuing.
Spencer shook his head, cutting you off gently. “But he didn’t. He didn’t, okay? You’re here. You’re safe.”
You buried your face in his chest again, your fingers clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. And in that moment, he didn’t care about protocol or what anyone else thought. All that mattered was comforting the girl with the shattered spirit in his arms.
The sharp, sterile scent of the hospital was the first to hit you as the nurse wheeled you through the emergency room doors. The fluorescent lights felt too bright, their clinical glow exposing every bruise, every scrape, and every jagged line of your vulnerability. They reminded you of the lights in the embalming room. The embalming room. That man. The tools piercing your skin.
You were vaguely aware of Spencer at your side, walking just close enough that his hand occasionally brushed against the armrest of the wheelchair. You wanted to tell him you were fine, that he didn’t have to stay, but every time you opened your mouth to speak, the words got stuck in your throat. You didn't want to do this alone.
The nurse guided you into a small room, where a doctor was already waiting. Spencer stopped just outside the doorway, shifting awkwardly, his hands buried in his pockets.
“We’ll take it from here,” the nurse said gently, giving him a polite but firm smile.
Spencer hesitated, his eyes darting between you and the nurse. You could see the conflict on his face, his shoulders tense like he was bracing for an argument.
You managed to find your voice, though it came out weaker than you intended. “Spencer…”
His gaze snapped to yours expectantly, his features softening.
“Can you… stay?” The words were barely a whisper, but the way his expression shifted—relief, determination, and something almost protective flashing across his face—made you feel a little steadier.
“Of course,” he said without hesitation, stepping into the room. He pulled up a chair near the bed, sitting close but giving you enough space not to feel overwhelmed.
The doctor began her examination, her voice calm and clinical as she asked you questions. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Are you in pain anywhere besides your arm?”
You answered automatically, your voice hollow as your mind wandered. The doctor’s questions blurred together with the sting of antiseptic on your wounds, and the rustle of the hospital gown you’d been asked to change into felt deafening in the quiet.
You couldn’t stop thinking about the unsub’s hands on you, the way his gaze had stripped you of every ounce of dignity. The memory was suffocating, curling around your chest like a vice.
Spencer’s voice cut through the fog, grounding you. “Hey,” he uttered softly, his brow furrowed with concern. “You okay?”
You blinked, realizing the doctor had finished and was watching you with the same concerned expression.
“I’m fine,” you murmured, though your voice lacked conviction.
Spencer didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he waited until the doctor left the room before leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied you.
After a few minutes of silence, he spoke up again, "You're not fine."
You looked down at your hands, the hospital gown feeling too thin, too revealing, despite being more covered than you were earlier. You didn't know how to respond.
Spencer hesitated, noticing the sudden vulnerability in your expression. “I uh... I need to ask you a few questions… about what happened. It’s just procedure—to make sure this guy gets what he deserves. We don't have to do it now, but I'm here when you're ready.”
The sincerity in his tone made something in you crack. You weren’t ready to talk, not yet, but the way he said it—as if there was no question that he would be there for as long as you needed—made you feel a little less alone.
“You don’t have to stay,” you said quietly, though the thought of him leaving made your stomach twist.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said firmly. “Not until you’re ready for me to, at least.”
You glanced up at him, expecting to see pity in his eyes, but all you saw was quiet determination. It made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t expected.
You took a shaky breath, your hands clenching into fists as you tried to steady yourself. “Ask the questions,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but firm with determination.
Spencer’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but insistent. “You don’t have to right now. We can wait until you’re ready. You don’t have to rush through it.”
But you shook your head, a flicker of something fierce in your eyes. “No… I want to do this now. If I don’t… I won’t ever.” The words tasted bitter in your mouth, but you pressed on, your heart pounding as the weight of what you were about to do sank in. “I need to nail this bastard. For me, for them… for everyone he’s hurt.”
Spencer remained quiet for a moment, watching you carefully, weighing your words. Finally, he nodded, his expression unreadable but softening with understanding. “Alright..." he hesitated, "This is going to sound silly, but can you close your eyes for me and tell me... what he did to you?"
You blinked, caught off guard by the request. For a moment, you didn’t know how to react. But the quiet, sincere way he asked you made something inside you settle, just a little. The room felt quieter now, the world shrinking down to just the two of you.
Closing your eyes, you tried to push the memories to the surface, to bring them into focus. Your heart beat faster, but you steeled yourself, knowing this was the only way to make him pay.
