Avalee's Thought Dump

So I was completely done with the outline and filling in the flat colors before I realized Bowser only has three fingers . . .

This is pure self indulgence. I'm not even a little sorry.

I saw that booktok finger under the chin thing and I couldn't help myself.

I'm a subscriber to headcanon that Bowser is 100% a virgin, but dude has got to shoot his shot sometime right?

Bowser is just so big, and so gruff, and corny as all get out. He would definitely put his all into this move, and I would melt into a thick puddle of goo.

Ladies, theybies, and bros, I'm proud to introduce

Vis Major

(™️™️™️)

I'm not going to lie, I just wanted to make a prettier version of All Might, and thus birthed this. He's kinda a vampire. A secret vampire. A secret superhero vampire.

As in, his prey is other super powered people and he sucks the life (and powers) out of them with the same joy and vigor a dehydrated child would use to suck down a pack of icee pops during a fourth of July picnic in the middle of the Walmart black top parking lot in Arizona.

I clearly don't know shit about superheroes. I don't really dabble in the superhero genre, like ever. I'm not a big fan of heavy handed anti heros or overly dark and broody protagonist.

-So that's like half of the fandom. And the other half is marvel, amiright? Heyoo-

(Do Not Come For Me Comic Nerds)

Anyways, there are SO many super hero stories out there. Why bother making one of my own? Especially if I can't come up with something original. Like all the cool unique ideas are already out there. I don't want to regurgitate the same up cycled storylines and trashy tropes that everyone else uses. Right?

Wrongo.

I am a true blue thorough bred trash goblin. I love my tropes and I love my cliches. And by gollie, I'm going dumpster diving, because I got a SUPER soft spot for my boy here and his innocent yet passionate pursuit of justice, do-goodery and his collection of living Capri sun pouches he calls super friends

A is for Angry

“A is for Ava; the only girl he ever loved,” The voice of the pastor was drowned out by the wails of her cries. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She couldn’t hear the rest of his eulogy. Did their pastor make it down to “Z”? She wasn’t sure. Her sorrow was deafening. It stuffed up her ears and her chest and her eyes, like cotton bursting out the seams. This pain wasn’t natural, and it wasn’t supposed to be like this

********

“You really expect me to stand here and tell you i hate you? That’s really what you want me to waste my breath on. right now at this moment?” Ava’s eyes were dark, black, in the low yellow lights. She blinked heavily, squeezing her eyes shut and sighing harshly, “You are the most infuriating man.”

The man in question, her father in law, seemed to stiffen up at her. A broken man clenching at straws and lost in a daze. His eyes swam with tears, his face ruddy and swollen. And there was a tremble in his breaths. Ava didnt give a shit. She didnt’ have the patience anymore, the energy outside of keeping herself standing upright, to coddle him.

“Isn’t today hard enough? But here you are asking me ridiculous shit like this,” Ava rocked back on her heels and dragged her fingers down her face, “I just . . .you know what? No,” ava waved her hands in front of her slapping away her exasperation, “Everyone, literally everyone you know, gives in to the fucking mental gynmastic routine you make up. I’m not doing it. Right now or ever again. So no,” Ava’s black eyes zero in on the man infront of her, locking his watery gaze in, “I’m not going to feed your ego in any sense. You want me to hate you, to give yourself permission to be as miserable as you want and so you can flay yourself not just with your pain, but others pain aswell. And its just like you to be so fucking self involved.”

Ava stepped close, digging her fingers in the loose sleeve of his, “You dont get to have an easy out, like my hatred. None of us get to have it easy,” her eyes didn’t burn and her throught didnt feel tight. A first in the last week when everything around her had been sending her into hysterics, “You get to look me in my God damn face” she points at her self, her eyes black and harsh and still, “And know that I do not blame you. I am angry at everything EXCEPT you.”

Her father-in-law’s jaw wobbled, his eyes pinching shut but saying nothing.

“I feel pity for you, but I’m not going to give you a crutch, or a shovel so you can dig yourself deeper into your own despair. You,” Ava grabbed his hands in hers and tugged his tall looming form down to herself and snarl tugging at her lips, “You dont get to have my hate. Or my rage. Or my pain. Or my despair. You only have yours and you only need yours.”

