Breast milk smells like parmesan cheese

Yogurt is the last dish thing you eat in a traditional South Indian meal. It is considered a staple in the diet and is used as a palate cleanser and has a cooling effect. Also makes my stomach feel better.
So I find it hard to cut out yogurt. I’ve cut out other animal products (including other dairy products like milk/cheese). So yogurt is the last thing left. Any ideas for good yogurt substitutes? Coconut milk yogurt just isn’t the same.

Haven't had anyone to confide to about this for months, but if I keep bottling my thoughts in, nothing good will come out of it.
Sadly, I like the work I do (caring for babies, especially the science), but everything else about the unit is equivalent to taking a pen and scribbling all over a piece of paper. Management changed a few years ago and current manager has very narcissistic qualities. A former bedside nurse, but essentially an administrator now. Has never helped with bedside care or taken on an assignment if unit is short-staffed. Possibly thinks changing a baby's diaper is beneath them. May not even remember a basic assessment. The manager's office is actually outside the unit across the hall, tucked away from the unit. To them, staffing > safety.
Of course, turnover rate would be high as a result. The glaring pattern is majority of nurses who've stayed do so because of pay (the ones who've worked 10+ yrs are up in the pay scale and might have to start over if they left for another hospital system), have family rooted in the city (a lot harder to move if you have a family and kids settled in school), and familiarity. Just about none of the newer nurses have stayed at all. If you leave, in your last days on the unit, life might be difficult for you and you might be gaslit into thinking there's something wrong with you. When in fact, that's tunnel vision and a bunch of projection. There's a whole entire world out there, not just this unit. I purposely keep in touch with folks at different NICUs, and have an idea of how things are supposed to be or not.
Previous individuals in charge of this unit were an MD and a nurse manager, both of whom were well-versed in bedside care (both retired). But their qualifications and the way they treated people made a world of difference. Staff were actually excited to go to work, which to me is a rare culture. I'm not saying one needs to have a strong parental instinct towards babies, but I've never seen the current manager so much as glance at a sick baby if walking around in the unit. More focused on appearances (everything is neat and tidy). Once while admitting a sick baby, I ran to the supply room to grab some items. I turned around and there the manager was, standing in the doorway and telling me to keep the clean supply room door closed. I didn't even notice door had been propped open (by the central supply folks who restock the room, I later found out). Manager thought I did it and tried to give me a hard time. I told her I did not prop door open, will close it if I remember, but my priority is the baby right now.
I don't know what the future holds, but for now, I am just saving money, so I have options, should I choose to move elsewhere in the future. I live in a MCOL city, but all the cities around me are VHCOL. That's why I haven't moved yet.
In the meantime, some things about my day yesterday:
(1) Lots of knowledge deficit (due in part to new grad orientation a year ago = 6 wks). I was not complacent and created a 100+ page Google doc of all the NICU knowledge I acquired over the past year. Every time I learn something new, I write it down. I choose to study outside of work, due mostly to forever feeling as though I'm behind and catching up. I have shared the Google doc with new grads, even newer than me, so they don't have to struggle as much as I did. Yesterday, I learned cannabinoid (+) ≠ THC (+). Not use the two words interchangeablely. Pertinent when communicating with MD, and when educating parents about risks of certain substances in breast milk that may transfer to baby. Also, in a Coombs (+) baby, a rebound in bilirubin level post-phototherapy is expected. And I learned more about managing a PTX. I do find real time learning on the job more challenging than reading up on the topic prior + being more prepared. After work yesterday, I read up on PTX in neonates.
(2) I took care of my patients to the best of my ability yesterday, AND I also feel quite stupid on the unit. Most of the nurses are older and more experienced than me, and I am not, which seems to factor into me not being taken as seriously. And it happens in front of the MDs. I think the MDs are great, but as a result, they see the nurses not take me seriously and so they don't either. There are things I said and not believed (in regards to a pt Hx), yet it wasn't until other nurses stated the exact same thing that I was believed. Most nurses on the unit, I respect and learn a lot from. But there are those who don't take being wrong well (usually in positions of power), and consequences of that fall onto people like me.
(3) Any day now, they're going to train me to attend C/S deliveries for 1 day, and then check me off on the Delivery RN role (run to any high risk deliveries + resuscitate baby as needed). I had a couple days of orientation to attending vaginal deliveries already, but most of the babies turned out fine (no need for resuscitation). I obviously don't want babies to be sick, but I let manager know I'd like some experience actually resuscitating a sick baby (actually using NRP) before taking on the role alone. The response was "we don't have time to wait for that to happen." And that when I'm on my own, I can always call for backup. But we're short-staffed. After this is training to charge. You don't have a say. If the unit were run more safely, education more emphasized, then maybe I won't feel so crushed by the job.
(4) On scheduling, we can "self-schedule," but in a nutshell, micro-management. If working FT, one is never scheduled for more than 3-4 days off in a row. Can't bunch up your days. Vacations and other time off are commonly denied (esp if short staffed). I had wanted to also attend some CE classes this month, not just for CE but to fucking learn how to be a better nurse + network. Yes, I'm scheduled to work on those days. We have a union, but all these problems persist.
Today is my day off and now that I've shared these things with you all, I hope I can enjoy one day without being weighed down by the job. I know nurses who take anxiolytics and antidepressants, and I am afraid that will be me too.

I've seen it discussed before that UHT is bad for kefir and there seems to be a good number of people who chime in and say that they make kefir fine with UHT milk. I don't really doubt they can make kefir with UHT, but I suspect there's some nuance cause otherwise I'm at a loss for what happened for me. To make a long story short: UHT wasn't working out.
I sourced grains from two different places and spent about a month of milk changes waiting for things to improve and I couldn't get a single good glass of kefir.
I've made kefir in the past, so I know what proper kefir looks like. I thought my grains were somehow dead (I suspect they basically were dead, but because of eventual starvation from the bad milk).
Anything I got from the UHT milk was very yeasty and essentially still pure liquid.
After ordering a third batch of grains, I used plain pasteurized whole milk from the supermarket (clear plastic gallon jug). And after three daily changes of milk, I got perfect kefir. It was the wonderful, almost fluffy, pourable consistency I remembered.
I suspect this might be the case: if you're starting kefir grains out, it seems like they require regular pasteurized milk. Perhaps once the grains are established and happy UHT might be workable. But in any case, my experience so far indicates that pasteurized milk is the ideal medium for culturing kefir. From reading around the internet & finding various technical sources about UHT, it appears that UHT isn't suitable for making yogurts & cheese.
Another possibility is that it all depends on the grains you use, and so certain grains might not accept UHT but be fine with pasteurized and vice versa.

I'm going to be making whipped cream cheese spreads, and in my research came across various recipes. It sounds like adding a bit of seltzer is common for NY bagel shops, but I've seen people recommend milk and cream as well. Most recipes for cream cheese based spreads don't ask for anything other than cream cheese and add-ons.
Do you have a preference? Do you whip with the whisk attachment or the paddle? Or is hand-mixed better?

Q: Our recent discussions have centred around cultivating the Brahmavihāras. From my perspective, it’s crucial to differentiate and comprehend each of the four components of an unobstructed Brahmavihāra mind – namely, mettā, karuṇā, muditā, and upekkhā – individually. But only after establishing and stabilising mettā, can one start discerning karuṇā, muditā, and upekkhā ‘one by one’.
Nm: Instead of saying that it’s developed ‘one by one’ it is more accurate to say that it’s developed ‘one within the other’. Through understanding what mettā is, you understand the principle of all four Brahmavihāras. Then within that understanding and development of mettā, you can develop karuṇā, and within karuṇā, you get to build muditā; which then results in the fulfilment of upekkhā. You don’t abandon mettā to develop karuṇā, or karuṇā to develop muditā, nor do you leave all three to develop upekkhā. Upekkhā encompasses them all. But to arrive at it, you have to go “through” them all. Upekkhā is founded upon mettā. It’s the same in terms of jhana; if you keep following the principle of the first jhana, you will arrive at the fourth.
Q: Regarding mettā specifically, it refers to an attitude of non-aversion rather than engaging in friendly social interactions or cultivating forms of love.
Nm: Correct. The framework of Brahmavihāra centres on cultivating a mind of non-aversion. This means that even when encountering unpleasant sights, sounds, smells, tastes, or touches, one does not have ill will towards them. The focus is on prioritising the protection of the mind of non-aversion, regardless of the content of one’s everyday experience.
Q: This differs from popular ideas of mettā practice, which usually consist of generating love and sending it in various directions.
Nm: The problem with this is that such a practice will not uproot craving, which is why that is not what is meant by the description of mettā in the suttas. People prefer that method because it is more palpable, and ‘nicer,’ and it’s certainly a helpful way of relating to people. In any case, it is better to think of people with loving kindness rather than hatred, because if you are not hating them, then more often than not they will not hate you back; which will help you out at that societal level. So I am not saying that you shouldn’t do it – by all means think positively about everyone, but don’t mistake that for practising the Dhamma.
It is dangerous to rely on personal feelings as the basis for one’s practice: simply because something makes you feel good, does not necessarily mean that it is the practice of Dhamma. Our emotions are shaped by our resistance to or indulgence in certain behaviours or experiences, and therefore, they cannot be relied upon to determine what is wholesome or unwholesome. So it is crucial to conduct a comprehensive inquiry into the Buddha’s concept of metta, understand its deeper meaning and practise it with wisdom and discernment, rather than relying on subjective feelings.
The term mettā refers to the general framework or mind of non-aversion. It is important to emphasise this because one may not harbour aversion towards someone in particular, but still hold hatred towards another, indicating the lack of mettā in one’s general mindset. Even if one does not hate anyone specifically, the absence of that particular aversion alone does not signify the development of mettā. To truly cultivate this mindset, one must make a conscious effort to abandon all possibility of aversion in all directions and protect and maintain that, regardless of the circumstances or the people they encounter. Thus, it’s about removing the possibility of aversion, not the possibility of meeting disagreeable and unpleasant people and experiences.
The choice to prioritise immediate circumstances over the mind of non-aversion is a choice to abandon the framework necessary for the development of mettā. By protecting and cherishing the general mindset like a mother would protect her child, as stated in the Mettā sutta, one will prevent actions that stem from a mind of aversion, and thus protect all living beings as well.
Also, it is essential to note that the development of mettā does not result in having love for all: it leads to the development of upekkhā, or equanimity, which is the ability to maintain an unshakable mind toward all things without attachments.
Q: Love breeds infatuation, not equanimity.
Nm: Yes, and it also makes you susceptible to aversion, fear, and anxiety, because now you depend on it emotionally and existentially.
Q: So if you can’t see the direct connection between mettā and upekkhā, your definition of mettā needs redefining. And in terms of karunā, how can we get to that stage?
Nm: You just have to take the same principle of mettā a step further. Initially, when encountering something disagreeable, one may feel aversion towards it. Then, one can develop a mind of non-aversion towards the unpleasant, but there may still be some resistance. By further developing the mind of non-aversion, one begins to refine the principle of non-resistance that underlies all four Brahmavihāra. That non-resistance is the abandoning of craving, cruelty, and any conflict.
Q: Regarding whatever is felt, pleasant or unpleasant: if it’s unpleasant, you should practise non-resistance. And if it’s pleasant, you must not be trying to possess it?
Nm: People are inclined to pursue pleasant things because there is a simultaneous resistance to the pain of desire. The urge for pleasure stems from an aversion to one’s current state. One resists even pleasure and desires to change it when it isn’t sufficient (and it never is for one who craves it). Therefore, by cultivating Brahmavihāra, one can overcome sensuality too, which involves resistance.
Q: Maintaining a peaceful mind towards all feelings is the core practice.
Nm: Yes.
Q: With the Brahmavihāra practice, you cannot hurt anyone…
Nm: …because the intention to hurt, to engage in sensuality, or to be cruel, is always rooted in resisting whatever you are feeling at the time. Unwholesome actions require resistance to feeling as their necessary condition.
