stopchangingyoururls:

IT’S TIME FOR A NEW COMMISSIONS POST THAT ISN’T TWELVE PAGES LONG!!!!!

Anyway. So today I had to spend $82 on painting supplies for a class. I haven’t even purchased my paints yet, which are so very expensive for those who do not know about paint prices.

After a minor freak out over how much college costs and screaming at my tube of white paint, I decided that I need a new, cleaner, and more official commissions post. This is it.

I am taking writing commissions mostly, but also art. Samples of my art are available upon request, but I would personally suggest going with writing since I do not have confidence in my artistic ability.

I will write pretty much anything, including but not limited to: short prose/fanfiction, long prose/fanfiction, lyrics ( I cannot do music, however), monologues, one act plays, short scenes, and short film/tv scripts. I will write long ones but I would need to charge more than most people would care to shell out for a long one. I can also do poetry, love letters, angry letters, and randsom letters.

Prices are negotiable! If you want something, leave me a message in my ask box  and we can go from there. I would probably give you my email in order to streamline the process and give me a paper trail so I know exactly what I’m doing.

Examples of my writing can be found in the links below.

http://archiveofourown.org/users/Onceyourempire

http://www.fictionpress.com/u/720663/

http://anthemofimpendingdoom.tumblr.com/

http://hideyourkidshideyourwriting.tumblr.com/

stopchangingyoururls:

Any commission requests go in my ask box.

I probably should have said that in my big post but I forgot because I was too busy making weird sounds about making the post and checking twitter every two seconds.

SO YEP HEY.

stopchangingyoururls:

Just work with me here I promise I’ll try to make it funny. I’ll use gifs or something.

So, it’s summer, right? For me, it’s the summer before I head to college. I need to get work this summer in order to help pay for college and pay for food and such, but the unemployment rate in my state is higher than average and my city is full of young hipsters such as myself looking for jobs. The difference is most of the other hipsters have work experience and college degrees while I have a lot of social awkwardness and experience with children. This has not helped me in my job search.

This is why I come to y’all, I suppose. I am going on in my life to becoming a “”“”starving artist college student hipster with a deep voice”“”” and I have very few options money-making wise. However, I can write and I can draw (sort of a-aha).

This is why you can now find a donations button on my tumblr page. This button is for commissions, mostly writing commissions. Though, if you feel the need to ask for a drawing or just throw some money at me, I will not complain.

Examples of my writing can be found in the links at the bottom of this post. If you want art examples, ask me and I’ll try to find something recent.

I know that I ask a lot. I don’t actually expect much, but I figure it can’t hurt to put myself out there. If you want to reblog this, it would be very much appreciated. And please, don’t worry about spending money you don’t have. I’m not in danger with the mob, and I have no fear of starvation. I’m just worried and I do need money. Even if you have money to spend, don’t feel obliged to commission anything. I am not demanding anything, or even passive aggressively requesting. I’m just asking, or putting the information out there.

That being said, I feel really awkward about making this post ;; I wouldn’t do it unless I was worried or stressed but I’m at that point.

SO THIS WAS A BORING AND NOT FUNNY POST SORRY.

LINKS FOR WRITING ARE BELOW.

http://archiveofourown.org/users/Onceyourempire

http://www.fictionpress.com/u/720663/

http://anthemofimpendingdoom.tumblr.com/

http://hideyourkidshideyourwriting.tumblr.com/

You know, you’d think that during a zombie infestation, the places you’d least want to be are the extreme climates.  Sweating bullets while firing off rounds at decaying flesh or swinging a chainsaw in the bitter cold while feeling their deathly smell invade your nose- it sounds like Hell, doesn’t it? But when it actually happened, those places were paradise. The extreme heat melted flesh off dead bones and you could smell them coming from miles away. The extreme cold slowed them down and it was easy to break them apart. One good swing with an axe and a pre-teen could chop off a zombie’s head in that cold. Same goes for size of city. You think the city is the area you want to stay in, with more shelter and more gas stations, whereas shit out of luck nowhere is the last town you want to be in. Another false fact you picked up from a movie, or a book, or some other media crap. You know what bigger cities mean? Bigger populations. You know what bigger populations means? Bigger infestations. That alone makes small towns better. Once you take into consideration the fact that most cities are a lot in a small area and are full of small streets and close quarters, you pretty much have a hellhole waiting to happen. You can’t fire because you could hit someone innocent and thus create another zombie, you can’t see around the many, many corners littering streets, and it’s easy to get trapped. Little towns not only means that it’s harder for the infestation to spread from big cities, but also means it’s easier to corral the infestees and lock them away. Most small towns are spread out, with big streets and few hiding places. Plus everyone knows each other, which generally means people will trust each other in a situation like…oh…certain death unless you work as a group. Small towns are cake-walks, trust me.

