2021.10.16 01:16 Ddub4 (TW suicide) my friend took his own life and I feel selfish
We had a vigil last night for him and I obviously got really sad and cried but after it was over I couldn’t help but think if I was the one who died I wouldn’t have anywhere near the same treatment and that made me sadder. I kept thinking nobody cares about me. Am I an asshole for thinking like this?
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2021.10.16 01:16 KicktrapAndShit The Animatronic
2021.10.16 01:16 Dangerous_Honeydew55 Barely legal daughter (18)
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2021.10.16 01:16 Doctormeancreations [WTS] Colt firearm anvil
2021.10.16 01:16 inthedarkair Day of the Dead
I've been traveling around South Africa over the past couple of months and I'm currently staying a hostel in Bloemfontein. Since I anticipated I'd be gone for at least 6 months and had to pack light, I didn't bring much entertainment along with me besides my mobile phone. I've been relying on those "take one, give one" bookshelves you find at hostels and small cafés, which is what brings me to posting on here.
At the hostel I'm staying at, I found this unmarked book on their bookshelf which looked more like a journal. When I opened it, the pages were filled with a handwritten story(?) entitled "Day of the Dead." At first, based on how it was written, I thought it must be fictional, but I've checked the names and events described, and they all line up. Maybe it's some sick joke, but something about it feels real.
I've typed out the story below in full. Hopefully someone on here can help me decipher it. On the final page, there's a crudely drawn map, but the Internet is so slow and spotty here I don't think I'll be able to upload a photo of it. Based on a few of the landmarks, the map looks like somewhere in South Africa, which only makes this even weirder.
Does anyone here know about February 30th or the ritual described in the story? Is this a real thing?
Day of the Dead
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to stand back. We can’t let you through. The building’s not secure.”
Our memories thread through time, like a spider web connecting our present to our past. The scent of lavender in your mom’s bathroom. The way the wine glanced off your tongue on that first date. The tinkling sound of his laughter. The smallest things can transport you back in time. Yet, no matter how vivid those memories are, there is no going back. Time’s arrow marches on, as they say.
As I start the ritual, time is on my mind. I only have a few minutes to get it right. If I waver for even a couple of seconds, the timing will be thrown off and it will have all been for nothing.
Did you know that you can find time?
I don’t mean in the metaphorical sense, but in a literal one. During a leap year, we get an extra day at the end of the second month, but what you probably don’t know is that February 30th also exists. You just have to jump through a series of complex hoops in order to reach it. In a way, it’s more like a place than a time.
I have to pour the raven’s blood in a circle around the bouquet of moth orchids I bought from the florist near to where my mom used to live. Each orchid is speckled with a dizzying array of these deep violet dots that radiate from the centre right to the edge of each petal. They’re really quite beautiful. I was surprised by how easy they were to get a hold of. Not like the raven’s blood. Had to chase those little bastards down with a net. They’re smart creatures too. I was sorry to kill them.
You’re probably wondering why anyone would want to “visit” February 30th in the first place. For some, it’s about the money. Provided no one else has done the ritual at the same time as you, no one living should be there, so you could say you’ve got the world to yourself for a whole day. You can break into stores, drag whatever stuff you like back to your house, and you’ll find it there the next day. Zero consequences. That’s not why I’m going.
Right as I’m about to reach the beginning of the circle, I stop pouring and check the clock. It’s 11.59pm. I have to get this right. I pick the small bronze knife up from the floor. It rasps as the tip catches against the wood. The instructions specified it had to be bronze. Thank god I was able to find this online or I would have been screwed. I keep checking the clock, watching the seconds tick down. It’s nearly time.
I’m not the type of person who believes everything they read. Sometimes it’s the circumstances that make you desperate. More receptive to that sort of thing, you know? There’s a good reason why so many vulnerable people fall prey to spiritualists and snake oil salesman. I found the website about 6 months ago. In that haze of grief, I was looking for anything that might numb the pain. I must have browsed through hundreds of websites, but this one stuck out. The entire page was pitch black with white typeface. First, there was an explanation for why people had been drawn to February 30th throughout history. It was kind of funny how grandiose it was. Read like a fairytale. Then there were some “first hand” accounts from people who had been there and come back. At the very bottom was the list of instructions. There were fewer than you might expect. The list was split into two parts: the ritual itself and the rules.
I’m getting ahead of myself.