Q: Moreover, when individuals have established and stabilised their mind in mettā and karunā, a sense of contentment arises within them, irrespective of the feeling experienced. This contentment is known as muditā.
Then, a Bhikkhu might say thus: ‘I have developed and cultivated the liberation of the mind by muditā, made it my vehicle and basis, carried it out, consolidated it, and properly undertaken it, yet discontent still obsesses my mind.’He should be told: ‘Not so! Do not speak thus. Do not misrepresent the Blessed One; for it is not good to misrepresent the Blessed One. The Blessed One would certainly not speak in such a way. It is impossible and inconceivable, friend, that one might develop and cultivate the liberation of the mind by muditā, make it one’s vehicle and basis, carry it out, consolidate it, and properly undertake it, yet discontent could still obsess one’s mind. There is no such possibility. For this, friend is the escape from discontent, namely, the liberation of the mind by muditā. – An6.13
Nm: ‘Altruistic joy,’ which is the usual translation of muditā, is not accurate. Muditā stems from the principle we’re discussing here of non-resistance and non-contention towards others and whatever circumstances arise; safeguarding your mind of benevolence, which harms no other being. The result is that the mind becomes imperturbable to any circumstance.
So as a sense of joy, it’s similar to the joy you get in jhana – joy that you’re secluded and unaffected, free of concern regarding the entire world. You can see how equanimity regarding good or bad is developed from that.
Q: Another description of muditā can be found in An 3.95:
And what is the harmonious assembly? Here, the assembly in which the bhikkhus dwell in concord, harmoniously, without disputes, blending like milk and water, viewing each other with eyes of affection, is called the harmonious assembly.
“When the bhikkhus dwell in concord, harmoniously, without disputes, blending like milk and water, viewing each other with eyes of affection, on that occasion, they generate much merit. On that occasion, the bhikkhus dwell in a divine abode, that is, in the liberation of the mind through muditā. When one is content, pīti (happiness) arises. For one with a happy mind, the body becomes calm. One calm in the body feels pleasure. For one feeling such pleasure, the mind becomes composed.
Nm: The best way to cultivate a friendly attitude towards all is to focus on maintaining your mind of friendliness and non-resistance towards how you feel, and then protect it as a mother protects her child. When you don’t mind experiencing disagreeable feelings, it becomes inconceivable to hate the person who seemingly caused those feelings. You don’t need to manage all your various individual relationships or circumstances if the Brahmavihāra framework is developed—quite the contrary.
You find that mental “gateway”, through which other beings or circumstances have to arise and instead of chasing, managing, dealing with, or trying to prevent those circumstances, you realise, “All I need to do is protect the gateway and not lose sight of it”. And you protect it by not acting out of it.
Q: Which results in peacefulness?
Nm: Peacefulness will come as a result of it, as a culmination of the absence of your resistance towards what you feel. Peace is not about not feeling pain. Peace is about not being disturbed by pain or being pulled by pleasures.
Q: Non-conflict.
Nm: Yes, non-conflict internally. Can you have a conflict with anybody externally without already being conflicted with what you’re feeling internally? Impossible.
Trying to eliminate conflict from the external world is futile because the source of conflict is internal. It is by resolving your internal conflict that it becomes impossible for external events to disturb you, even if the whole world is conflicting with you.
Sutta Nipāta 1.8 Metta Sutta:
This is to be done by one skilled in his welfare
having fully understood the path of peace:
Let them be capable, honest and upright
Well-spoken, gentle and not boastful;
content and easy to support,
Living lightly, unbusy with duties,
Intelligent with calmed senses;
Not intrusive or greedy amongst families.
Let them not do the slightest thing
which others of wisdom would criticise.
Happy and secure,
may all beings be happy!
Whatever living creatures,
moving or unmoving, without leaving any out,
long or large, medium, short, coarse or subtle,
visible or invisible, living far or near,
those born or to be born:
May all beings be happy!
One should not deceive another, nor look
down upon anyone anywhere.
Out of anger and averse intention,
one should not wish suffering for another.
Even as a mother would protect her only
child with her life,
so too, in regard to all beings
should one protect an unlimited mind.
With benevolence (mettā) towards the entire world,
One should develop an unlimited mind.
Above, below, and all around,
unobstructed, friendly and without enemies.
Whether standing, walking, sitting
or lying down – while awake,
he would always remember this;
This, they say, is the way of the gods.
Being uninvolved in views,
Virtuous and accomplished with insight
Having dispelled greed for sensual pleasures,
He then never again returns to a womb.
https://www.hillsidehermitage.org/theres-no-love-in-loving-kindness/

In https://www.academia.edu/43672877/Burushaski_and_Vedic Michael Witzel connects some IE words with Burushaski. I do not think all the words fit his ideas, considering some changes that seem to exist in loans https://www.reddit.com/IndoEuropean/comments/13g1l2g/burushaski_and_indoeuropean_dardic_loans/ . Since these still might show important Burushaski changes, even if loans, I’ve included some notes on them.
​
Skt. kāṇá- ‘one-eyed’, Bu. šon \ šōn ‘blind’. Since other IE words for ‘one-eyed’ begin with kel- or kol- and -aln- > -āṇ- is likely regular in Skt., I feel this fits Indo-European *kWelno- best https://www.reddit.com/IndoEuropean/comments/13xvzvu/indoeuropean_kwelno_oneeyed/ . Witzel sees this as evidence of substrate k \ š but a loan from Sh. *šōn would fit the evidence, too. In Sh. ṣēw ‘blind’, A. ṣíiṛo, Ni. ṣeṛa < Skt. *śreḍa- ‘slanting/squinting’ (from https://nuristan.info/lngFrameL.html śri- ‘lean’, compare Gaelic claon ‘sloping/slanting / squint’) it seems an original ‘bent’ > ‘bent-legged/limping/lame’ has changed to include ‘squinting’ and ‘blind’ (see OIr cáech ‘squinting’, L. caecus ‘blind’). The shift of words for disfigurements can create a wide range of meaning (consider the many changes in Greek blaisós ‘bent/distorted / splay-footed / bandy-legged / twisted/crooked’ >> Latin blaesus ‘lisping’ https://www.reddit.com/etymology/comments/vyr3qc/unable_to_smell/ ), so a word with these changes would be no different, and there actually seem to be two examples. If you compare śroṇá- ‘lame/limping’ to its likely cognate Proto-Sh. *šṛōn (like *k^louni-s > Av. sraōni- ‘hip / buttock’, Kh. šròn ‘hip’), if both ṣēw & *šṛōn came to mean ‘blind’ from ‘limping’ then a loan at this stage into Bu. would show *šṛōn > šon \ šōn. Many loans preserve words lost in the donor, but its likely homonym *šṛōn ‘hip / buttock’ might have helped cause this word to disappear in favor of ṣēw.
​
This has a bearing on the timing of some Indo-Iranian changes. If r was retroflex, s becoming retro. after r would be explained; this fits *šṛ- > š- in Bu. and ṣ- in Sh. The existence of Richard Strand’s Skt. *śreḍa- ‘slanting/squinting’ only works if ALL dental > retroflex after RUKI, but later in Vedic Skt. stops and n returned to dental when not following retroflex. This could help find the source of words like cīḍā- ‘turpentine pine’, if the retro. C is not old. I don’t know Strand’s exact thoughts, but he was probably inspired by śreṭī- \ śreḍī- \ śreḍhī- \ śeḍī- ‘numerical notation / progression of figures’ from the same root.
​
For Bu. kilāy, Skt. kīlā́la-s \ kīlālá-m ‘sweet drink / biestings? / buttermilk?’, kilāṭa- ‘cheese’, Kh. kiḷàḷ, Kv. kilâř, maybe also kiltín ‘pre-cheese formed by squeezing together lumps in curdled milk’ a source *kīḷaḷt might fit all data. Skt. l, like r, was likely retroflex, as preserved here in Kh. (see https://www.reddit.com/Dravidiology/comments/13wtfko/retroflex_cs_in_skt_dravidian/ ). Bu. seems to show *-rt > -y. in phoy. ‘scar’, puṣtúr ‘scarred (from variola)’, pharéṭ ‘scapockmark’; if this is because r was retroflex there, too, then a retro. l causing the same *-lt > *-y. would make sense. This would also allow Skt. kīlā́la- & kilāṭa- to come from one word, with *kīḷaḷta- undergoing dissimilation to kilāṭa- or metathesis to *kīḷatḷa- to kīlā́la-. Although there are no other examples of Vtḷ > VVḷ in Skt., it seems needed to explain the alternation here and fits other Cl > l ( https://www.reddit.com/IndoEuropean/comments/13ucgz7/pie_nighro_wegwh_skt_ghl/ ). It also would allow a regular explanation of kulaṭā- ‘unfaithful wife / adulterous woman’ close to that proposed by Alexis Manaster Ramer in https://www.academia.edu/45174752 (kúla-m ‘family’ + ṛti- ‘enemy’ > kulaṭā- ‘homewrecker’). If I am correct in my analysis in https://www.reddit.com/Pashtun/comments/128y1hh/pashto_k_entries_by_georg_morgenstierne/ then this could be related to G. kurtía (since kuṭuŋgaka- ‘hut/cottage’ shows retro.) with dissim. and r-r > r-l in:
​
*kurta-rti-ā
*kurtartā
*kurtaltā
*kurṭalṭā
*kurṭaṭā
*kurlaṭā
*kulaṭā
​
As to the origin of *kīḷaḷt, since Bu. díltar ‘buttermilk’ also shows -lt-, i-a, and could be dissim. from *díltal (just like Kv. kilâř vs. Kh. kiḷàḷ), both could be from *g^īlalt (with optional g^ > d^ or g > k (like Bu. ku(h)á \ γuá ‘new moon’ > Skt. Kuhū́- according to Witzel), also in G. glágos vs. Cretan klágos). Since this optional change seems exactly parallel to IE (Alb. dhallë ‘sour milk / buttermilk’, Arm. kat’n, kałti from PIE *g^h2lag^t-? ‘milk’), which might come from a cluster like g^γ- it’s hard to avoid connecting them. With Arm. kat’n, gen. kat’in, probably from *kałsthin- (later kzti ‘kind of dairy product’ might show Rs > z, metathesis in dia. *kałths- > Agulis kaxc’), the similarity to Kv. kiltín ‘pre-cheese etc.’ is not likely a coincidence. A form like *g^γlag^tīn- > *kxlastin- > *kałsthin- and *g^γlag^tīn- > *g^γlag^tīl > *g^γīlalg^t- > *kīḷaḷt might fit all data. Other Dardic words are very similar to Arm. ( https://www.reddit.com/etymology/comments/vulpfj/ancient_armenian_loanwords_in_india/ ), so either there was contact long in the past or Bu. is an IE language related to Arm. (as indicated by the similar words in https://www.reddit.com/IndoEuropean/comments/13g1l2g/burushaski_and_indoeuropean_dardic_loans/ ). It is hard to know more when few linguists have attempted to place Bu. in any context.