When the infestation hit, people were running north and south. Canada was getting more movers in a week then New York City sees in a year. Greenland was commissioning boats to take travelers from middle Europe and suddenly everyone wanted to live in Siberia. Arizona and Texas were the most populated states within months, Colombia was getting more than drug runners, and people were moving from Germany to Turkey instead of the other way around. Apparently one group of people moved to the Arctic.  I heard reports of lots of small towns, even some big cities, that easily packed away their infested in one section of town and sealed it off. They spent the zombie infestation in a pleasant daze, living as they always had. Sure, every so often a teenager would take a wrong turn after a bad kegger and end up dead and then alive again but it was taken in stride. Sure, their families grieved but families always find something to grieve about. At least their grieving had some sort of real reason. I remember seeing a funeral being held outside one Nevada town’s infested section, the family members gazing woefully through the double gates at their beloved who was trying to paw at his sister’s flesh through his side of Gate One. “Jeremy!” his mother had snapped, apparently forgetting that her son’s brain had partially dissolved by this point, “Stop trying to eat your sister!” Jeremy had looked blankly at her and then groaned. Someone had tutted. It was a good day.

 Now that I’ve said all that, I’m sure you can piece together the places you did not want to be, under any circumstances. Big cities with nice climates. The cities that everyone wanted to live in before they were filled with the rotting dead. Nothing like a flood of zombies to kill the reputation of a city. So, since most of you are probably a smart group of citizens, you can guess where we ended up.  Unless you’re wondering who “we” are, in which case you need to pipe down and read because I’m getting there. No skipping ahead, either. This is important stuff I’m telling you.

Sorry, normal readers. Those curious people just had to ruin it for you, didn’t they? Anyway, we ended up living in San Diego. Big city, hailed as one of the most pleasant climates in the west. Rarely gets above 70 degrees, just as rarely goes below 50, on the coast of California- sounds great, huh? Most of our lives, my family resided in Vermont. Bennington, Vermont. Small town, huge packs of snow in the winter, rarely gets above 70 degrees in the summer and the average temp is 50 something.  Perfect for a zombie infestation. The graveyard didn’t have a fence, which could have been a problem, but otherwise it would have been fine. But no, we moved to San Diego my senior year of high school. Thanks, Mom and Dad. I tip my hat to you. I know you’re reading this,  don’t deny it. I mean, you don’t know it’s you yet because I haven’t introduced myself yet and I’m using a pen name (a female name, to be twice as confusing), but you’ll know soon. Right. Moving along.

So, my family lived in San Diego. I went back to Vermont, to Bennington College , then came back to San Diego to employ all my job skills. Got a job as an intern at the one of the Senators’ offices and never got sexually propositioned by anyone. I actually had it pretty good. By the time I was 25 I was working full time at the office and considering moving to DC to try to get a job at the UN. My baby brother was graduating that year from high school and had applied to a bundle of good schools. We all had faith he’d get into his top choice. Dad lost his job due to the bad economy but between Mom and I, the family was doing okay. I wasn’t living at home. Life was pretty great.

Then the government decided to fuck shit up. Cool, guys, real cool. I’m still really grateful for that. You know, because instead of living in San Diego with my happy family and my friends and a fantastic career, I’m now living in the middle of the woods with no friends and no contact with my family and pretty much nothing going for me at all. Props to the G-Men and Women for that one.  Man, I sound angry. Sorry, innocent readers. Spending months and months killing zombies and pretty much losing everything you cared about does that to a guy.

At which point, you curious folk speak up again. “What guy, though?” you ask, “Who is we? Who are you, if not Samantha XXXXX?” I’ll indulge you, readers. My name is Liam Winters. Hey, Mom and Dad. Yeah, you guys know who you are now. Don’t worry, I’m not mad about the moving thing. You didn’t know the possible end of the world was coming. I have a lot of anger and I’m kind of misplacing it because I don’t have anyone around to get angry at. I’m okay. I’m living alone. I’m eating mostly well. It’s a long story which I guess you’re going to read. Sorry for swearing.