I push the blade into the palm of my hand. The edge is blunter than a normal knife, so I have to use a lot of pressure before I break the skin. Spots of blood seep out on either side of the blade. I clench my fist and hold it over the unfinished circle, closing it with my blood. I check the clock again. Midnight. I timed it just right.
On February 30th, you can meet the souls of the dead.
The world will be empty of all living people, but you should be able to find anyone you ever knew in life who had passed away. That’s why I’ve slaved for months, trapping ravens, browsing countless shops, watching the clock with bloodshot eyes. All for this moment.
I tap a button on my phone and the screen flashes. I lean over to check the date, my face silhouetted by that blue light.
I’ve done it.
I’m mounting the curb. People screaming in the distance. I’m running towards the crowd. My breathing. I can’t stop. They’re coming out of the building.
I shake my head. It’s not the time to be thinking about that. I have to start looking. There were no instructions on the website for how you might find someone on February 30th. Alongside the steps for the ritual, there was just one rule.
“Don’t eat or drink anything on February 30th.”
The rule came with no explanation behind it. I don’t plan on stopping to eat anyway. Too much to do, not enough time. I’ve created a list of places I knew were important to him. I’m going to work through them one by one.
I grab my handbag, take out my car keys, and make my way out of the house. Without the glow of the streetlamps, the sidewalk is black as pitch, so I run my hand along the fence to steady myself. As I’m driving down the road, the headlights glint off of darkened windows and empty cars. I had prayed for a quiet life, but the silence now is suffocating.
After about fifteen minutes, I drive past the florist. Bouquets rich with pale-faced calla lilies and blushing camellias adorn the front window. It was my mom’s favourite haunt. My brother and I used to joke about how she’d bought the new house with dad simply because it was within walking distance of the place.
A few blocks down, I pull up to the curb and get out of the car. I breathe in deep and a wash of fragrances cascade over me. The gardens, front and back, are still blanketed in flowers, something I was thankful the new owners chose to maintain. The fir-green gate creaks as I push it open and walk up the path to the front door.
I knock three times and wait. I don’t know what I’m expecting to happen but, within a couple of minutes, I hear the click of the latch and the door starts to open.
“Mom,” I say, my eyes welling up.
“Hello sweetheart,” she says, leaning against the doorframe with a smile. “What are you doing out so late? Is something the matter?”
I grasp both her shoulders and pull her into my arms. She hesitates at first, but then wraps her arms around me. Hot tears sting my cheeks and drip onto her wool cardigan, forming dark spots against the cream background. After a few moments, she steps away and ushers me into the house.
“Come inside,” she says. “I’ll make you a hot chocolate.”
With her hand on my back, she leads me into the kitchen and I take a seat the counter. Pots and pans clatter as she rummages around in the cupboards before popping her head up.
“Is Logan okay?” she says. “Has something happened to him?”
The question takes me off-guard. Our eyes lock as I rack my brain for an answer. Should I tell her the truth? Does she even know that she’s…
They’re coming out of the building and I’m checking faces. Face after face after face. None of them are him. Each face, my heart racing, I can’t do this.
“He’s fine,” I say, rapping my fingers against the countertop. “To be honest, I came to check if he was here. We had an argument and he stormed out, but I don’t think he’s gone far.”
“That boy,” my mom says, clicking her teeth, “always wandering off. He’s been like that ever since he could walk. Did I tell you about the time we were at the park down by your Aunt May’s house? I can’t remember the name of it. Anyway, I had my back turned for a minute, just a minute, and he goes and –”
“Follows a bunch of geese,” I say, my smile broadening. “Yeah, you have told me.”
“The police found him sitting in a goose nest,” she says. “Just sitting in that nest, smiling up at me. Thank god he didn’t crush any of their eggs, or there would have been hell to pay.”
She places a pot on the stove and pours in some milk. With a click, the blue flame flickers to life.
“You really don’t need to make me hot chocolate mom,” I say, waving my hand. “I should probably get going soon.”
“Nonsense, you love my hot chocolate,” she says, sifting heaped mounds of cocoa powder into the milk as she speaks. “And, if you don’t have it, I’ll drink it.”
I sit back and soak in those familiar sensations. The scrape of the whisk on the bottom of the pan. The scent of cocoa, cinnamon, and cardamom coating my nostrils. The plop of the marshmallows as they drop in one by one. As she pushes the mug across the countertop, it takes all of the self-control I can muster not to wrap my hands around it and press the warm brim to my lips. She places her elbows on the counter and rests her hands on either side of her own mug, the one with the painting of a stag poised in the centre of a forest. I had always loved that mug.