​
Alb Albanian
Arm Armenian
Aro Aromanian
Asm Assamese
Av Avestan
Bal Baluchi
Be Bengali
Bg Bulgarian
Bu Burushaski
E English
EArm Eastern Armenian
G Greek
Go Gothic
H Hittite
Hi Hindi
Is Ishkashimi
It Italian
K Kassite
Kd Kurdish
Kho Khotanese
Khw Khwarezmian
Ku Kusunda
L Latin
Li Lithuanian
Lt Latvian
M Mitanni
Mh Marathi
MArm Middle Armenian
MW Middle Welsh
NHG New High German
MHG Middle High German
OHG Old High German
OBg Old Bulgarian
OBr Old Breton
OIc Old Icelandic
OIr Old Irish
OE Old English
ON Old Norse
OPr Old Prussian
OP Old Persian
MP Middle Persian
NP (New) Persian (Farsi)
Nw Norwegian
Os Ossetian
Ph Phrygian
Ps Pashto
R Russian
Ru Romanian\Rumanian
Sar Sarikoli
Shu Shughni
Skt Sanskrit
Sog Sogdian
TA Tocharian A
TB Tocharian B
W Welsh
Wx Wakhi
​
Gy Gypsy
Dv Domari \ Do:mva:ri:
Lv Lomavren
Rom Romani
​
Dardic Group
A Atshareetaá \ (older Palola < *Paaloolaá)
B Bangani
Ba bHaṭé-sa zíb \ Bhaṭeri
D Degaanó \ Degano
Dk Domaaki \ Domaá \ D.umaki
Dm Dameli
Gi Gultari
Id Indus Kohistani
Ka Kalam Kohistani \ Kalami \ Gawri \ Bashkarik
Kati
Kh Khowàr
Km Kashmiri
Ks Kalasha
KS Kundal Shahi
Kt ktívi kâtá vari
Kv Kâmvíri
Pl Paaluulaá
Pr Prasun
Ni Nišei-alâ
Np Nepali
Sa Saňu-vīri
Sh Shina
Ti Torwali
Wg Waigali \ Kalas.a-alâ

I just want to clarify that I am NOT asking for medical advice. My mom just made a comment about how much I feed my boys and now I'm wondering what the "norm" is. Obviously I'm going to ask the pediatrician on Monday.
A typical day for us looks like:
4oz of milk at wake up
Breakfast: Handful of cheerios, 1 strawberry, yogurt pouch, 1 scrambled egg w/ cheese
Morning snack: Babyfood pouch, handful of gerber puffs, handful of yogurt melts
Lunch: 4ish tbs of whatever protein we had with dinner the night before, handful of steamed veggies, half a mashed banana tossed in hemp hearts, 1/3 cup butter noodles
6oz naptime bottle
Afternoon snack: fruit+grain bar w/ mozzarella string cheese stick thing
Dinner: 4 tbs protein, 1/3 c rice, handful of steamed veggies, half an apple
8oz bedtime bottle

Idk if this is an ADHD thing or an autistic thing or just regular food insensitivity but I'm very sensitive to cheese. Like certain cheeses have to be prepared a certain way or at a certain temperature or else I will actually vomit if I eat it. Sometimes even the smell will make me gag. Texture and smell in general also get to me but I noticed the biggest "offender" is cheese lol. I'm just wondering if anyone else experiences similar things or if this is even an ADHD thing

I parked in the tower's lot, letting my headlights bore into the amalgam of twisted metal and glass for a few moments before shutting them off.
Josh muttered, his voice low. "We're really doing this, huh?"
He ran a hand through his mop of curly hair— a dumb tic he developed last summer when his girlfriend, Annabeth, told him it was sexy. She was beside him now, cuddled up in the backseat across his lap.
I glanced at my own girlfriend, Ellie, in the passenger seat. She was trying her damndest to appear brave, but I knew better. There was no way she was comfortable with trespassing tonight.
I sighed, realizing that Josh would also chicken out.
"We're doing this? You sure you want to come?" I prodded.
Josh shifted in his seat, hand running through his hair yet again. "Maybe it's better if I stay in the truck.”
Annabeth shrugged next to him, unsurprised.
"Me, too,” Ellie chimed in, nodding at Josh.
Annabeth met my eyes, a glimmer of understanding passing between us. Our partners were both boring, god-awful goody two shoes.
"Pussies," I jabbed, swinging open my door without giving them a moment to respond.
Annabeth hopped out behind me, waving at the two losers in the truck before spinning towards me with a grin on her face.
"They're weird," she said, rolling her eyes.
For a moment, I was drinking in the way her golden hair shimmered in the moonlight. A light breeze tickled at our faces, sending sparkles of her moon-lit hair between us.
"Yup," I mustered.
I turned, strolling towards the chain link fence that formed a circular perimeter around the base of Sabe's Tower.
Sabe’s Tower. Thirteen stories of abandoned potential, whispering of times past when our town's inhabitants thought we'd hit a population boom, becoming the Houston of West Virginia. In the 70s, our success was tied to coal. Jobs flooded in, and with them, a myriad of people trying to make their way in life. Then the mines abruptly ran dry, decimating our town's economy. Since that time, our population has done nothing but dwindle.
Sabe’s Tower. Thirteen stories of decaying grandeur, silently rotting from the inside out. Some say that's what happened to Sabe himself— a rot took hold in his core, spreading and spreading until nothing but rot was left. In the end, he took his own life, which some say was for the best. He was a greedy fool, the wealthiest man for miles, owning half the surrounding countryside before the mining industry took off. Made a fortune selling his family's land to coal companies, putting every ounce of profit into making his towering hotel more luxurious than a Ritz Carlton.
Sabe’s Tower. Thirteen stories of failed dreams, now screaming vulgar obscenities at our eyes. It is a truly ugly behemoth, domineering our town's skyline with unmerited arrogance. Sabe thought painting the tower purple would give it an air of majesty, like royalties of the past, swaddled in silky lavender robes. His aspiration, after all, was nothing less than to emulate the sacred Tabernacle of Moses, to make his hotel a dwelling place for gods among men. In its current state of disrepair, however, the tower was no more than an eyesore— a visual cacophony of broken glass, peeling sickly-purple paint, and rusted steel inlays.
Adding to the hotel's disgrace, it was cylindrical in form, perched atop the highest peak for miles, jutting into the sky like a middle finger to the gods. Its phallic outline stood in stark contrast to the run-down strip malls lying in its wake.
The fence surrounding the tower was a bit too tall and a bit too wobbly to safely scale, so we circled, looking for an entry point. Every few yards, a DO NOT TRESPASS sign hung, tied to the fence with zip-ties in each corner. Someone had taken the liberty to spray paint a word underneath each sign, now making them all read:
DO NOT TRESPASS ALONE.
"Good thing you're coming with me," I joked, pointing at one of the signs.
Annabeth paused to read it for a moment. "Yeah... kinda weird that someone did that. I wonder why?"
I shrugged, continuing around the perimeter.
Eventually, we found a gate in the fence, held closed with chains at waist level. The gate's post careened steeply outward, creating a manageable gap near the top. The gate post was only held in place by the chains, not even slightly anchored to the ground. Without too much of a struggle, we hoisted ourselves up and through the gap.
Once inside the fence, I found myself spellbound by the abandoned hotel. The stars in the night sky reflected across the windows, bending and warping around the curved perimeter. Each glimmer of starlight turned into dizzying fractals, melding together and slipping between the shards of broken glass with each shift of my gaze.
The result was honestly breathtaking.
At night, the eyesoriffic tower was beautiful. Its silhouette dared to embrace the star-studded cosmos, standing with a quiet dignity that defied its daytime mockery.
I felt Annabeth shuffle beside me.
Suddenly, her phone flashlight was on, illuminating a path through overgrown concrete to the tower. At the end of the path was the structure’s entrance— a gaping hole with no attempt to conceal the darkness within.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!" I yelled, spinning to face her.
"W... What do you mean?" she stuttered.
"Turn that off, you idiot," I explained, lowering my voice. "Someone might see the light and call the cops."
The light flicked off, Annabeth mumbling apologies.
I blinked away the afterimage of weeds eating through the concrete lot, silently cursing myself for being so ridiculously hostile toward her.
"Sorry," I mumbled.
"You're good, Donovan" she whispered, brushing her hand across my arm.
As we continued to the open doorway, the outside of the tower came into focus. It was far further dilapidated than I had realized— each accent of purple paint, faded and peeling, was bulging out from between the glass and steel like it was trying to escape. I rubbed a fingernail on the paint, revealing a soft, rotting wood beneath.
I entered the tower first, pausing to let my eyes adjust. The darkness of the doorway opened up into an atrium that must have once made for a magnificent entrance. It was shaped like a slice of pie, us standing near the crust, peering inward toward the center. Above was pitch black, not yielding any answers to just how high up this mighty room's ceiling stretched.
The musty scent that filled my nose was surprisingly welcoming— somewhere between the smell of fishing trips and century old bookstores. I took a deep breath, relishing in the soft stench.
I could vaguely make out wires dangling down from the ceiling of the atrium. They were impossibly long, stretching upward into the infinite gloom.
"They look like vines," Annabeth whispered, her voice a soft purr.
The air was thick with falling dust, filtering down from the abyss above, twirling between the wires in satisfyingly slow-motion. The falling dust made it even harder to see in the dark, leaving the walls on either side of the room foggy blobs. I waved my hand, sending fleeting dust spirals through the air.
I remembered seeing photos of the atrium online, taken on some of the earliest digital cameras ever made. Those pictures showed marble countertops, intricate wooden carvings, and lushly carpeted floors.
The room, as it stands today, is a barren husk of Sabe's vision. The carpet, only present in scattered clumps, was impossibly dark, soiled to the point of true black. It clung to the concrete foundation, viciously holding on for dear life in a losing battle.
I bent down to examine a clump of carpet in front of me, amazed by the absence of light reflecting back. It was like staring into a pit of nothing, a vague absence, an outline of something that should be there.
I poked the toe of my boot at it.
FPOOSH.
It exploded, erupting into my face.
I gagged instinctively, tasting the vile substance mix into my lungs. Annabeth slapped my back as I continued gagging and coughing, begging the mucus to tear itself free from my lungs and just fucking get out of my body because it feels like I'm dying oh GOD.
And eventually, it did.
The violent hacking subsided into slight wretching, then was gone.
"Are you okay?" Annabeth tested.
Do you think I'm fucking okay?
"What the fuck was that?" I spewed.
She bent over the clump of carpet. Underneath the blackened top layer that just violently erupted was a pale network of matted spiderwebs.
"Hmm..." she began, "It kind of looks like mycelium."
She met my raised eyebrow with an eye roll.
"You know, like the roots of a fungus or some shit, I don't know. I just saw the shrooms growing in Bryce's closet that one time he showed me his stash. This white stuff looks just like it. So I guess that makes this black stuff like the part of the shroom we eat, or whatever."
"Oh dip," I responded, nodding. "That makes sense. One time I saw a nature show about some plants that shoot their seeds everywhere when something touches them. It's probably just spreading its spores when we touch it."
"Yeah," she breathed, "pretty gnarly."
We shuffled deeper into the gloom, weaving between dangling cables and clumps of fungus. I felt a drop of moisture flick off a cable, sliding onto my arm.
I groaned. "Fuck. That cable was wet."
"Disgusting," she whispered back.
We made our way to the apex of the room, the center of the tower, revealing a rusted set of elevator doors leaning together like drunks at a quinceanera. The doorway to the stairs, however, beckoned to us with the same unobstructed, pitch-black allure that the tower's entrance emanated just minutes before.
In the dark, it's truly amazing how utterly void all open doorways look.
Upon stepping inside the stairwell, the world vanished. The only proof of having working eyes was a faint, vertical glow of light filtering through the door, abruptly fading into all-consuming black.
Every sound in the entire building bored through my soul, bouncing from wall to wall, ceiling to floor, echoing on and on for all of eternity. The stairwell, directly in the center of the decrepit hotel, was the focal point of every creaking floorboard, every popping nail, every howling gust of wind. It was as if I was holding up a monstrous conch shell to my ear— a deafening murmur of echoes in disarray, smelting together to form satanic harmonies.
"Whoa," Annabeth mumbled.
Her word cut through the other echoes, impossibly loud against their monotonous hum.
Instantly, the echo of her voice filled the stairwell, rising like the build up of a dubstep song until peaking, impossibly overwhelming for a few brief seconds. The echoes of her voice then faded as quickly as they arrived.
She put a hand to her mouth, the whites of her eyes barely visible in the glow coming from the doorway.
I reached out, placing a hand where her shoulder should be. There was not enough space for us to stand abreast in the stairwell, leaving us in a comically squished proximity. She was breathing rapidly, barely managing to stay silent. I squeezed, and her breathing quickly slowed. I felt her hand creep onto mine, and we stood for a minute, simply listening to the cries of the dying building echo around us.