“We” was my brother and I. Garrett Winters, aged 17, and Liam Winters, aged 25. Zombie killers extraordinaire. 

This the the official first part to the arms dealer story mentioned in “Hell Found Me.” It does’t have a title right now…I just call it the Arms Dealer story ;; I give names like that to all my stories though. Anyway, here it is.

——————————————/

Room 12 is soft. That’s really the only word you want when describing it. It’s filled with a delicate glow for light, a glow that comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once without being overwhelming. The walls are all painted what a housewife would call a shade of egg but everyone else would call off-white. They don’t reflect the light but rather pushed it onwards to other corners of the room. There is a single wall which contains a one-way window, but it is only a rectangle of calm gray on the wall instead of harsh reflective glass. The table is made of a cherry wood with four matching chairs.

Room 12 proves, without a doubt, that the phrase “Don’t judge a book by its cover” is double-edged. There are cameras everywhere, painted off-white to match the motherly walls. The table is installed into the ground and the gray window is really just a gray shape painted on the wall to hide the real one way mirror painted like the cameras to hide it away.

Everything Room 12 appears to be is a lie, but it is truly soft. It distracts. It calms. It comforts. It pulls confessions out of men both innocent and guilty and is a gateway to much darker and much harder rooms.

Room 12 is one out of many just like it, but today Room 12 is special. Today it holds two men, very important to it and the people who made it. One chair holds a man in a suit. He’s young but not nervous or stupid. He shakes dark hair away from dark eyes and flicks open a folder. He pages through, his glazed eyes indicating he’s read it a million times. Across from him is a man wearing rough pants tucked into dusky boots, a white shirt, and a worn hat he is currently tipping away from his hairline. He smiles smoothly at the suit. He is known as The Fox, a trickster, a shadow, uncatchable. His true name, as far as the world knows, is-

“Ferrin Borét.” The suited man has his chin resting in his hand as he looks down at the file and reads off the name dully. “Came in of own will. Found in an agent’s hotel room.” His eyes flicker up to Ferrin, who is staring at the wall behind the suit. “What is it?” he asks, suddenly alert.

“That wall is the real one way, isn’t it?” Ferrin squints. “Nevermind, I know the answer already.” The suit frowns. “How did you know that?” “The wall is glossy. It’s subtle, I’ll give you guys that-” Ferrin puts his feet on the table and leans his chair back, a Cheshire smile plastered on his face, “– but it’s there. Really, Miguel, are you surprised that I got that?” Miguel sits up and scowls at the man across the table from him. “No, I’m not. And you should refer to me as Mr.Sherenkov. I’m not part of your business, nor am I a friend. I’m the agent who caught you.” Ferrin shakes his head. “Actually, you’re the agent who found me in his hotel room and spluttered at me until I held out my wrists to be cuffed.” Ferrin tilts his head. “Besides, I thought we had gotten to first names a long time ago.”

Miguel crosses his arms and glares at the open file on the table. The silence lounges between them until Ferrin speaks again. “If you’re done sulking, am I allowed to leave?” Miguel looks up slowly, the glare on his face never wavering as it settles on Ferrin’s smirk. “You haven’t even told me anything of use and you expect to just walk out? Our headquarters are not a hostel, Ferrin!” Ferrin beams and drops his legs, leaning forward. “See, we are on a first-name basis!” Miguel looks like he is ready to break the chair next to him, and Ferrin sits back up. “But in all seriousness, I came because you people have been looking for me. You have questions to ask of me, and you have yet to ask any of them, so I assumed that I could leave.” “You want a question? Alright. Have you been trading with the Americas?” “I can’t tell you that.” “You can tell me anything, Ferrin, you’re the head of your operation!” “Okay. I won’t tell you that.” Miguel’s lips twitch, once. “What about the Korean Empire?” “Same answer as last time.” “Can you tell me anything you’ve done in the last six months?” “Business-wise? No. Personally? Only parts of it.” Ferrin throws Miguel an boyish grin and Miguel throws his hands up. “So really there’s no reason for you to be here?” Ferrin smiles again and Miguel is tired of his smiles, if his expression is any indication.