"When I woke up from being knocked out… I was tied down to the embalming table in my underwear, the straps were tight," you began slowly, rubbing your wrists absentmindedly. The sensation of the straps still lingered, and it made your skin crawl. "I couldn’t move."
Spencer stayed silent, his gaze never leaving you, his presence grounding you even as the weight of the memories pressed in. "Take your time," he said quietly, voice gentle but firm.
You took a shaky breath, nodding, trying to find the strength to continue. "He... he just stood there for a while, watching me. I could feel his eyes on me, like... he was enjoying it." You paused, swallowing the bitterness in your throat. "I couldn’t even scream. I just had to wait for him to decide what he wanted to do next."
Spencer’s jaw tightened, his mind was piecing it together, filling in the gaps even if you didn’t want him to. But he said nothing, giving you the space to speak. You appreciated that more than you could express.
There was no avoiding it. You had to talk about it. You had to say the words, had to help the FBI put together the full picture. You took a slow breath, trying to keep your voice steady.
“He—he used different embalming tools.”
Spencer looked up sharply, he noticed the pained expression on your face and realised just how hard this was going to be for you.
Your heart started to pound. As soon as you said it, the memories came rushing back.
The metal table was freezing against your bare skin, your body trembling with something beyond the cold. You pulled at your restraints, but they were too tight, digging into your wrists and ankles.
“I’ve always been fascinated by preservation,” the unsub mused, his fingers trailing over a set of gleaming instruments. “The way death can be… delayed. How a body can be made beautiful again.”
You didn’t say anything. Your throat was raw from screaming earlier, and you were running out of ways to keep yourself from panicking.
The unsub turned, holding up an embalming trocar—long, sharp, and glinting under the fluorescent light. “Did you know this is used to remove fluids and gases from a body before preservation?” He traced the tip lightly down your abdomen, not pressing hard enough to break skin. “It’s important to prepare the body properly.”
Your breathing hitched, and you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself not to react.
His expression darkened. “You’re supposed to be still,” he murmured, and without warning, he pressed down.
Pain flared white-hot in your side as the tip of the tool pricked your skin, just enough to draw blood. You gasped, your body instinctively jerking against the restraints.
The unsub sighed, shaking his head. “Messy,” he muttered, wiping the small bead of blood with his gloved hand. “I’ll have to try again.”
You inhaled sharply, coming back to yourself. The hospital bed, the warmth of the blanket, the steady presence of Spencer beside you—it was enough to pull you out of the memory, but your skin still burned where the tool had touched you.
Spencer’s knuckles were white where he gripped his knees. His breathing was slow, controlled, but his eyes—his eyes were burning with something deep and unsettled.
“He used a trocar,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “He—he didn’t go deep, but he wanted to see me flinch.”
Spencer squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, like he was trying to will away the image forming in his mind. “And the other injuries?” he asked, his voice strained.
You swallowed. “A needle. He… he injected something into my leg. Some kind of preservative, I think. It burned.”
Another flash—
The burn spread up your thigh, a fire beneath your skin. You cried out, muscles seizing, your entire body locking up.
The unsub tilted his head, watching with interest. “Formaldehyde is quite versatile,” he said conversationally. “It won’t kill you. Not yet. But I wonder how much your body can handle before it starts shutting down?”
You bit down on your lip, hard enough to taste blood.
You took a slow, shaky breath, forcing yourself back into the present. The hospital bed. The warmth of the blanket. The steady presence of Spencer beside you.
Spencer’s hands had curled into fists. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitching.
“What else?” he asked, voice strained.
You hesitated again. “He used the embalming pump.”
Spencer’s breath audibly caught in his throat.
The hum of the embalming machine filled the room, a steady, mechanical noise that only added to the horror of the moment.
You were still strapped down, too weak to fight, but your breath was coming in panicked gasps as the unsub adjusted the tube connected to the pump.
“This is a test,” he murmured, almost absently. “A small amount, just to see how the body reacts.”
You barely processed his words before you felt the cool sensation of liquid seeping into your veins.
Your vision blurred for a moment. It wasn’t enough to kill you—not yet. But it left you dizzy, sluggish, your limbs feeling even heavier than before.
“Fascinating,” the unsub muttered to himself. “I wonder how much you can take.”