As my eyes adjusted, I could make out a staircase spiraling up the curved wall. Clearly this was a service stairwell, as it is much too cramped for the likes of Sabe's guests. Only a few steps were visible through the darkness at a time, making the staircase feel even tinier than it already was. Luckily, no fungus grew on the stairs themselves, leaving the metal alone to rust.
Annabeth shuffled onto the first step, producing a small object from her pocket. She handed it to me, then pointed up the stairwell, careful to not send echoes through the cylindrical chamber again.
I brought it close to my eyes for inspection, straining against the lack of light.
A joint...
She wants to go to the roof and smoke.
A smile cracked my lips. Classic Annabeth.
Every couple stairsteps, there would be a doorway. Most of them let in a dim glow, offering a glimpse into what must have once been a custodial closet on each floor.
On floor 9, I tugged at Annabeth's hand. We made eye contact in the faint light coming from the doorway. I motioned through it, pointing to the nearly fungus free floor. I wanted to explore at least a little bit, to see if the closet circled around the stairwell or not.
I poked my head through the doorway, freeing myself from the overwhelming cacophony of echoes in the stairwell.
I verified that the closet did, in fact, curve around the circular staircase like a donut. A few steps in one direction led to a terrifying drop— the elevator shaft. Next to it, a sidewalk sized ledge led to an open door, giving a view of the floor's main hallway. The path looked safe— no fungus, cracks, or otherwise obvious defects— so I proceeded, treading as light as a fox, fumbling for Annabeth's hand behind me.
The main hallway ran between the custodial closet and the guest rooms, creating another donut ring around the central stairwell. Throughout the hallway, patches of fungus grew alarmingly close together, threatening to overtake the concrete.
"That stairwell was insane," Annabeth whispered.
I nodded. "Fuck yeah, I wonder what it was like when the hotel was actually open. Must have been miserable for the staff."
We weaved through the fungus filled hallway, coming to room 901. I glanced at Annabeth, raising my eyebrows. The door was slightly ajar, hanging from its one remaining door hinge. I pushed gently, eliciting a monstrous creak.
The room was empty, extending away to the outside in a familiar pie shape. The mold seemed to grow thinner in the room, leaving most of the exposed concrete safe to cross. At the far side, a floor to ceiling panel of windows looked out over our town.
I gasped, taking in the view. Never before had I seen our town from this high up. My eyes drew to the smokestacks by the river, their blinking lights ominously flickering over downtown. Individual streets ran in parallel lines away from the tower, lit with yellowing streetlights. Between the roads, tiny lights cast from window panes twinkled, blending with one another into a starscape of their own.
"Dude," I said. "Look at this."
No response.
I spun, looking for Annabeth, frantically scanning the room. My eyes had adjusted to the outside light, leaving me sightless.
"Annabeth," I hissed.
A cold tingle went up my spine, pulling at hairs on the back of my neck.
"Annabeth?"
​
Silence.
​
Silence.
​
Silence.
​
I crept back across the floor, now aware of the entire room at once. There was nowhere for her to be hiding. No desks, cans of paint, ladders, nothing. Just an empty room with patchy fungus growing on the cement.
Something must have happened.
I studied each fungal growth in the room as I passed by. Even with the light cast from the windows, the tops remained impossibly dark. Not a single feature was discernible— only an outline was visible.
Halfway to the door, a three foot wide hole led straight to floor 8. I could have sworn it wasn't there before. I peered into the opening, seeing straight through to the room below. From what I could see, it was identically empty.
"Annabeth," I tried again, nearing the door to the hallway.
"BOO!"
I stumbled backward, tripping over my own feet. I landed squarely on a patch of fungus.
FPOOSH.
I remembered to hold my breath, close my eyes, and plug my nose.
Annabeth cackled from the threshold of the doorway, standing over me with both hands on her forehead.
"You should have seen the look—" she began, breaking off into another fit of laughter.
"Shut up," I groaned, pushing to my feet. My entire body was covered in squishy fungus gunk. I pointed at the hole behind me, continuing. "You could have killed me."
"Blah, blah, blah," she mocked. "You're fine... you're just being a baby."
Annabeth gave me a playful shove, hands lingering for a moment overdue. Swatting her paws off me, I marched back to the stairwell. I led the rest of the way to floor 13, followed by her snickers.
As I reached the top of the stairs and stepped onto the 13th floor, my jaw dropped. It was a scene straight out of a surrealist painting. An enormous pool room lay before us. Glass walls extended up from the tile floors, creating a massive, clear domed perimeter. A swath of stars twinkled brilliantly through the clear ceiling, their light refracting through the glass, casting ethereal patterns onto the room's otherwise bleak surroundings.
The pool itself was a semi-circular cutout covering half the floor space, starting at ground level and deepening in a corkscrew motion. Its ceramic tiles, once probably a bright blue, were now tinged with patches of the same fungal growth we had come across on the lower floors. The growth was sparse here, though, letting the original floor design take prominence.
In the center of the room— on top of the staircase we just stepped out of— stood a circular pillar that extended up to the middle of the glass dome, like a spine holding up the entire tower. A small antenna jutted out from above the pillar atop the dome. Surrounding the antenna was a low fence, perhaps a safety measure for maintenance workers.
Annabeth, having finally contained her laughter, stepped beside me, her face illuminated by the soft starlight filtering in through the dome. She too stood silent, taken aback by the unexpected beauty of this forgotten space.
As we moved around the room, our steps echoed across the vast emptiness. With every patch of fungus we passed, the same eerie darkness hovered, the undulating mold standing stark against the ceramic tiles.
We made our way back to the central pillar. A ladder, carved into the pillar, connected to the glass ceiling with a trapdoor.
"To the roof?" Annabeth sang, rubbing her hands together in a goblin-like motion.
"Ladies first."
As she climbed above me, I couldn't help but crane my neck and drool. She slammed open the trapdoor, and we burst through to the roof.
The fenced-in area was covered with a dark spongy surface, gripping at my knees when I stood up. Wind whipped around us, carrying a chill that cut through my clothes and bit into my skin. With each gust, the antenna above us groaned and swayed, almost as if it were joining in a dance with an unseen partner.
We sat on the squishy rubber surface, comfortably in silence. I met her eyes, smiling dumbly. We passed the joint back and forth until it dwindled down, its ember glow flickering one last time before extinguishing completely. A familiar haze crawled through my thoughts, slowing the passage of time to a languishing crawl.
"Hey..." she started, "I think I've finally found inspiration for my next album."
I scooted closer to her, taking her hand. I knew the topic brought about an unusual timidity in her— a blemish in the badass persona she's so keen on presenting. She won't even talk to her own boyfriend about her music career.
"Yeah?" I floated.
She hesitated for a second, settling into the moment. I felt a tug at my crotch, suddenly all too aware of how pretty she looked in the moonlight. I took in every detail— the way her hair fell across her face, the pattern of her freckles, the soft speckling of stars reflecting across her eyes.
"I think you need to take off your shirt, first, though," she whispered, now inches from my face. "You're filthy."
I glanced down, remembering the fungal gunk that had soiled my clothes when she scared me.
Without warning, her hands slid under my shirt, warm and sure. I helped her yank it off, collapsing into her lips.
***
When we got back to the truck, I was still high enough to see everything in slow motion. Before pulling out of the parking lot, Annabeth and I regurgitated the events of our urban exploration, trying to show our significant others what fun they missed out on. It goes without saying that part of the story was intentionally omitted.
Ellie and Josh were unamused. Their lack of adventure will forever be a mystery to me.
We swung out of the lot, hopping onto the highway headed into town. I swayed between lanes, struggling to keep the double-yellow lines in focus.
"Are you sure you're good to drive?" Ellie asked, gripping the armrest.
"I'm fine," I slurred.
Seconds later, another truck materialized in front of us. I swerved to avoid it, then everything went black.
***
I woke up to a strong hand pulling me out of the window. My truck was upside down, the roof completely caved in.
I groaned. "Aww... fuck...."
The person who pulled me out looked like the kind of guy to chew tobacco and spit wisdom. His fishing cap cast a deep shadow across his eyes in the moon's glow, concealing his gaze. He was an old timer, that's for sure, one of those folk who came during the coal rush and decided to stay when all was said and done. I could see his truck— the same truck I saw moments before the crash— pulled into the shoulder of the highway with its blinkers on.
"Easy now," he reassured, his voice like gravel under a boot. "Anyone else inside?"
I nodded, unable to speak.
I plopped onto the grassy slope embarking off the side of the road. The old man pulled their mangled bodies out, one by one.
The countryside shrank around me. I felt the corners of my vision pulling in, the weed in my system straining the limits of shock I could take before melting down.
"I'm sorry, son," he whispered, his voice carrying the weight of my guilt. "The police will be here soon. Don't you worry."
The police.
I stood up. I knew exactly how the police treated people with my skin color in this town.
I ran.
"Hey now!" the man hollered.
I kept running.
Away from my truck, away from my dead friends, away from the police.
I ran until my breath came in ragged, uncontrollable huffs. I flopped to the ground, laying on the cool concrete, cradling my head with my hands. Blood flowed between my fingertips, pooling onto the pavement.
I laid there until police sirens wailed through the night, rapidly approaching. They stopped at the wreck, leaving me in silence. Moments later, the sirens picked up their mournful song again, heading toward me.
I sat up.
I was back in the lot of Sabe's Tower. Only then did I realize how little distance I really ran from the wreck— a couple hundred yards at most.
Four, five, maybe even six sirens filled the air. They were all coming for me. They knew what I had done.
I bolted from my position on the concrete. I could hide in the tower. No way the cops would look for me in that rotting place. They wouldn't dare.
I squeezed through the gap in the fence, same as before, vaulting past the
DO NOT TRESPASS ALONE
signs in a fluid lunge. The sirens behind me screamed into the night, melding together into a continuous doomsday chant.
Red and blue lights filled the lot. I hit the ground right in front of the gaping entrance to the tower, praying that the weeds poking through the concrete would be enough to mask my form. I army crawled, inch by inch, dragging myself across broken bottles and plywood shrapnell, until I was safely in the darkness of the tower.
In.
Out.
I breathed.
In.
Out.
A police cruiser parked in the lot. Its siren drowned out all other wails for a moment before shutting off. A chubby white officer hopped out, surveying the scene. His gaze came to rest on the spot where I had lain. He squatted down, raking a finger through the pool of blood I left behind. He took a few steps toward the tower, squatting down yet again. Another splotch of blood, no doubt.
His voice floated through the plaza, slightly nasal and a little out of breath. "Dispatch, this is officer Chetty, badge number 741. I'm on the scene at 1019 Pleasant Valley Lane, in the lot of Sabe's Tower. I've located a pool of fresh blood that may be linked to our hit-and-run suspect. Possible injury, suspect could be close. Requesting immediate backup and forensics for evidence collection."
Fuck.
I wormed my way further into the tower's belly, sliding between patches of fungus like a mouse in a snake pit, heading for the stairwell. I had to ascend, to find some nook or cranny out of reach of the pursuing officers. The godforsaken tower was one big game of hide and seek, only this time, losing meant far worse than a bruised ego.
Something gurgled in the darkness.
My blood froze. I halted, my heart hammering a tattoo against my ribs. Holding my breath, I strained my senses, eyes peering into the graying murk, searching for the source of the sound.
It came again, a wretched retching, like an animal choking on its own vomit. Hacking, gurgling, bubbling wetness bursting through strained vocal chords, a sound of fading vitality. It was coming from near the door, just outside the meager halo of light slipping through the hole.
A wet line smeared across the back of my neck. A yelp escaped my lips before I realized it was just a cord dangling from the ceiling.
At my yelp, the gurgling paused.
A heavy hush fell over the place, the quietude of the hunted.
I could faintly make out echoes emanating from the stairwell, only a few feet behind me.
The gurgling continued, sucking at the thick air. It began to drag itself forward through the fungus covered floor— a slow, steady, rhythmic drag against the concrete.
FPOOSH.