“There are plenty of questions I can answer, ‘Guel. You’re just asking the wrong ones.” Miguel doesn’t look happy at being called ‘Guel, but he lets it go because he’s finally, fucking finally, getting somewhere. “Are there any questions that could provide useful information for me?” “Yes. Defintely. And before you ask, it’s information about me, my business, and a little about The Americas. It’s not fluff information like my favortite color, either. Which, by the by, is dark blue. The thing is, I won’t just tell you. You need to ask the right questions and know the right things, Miguel. Are you up for that?” Ferrin has his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. It’s a relaxed and terribly rude position to sit in considering his current situation, but he can do what he wants now. Suddenly, Ferrin holds all the power- when before he only held most of it.

Miguel’s fingers are clutching the table, and his jaw is clenched. Miguel may have a quick temper but he is not quick to action. He sees an opportunity; one presented to him for a reason. Ferrin always has a reason. Perhaps he chose Miguel- without a doubt he chose Miguel, there were five agents on his case who were in that hotel and he went to Miguel’s room on purpose- because he knew Miguel could ask the right questions. Perhaps he chose him because he figured Miguel was doomed to fail. Perhaps this is a game. Whatever the case and whatever the reason, Miguel has a choice. Yes or no.

Though, in Miguel’s mind and in the mind of the four agents behind the glossy wall, there is no choice. Just an answer.

“Yes. I am up for that. I’m assuming the time for these questions is not now?” Miguel knows that he is not in power anymore. That is how it has to be for this to work right. Ferrin sets the rules, the boundries, and provides answers. Miguel will be given infinite freedom in those boundries and he will ask and record. That is his only job now. “You’re correct, Miguel. I have things to do and you do as well. I’ll find you when it is time.” Ferrin stands up, and winks at the very tense agent still sitting. “Say hello to Quinn for me.” Ferrin glances up at the one-way wall behind Miguel. “Unless she’s in there. Is she?” Miguel gives on terse nod, his lips a hard line and his eyes focused intently on nothing as he makes his plans for preparation. Ferrin looks at the wall and gives a quick wave. “Hello Quinn! I’m sure you look lovely as always. I’m leaving.” He directs the last part at Miguel, who stands. “I’ll escort you out.” “How old-fashioned. Are you going to carry my books too?” Miguel gives Ferrin a glare and behind the wall four agents smother their laughter.

Together, they exit Room 12 and leave behind them the shallow softness and an open folder containing a picture of Ferrin paper-clipped to a single sheet of paper, filled out in Miguel’s handwriting. There are six other forms. Three are in different handwritings but three are still Miguel’s.

That folder might be a lot more full very soon, if both of them have their way.

                                  ELLE AND THE GIRL

Everyday, she walks past Elle’s house. Maybe she goes to school, maybe she’s just taking a walk- whatever it is, she’s always there. It isn’t the same time every day, but she walks that way at least once. If Elle is lucky, she’ll go by twice. Once, she went by three times. Elle thought that it was a sign, a hint that it would be a better day. It wasn’t, but seeing her three times made it a little better.

Her walks have an odd routine to them. She’ll float past with her curls fluttering softly and the neighborhood cat will prance over to the (confining, constricting, choking) white picket fence surrounding Elle’s crisp suburban house. The cat will leap up to the fence and trot across the curves of the posts to reach her, the girl, and it will say hello in its little feline way. The girl will stop. She’ll smile a curve of teeth and hope. She’ll pick up the cat and the cat will snuggle into her neck, wiggling in a kind of euphoria. She’ll laugh — a laugh which is silent to Elle through her window. Elle likes to pretend that she can hear it anyway. It must be a soft sound, she decided long ago. It’s soft like the waves of brown hair that slide around her face as she smiles down at the cat. It’s soft like her dark but short eyelashes, framing her brown eyes. It’s soft unlike the glass that Elle presses her face against whenever she walks by, trying to get just a little closer.

Today is no different than any other day. She walks by at four past three in the afternoon, wearing a green skirt and a secret smile. The cat leaps up to her, and she picks him up. It reaches up a paw to tap her nose and the jolt of happy surprise in her eyes makes Elle dig her fingers into the curtains around her window. Elle’s hair - course, dark, short, and everything the girl’s hair is not- digs into her forehead. The girl pets the cat a little longer, than lets him go to continue on her way. As she walks away, Elle watches her. She wonders what it would be like to follow her. There is nothing keeping her inside, nothing besides her own fears. The girl could banish those away, and does so every day when she smiles. Elle wants to follow her. She imagines running out her door, past the (previously confining, constricting, choking) white picket fence. She sees herself running to the girl, telling her that her name is Elle, asking to walk with her. The girl says yes and tells Elle her name, a name as lovely as she is. They hold hands as they walk. The girl talks for them both but doesn’t mind. Elle smiles for the first time in years.