You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "The last thing he did... he told me exactly what he was going to do to me. Everything he'd done to his other victims—every single cut, every injection, every—"
Your breath hitched, your throat closing around the words.
"But I—I was going to be his favorite," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Because I had spunk. Because I fought back."
A shudder ran through you, your entire body recoiling from the memory. You couldn't say the rest. You didn't need to say the rest. The way his voice had darkened, the way he'd described it, savoring every detail like a promise—
You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could block it out.
Spencer's hand closed over yours, grounding you. His grip was firm, steady, as if willing you to feel something other than that sickening sense of violation crawling under your skin.
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low but unwavering.
You shook your head, your breathing uneven. “But you need to know—”
“I do know,” Spencer cut in, his voice sharp but gentle. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burning with something unreadable—but underneath it, there was a quiet, unshakable promise. “You’ve given us enough.” He exhaled, slow and controlled, but his next words carried the full weight of his conviction.
“He’s never going to hurt anyone ever again. I swear to you—I’ll make sure he rots in prison for the rest of his life.”
A sob caught in your throat, but you swallowed it down. You weren’t ready to cry—not yet. But for the first time since it happened, you felt the faintest flicker of relief.
Spencer wasn’t just listening. He was hearing you. And he was going to make sure you got justice.
You weren’t alone in this.
And for now, that was enough.
As the night wore on, the hours began to blur together. You knew you wouldn't be able to sleep that night, and as guilty as it made you feel, Spencer didn't seem to mind. Throughout the night, nurses came and went, checking your vitals, re-bandaging your arm, and murmuring reassurances that didn’t quite reach you. And through it all, Spencer stayed.
The hospital room had settled into an almost eerie calm. Machines beeped softly in the background, and the dim lighting made everything feel slower as if the world outside had paused. You were sitting up in the hospital bed, the scratchy blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. Spencer sat in the chair beside you, his legs crossed, thumbing through a book he’d found somewhere in the waiting area at a speed you didn't think was humanly possible.
The silence was interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open. The FBI agent that had first pushed the unsub away from you in the embalming room stepped inside. At first, his presence intimidated you, his muscular frame and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure, but there was an undeniable warmth in his deep brown eyes. His smooth, dark skin contrasted with the sharp angles of his jawline, and a hint of stubble shadowed his face. He was holding two cups of hospital jello, one red, the other green.
“Thought you two could use a little pick-me-up,” He said, holding the cups aloft with a charming smile. “It’s not gourmet, but it’s better than nothing.”
You managed to return a weak smile back, taking the red jello as he handed it to you. Spencer set his book aside and accepted the green one without hesitation.
“Thanks, Morgan,” Spencer said.
Morgan gave you both a once-over, his gaze softening when it landed on you. “If you need anything, just holler. But I’ll give you two some space.” He gave Spencer a pointed look as if to silently remind him to keep an eye on you, then slipped out of the room.
You began poking at the jello with the plastic spoon. The silence stretched between you and Spencer, not uncomfortable, just heavy with unspoken things.
"You know", you said finally, your voice a little raspy, “jello might be the most depressing food ever invented.”
Spencer glanced up from his cup, his lips quirking in a faint smile. There she is. “It does have a strange texture. Did you know it’s made from gelatin, which comes from—”
“Animal bones,” you finished for him, giving him a sidelong look. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”
He blinked, a little surprised, then nodded. “Right. I guess... you would know that.”
You smirked faintly, the smallest flicker of your usual sarcasm peeking through. “What can I say? I'm full of fun facts. Comes with the job, really.”
Spencer tilted his head, studying you once again. "Your job... I can't imagine it's easy," he said carefully, his voice gentle.
You hesitated, your spoon hovering just above the jello. For a brief moment, you considered brushing him off with a joke or changing the subject like you usually would. But when you met his gaze, there was something about the way he was looking at you. God, stop looking at me like that. His unwavering, earnest stare made you feel safe enough to answer honestly.
“It isn't most of the time” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “But it’s worth it.”
Spencer didn’t respond right away. Instead, he kept his gaze on you, his expression soft yet intent—like he was trying to unravel everything you weren’t saying. His eyes, sharp with quiet intelligence, searched yours as if they could decode the weight you carried, the thoughts you never voiced, the depth you kept hidden from the world.
There was something about you that fascinated him—not just your words, but the silences between them, the guarded way you spoke about things that mattered. He could tell there was so much more beneath the surface, layers of emotion and experience you refused to share. And yet, just for a moment, it felt like he could see them anyway.