A geyser of spores bloomed, mingling with swirls of dust in the meager light. The creature, or whatever it was, did not slow its approach. Out of the darkness, a form began to shape— a silhouette clawing its way toward me.
FPOOSH.
I could see this eruption envelop the mass on the floor. One hand appeared, then another. Its fingers scrabbled over the concrete, searching for any purchase to grip. They flexed, heaving the thing even closer.
A mop of curly hair appeared between the hands. A body, face down. It pulled itself closer, into another fungal growth, grinding its face through the rough concrete.
FPOOSH.
A knife protruded from its back. The handle jutted upward, a grim totem amidst the grime and gore. I shuddered, involuntarily taking a step closer to the stairwell.
It looked up at me.
Or rather, Josh looked up at me.
I stared back, mouth agape.
His face was nearly sanded off from the concrete. His nose took the worst of it, ground down to the bone, leaving only two sucking, gurgling holes between his eyes. His cheeks were a mangled mess of blood and rocks, viscous red flowing freely to the tip of his chin before dribbling off. The chunks of meat hanging where lips should have been flapped against his teeth with every jerky motion, tethered to his face by all too little strands of flesh. Beneath them, his teeth showed bright red and white in a perpetual grimacing smile.
"Josh?" I managed to whisper, my voice a frightened squeak.
Josh opened his mouth as if to respond, ripping both cheeks in half. He hacked, gurgling, spitting up blood that came from deep within his torso. He slowly cocked his head to the side, but instead of stopping at a slant, he kept twisting his neck until bones started to crack and his head dangled upside down.
His mangled, upside down head swung limply as he pulled himself to his knees, his neck like jelly. He wasn't wearing the same clothes he was wearing earlier tonight— no, he was wearing clothes from the night Annabeth first cheated on him with me. He was at a Villanova game, supporting his favorite team since birth. Annabeth knew he would be gone for the weekend, so we took our chance. I was still at her place when he came back, wearing his Collin Gillespie jersey and reeking of beer.
Now in front of me, his prized jersey was in tatters, torn to ribbons by the concrete. He groaned, shuffling and reaching for me with bloody fingers.
I bolted into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. I pushed myself faster and faster until the door to floor 9 loomed to my side. I didn't pause for a moment, pushed forward by the gurgling echoes reverberating from below.
My thighs, weak from the frantic climb, begged for a break. I wobbled into the hallway, painfully tip-toeing through the fungus. The door to 901 beckoned ahead, hanging open like it had been awaiting my hasty return.
I stumbled over the threshold when Annabeth's singing filled the room. "Oh, Donovan!"
I froze.
Outlined against the window was a two-headed beast. One face belonged to Annabeth, the other to Ellie. The creature swayed, an obscene dance of bare, fused flesh. It wore no clothes, as if to mock God himself. It had two sets of everything— eight appendages total, like a humanoid arachnid. Annabeth's breasts, now side by side with Ellie's, put Ellie to shame, even now.
Annabeth crooned again, "Oh, Donovan!" each syllable laced with acid and honey. The sound made my skin crawl as it floated through the silent room.
"You always did want more, didn't you Donovan?" Ellie sneered, a harsh grin splitting her face.
Annabeth spat, "More than Ellie could give. More than anyone could give."
The thing dropped to the floor with a thud. All eight limbs moved in unison as it crawled.
"Isn't this what you wanted? Both of us at the same time?" Their voices tumbled over each other, mouths moving in synchrony. Together, their laughter filled the hollow room. "Don't you like the thrill, Donovan? Don't you like playing with fire?"
The thing scurried at me, jumping over fungal growths with powerful leaps. The sudden movement broke my paralyzation, spurring my legs to action. I darted into the closet and through the stairwell door, into the gurgling echoes.
Back down the stairwell I ran, the two headed beast in pursuit. Both girls snarled, hindered by their conjoined size in the narrow passageway. Their struggle echoed through the stairwell, mixing with the gurgling. I fled further down, needing to put distance between that thing and me.
I stopped dead in my tracks between floors 2 and 3.
Josh was there, leaning against the wall with the knife removed from his back, now grasped tightly in his hand. I staggered back up the stairs, instinctively retreating, narrowly avoiding the blade as he lunged at me.
Glancing up, I caught a flash of pale skin bearing down on me, cutting off my escape. My only way out was the door to floor 3. I charged through the closet, leaving the echoes behind me.
Floor 3 was empty— no walls, only fungus and windows. The atrium loomed to my left, a pie shaped hole missing from the floor and ceiling. I backed away from the door, eyeing the dangling cords hanging in the atrium.
Maybe... Just maybe....
Josh stumbled from the stairwell, filling the air with his wet slurping. Annabeth and Ellie followed, scrambling toward me.
I didn't have time to think.
I jumped, grasping at the dangling wires, praying they would hold my weight.
Time stuttered, hanging suspended like an icicle on a winter's morning. The world spun in a dizzying blur as I twisted, fingers stretching for a grip. Panic clawed its icy fingers up my spine, but it was the surprise that struck me most. The simple disbelief that this was happening.
A wire found its way into my hand, snapping without slowing my fall.
The wind whooshed past, ripping the breath from my lungs. Above me, the third floor retreated, its grimy concrete replaced by a view of the atrium's ceiling, wires swinging back and forth from my desperate escape.
Then came the sensation of falling. It's a feeling that strikes a primal chord, an orchestra of fear and adrenaline that means the end of a life. My stomach lurched, free-falling alongside me, while the rest of my body seemed to hover in a state of disbelief.
The impact came as both a shock and an inevitability. There was a moment of sheer, undiluted pain, a soundless scream reverberating through my very bones. It felt like being shattered from the inside out, an explosion of agony that started from my back and radiated outwards. An iron-hot spike of pain shot through me, and then, a chilling void as everything below my waist slipped into a terrifying numbness.
The echo of my body's collision rang in my ears as the world spun into a disorienting whirl of blurs, shadows, and pain. The cold concrete beneath me felt real, solid, a chilling contrast to the sudden loss of sensation in my legs.
In the throbbing silence that followed, I understood. I had fallen. I was broken. I lay sprawled on the atrium floor, gasping, the world tilting dangerously in my vision.
Annabeth and Ellie emerged from the staircase, scrambling across the atrium floor. Red and blue police lights filtered through the tower’s windows, making shadows dance between the monster's eight limbs. Josh wasn't far behind, still clutching onto the bloody knife, head rolling upside down between his shoulders.
"Police, we're coming in!" a familiar nasally voice shouted.
The moment officers stepped foot in the tower, the monsters vanished in a spray of spores.
​
X

My baby does not tolerate my breast milk anymore. He spits up and is insanely cranky when he’s given a bottle of breast milk. We got some formula because he was just so inconsolable and he drank it down and was perfectly fine. It’s not special formula (just kindamil) so I don’t think he’s dairy or soy intolerant. Every time I reintroduce breast milk he’s instantly fussy and seems like he gets stomach cramps. I am very through with storage and preparation when it comes to my milk. I never mix milk more then 24 hours old and my pitcher remanants always get frozen at the 24 hour mark. I put warm milk in a separate container to chill before mixing into pitcher. I over produce and he has plenty of milk so it just hurts that he doesn’t tolerate it. Anyone know what might be the problem?

Fourth and final part at the same time tomorrow.
Series Page - Read 10 weeks ahead on Patreon - Read the story so far on Royal Road
*
Chapter Twelve - The Blacksmith's Boy (Part Three)
Clouds. Black, moving, twisting like rope. His head ached. His blood was hot as flame. Fire flashed in the clouds, and the old stormtower gleamed. The Old Man stared back at him from the gloom, eyes carving at his skin. You could have warned me. He taunted him. Smoke bled around his shoulders, and his skin melted away. Cal tried to look away, but it was too late. The fire was on him, and the sky filled his eyes with black water, smothering his breath.
*
He gasped, pain searing down his spine, and choked on his own breath, spluttering.
‘Get him up.’
‘I’ve got him.’
Lokk’s voice. Cal felt a hand curling underneath one of his arms, lifting his aching jaw off the floorboards. Pain shot down his back again, and he cried out, eyes spinning. Then there was another hand beneath him, and he was lifted groaning away from the floor. They lowered him carefully into a chair, and he fell against it, skin stinging, panting through gritted teeth.
‘What happened to him?’
‘Had a wolf at ‘im, by the looks of it!’
‘Don’t be a fool! No wolves in these woods.’
‘Believe in magic, but not in wolves?’
Cal groaned again.
‘Shut it, all of you!’
Cal blinked again, and the Innkeep’s rosy cheeks coalesced into the air before his eyes, looking down at him worriedly. Lokk was at his shoulder, wide-eyed, his mop of lank hair hanging loosely over his forehead. Someone had put the door to, and it was suddenly very quiet. Cal took a breath.
‘What happened, boy?’ The Innkeep asked him. Beyond his shoul-ders, Cal could see the faces of a half-dozen patrons, blinking back at him with wide eyes. All except Old Godry, who looked mildly irritated. Outside, the storm wailed helplessly against the thatching, and thunder rumbled against the hills, more distant, now. Cal held his breath, craning his ears. But the footsteps were gone. He swallowed.
‘There were…’ He hesitated, glancing towards the door. ‘I… fell.’
‘Down half the Teeth by the looks of it!’ Lokk pointed at his arms. ‘What were you doing out in this?’
Cal blinked, looking down. His arms were crisscrossed with dozens of bloody cuts, and his shirt was hanging off him in strings. He frowned, shrugging, and then winced as fire raced over his skin, and fell back against the chair, gasping.
‘Thought… Thought I had time to get back.’
‘Damned fool.’ Carel told him, appearing beside her father. She had a pail of steaming water under one arm, and a bundle of rags in the oth-er. ‘Got to clean those before they rot.’
‘I’m fi-’
‘That’s enough talking.’ The Innkeep told him. ‘Or I’ll want coin for the cloth.’
Cal thought better of arguing.
‘Saw a fair few mugs go over.’ The Innkeep turned towards the rest of the room, smiling reassuringly. ‘I’ll fetch a new barrel. This one’s on the house.’
A few grumbles of approval from the assembled regulars. They were all watching him. He could feel their eyes on him, prying, poking. Sen-sible boys know better than to go wandering in a storm. They’d always thought the Blacksmith’s stray was cracked. Same as his master. Godry seemed to have let his irritation go at the promise of free ale, but Cal spotted the butcher’s brute of a son, Petr, sneering back at him over the rim of his mug. He lowered his eyes. They thought him mad. Maybe they were right. Behind his eyes, the shadows were still chasing him through endless trees, clawing at his heels. But the door stayed closed, and there was no sound beyond it but the storm. Maybe he was losing his mind.
‘Quite the show, that was.’ Lokk grinned as his father went off to find the barrel. Carel rolled her eyes, pulling up another chair and set-ting about dampening the cloth. ‘Barely seen you in weeks, then you show up all bloody an’ panting like a wolf that’s got in with the chick-ens? You always knew how to make an entrance.’
Cal grunted. He didn’t feel like explaining himself. Wasn’t sure he could, even if he did.
‘Scared off the new folk, too.’ Lokk nodded towards an empty table in the far corner of the room, scattered with discarded mugs.
Cal blinked. ‘What?’
‘Had some of Solen’s new hands in tonight.’ Lokk told him offhand-edly, scratching his chin. ‘Quiet lot. Must have given them quite the fright. Saw themselves out sharpish.’
‘What did… hnngg.’ Cal clamped his teeth together with a groan as Carel pressed one of the rags against his bloody forearm.
‘Stay still.’ She told him, wiping the cloth slowly across his skin. It felt like someone was stripping his flesh with a wood plane. Cal clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to yelp. Lokk lounged idly against the bar beside him, sweeping his loose hair back from his forehead un-tidily.
‘Interrupted Godry, too.’ His friend went on, clearly unperturbed by his suffering. ‘Old goat hates being interrupted.’