We chat about Logan, about the past, about those rose-tinted days when we’d wander on forest walks together, when we had all the time in the world. The hot chocolates cool between us. We are interrupted only by creaking on the staircase.
My dad ambles into the kitchen, wrapped in a beige cable-knit sweater my mom made for him years ago. It is frayed at the wrists and peppered by small holes.
“Oh hey there scout,” he says, patting me on the shoulder. “You’re sure here early. You want some breakfast? I could rustle up some eggs.”
“Early?” I say, and it is only then that I catch sight of the rays of sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. “Jesus, what time is it?”
In a frenzy of movement, I leap from my stool, pat my jean pockets, and pull out my phone. It is 6.32am.
“I’m so sorry, I have to go,” I say, grabbing my bag from the countertop and rummaging inside for my keys.
“Want me to make you an egg sandwich for the road?” my dad says, his moustache bristling as he smiles.
“No time, but thanks,” I say, rushing towards the door. As I reach for the doorknob, I stop in my tracks and turn around. I sprint back into the room, wrap my arms around my dad and mom in turn, holding them both close for a brief few moments before shooting out of the house towards my car. If I had stayed for a moment longer, I knew I wouldn’t leave. I wipe the tears from my eyes, turn the ignition, and look at that house for the last time. They’re both in the window waving me off as I leave.
As I’m driving away, I check my list of locations on the passenger seat next to me. Over the next few hours, I work my way through them one by one, starting off with the houses of his close friends. All of them are empty, their inhabitants firmly situated in the land of the living. Each one is like a museum, the walls and floors blanketed in dusty artefacts that offer short snippets into the lives of the occupants. Next, I try some of his favourite places. The cinema. The shopping mall. The bowling alley. Without the crowds, these places have a hollowed out feel that puts me on edge.
He is nowhere to be found.
I keep ticking off location after location until I come to the bottom of the list. The piece of paper shakes in my hand and crumples under the weight of my grip.
I grab the nearest cop and I’m shouting in his face. Where is he? You have to let me inside. He tells me it’s not safe. My heart hurts. Why does it hurt?
I’m driving out of town, my eyes drifting from one object to the next to keep my mind occupied. Anything to distract me from thoughts of that place. It is mid-afternoon now and the sunlight is blinding.
I mount the curb and take a breath. I can’t bring myself to look at that monolith of a building one more time. I swore I’d never come back here.
Is my boy in there?
I can’t stop shaking.
Is my boy still in there?
I step out of the car and onto the pavement. Lifting a hand, I shield my eyes from the light and read the lettering emblazoned across the main door.
“Please no,” I whisper. “Not here. Please, let it not be here.”
It has been months since I last parked on this road, since I last stepped onto this worn pavement, since I last laid eyes on that sign.
Merriwood High School.
He would have graduated this year.
I push open those heavy doors and make my way down the hall until I pass by a classroom and something catches my eye. As I double back and peer through the glass, I see him. There he is, sat at his desk. I walk inside and he looks up at me.
“Mom?” he says. “Where am I? Why am I here?”
I stare at him. I can’t stop staring at him. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just a series of stuttering noises, a staccato of indecision and shock. He stands up and walks towards me. I lift up my hand and cup his cheek.
“Logan?” I say, running the back of my fingers across his skin. “Is it really you?”
“You’re acting weird,” he says, pulling back and laughing. “Are you okay?”
“I am now,” I say, nodding and laughing along with him.
His gaze sweeps across the room before resting on me again.
“Can we go home?” he says.
We walk back to the car together. With each step, I check behind to make sure he is still following me. On the drive back, we sit in silence, with him watching the world pass by from his window and me stealing glances at him. As we drive past the local supermarket, a lightbulb flashes in my head. I pull in to the car park, turn to him, and pluck up the courage to speak.
“What would you like for dinner?” I say. It is the only thing I can think to say at this time. “Anything you like.”
“Anything,” I say, with a firm nod.
“I know it sounds weird,” he says, his teeth bright in the dwindling light as he smiles at me, “but I’ve got this craving for your blueberry pancakes.”
“You mean my famous blueberry pancakes?”
“Yeah,” he says with a short laugh, “those.”
Those empty aisles are a lot less eerie with him around. At first, we are conservative, picking up only the ingredients we need. With a playful smile, he rushes off further into the store and returns with armfuls of snacks. In time, we’re loading our shopping cart with candy bars, bags of chips, and bottles of soda. Bright colours pop and plastic crinkles under the weight.