                It’s a nice thought, but nice thoughts don’t open doors.

These are characters I have from a story I am working on — our narrator is Ferrin Borét, an arms dealer living in the year 2124. Two empires have taken over most of the world, except the Americas and Australia. Section One is Latvia, Section 32 is Spain. Both of these Sections belong to the Baltic Empire. Miguel Sherenkov was the lead agent on Ferrin’s case, working in Section One mainly. I think that’s all the background info you need. If you have questions, let me know!

——————————————-

Hell found me.

Which is funny, you know, because I always figured that I would find it first. I always thought I’d find Hell, pop in for a quick hello, play a round of cards with the devil, and then pop back out. At least, I told Miguel that once. He gave me that look he used to give me sometimes. The one that questioned what the hell he was doing there with me, working an underground arms operation and generally being illegal as all get out. I knew what he was doing there, but I haven’t told him that yet. He’ll figure it out.

                Point is, I’ve never been one to be found. I always reveal myself. Miguel never found me – I walked into his house one day, introduced myself, and then ate a slice of bread. Section One didn’t discover my existence. I told them I existed. I dropped a carton of guns on their doorstep with a fox engraved on the top and a note telling them to look for the Fox if they needed some help. That made a big splash with them, let me tell you. They never forgot about me out there, and I intend to make sure that they never will.

                When Hell found me, it didn’t come in the form of demons, or eternal fire, or any of the things the priests and exorcists tell you. It came in the form of one misplaced form and Miguel Sherenkov.  I knew why Miguel was working with me, alright. He was sent by his big bosses in Section One, sent with a sob story about being cast out and told to sneak into my arms empire to pull me down from the inside. They could never fool me, and although Miguel really did put his little heart into it, my sources knew better. I knew better, dammit. Miguel can’t hide anything from me. I can’t explain why, but while most people are like magazines to me, Miguel is the fucking Bible. Most people are shallow sources of information – wide open to my eyes, but they only have parts of a story and generally are useless when it comes to real information. Miguel is just as wide-open, but he’s full of twists and turns and rules and explanations and loyalties and interpretations; he’s a cornucopia of every kind of information I’ve ever wanted to know. It’s fascinating. He can’t lie to me. It’s like a law of physics. His attempts to lie may change but the truth is constant.

                But the problem is that Miguel can’t lie about what he doesn’t know. He didn’t know about the form confirming his parentage.  No one was supposed to. It slipped out of a folder of an intern and landed on the floor and the wrong person picked it up. Suddenly, everything Miguel had ever stood for turned against him. And in kind, against me.

                Before, they hadn’t really liked me, but I was tolerated well enough. They wanted to take me down, sure, but just enough so I’d work for them. Now, I was enemy number two, right below Miguel. That hit him hard…poor kid. He had been one of the best agents for the Baltic Empire. He’d dedicated his life and his loyalty to them and what do they do the moment they deem him a little dangerous? They send hit men after him.

                Once Section One found out that Miguel’s mom was Section 32 royalty, that was it. All bets were off. They were after my blood as well as Miguel’s. Hell found me, alright. Hell was running to protect a man who hated you, leaving behind a pretty productive business and a mildly entertaining life. Hell was getting shot at 20 hours a day and sleeping for four hours every two days, trading sleeping days off with the man who hated you.

                Hell was this. Right here. Hell was Miguel looking at me like that, like he didn’t know why he was sitting here with me. Like he didn’t know why he was even alive. I don’t know why I’m here either. I guess I feel sorry for him. He’s pathetic like this. I’ve never seen him look this beaten. He doesn’t know what to live for, this much I know.  I always know about Miguel. An open Bible with a tattered cover and a broken spine, sitting in my shaking hands. He’s all faith and no protection.

“Miguel Sherenkov” I begin, rubbing my eyes before looking at him. Miguel looks up from his crossed legs to gaze at me with shadows under his eyes like bruises. I sigh, than say “What the heck am I going to do with you?” Miguel’s lips twitch before he looks back down.

“I’d like you to kill me before it gets worse.”

I stare at him.

Hell found me —

And then tried to hand me the rope to hang it with.

Hell is just full of firsts, isn’t it?