Cal grunted again. The little clump of patrons seemed to have lost interest in him, now, turning back to their mugs as the Innkeep moved deftly through the tables, a little cask under his arm. Petr and his father were sitting glowering at no one in particular. Forley and his young wife Priss looked taken aback, and not the least bit shaken, by the un-expected turn of events the evening had taken, but the dour-faced min-ers beside them (whose names Cal did not know) seemed to have paid Cal’s entrance no heed at all. Old Godry was sitting patiently, firelight knotting over his scarred cheeks, waiting for his cue. Soon their mugs were full again, and the foolishness of the Blacksmith’s stray was quite forgotten. The Innkeep set the empty cask down somewhere behind the bar, and went off to find another barrel. Cal gritted his teeth as Carel went on with her work, eyes watering, and watched the villagers blur indifferently by the fire.
‘You weren’t finished, Godry.’ Albin, the butcher began, taking a long swig from his mug. ‘’bout to tell us how the wizard farted out his storm to save the savages.’
Cal saw Forley roll his eyes. ‘You know damned well where we were! Tell us about Arolf!’
Albin scowled, opening his mouth to retort, but Godry regained his composure in time to step in.
‘Aerolf, Forley.’ He corrected patiently.
‘Aerolf, then.’ The young shepherd agreed, rolling his eyes. ‘What happened next?’
‘Well, like I was saying, old King Talor’s already met his end, but them Northmen weren’t done yet. That beast Aerolf most of all.’ Godry began, lowering his voice and eyeing his audience conspiratorially. ‘He had a score to settle, see. This weren’t the kind of man to let a woman run from him, you understand.’
‘Serves him right.’ Albin grumbled. ‘Couldn’t keep her in his bed, even with a sword on her.’
The two miners snorted in agreement, and Petr just kept scowling. Cal flinched as Carel drew her rag over a particularly deep cut. He caught her eye reproachfully, and she smiled slyly.
‘Oops.’
She was very close, he realised, and he could feel the heat of her against his cut-thread skin. Another night, he might even have enjoyed it.
‘So there they was, dead King and all. Could of had the throne for hisself, right then.’ The old miner continued gravely. ‘But he was more animal than man. Mad as a beast, they say, big as a bear, covered head to toe in blood, cut up like an old buck. And this beast had a taste for blood.’
The little circle of villagers leaned a little closer in their seats, eye-ing Godry eagerly. Cal realised he was listening along with them.
‘So off he goes, bloody magic blade in hand.’ Godry held out his hand like a blade, scowling at them over the fire. ‘He finds that place where old King Talor locked up his pretty young daughter. And what’d’you think he does when he finds it?’
‘Kills her.’ Forley whispered.
‘That’s right, boy.’ Godry nodded, dropping his arm. ‘Heard it said he clawed the tower door open with his bare hands. Dragged her out in-to that garden, butchered her right there in the grass, threw her off that big rock of theirs like an old ham. This weren’t a man you run from. If he couldn’t have her, no one could.’
‘How’d they kill him, then?’ Albin asked, frowning.
‘Well, see now. Northmen ain’t the only one with monsters.’ Godry said craftily, raising one patchwork brow. ‘Dekar’s a sharp one. He’d realised what was afoot, by now. Rallied the King’s Men, drove the scum back out of the King’s hall. Weren’t a man amongst them left standing, save the ones in the garden. But for Aerolf and them, he saved his best killer.’
‘The Bloodless.’ Forley murmured.
‘The Bloodless.’ Godry agreed. ‘Biggest woman you’ve ever seen. Big as a wagon, skin like blue snow. They say there’s nought but ice in them veins, and if you cut her, she don’t bleed.’
‘And I’ve got rocks for balls.’ Albin snorted.
‘Might as well, for all the good they do you.’ Godry snapped back at him. ‘But the Bloodless finds the traitor. Right there in that garden, all covered in the Princess’s blood. Cuts Aerolf down, throws him from the walls after her, him and his magic sword. Almost killed that Stonesplitter dog, too, whilst she were at it. Weren’t no easy thing though; gets her head cut open like a peach for its trouble. Should’ve died, right there. Would’ve, if not for those… other types Dekar had took up with.’
‘‘Least the traitor was dead.’
‘Aye, that he was. That Heartspire’s taller than a mountain. Say there weren’t nothing left of him but mulch, once he got to the bottom. Him and the princess both.’
‘Makers have mercy.’ Forley murmured, making the sign of the Nine over his breast. Even Albin took another mouthful of ale.
‘Weren’t no mercy. A beast don’t deserve none.’ Godry said sober-ly, following Forley and drawing a circle over his chest. ‘If he couldn’t ‘ave her, no one could.’
Cal barely heard them. He felt drained, as though the cuts had bled the weight from his bones. He floated just above his chair in a haze, and the roomed blurred and swayed as if through shallow water. Carel went about her work quietly, carefully, and the pain of it washed over him in raw waves, until the pail of water at her feet was stained an ugly pink.
‘Dekar had a plan though!’ Forley whispered excitedly, his rever-ence forgotten. ‘Tell ‘em, Godry!’
‘That he did, Forley.’ Godry smiled, his scarred face contorting gro-tesquely. ‘See, that Dekar’s sharp as a carving knife. Took up Taylor’s magic sword, led the King’s Men himself. But that weren’t all. Had some of his men kept back, from down West. Big men. Hard men. Came on the Northmen camp in the dead of night. Surrounded ‘em.’
‘Weren’t just any men, I hears it.’ Albin grumbled.
‘Here we go!’ Forley snorted.
‘Said it yourself, Godry. Dekar took up with them religious types.’ Albin shot back, frowning indignantly. ‘Everyone knows it.’
‘Religious? Masks don’t keep the Makers.’ Forley spat. ‘Ain’t noth-ing but bandits dressed up like monks.’
Cal blinked.
‘Brothers ain’t got no Gods save the Darkness.’ Priss murmured qui-etly. ‘You say Nine, I say eight.’
‘All the same.’ Albin was saying, folding his arms over his mug. ‘Brothers are useful, and good old Dekar didn’t sniff at them like you do.’
‘That’s enough, Alb.’ Godry interrupted. ‘He’s still our King, even all the way out here.’
Cal opened his mouth, straightening in his seat, but Carel pushed him back down again tutting.
‘Sit still.’
‘But-’
‘Hardly our King anymore, anyways.’ Albin spat. ‘Not like it used to be. Valia’s for the lowlanders.’
‘You sounds like a Northman.’ Forley scowled.
‘Or one of the Elahi.’ Priss added. Albin bristled, and Godry jumped in just in time.
‘Doesn’t matter. All Dekar’s hard men never got to the Northmen camp.’ The grizzled old smelter went on. ‘Seems old Isandur weren’t done yet.
Cal gritted his teeth. His head ached, and his mouth tasted like smoke.
Albin spat at his feet, sneering. ‘Isandur my arse.’
‘Let him be, Alb.’ Forley told him.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the butcher and his son fixed Forley with their most angry of looks. Then Godry cleared his throat noisily, and Petr shoved himself to his feet and stalked off to-wards the bar, snatching up their empty mugs as he went.
‘But Isandur is a crafty one, and no mistake. Showed up just in time, as always. What he wanted from it, no man can say. Them Chosen are scheming sorts, what ones is left. Us mortals couldn’t guess what they’s thinkin’.’ He paused, nodding knowingly. ‘Storm-tamers, they call ‘em. He spoke the words, and the sky opened. Biggest storm you’ve ever seen. Caught Dekar’s men as they came. Scattered ‘em like wheat in a gale.’
Petr aimed a crooked smile at Carel as he passed, and she lowered her eyes. Cal barely noticed. He no longer heard Godry. The room around him seemed very far away. Was he awake? Or was he dream-ing?
‘Northerners took the chance. Fled faster than the wind what chased them. Them that were still on the rock, them what murdered and killed our King?’ Godry went on, shaking his head sadly. ‘Them he called the wind itself for, and carried them away before Dekar could get at them. Aerolf’s brother, among them. King of the North, he goes by now. Couple of other Northmen, too. Stonesplitter cut almost in half by the Bloodless’ blade.’
Albin spat on the floor, and the miners scowled. No right-minded Valian liked this part, magic or not. Cal ground his teeth.
‘That Chosen bastard let the King get his throat slit, then shows up to save his killers.’ Albin cursed.
‘Makers know why. Not been seen since.’ Godry agreed. ‘Back they went, anyway, back to the rest of the savages as they fled like dogs. Storm was so heavy, river banks burst behind them, flooded half the valley.’
Cal’s heart was pounding in his ears, and his skull was ringing. Out-side, the wind whined over the thatching, howling at the broken clouds.
‘Don’t matter how many men Dekar had. Or how many Brothers. Ain’t no one swimming in mail.’
Cal forced his eyes shut. Black Ones. A storm. Falling.
‘Cal?’
He opened his eyes, blinking into the firelight, and found Carel look-ing down at him worriedly.
‘Does it hurt?’ She was asking softly.
‘What… no, I’m fine.’ He told her, blinking again. ‘I need to…’
‘Stay here.’ She told him, lifting up the bloody pail. ‘I need more cloth.’
She turned on her heel and disappeared. Cal’s head spun.
‘… already scared off the new folk with all these tall stories.’ Albin was saying. ‘Storm’s just a storm. Forge boy knows.’
Cal blinked, lurching unsteadily to his feet. Asking questions, the Innkeep had said. His vision blurred unsteadily, and the room stared back at him, wobbling like a top.
‘Cal, you need to sit down.’ Lokk told him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Cal blinked. His eyes stopped spinning, and the ache in his head had vanished. The wind had moved on overhead, and the air was thick with smoke and heat. The little group of patrons were eyeing him curiously. All save the butcher.
‘Listen to him boy, before you hurt yourself.’ Albin sneered back at him.
‘Come on, Cal. Ignore him.’ Lokk murmured in his ear.
Cal swallowed, meeting the swarthy butcher’s eye for a moment. Then he let himself be steered backward, slumping into his seat like an empty sack.
‘Must have lost more blood than I thought.’ Lokk told him, pulling up a chair beside him and tutting. ‘Want to pick a fight with Albin as well as that storm?’
‘What?’ Cal mumbled, blinking. The butcher had gone back to his drink, and the other villagers had gone with him, grumbling amongst themselves about the practicalities of storm-tamers and treacherous, magical old men. He took a breath. ‘I wasn’t. I-’
‘Sure looked like you were. You know Alb. Just his way. Didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘Lokk, when did the new folk leave?’
‘What? Oh… I told you. Right after you turned up. Spooked ‘em good, you did, all bloody like a fresh ham…’
‘Where did they go?’
‘How should I know? Had my hands full peeling you off the floor. Why d’you care, anyway?’
‘Lokk, I need to…’
‘Oh, no you don’t! You aren’t going anywhere. Need to rest.’ His friend told him, pinning him to his chair by his shoulders. ‘Look like you fell down half the Teeth face first.’
‘I…’ Cal began, lowering his voice. His head was clearing, and the room was no longer spinning like a leaf. Beside the fire, the other pa-trons were still bickering emptily. The storm had passed, and the ache of it was clearing from his battered skull. ‘I didn’t just fall. Something was chasing me.’
‘What are you talking about? You crack your head, too?’
‘Lokk, listen. There were…’
‘Let go!’
They both looked up at the sudden commotion from beside the bar. Carel had just made it out from behind it with a fresh pail of steaming water before Petr had cornered her, bulky shoulders blocking the way forward like a stubborn bullock. He had one meaty hand curled around Carel’s wrist, and she had her eyes fixed on the floor. Cal was on his feet before Lokk could say anything.
‘Let go of her.’
The big youth let go of Carel’s wrist, and the pail fell abruptly back to her side, spilling steaming water across the floor. She looked at it distantly, frowning.
‘Or what, you little shit?’ The butcher’s son grumbled throatily, turning slowly around to facing Cal, glaring down at him with rheumy-eyes. His words had the imprecise edge of drink to them, and his breath smelled of sour ale. ‘Gonna throw yourself down a fucking hill at me?’