“How come you weren’t at grampy and grammy’s house?” I say as he tosses still more packets of food into the cart.
He pauses for a moment and hangs his head.
“I guess, I didn’t want them to know,” he says, “about what happened to me.”
My hands start to shake. The blueberries I’m holding rattle against the plastic container.
“So you do know?” I say, placing a hand on his shoulder. “But grampy and grammy, they didn’t seem to know that they were…”
“Some of us know and some of us don’t,” he says. “I think it depends on how you...went.”
At that last part, I wince. My poor beautiful boy. They said you were protecting the younger students.
“I’m hungry,” he says, flashing that smile once again. “Let’s get out of here and get some pancakes.”
I nod and he helps me wheel our cart of swag out of the store. In the end, we only manage to fit about half of it into the car. Within a few minutes, we are back at the house. We drag bag after bag in with us, each one full to bursting. While he is unloading the rest of the food, I lay out the ingredients on the countertop and start mixing the batter. By the time he has brought the last bags inside, the pancakes are ready. I pile them high on his plate. The stack nearly collapses as I place them down on the table.
“There you go,” I say, rustling his hair.
“These look amazing mom. Thanks,” he says, taking his knife and fork up in his hands before hesitating and looking back up at me. “Aren’t you gonna have any?”
“I shouldn’t really,” I say, patting my stomach. “Watching my weight.”
He tucks in with that type of animal hunger that all teenagers seem to have. I want to enjoy the moment, but my curiosity gets the better of me.
“What happens?” I say, a tremor in my voice. “What happens if I eat here?”
“Well, the food here is for people like me, if you get what I mean,” he says, pausing for a moment with the edge of a pancake still hanging precariously from his fork, “so, if you eat it, I guess you’d become like me? I’m not sure though.”
He shrugs and stuffs another forkful of pancakes into his open mouth.
“You mean, I’d get to stay here, with you?” I say. I glance at the clock on the wall. It is 7.46pm. Less than 5 hours until midnight.
“I guess so,” he says, not stopping to look up from his plate this time. It has been nearly wiped clean. Only a few scraps remain.
Without a second thought, I get up, walk into the kitchen, pull open the drawer, and grab a fork. I march back into the room and stab into the remnants of a pancake. I hold it up to my face and examine it.
“Mom,” he says, “are you sure?”
I sit back down and place my free hand on top of his.
“Of course I am,” I say, my eyes stinging as I speak. “You have no idea the lengths I’ve gone to just to be with you again. I’m not leaving you.”
I ram the food into my mouth and chew with such fervour that my jaw hurts by the time I’ve swallowed. A smile breaks across his face, far broader than any I’d seen that day. I squeeze his hand and we share what’s left of the pancakes together. Something scratches at the back of my brain and soon my curiosity overtakes me again.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, the tremor returning to my voice. “What happened that day? The police didn’t tell me all that much about…how it happened.”
He takes in a sharp breath before speaking.
“Well, the guy was going from classroom to classroom. We could all hear the shots, and the people screaming,” he says, his head bowed. “We were hiding under our desks when we heard him come in. I stood up and tried to reason with him and he…”
He lifts his hand to his mouth and chokes up.
“But wait, I don’t understand,” I say. “The police told me that you weren’t in your classroom when it happened. They said you must have moved at some point during the…incident…but they couldn’t piece together your movements. Why were you in that classroom? And what did you say…to the man?”
He shakes his head as though in pain.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I was in the classroom and I was standing up and he shot me. He shot me five times in the chest. I was a brave boy and I was protecting the other students and it got me shot.”
His tone is flat and his eyes, emotionless, are fixed on mine.
“That can’t be right. You can’t have just forgotten it,” I say, my fork hanging limp in my hand. “You only remember what I remember.”
That broad smile cuts across his face again. This time, I see the malice in it.
“You’re not Logan,” I say.
“Eat up,” he says, pushing the plate towards me. “Chew and swallow. Swallow and chew.”
I shoot up from my seat and smack the plate away, sending it crashing to the ground. It shatters on the wood flooring below.
“What is this place?” I say, backing away from him. “What are you?”
“I am you,” he hisses. “I am the guilt you feel over the death of your baby boy. I am the sadness. I am the longing. I am the desperate realisation that you’ll never see him again.”
He is standing now too, mirroring my movements as I edge my way around the table.
“Why are you doing this?” I say, choking back tears.