It was an odd kind of worship.

It wasn’t worshipping what he was or the things he did- it wasn’t even worshipping his whole body fervently, sexually, fully.

It was worshipping the lines of his back, the slim curves of muscle skulking just below warm skin.  It was pressing lips to the tips of his fingers and feeling the pulse flowing in his wrists.

It was worshipping the small parts that made one something much bigger, much more important than just the sum of sections.

It was feeling his face with quaking palms and looking up into his eyes and being shaken deep down when confronted with exactly what he was.

He wasn’t bad or scary or intimidating, not at all.

He was just so much.

He was fit for worship- especially the worship of small parts.

Worshipping him wholly, for his everything, was bound to swallow the worshipper’s being. He would pull them into himself and never let them out. He wouldn’t even do it on purpose- which was dangerous enough in itself.

He was all-encompassing. He was omnipotent.

Worshipping him for all he was, all at once, would be crash-landing into the Big Bang.

No one could survive it- but during the free fall it would be breath-taking; it would be painful and scary and deadly but for two seconds it would be an explosion of glory and heat felt in the bones and perfection.

But no one could do it.

So the worship of his parts it stayed. It stayed as hands on the lines of his back and kissing finger tips and never being a whole.

It was odd and it was scary but it was okay. 

This is kind of a look into the Apartment of the main character of the screenplay I’m writing with my best friend. You don’t need to know anything to read it! It’s kind of stand alone. Enjoy!

The Apartment was special.

It was the apartment of a man who mostly lived alone, but it was the apartment of a man who loved living. The small space was permeated with his life and history and dreams and the stories. Oh, the stories that apartment knew. The story of how the dining nook in the kitchen got dinged, the time a cat snuck in, the world’s most awkward one night stand- the Apartment knew it all.

There’s a reason I capitalize the word Apartment when referring to Dan’s Apartment. It’s not because of some sort of creative desire or need to spice up the normally boring word. It’s because that’s how everyone says it and thinks it. No one who had been inside the Apartment for any length of time called it Dan’s apartment. When they said “Dan’s apartment”, in their mind they saw the words as “Dan’s Apartment”. It was that kind of place. It was important.

Now, I don’t mean to say that anything vitally important happened in the Apartment. Sure, there were many stories that took place in there and there were many plots thought up there. Most of Martin’s, Jane’s, and Dan’s time was spent in there planning before they left the country. But after they left the Apartment was not a factor in their lives. It was not a plot point. It did not explode or contain treasure or hide a secret passageway.

It wasn’t that kind of important.

It didn’t have to be.

It was important in the way you felt a distinct sense of home when you entered. You know that instinct inside of you, that animal instinct that tells you when you enter your home that it is your safe place, your shelter, your nest? The feeling inside you that makes your parent’s house pop into your head when you’re away for college for the first time and you’re desperately homesick? Dan’s Apartment gave that feeling to anyone who stepped inside. Dan’s Apartment was home. It had absorbed the energy of Dan and the people he loved and the stories and the history and the care and made all that its own. There was something about the way none of the furniture should match but did and the off-peach color of the walls turned warm in the afternoon sun that had made people cry before.

Dan distinctly remembered the first time a friend of his entered the Apartment. Said friend came from a broken home and had been shifted to a foster family at thirteen. He’d loved that family like they were his own, but sadly had not seen them in some time. Upon entering the Apartment, the feeling of homefullness struck him and the full force of missing that family hit him harder. He cried because he missed them, and he cried because when he was in the Apartment he felt like he’d never left them.

It was a little magic. This was silently agreed on all of Dan’s friends and Dan himself.

Being forced to leave the Apartment was the hardest thing Dan had ever done, even harder than leaving his first love. He might have cried a little, but no one can confirm anything. Even while being chased across Europe and a little into the Middle East, Dan never stopped paying for his Apartment. In preparation of his possible death, he made Jane and Martin promise that they would live there.

“That Apartment needs people” he told them with one of his more serious looks “Just like people need the Apartment. If you leave the Apartment empty, my ghost will find you and murder you.  You can’t abandon the Apartment. You just can’t.”

Jane and Martin swore that they wouldn’t abandon the Apartment.

After all, it had become their home too.

The Apartment had a way of adopting people.

When they came back to the Apartment, Jane and Martin moved in with Dan. It was never known as Jane, Martin, and Dan’s Apartment, however. The Apartment forever remained Dan’s Apartment.