‘Just leave her be, Petr.’ Lokk added from Cal’s shoulder.
‘Mind your own business.’ The big youth snorted, still glaring at Cal darkly. ‘Sit down before you hurt yourself, stray.’
He began to turn back to Carel. Lokk put a hand on Cal’s shoulder, and Cal ignored him.
‘Leave her be.’ He said again.
‘Or what?’ Petr snarled back, lurching around again, wiping spittle from the corner of his mouth. ‘Going to bleed on me?’
‘It’s fine, Cal. No harm done.’ Carel said quietly from beside the bar, eyes still on the ground. ‘Sit down, let me finish with your cuts.’
‘You heard her. Be a good little foundling and sit down like she says.’
Cal swallowed. Petr was nearly a head taller than he was, and his arms were thick, corded with miner’s work. But there would be no avoiding it now, and he didn’t have the patience to let it be, that night. The big youth was drunk, and spoiling for a fight. Cal glanced back over his shoulder, but the other patrons were bickering loudly beside the fire, oblivious, or indifferent, or both. The Innkeep was still in the back somewhere, tapping a new barrel. Strike first. Strike hard. Cal shifted his feet slightly, readying himself. His head had cleared, and his pain was far away. The moment of calm was on him. A blink in time. The room faded away, vibrating with stillness. There was only his breath. In, and out. He waited.
‘Nothing to say? Suppose a dead whore can’t teach her cunt son any manners.’
Cal moved quickly, uncoiling like a bowstring. He burst forward off his hind leg, bunching his fist towards Petr’s slab of a jaw. The butch-er’s son had no chance to react. How could he? Cal moved with the ease of a seasoned brawler, hard limbs whipping like clubs. Lokk’s arm slipped from his shoulder. He was already halfway across the distance between them before Petr could even blink.
His boot splashed, skidded, slid. The water. Cal blinked, lost bal-ance, and slid wildly into Petr’s chest. His head thudded into the other boy, and he staggered back, confused, dazed. Petr blinked down at him, cogs turning slowly in his ale-slowed mind. Then a broad grin spread across the big youth’s jaw.
‘Should’ve listened, stray.’

Fourth and final part at the same time tomorrow.
Previous Chapter - Read 10 weeks ahead on Patreon - Read the story so far on Royal Road
*
Chapter Twelve - The Blacksmith's Boy (Part Three)
​
Clouds. Black, moving, twisting like rope. His head ached. His blood was hot as flame. Fire flashed in the clouds, and the old stormtower gleamed. The Old Man stared back at him from the gloom, eyes carving at his skin. You could have warned me. He taunted him. Smoke bled around his shoulders, and his skin melted away. Cal tried to look away, but it was too late. The fire was on him, and the sky filled his eyes with black water, smothering his breath.
*
He gasped, pain searing down his spine, and choked on his own breath, spluttering.
‘Get him up.’
‘I’ve got him.’
Lokk’s voice. Cal felt a hand curling underneath one of his arms, lifting his aching jaw off the floorboards. Pain shot down his back again, and he cried out, eyes spinning. Then there was another hand beneath him, and he was lifted groaning away from the floor. They lowered him carefully into a chair, and he fell against it, skin stinging, panting through gritted teeth.
‘What happened to him?’
‘Had a wolf at ‘im, by the looks of it!’
‘Don’t be a fool! No wolves in these woods.’
‘Believe in magic, but not in wolves?’
Cal groaned again.
‘Shut it, all of you!’
Cal blinked again, and the Innkeep’s rosy cheeks coalesced into the air before his eyes, looking down at him worriedly. Lokk was at his shoulder, wide-eyed, his mop of lank hair hanging loosely over his forehead. Someone had put the door to, and it was suddenly very quiet. Cal took a breath.
‘What happened, boy?’ The Innkeep asked him. Beyond his shoulders, Cal could see the faces of a half-dozen patrons, blinking back at him with wide eyes. All except Old Godry, who looked mildly irritated. Outside, the storm wailed helplessly against the thatching, and thunder rumbled against the hills, more distant, now. Cal held his breath, craning his ears. But the footsteps were gone. He swallowed.
‘There were…’ He hesitated, glancing towards the door. ‘I… fell.’
‘Down half the Teeth by the looks of it!’ Lokk pointed at his arms. ‘What were you doing out in this?’
Cal blinked, looking down. His arms were crisscrossed with dozens of bloody cuts, and his shirt was hanging off him in strings. He frowned, shrugging, and then winced as fire raced over his skin, and fell back against the chair, gasping.
‘Thought… Thought I had time to get back.’
‘Damned fool.’ Carel told him, appearing beside her father. She had a pail of steaming water under one arm, and a bundle of rags in the other. ‘Got to clean those before they rot.’
‘I’m fi-’
‘That’s enough talking.’ The Innkeep told him. ‘Or I’ll want coin for the cloth.’
Cal thought better of arguing.
‘Saw a fair few mugs go over.’ The Innkeep turned towards the rest of the room, smiling reassuringly. ‘I’ll fetch a new barrel. This one’s on the house.’
A few grumbles of approval from the assembled regulars. They were all watching him. He could feel their eyes on him, prying, poking. Sensible boys know better than to go wandering in a storm. They’d always thought the Blacksmith’s stray was cracked. Same as his master. Godry seemed to have let his irritation go at the promise of free ale, but Cal spotted the butcher’s brute of a son, Petr, sneering back at him over the rim of his mug. He lowered his eyes. They thought him mad. Maybe they were right. Behind his eyes, the shadows were still chasing him through endless trees, clawing at his heels. But the door stayed closed, and there was no sound beyond it but the storm. Maybe he was losing his mind.
‘Quite the show, that was.’ Lokk grinned as his father went off to find the barrel. Carel rolled her eyes, pulling up another chair and setting about dampening the cloth. ‘Barely seen you in weeks, then you show up all bloody an’ panting like a wolf that’s got in with the chickens? You always knew how to make an entrance.’
Cal grunted. He didn’t feel like explaining himself. Wasn’t sure he could, even if he did.
‘Scared off the new folk, too.’ Lokk nodded towards an empty table in the far corner of the room, scattered with discarded mugs.
Cal blinked. ‘What?’
‘Had some of Solen’s new hands in tonight.’ Lokk told him offhandedly, scratching his chin. ‘Quiet lot. Must have given them quite the fright. Saw themselves out sharpish.’
‘What did… hnngg.’ Cal clamped his teeth together with a groan as Carel pressed one of the rags against his bloody forearm.
‘Stay still.’ She told him, wiping the cloth slowly across his skin. It felt like someone was stripping his flesh with a wood plane. Cal clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to yelp. Lokk lounged idly against the bar beside him, sweeping his loose hair back from his forehead untidily.
‘Interrupted Godry, too.’ His friend went on, clearly unperturbed by his suffering. ‘Old goat hates being interrupted.’
Cal grunted again. The little clump of patrons seemed to have lost interest in him, now, turning back to their mugs as the Innkeep moved deftly through the tables, a little cask under his arm. Petr and his father were sitting glowering at no one in particular. Forley and his young wife Priss looked taken aback, and not the least bit shaken, by the unexpected turn of events the evening had taken, but the dour-faced miners beside them (whose names Cal did not know) seemed to have paid Cal’s entrance no heed at all. Old Godry was sitting patiently, firelight knotting over his scarred cheeks, waiting for his cue. Soon their mugs were full again, and the foolishness of the Blacksmith’s stray was quite forgotten. The Innkeep set the empty cask down somewhere behind the bar, and went off to find another barrel. Cal gritted his teeth as Carel went on with her work, eyes watering, and watched the villagers blur indifferently by the fire.
‘You weren’t finished, Godry.’ Albin, the butcher began, taking a long swig from his mug. ‘’bout to tell us how the wizard farted out his storm to save the savages.’
Cal saw Forley roll his eyes. ‘You know damned well where we were! Tell us about Arolf!’
Albin scowled, opening his mouth to retort, but Godry regained his composure in time to step in.
‘Aerolf, Forley.’ He corrected patiently.
‘Aerolf, then.’ The young shepherd agreed, rolling his eyes. ‘What happened next?’
‘Well, like I was saying, old King Talor’s already met his end, but them Northmen weren’t done yet. That beast Aerolf most of all.’ Godry began, lowering his voice and eyeing his audience conspiratorially. ‘He had a score to settle, see. This weren’t the kind of man to let a woman run from him, you understand.’
‘Serves him right.’ Albin grumbled. ‘Couldn’t keep her in his bed, even with a sword on her.’
The two miners snorted in agreement, and Petr just kept scowling. Cal flinched as Carel drew her rag over a particularly deep cut. He caught her eye reproachfully, and she smiled slyly.
‘Oops.’
She was very close, he realised, and he could feel the heat of her against his cut-thread skin. Another night, he might even have enjoyed it.
‘So there they was, dead King and all. Could of had the throne for hisself, right then.’ The old miner continued gravely. ‘But he was more animal than man. Mad as a beast, they say, big as a bear, covered head to toe in blood, cut up like an old buck. And this beast had a taste for blood.’
The little circle of villagers leaned a little closer in their seats, eyeing Godry eagerly. Cal realised he was listening along with them.
‘So off he goes, bloody magic blade in hand.’ Godry held out his hand like a blade, scowling at them over the fire. ‘He finds that place where old King Talor locked up his pretty young daughter. And what’d’you think he does when he finds it?’
‘Kills her.’ Forley whispered.
‘That’s right, boy.’ Godry nodded, dropping his arm. ‘Heard it said he clawed the tower door open with his bare hands. Dragged her out into that garden, butchered her right there in the grass, threw her off that big rock of theirs like an old ham. This weren’t a man you run from. If he couldn’t have her, no one could.’
‘How’d they kill him, then?’ Albin asked, frowning.
‘Well, see now. Northmen ain’t the only one with monsters.’ Godry said craftily, raising one patchwork brow. ‘Dekar’s a sharp one. He’d realised what was afoot, by now. Rallied the King’s Men, drove the scum back out of the King’s hall. Weren’t a man amongst them left standing, save the ones in the garden. But for Aerolf and them, he saved his best killer.’
‘The Bloodless.’ Forley murmured.
‘The Bloodless.’ Godry agreed. ‘Biggest woman you’ve ever seen. Big as a wagon, skin like blue snow. They say there’s nought but ice in them veins, and if you cut her, she don’t bleed.’
‘And I’ve got rocks for balls.’ Albin snorted.
‘Might as well, for all the good they do you.’ Godry snapped back at him. ‘But the Bloodless finds the traitor. Right there in that garden, all covered in the Princess’s blood. Cuts Aerolf down, throws him from the walls after her, him and his magic sword. Almost killed that Stonesplitter dog, too, whilst she were at it. Weren’t no easy thing though; gets her head cut open like a peach for its trouble. Should’ve died, right there. Would’ve, if not for those… other types Dekar had took up with.’
‘‘Least the traitor was dead.’
‘Aye, that he was. That Heartspire’s taller than a mountain. Say there weren’t nothing left of him but mulch, once he got to the bottom. Him and the princess both.’
‘Makers have mercy.’ Forley murmured, making the sign of the Nine over his breast. Even Albin took another mouthful of ale.
‘Weren’t no mercy. A beast don’t deserve none.’ Godry said soberly, following Forley and drawing a circle over his chest. ‘If he couldn’t ‘ave her, no one could.’
Cal barely heard them. He felt drained, as though the cuts had bled the weight from his bones. He floated just above his chair in a haze, and the roomed blurred and swayed as if through shallow water. Carel went about her work quietly, carefully, and the pain of it washed over him in raw waves, until the pail of water at her feet was stained an ugly pink.
‘Dekar had a plan though!’ Forley whispered excitedly, his reverence forgotten. ‘Tell ‘em, Godry!’
‘That he did, Forley.’ Godry smiled, his scarred face contorting grotesquely. ‘See, that Dekar’s sharp as a carving knife. Took up Taylor’s magic sword, led the King’s Men himself. But that weren’t all. Had some of his men kept back, from down West. Big men. Hard men. Came on the Northmen camp in the dead of night. Surrounded ‘em.’