He finally spoke, "Why?"
You sighed, setting the jello cup on the bedside table. “Because… when I embalm and prepare a body, when I make someone look like the person they were before…” You paused, swallowing hard. “I get to give their family one last chance to say a proper goodbye. One last moment where they can see the person they loved, not the person the world left behind.”
Spencer kept his gaze steady as he took in your words. He could tell how much those words meant to you. Surprisingly, his expression held a little bit of understanding and even awe.
"That's... incredible." he said finally, "I had never thought of it that way."
You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, well… not everyone thinks it's incredible. Most people just think it’s creepy."
Spencer’s lips quirked into the smallest smile. "I mean, technically, you do spend a lot of time with dead bodies."
You gave him a pointed look. "And you spend a lot of time profiling serial killers, but you don’t see me calling you creepy."
Spencer tilted his head, considering that for a moment. "Fair point."
A comfortable silence settled between you, the heaviness of the conversation lifting just a little.
Before the conversation could continue you blurted out, "Thank you."
Spencer glanced at you, “For what?”
“For staying,” you said simply.
He hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod. “I couldn’t leave,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Not when you…” He trailed off, looking down at his hands. “I just couldn’t.”
You nodded, understanding more than words could convey. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel completely alone.
As you leaned back against the pillows, your eyes growing heavy, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you were going to be okay.
After your third day in the hospital, you were finally discharged. The hospital doors slid open with a quiet hiss, letting in a crisp evening breeze. You inhaled deeply, filling your lungs with fresh air—something that didn’t reek of antiseptic or overcooked hospital food. The gauze beneath your shirt still tugged slightly with each breath, but the soreness was manageable.
Freedom. Finally.
Beside you, Spencer hovered with the same quiet intensity he’d had when you arrived at the hospital, arms crossed like he wasn’t entirely convinced letting you leave was a good idea.
“You know, I appreciate the escort,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag over your good shoulder, “but unless you’re planning on kidnapping me back to my hospital bed, I think I can manage from here.”
Spencer blinked. “I just— I wanted to make sure you got out okay.”
You smirked. “What, did you think I’d trip over my own feet and fall into traffic?”
“I— statistically, you’re not at full mobility, and with your pain medication, your reflexes might be slightly impaired—”
You rolled your eyes. “Spencer, I’m not going to faceplant into the street.” Then, after a beat: “At least, not immediately.”
The corners of his lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile but failing miserably.
The silence stretched for a moment. For all his intelligence, Spencer still looked like he wanted to say something but hadn’t quite figured out the words. His hands twitched at his sides, like he was debating reaching out.
You tilted your head at him. “You okay there, Doc?”
He cleared his throat, straightening. “I just— I hope you know that you, um… don’t have to go through this alone.”
You raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I was alone in the embalming room with a serial killer, so technically—”
Spencer shot you a look.
You snorted. “Okay, okay, I get it. Not the time."
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… I know how trauma can make people isolate themselves, and I just wanted you to know that you have people who care.”
You nodded slowly. There was a warmth in your chest at the sincerity in his voice—softer, earnest.
“Well, in that case,” you said, shifting your weight to your good side, “since you care so much, would you... wanna get dinner sometime?”
Spencer’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “Dinner?”
“Yeah, you know. The thing where people sit at a table, order food, and consume it?” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I mean, unless you don’t want to—”
“No! I mean— I do! I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, looking both overwhelmed and adorable in a way that made you bite back a grin.
You decided to put him out of his misery. “Spencer," your voice softened, "I’m trying to ask you on a date.”
He froze.
“Oh.”
You smirked. “Yeah. Oh.”
Spencer’s brain seemed to reboot in real time. “I—yes! Yes, I would like that.”
Your smirk softened into something more genuine. “Good. You can pick the place.”
He nodded, still looking slightly dazed. “Right. I, um, I’ll text you.”
You chuckled, stepping back toward the curb where your ride was waiting. “See you soon, Doctor Reid.”
Spencer stood there as you got into the car, still blinking, like he was trying to process what had just happened.
As you pulled away, you saw him through the rearview mirror—standing there, hand running through his hair, a small, boyish smile tugging at his lips.
For the first time in a long time, despite everything that had happened, something felt right.
Lol get idw'd purple nerd turtle
He's fine
I always feared our basement.