The Apartment adopted people, but the only person it ever truly belonged to was Dan. This was another fact silently agreed upon.

Dan loved that Apartment, and the Apartment loved Dan. Dan poured his heart to that Apartment many nights when he was alone and life had worn him down. The Apartment always listened, and it always seemed to understand. People came in and out of the Apartment many times, but Dan was the one who had given the Apartment its warmth. He had given it life. True, the Apartment had been a little magical before Dan but Dan helped it flourish. It was weird to see the Apartment without Dan, just like imagining Dan living anywhere but the Apartment was strange.

I’m sure you think I’m giving too much to the Apartment.

“It’s just an apartment” you think as you read this, purposefully leaving the a in lowercase, “-the place where Dan lives.  It’s just his home. The apartment can’t do all that. That’s stupid.”

You can think that all you want, if it makes you feel better to live a life where a place like the Apartment doesn’t exist, if you feel more fulfilled to think that there can never be a house that is so purely a home as the Apartment is.

That won’t mean that the Apartment will stop existing.

You’ll walk into it someday.

You might not know that it’s Dan’s Apartment.

You might be helping a friend move in, or maybe you’ll be moving in yourself.

You might become the owner of an apartment building and go about checking all the rooms.

Maybe you’ll be browsing for a new place to live.

Maybe you’ll just be in a friend’s building and get bored waiting for the pizza and go wandering the halls.

Whatever the case may be, you’ll enter the Apartment someday.

When you enter, the Apartment might be empty. Maybe Dan moved out. Maybe he hasn’t moved in yet. Maybe he’s doing spring cleaning.

But you’ll feel it. Even if it’s only for a second, it’ll hit you. You’ll feel safe. You’ll feel warm, even in January. You’ll feel like everything is going to be okay, even if your significant other just broke up with you or your childhood pet is dying or you don’t have a job. You’ll want to stay there forever.

Now, this moment might not last. If Dan hasn’t moved in yet, it probably won’t even be longer than a moment.

But it will happen.

When that feeling hits you, you’ll know you’ve found the Apartment. If you’re moving in, be glad. There’s nowhere better to live in the whole word. If your friend is moving in, I suggest you crash on the couch that night, just so you can feel what it’s like to sleep in the Apartment. If Dan still lives there, you should become his friend. You should for more than one reason, but defiantly for the Apartment. You can even tell him that you want to be his friend because of his Apartment. He’ll understand. He’ll smile and welcome you in. He’ll usher you to the dented dining nook and make you tea and talk with you.

When this happens, let me know. Tell me of how you didn’t believe and then you found the Apartment and tell me about how Dan is actually a pretty swell guy. I want to know what you think. I can tell you about how I didn’t believe either until I met Danno.

You might, right now, think I’m crazy.

That’s fine.

You can write me all the emails you want, telling me about how stupid this is and the Apartment is made-up and so is Dan for that matter and really I need to see a doctor because these fantasies are imposing on real life and soon I’ll have a social disorder.

If knowing the Apartment exists classifies me as crazy, then I’ll gladly take insanity as it comes.

The Apartment is worth it.

It’s just that kind of place.

All the voices were screaming, all at once, all vying for Cain’s attention, all trying to influence his decision.

“Rob him!”

“Become him!”

“Be better than him!”

“Ignore him!”

“Take him!”

And the two voices he was trying to ignore most of all became louder than the rest-

“Kill him!

“Kiss him!”

The others soon fell away, leaving Wrath and Lust to scream at him in his own mind.

“Kill him!”

“Kiss him!”

They were both impossible to do- to kill Abel, to kill his own brother, the only one who’d ever really loved him, was unthinkable.

To kiss him would be even worse.

Cain gasped for air, clutching the ends of his shirt and trying to focus on something- anything real.

All he could bring himself to focus on was Abel and his frantically worried face.

“KISS HIM!”

“KILL HIM!”

The two female voices began to screech louder at the appearance of Abel’s face in his view, and Cain felt himself slipping harder.

“Abel…” Cain’s voice was weak and he was scared as he slid to the ground, one hand grasping for his little brother’s reassurance.

Soon he was being cradled in Abel’s arms, his face against the softness of Abel’s hoodie and Abel’s familiar voice in his ear.

“I’ve got you Cain. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Wrath and Lust’s voices grew weaker now that he was in Abel’s arms.

Funny, he thought, how things happened sometimes.