“Where were you when your little boy needed you?” he says, his eyes lighting up as he speaks. “He was lying on the floor of that classroom, wondering where his mommy was, and you weren’t there. One of those shots hit him in the left lung. He was choking on his own blood. And where were you?”
“Shut up,” I say. “Shut up, right now.”
“You were at the spa with Jennifer,” he says, pointing his finger at me. “The other parents were calling and calling, but you didn’t pick up. You were the last one to arrive at the scene. You abandoned your son.”
“Leave me alone,” I say, clutching my hands over my ears. “Just leave me alone.”
“He’s dead,” the figure cries out, with a voice like my own. “He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead. Oh god, he’s dead.”
I race out of the house but his screams follow me down the road. They echo in my head. They are inescapable. I don’t know where I’m going, but my feet are compelled to run in one direction. I have to keep moving forward.
I stop to catch my breath. As I look back, I see him standing in the road behind me, still grinning. I pull my phone from my pocket and check the time.
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2021.10.16 01:16 grimy_jr Simple and effective and caught in 4k
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2021.10.16 01:16 trailer8k THE ADDAMS FAMILY 2 Official Trailer MGM AI Upscale 8K 60FPS 5.1 Surround
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2021.10.16 01:16 A-Perrin Average is enough and we can be loved
If this post dissapears look for it posted by another profile I may move it to there
I'm about 5 -5.5 BP(depending on the day) myself (4.7 nbp have some weight to lose abt 220lbs rn) and been feeling super shitty lately about size and worrying if I'd get cheated on for a bigger guy
After seeing all the support here and realizing that average is good enough to keep a woman around I feel slightly better
One thing I think about is that if there are still genetics with 5 inch then surely it's good enough
Honestly as long as you can make your girl cum and make her feel loved you should be fine
I'm in a LDR right now so I can't comment on how she feels abt it but we've sexted and she's came to pics of my meat so surely it'll be even better than fingers irl
TLDR average is fine and we are good enough
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2021.10.16 01:16 tomham80 First grow.Day 52 for northern lights x cream. 5 gal pots.FFOF/FFHF mix. FF trio nutes. Sf2000 2x4. Tent. 24/0 lights. Learning soooo much and making several mistakes along the way. I LSTed one, topped one, and let one grow. So far so good.
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2021.10.16 01:16 D-_K Best Place to Buy Shiba?
I bought on crypto.com before. When I sold some, I noticed the price was way lower on the receipt then when I sold it at the time. I felt like I got ripped off.
I am trying to get a 100 mil right now.
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2021.10.16 01:16 DarthLttl Hey y’all, got a bayonet here I’m trying to ID. Just wanna learn more about it (what gun it’s made for, when it was made, stuff like that). Thanks for any help!
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2021.10.16 01:16 Blank0q9 YouGov Surveys En av dom bästa sätten att käna en extra slant som en tonåring
2021.10.16 01:16 OnToNextStage Anyone know how to build Dantarian Premium? I heard he's good but NLK is too stronk
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2021.10.16 01:16 sup_my_dudes_123 here is some thing dumb i made a while ago (sorry if wrong flair)
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2021.10.16 01:16 Vezennik [Ps4] W: Flamberge H: Ringed Knight Straightsword or Spear
2021.10.16 01:16 ayatoJ Great Orb Project when?
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2021.10.16 01:16 Luvbunne Team comp?
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2021.10.16 01:16 qazmlpfghcvb Hair up
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2021.10.16 01:16 dirtyharrison Apple fires Janneke Parrish, one of the leaders of the #AppleToo movement, for deleting files off of her work devices during an internal investigation
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2021.10.16 01:16 ikhsn What would you like Shanks to do that will make you like this??
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2021.10.16 01:16 Bernard_Hunor_Deak Imagine a Cube of Rock… below Glasgow
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2021.10.16 01:16 Traditional-Stick-21 Best d/k/g that appeared in a commemorative pack? (Ad/k/g that appears in a paid banner that costs $3.99 or more)
My simple answer would be the Glinting Glider, for the sake of that owning a top shelf in Tokyo Blur 3T and Choco Island 1T.
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2021.10.16 01:16 dirtyharrison Human rights activist suing Twitter for allegedly giving Saudi spies access to his info
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2021.10.16 01:16 madmat801 In need of a keyboard and mouse that’s compatible with my shield tv (tube version without USB port) please help can’t find any answers as to what will work.
2021.10.16 01:16 ogroofie I’m probably stupid. But how do you change your flair. I’ve looked in rules, I can’t find the information. I know I’ll look so dumb for this but help. I want a funny flair, too