Always felt like there was something out there... watching me.
I only felt safe when I met you.
And even in the end, you couldn't save me.
In another life, maybe.
The Sirius star is part of the constellation Canis Major.
This constellation represents the loyal dog that would hunt by Orion’s side.
Simply his pawn, his pet, his servant.
I've been thinking about trauma and what may qualify, and I'm starting to realize that raising animals probably did contribute to the trauma we have.
(tw explicit animal death/killing, general gross/gore warning)
I remember watching a family friend crack open eggs that hadn't incubated fully to hatching when I was five or younger, and she explained that it's just the way things are on a farm sometimes as I watched those soggy underdeveloped chicks lay still on the straw.
When I was older one of my goats had a stillborn kid - but it had been dead long enough to rot in the womb, and its corpse was literally falling apart as we pulled it out.
I raised a couple batches of turkeys that I loved so, so much, even though I knew we'd butcher them. I named them and carried them around and spent so much time with them they were incredibly docile. One turkey from the second batch I raised got injured - I think he broke his wing or something? - and the bigger tom that was with him was doing what turkeys do and trying to bully him to death. He was in so much pain, and while I agreed to help my parents butcher him for meat, I asked that one of them kill him because I hate killing animals. Unfortunately, mom decided to wait until later in the day when it would be more convenient to butcher him. When I found him suffering in his pen hours after I thought my parents had put him down, I got my sharpest knife and sobbed as I pinned him down and slit his throat.
I have so, so many stories like those that I am starting to acknowledge qualify as traumatic for a tenderhearted kid, but I feel like I shouldn't be traumatized by them. It's the way things are on a farm, after all. It's what happens. It's how life goes. So many of my animals died because I owned a bunch of animals for a long time and it's the way things go. Was I really not strong enough to handle it? Surely I should have been able to. Surely it's just the way things are, am I really so weak as to let those facts of the circle of life hurt me?
This is what life is. Why did it break me?
we still visit the graves of the kids we used to be - judas h.
In August of 2024 I was without electricity, phone, and internet connection because huge storms with lightning, rain, and winds. We even have floods, the roof is full of holes so it rain inside every year as well floods, but now with the state of the weather things are much worst. We had never have winds like that here. At this rate, in 4 years we will have tornadoes, a thing we have never ever have here. Nor our lands, infrastructures, and culture are prepared for this. Many haven't recovered from this nor any of past natural disasters.
Then spring and summer came, and bc all the destruction of our nature and the draught territories the little forests that are left of our native trees and plants caught fire with the pines throughout different regions a number of times.
Companies and its countries are stealing our water for mining, for avocados, strawberries and other native fruts and veggies that I can't buy to eat bc are sent to other countries, planting non-native pines to cut down and sell the wood to the world and have dried up the land, causing more and more fires, more and more deaths every year. On 13 February alone, there were forest fires in six municipalities in one region and 14 fires were burning. The emergency has left more than 20,800 hectares burned by the flames, as well as 44 victims and 28 houses destroyed in those days alone. There have been fires every week for months. The last few weeks it is almost every day somewhere in the country.
The goverment can't fix the country bc we still live under the dictatorship constitution and its politicians and families, and the president has being constantly attacked by the pro dictatorship groups from our country and others, fake news, terror campaings, etc, even the ensurance company group, the one that has Principal (AFP Cuprum), Metlife (AFP Provida), and Prudential (AFP Habitat) threatened my president this month because he and our chambers proposed and made slight improvements to the system because private companies of ensurance and pensions (that are from USA of course) have millions getting sick, disabled or dying because they can't afford medical care nor anything.
This threat was issued by David Chavern, president and CEO of the American Council of Life Insurers in the form of a letter to the extent that it was made known to the public. I can't ignore that one of the groups that also has their ensurance company here is UnitedHealthcare that owns Banmédica, another criminal company. Yeah, UHG, the one that had its CEO executed by The Adjuster. Yes, all USA insurance companies in my country are affected by this little change made to try to help my people to stay alive and have a little more of money that still will not make us live with dignity and out of poverty. So, yeah, is easy to say that UHG is more than angry with my country and back then the 1973 coup has made, among other things, to install this evil ensurance system and this companies.