“Kiss him?”

“Kill him?”

The previous statements became pleas, questions, begging.

“Abel…..” ” I’m not letting go. I promise, I won’t let you go.”

He felt water hit his neck. He looked up to see Abel crying and tears falling off his face.

Lust’s voice became louder.

“Kiss him.”

“Abel? Don’t….” Cain’s voice cracked and he swallowed, rubbing a tear off his brother’s cheek. “I’m not worth-” his voice cracked again.

Cain was losing himself again. He had to pull it together, for Abel. Abel couldn’t see him when the moods hit him- if Abel saw him when he lost himself…

He’d leave. He’d hate Cain.

Or maybe Cain would listen to one of the voices, something he couldn’t afford to do.

There were vans being parked outside, doors slamming shut.

Abel’s tears started coming faster and he looked scared.

“Cain, Mom and Dad… They sent people here. They-“

Suddenly, Cain’s voices and his own mind put the pieces together.

“They’re coming to take me away?”

“T-they think you’re bad for my career or something. Cain, I tried to warn you but- Cain I don’t want you to go. I love you.”

Cain’s hands trapped themselves in Abel’s hoodie.

“They’re taking us away.”

Abel didn’t question the use of ‘us’

“Kiss him!” Lust yelled

“Run!” his own shattered brain screamed

“I’ll wait for them.” his mouth said.

“Cain-“

The door was knocked down.

Abel’s head snapped up.

In Cain’s own head, all the sins fell silent.

Pride, forever the leader, spoke first while the exhausted Cain listened on.

“They won’t get us. Cain, they can’t get us. You have to listen to one of us to for us to leave. You have to choose.”

Inside his own mind, Cain shook his head.

The dark room of his mind was filled with all seven of his sins, watching the exchange while nervously keeping tabs on what was going on outside Cain’s psyche.

“Cain. Do  not be stubborn.”

“I-I’m not. I refuse. I won’t hurt Abel. I can’t.”

“You must.”

Cain was distantly aware of Abel’s pleading outside his mind and the murmuring of a deep voice unknown to him.

Then, there was one loud yelp from Abel and Cain felt the sharp pain of a needle in his neck.

Inside his scarred brain, Cain saw seven figures in white uniforms march in.

Pride spun on her heel towards them.

“ Begone, Humility! This is not your territory! He’s ours!”

Humility, a man in the middle of the white-clothed figures, stepped forward.

“Was, perhaps. We don’t want him Pride. Just you.”

Each of the white figures walked towards a sin.

Lust hissed at the male who came to her, striking out with her heels.

Wrath seethed as she was grabbed roughly by the other man of the seven.

Each of the other male sins was matched up with a female in white, but were powerless to fight them off.

They all screamed their anger and frustration at their virtues, growing quieter as they were pulled further and further away from Cain’s inner body.

There was silence in his mind for the first time in seven months.

Back in the real world, Cain shuddered against Abel’s clutching arms and closed his eyes.

“It’s so quiet.”

The sounds of the outside world filtered in through his now open door and his open window, but Abel understood anyway.

“I’m glad.” He smoothed the matted hair off his brother’s face and looked up at the tall man before him in a doctor’s uniform.

“He’s okay now, right? You don’t have to take him away?”

“We must. This was just a sedative to calm him so we can take him back to our facilities.” The doctor pulled Cain out of Abel’s frantic hands and hauled him up. “Come on.”

Cain’s wide eyes stared at the doctor before looking at Abel, who had scrambled to his feet.

“Don’t worry, Abel. I’ll be okay. I always am.”

Abel’s hands grabbed Cain’s, intertwining with them in a mess of fingers and pulses.

“Cain-”

Softly, in the very corner of his mind, Cain’s own voice muttered-

“Kiss him.”

Cain pulled on their conjoined hands and so pulled Abel closer.

Cain’s lips were rough and dry and cool.

Abel’s were wet with tears and his fear and soft.

The doctor seemed to take no notice of the kiss or the sad smile plastered over Cain’s face when they were pulled apart.

“Goodbye, Abel. I’ll be fine!” Cain seemed to be frantic, though it wasn’t for himself.

Abel’s face had a look of shattered shock and as Cain was pulled out the door he dropped to his knees.

When the door clicked shut, he pulled his knees up to his face and hid his head between them, hands clenching in his hair.

It was hard to tell if the sound he was making was sobbing or quiet screaming.