‘Weren’t just any men, I hears it.’ Albin grumbled.
‘Here we go!’ Forley snorted.
‘Said it yourself, Godry. Dekar took up with them religious types.’ Albin shot back, frowning indignantly. ‘Everyone knows it.’
‘Religious? Masks don’t keep the Makers.’ Forley spat. ‘Ain’t nothing but bandits dressed up like monks.’
Cal blinked.
*‘*Brothers ain’t got no Gods save the Darkness.’ Priss murmured quietly. ‘You say Nine, I say eight.’
‘All the same.’ Albin was saying, folding his arms over his mug. ‘Brothers are useful, and good old Dekar didn’t sniff at them like you do.’
‘That’s enough, Alb.’ Godry interrupted. ‘He’s still our King, even all the way out here.’
Cal opened his mouth, straightening in his seat, but Carel pushed him back down again tutting.
‘Sit still.’
‘But-’
‘Hardly our King anymore, anyways.’ Albin spat. ‘Not like it used to be. Valia’s for the lowlanders.’
‘You sounds like a Northman.’ Forley scowled.
‘Or one of the Elahi.’ Priss added. Albin bristled, and Godry jumped in just in time.
‘Doesn’t matter. All Dekar’s hard men never got to the Northmen camp.’ The grizzled old smelter went on. ‘Seems old Isandur weren’t done yet.
Cal gritted his teeth. His head ached, and his mouth tasted like smoke.
Albin spat at his feet, sneering. ‘Isandur my arse.’
‘Let him be, Alb.’ Forley told him.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the butcher and his son fixed Forley with their most angry of looks. Then Godry cleared his throat noisily, and Petr shoved himself to his feet and stalked off towards the bar, snatching up their empty mugs as he went.
‘But Isandur is a crafty one, and no mistake. Showed up just in time, as always. What he wanted from it, no man can say. Them Chosen are scheming sorts, what ones is left. Us mortals couldn’t guess what they’s thinkin’.’ He paused, nodding knowingly. ‘Storm-tamers, they call ‘em. He spoke the words, and the sky opened. Biggest storm you’ve ever seen. Caught Dekar’s men as they came. Scattered ‘em like wheat in a gale.’
Petr aimed a crooked smile at Carel as he passed, and she lowered her eyes. Cal barely noticed. He no longer heard Godry. The room around him seemed very far away. Was he awake? Or was he dreaming?
‘Northerners took the chance. Fled faster than the wind what chased them. Them that were still on the rock, them what murdered and killed our King?’ Godry went on, shaking his head sadly. ‘Them he called the wind itself for, and carried them away before Dekar could get at them. Aerolf’s brother, among them. King of the North, he goes by now. Couple of other Northmen, too. Stonesplitter cut almost in half by the Bloodless’ blade.’
Albin spat on the floor, and the miners scowled. No right-minded Valian liked this part, magic or not. Cal ground his teeth.
‘That Chosen bastard let the King get his throat slit, then shows up to save his killers.’ Albin cursed.
‘Makers know why. Not been seen since.’ Godry agreed. ‘Back they went, anyway, back to the rest of the savages as they fled like dogs. Storm was so heavy, river banks burst behind them, flooded half the valley.’
Cal’s heart was pounding in his ears, and his skull was ringing. Outside, the wind whined over the thatching, howling at the broken clouds.
‘Don’t matter how many men Dekar had. Or how many Brothers. Ain’t no one swimming in mail.’
Cal forced his eyes shut. Black Ones. A storm. Falling.
‘Cal?’
He opened his eyes, blinking into the firelight, and found Carel looking down at him worriedly.
‘Does it hurt?’ She was asking softly.
‘What… no, I’m fine.’ He told her, blinking again. ‘I need to…’
‘Stay here.’ She told him, lifting up the bloody pail. ‘I need more cloth.’
She turned on her heel and disappeared. Cal’s head spun.
‘… already scared off the new folk with all these tall stories.’ Albin was saying. ‘Storm’s just a storm. Forge boy knows.’
Cal blinked, lurching unsteadily to his feet. Asking questions, the Innkeep had said. His vision blurred unsteadily, and the room stared back at him, wobbling like a top.
‘Cal, you need to sit down.’ Lokk told him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Cal blinked. His eyes stopped spinning, and the ache in his head had vanished. The wind had moved on overhead, and the air was thick with smoke and heat. The little group of patrons were eyeing him curiously. All save the butcher.
‘Listen to him boy, before you hurt yourself.’ Albin sneered back at him.
‘Come on, Cal. Ignore him.’ Lokk murmured in his ear.
Cal swallowed, meeting the swarthy butcher’s eye for a moment. Then he let himself be steered backward, slumping into his seat like an empty sack.
‘Must have lost more blood than I thought.’ Lokk told him, pulling up a chair beside him and tutting. ‘Want to pick a fight with Albin as well as that storm?’
‘What?’ Cal mumbled, blinking. The butcher had gone back to his drink, and the other villagers had gone with him, grumbling amongst themselves about the practicalities of storm-tamers and treacherous, magical old men. He took a breath. ‘I wasn’t. I-’
‘Sure looked like you were. You know Alb. Just his way. Didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘Lokk, when did the new folk leave?’
‘What? Oh… I told you. Right after you turned up. Spooked ‘em good, you did, all bloody like a fresh ham…’
‘Where did they go?’
‘How should I know? Had my hands full peeling you off the floor. Why d’you care, anyway?’
‘Lokk, I need to…’
‘Oh, no you don’t! You aren’t going anywhere. Need to rest.’ His friend told him, pinning him to his chair by his shoulders. ‘Look like you fell down half the Teeth face first.’
‘I…’ Cal began, lowering his voice. His head was clearing, and the room was no longer spinning like a leaf. Beside the fire, the other patrons were still bickering emptily. The storm had passed, and the ache of it was clearing from his battered skull. ‘I didn’t just fall. Something was chasing me.’
‘What are you talking about? You crack your head, too?’
‘Lokk, listen. There were…’
‘Let go!’
They both looked up at the sudden commotion from beside the bar. Carel had just made it out from behind it with a fresh pail of steaming water before Petr had cornered her, bulky shoulders blocking the way forward like a stubborn bullock. He had one meaty hand curled around Carel’s wrist, and she had her eyes fixed on the floor. Cal was on his feet before Lokk could say anything.
‘Let go of her.’
The big youth let go of Carel’s wrist, and the pail fell abruptly back to her side, spilling steaming water across the floor. She looked at it distantly, frowning.
‘Or what, you little shit?’ The butcher’s son grumbled throatily, turning slowly around to facing Cal, glaring down at him with rheumy-eyes. His words had the imprecise edge of drink to them, and his breath smelled of sour ale. ‘Gonna throw yourself down a fucking hill at me?’
‘Just leave her be, Petr.’ Lokk added from Cal’s shoulder.
‘Mind your own business.’ The big youth snorted, still glaring at Cal darkly. ‘Sit down before you hurt yourself, stray.’
He began to turn back to Carel. Lokk put a hand on Cal’s shoulder, and Cal ignored him.
‘Leave her be.’ He said again.
‘Or what?’ Petr snarled back, lurching around again, wiping spittle from the corner of his mouth. ‘Going to bleed on me?’
‘It’s fine, Cal. No harm done.’ Carel said quietly from beside the bar, eyes still on the ground. ‘Sit down, let me finish with your cuts.’
‘You heard her. Be a good little foundling and sit down like she says.’
Cal swallowed. Petr was nearly a head taller than he was, and his arms were thick, corded with miner’s work. But there would be no avoiding it now, and he didn’t have the patience to let it be, that night. The big youth was drunk, and spoiling for a fight. Cal glanced back over his shoulder, but the other patrons were bickering loudly beside the fire, oblivious, or indifferent, or both. The Innkeep was still in the back somewhere, tapping a new barrel. Strike first. Strike hard. Cal shifted his feet slightly, readying himself. His head had cleared, and his pain was far away. The moment of calm was on him. A blink in time. The room faded away, vibrating with stillness. There was only his breath. In, and out. He waited.
‘Nothing to say? Suppose a dead whore can’t teach her cunt son any manners.’
Cal moved quickly, uncoiling like a bowstring. He burst forward off his hind leg, bunching his fist towards Petr’s slab of a jaw. The butcher’s son had no chance to react. How could he? Cal moved with the ease of a seasoned brawler, hard limbs whipping like clubs. Lokk’s arm slipped from his shoulder. He was already halfway across the distance between them before Petr could even blink.
His boot splashed, skidded, slid. The water. Cal blinked, lost balance, and slid wildly into Petr’s chest. His head thudded into the other boy, and he staggered back, confused, dazed. Petr blinked down at him, cogs turning slowly in his ale-slowed mind. Then a broad grin spread across the big youth’s jaw.
‘Should’ve listened, stray.’

First of all, she’s disgusting. Who the fuck eats runny eggs with Samyang noodles that have been boiled with fucking milk and cheese along with an air fried hot dog? Bar S brand at that! The cheapest brand of hot dogs. It’s gross. She eats like an English bulldog that found a McDonald’s burger in the trash. Let’s not forget about the whipped cream on the face at Cheesecake Factory. As a Filipino, we don’t claim her. Especially when she used “Kamayan” as her excuse to eat like Patrick Star. It was blasphemous seeing her eat fried Tilapia. Even worse when she was eating fucking Sinigang (sour soup). Let’s not forget about her worshipping Daddy Trump and saying the N word on Facebook and now wanting to act like she’s a woke anti-racist. I remember how she used to live vicariously through Jeremy and his career in the Army and brag about Tricare and BAH. The first time I saw her videos, I thought she was a snobby little dependa bitch. She probably pulled rank and cussed out the poor commissary cashier. Now she’s over here boo-hooing about Jeremy finding a new girl and about their divorce. Like she didn’t throw her whole life away at 18 and didn’t bother to get an education or have a career. Now that she’s divorced and doesn’t have the kids at the moment, she won’t get off her lazy ass and get a job. Instead she’s showing her chocolate starfish and tuna pussy for money along with fucking guys from Walmart so she’s not lonely. Ang tamad mo,hayop ka. Panget ng mukha mo. Bet she doesn’t even know what that means.

This is something that I never paid attention to until recently and the revelation that these thoughts could be "abnormal" is kinda messing with my mind.
I'm currently in my mid 20s. For as long as I can basically remember I'd have these passing thoughts of "if I could have chosen my AGAB I would have picked a girl"..but like, you can't pick how you're born, right? And I usually went about my day normally after that.
Truth be told, those thoughts were born from multiple different sources. I thought girls had better clothes. I envied their bodies, and was kinda bummed I'd never get breasts or a vagina of my own, or curves like they did. While I didn't explicitly hate my own body in any sense, I never liked how much facial or body hair I got. I didn't like how I smelled. If I could have chosen I would have picked different genitals. I wanted all those things...but I didn't want to be a man with those features (because that would be weird, right?), and I would find myself fantasizing about stuff like that on a weekly(-ish) basis. On a handful of occasions I even got a bit upset over it.
I envied their emotional range. I sometimes found myself wanting to be petite, cute. I figured that "girl's bodies were obviously better, so who wouldn't want to be one?", thinking that this was either a common thought or some sort of enlightened position. I lamented the fact that I'd never get to be a lesbian. Told myself that if I could have been reborn in another life i would have been a girl so I could have been one.
These were all nice thoughts for me. I told myself that at least I didn't have to deal with society's BS expectations, that I could walk alone at night, and that I didn't get periods. That and I could eat more.
Never stopped to consider what that could all mean until recently though. Realizing that transition is something that's actually possible has been an interesting experience, to say the least. I never considered it previously, mostly out of complete obliviousness to the topic of transition. Most of the exposure I got to the topic was the usual mainstream stuff that gets thrown around, and some "boy-to-girl" makeup tutorials I binge-watched for a bit when I was younger.