Even in the cities there are fires. This past week I saw 2 fires in just 3 days, with houses on fire just a couple of blocks away from me. Now it has began autumn and, if I take as reference past years, it will not be like it used to be, but just like a winter part 1 now. Is already getting cold in the night and early morning making my articulations hurt, while in the day the heat makes me tired and weak, causing fires.
Last year people helped me, was awesome, but sadly it wasn't enough. I cleaned by hand the black mold from the walls of the storage room where I live and painted a bit with the little anti mold paint I found in an old tin that was left in a closet. Looks better and smells better and made me happy, but the walls are still broken, one of the walls is still not a wall, and the people of the place is still horrible and abusive. I'm still unemployed even when I tried to sell my art works, get a job, sell second hand clothes, find remote work, and even sent a cultural project to the Ministry of Culture to try to get funding and thus have a wage. Nothing worked. I got rejected in all and honestly I can no longer work because of my disability.
My health is getting even worst. Chronic pain, chronic illnesses and long covid are worse and make me more and more disabled with each passing semester. Eating is hard bc gluten free and dairy free food is terribly expensive (I have celiac disease and lactose intolerance) so I keep being hungry every day, i haven't eaten a piece of bread in months, I cant even make my own bc the gas and electricity is expensive as well the flour that I can use. Being autistic and having c-PTSD as well depression and fibromyalgia doesn't help and the violence never ends.
As far as I'm concerned, I've been on my own all my life, my only support is my couple that also helps me as a caregiver sometimes, is the only family I have. We don't live together bc poverty, we can only be thogeter for a little time each year bc non of us has a job (we are both university graduates and are teachers), their roof rains down and floods their house, the food sold in the poorer area is in bad state and in their house quickly grows black mold and we have to eat it. Also has to take care of an abusive old mother that is poisoning him with black mold (that already gives them health problems like allergy, migraine and gut issues, and the father has already died), the neighbours are violent, and I make that the bills are bigger and more.
My couple fears that we end up in the streets, homeless. I fear that they died or that when the dictatorship is installed once again here the neighbours are gonna snitch on us just bc we belive in democracy and my couple is a teacher. Already members of a cult showed up 2 days ago only in this house. In the last big dictatorship people were taken from their houses and jobs (specially students, univeritaries, teachers and culture workers, for example) and some never returned. Others were tortured so much that they died or ended up disabled and traumatized for life.
If u want to help me to fix things, buy food, meds, pay the bills, and being warm this winter please check
my PayPal or MACH
and make a donation, even $1 helps. If u can't donate, please reblog bc thats the only way to make this post circulate thus receiving help.
I don't even want to be in my country bc we will have a dictatorship soon, but I have nowhere else to go nor money to migrate. I need $10.537 dollars or € 9.760,95 euros aprox to pay all the documents, the bank money I need to have to prove I deserve to migrate, the tickets, rent money I have to show, and all that. I have been really thinking in live somewhere else, but no money and countries are having even more restrictions to countries like mine and people like us than before. Also the anti migration and other hate groups and gangs. There is a safe place?
I currently (date 14 April 2025) have $260 dollars donated (coz I spent some in food and meds this past months). We no longer able to pay for our meds and gas for cooking nor warm the place, I'm eating less bc we can't pay for food (I can't buy bread, flour, noodles, etc bc the gluten free lactose free products are really expensive, specially for us). My couple has been a year and a half without a job and there is no sight of one in the next months. Is winter and in the first rain that lasted a few minutes the place again had leaks. You can check the old post here and see a Meet the blogger here.
I thought that it was necessary to make an actualization and a using comprehensible single post, so that's why I made this.
Edit: Three pinochetist agents and a direct nazi descendant (both 3 belive in the nazi values) are running for president in the next presidential election this 2026 and one of them is gonna win. Please, we need to migrate so help me to not die with my couple. This is no longer only asking money to eat, this now is to not be tortured and disappeared. I have less than a year to find a country to migrate and leave. We can speak and read english even if not perfectly. If you know a country that allow political refugees and put less trouble to migrants, please comment.
Edit 2: the ppl with which I live are trying to involving me in their crimes so please help me to leave faster.
Edit 3: my mother in law I think is gonna make us end up on the streets or lie about us bc we are not letting her be abusive and I fear she try to frame us as abusers just bc she is emotionally abusive and can't deal with the fact that we say No and we told her she has to give basic human respect. I think she is lying to extended family as always and put herself as victim and try to damage us more, specially against my couple bc she has always treat them bad. This hell never ends