“I call you dad, because even though you piss me off, you are my family. You’re a dad to me,” Ava watched as his body shook and she inhaled, “Youre my dad and you messed up, but I’m not mad at you. I dont blame you. I don’t hate you. Do not ask me carry something so toxic and so ugly, for your righteous ego. I don’t need that shit.”

******

Ava's hands shook while she held herself up against the kitchen counter. Her legs felt loose in her hips, her bone vibrating with rage, “You don’t understand. Rush isn’t the only one dead. I died too!” She screamed this at her mother. She never screamed.

Yeah, she could get loud, bark at others maybe, but that was rare. This, this was something else. The pain was like a possession. It used her mouth for her.

“You think I can comfort you? Me, the fucking widow. You want me to make you feel better? With what? I’m dead! I don’t want to hear about your hurt too. And how I should be bending over backwards to pander to your owies. My husband is dead. I’m dead. You need to comfort me. You need to think about me. I’m the one who shouldn’t have to be strong. He killed me. He left and he took me with him. Your daughter is dead!”

She shouldn’t be this cruel to her mother. Her mother hadn't meant to push. She just wanted to commiserate and talk about him, but Ava couldn’t do it. She needed her mom to be strong and reliable, not break down on Ava too. But Ava knew better. Her mom wasn’t like that. She didn’t deal with stress well. And she always sought the comfort of her family to keep herself together, but Ava was too angry and hurt herself to be a source of anything good to anyone.

Her mother should have never said anything, “You weren’t the only one that lost him," Her mother should have kept her mouth shut.

“And that’s supposed to matter to me right now?” As if Ava was that selfish. How blind was her mother?

All she thought about was Rush and his parents and his brother. All she thought about was her Father-in-law, holding that gun, her Mother-in-law covered in her son’s blood, her baby brother screaming for help into his phone. They were the victims. They saw it happen. They were dead too, “I’m dead, my life is dead, Rush was my future, and I’m supposed to sit here and think about you too? I’m sorry you lost your son-in-law. I'm sorry I'm pregnant with the gorgeous white grandbabies you wanted. How sad for you. Does that feel better?” Ava didn’t wait for a response.

How could someone be so selfish?

******

Its a choking feeling. It feels like icy cold hands shooting up from your abdomen to your lungs and squeezing out every last drop of oxygen.  It feels hopeless. Like even if you could breathe, you still wouldn’t, because the pain is still too much to bear. 

Its all too much at this point. Its wild and dangerous, and fills your tightening esophagus with liquid panic. 

Did you hear those words correctly? Your ears are buzzing, and you cant breathe, so you might have heard wrong. It’s possible.

“What?” you rasp out past all the spit pooling in your mouth, throat too tight to swallow it all. You might gag if you try. 

“I’m sorry . . . “ someone says. Its just a faceless voice on the other side. They might be standing right in front of you but they aren’t anything you can see. Just a fuzzy anonymous shape of a human. Someone with arms and legs and a head maybe. If they had a face you don’t remember it, “I’m so sorry, we tried everything . . .” the voice continues. 

So you were right you did those words. “I’m so sorry . . .” you repeat, the words feel wrong in your mouth. That’s not your line here. You aren’t supposed to apologize, “He’s . . . what happened?” 

“Please, sit down,” the blurry shape comes near you but you snap away from them. You grab at their hands, yanking their faceless face right up to yours. You see eyes, scared and frantic looking at you but they don’t mean anything.

“What. Happened,” the spit is too much now, your heaving and gagging all over yourself. You breath in deep, trying to stop the gagging, “What!” you scream. Your’e screaming now. You usually don’t even like raising your voice in public; you would hate for others to look at you. To notice your presence, but here you are, screaming in this poor persons face. 

There wasn’t anymore words, just a loud keening shriek over the bustle of the hallway. There’s hands on you now, not hard hands, soft hands on your face and back and arms. You’re on the floor, shaking and heaving and gasping, and screaming.

“Where?” you sob, eyes clothes, hands still on your back trying to lift you up, “Where!?” 

You’re standing now. You’re in a room, its not a normal hospital room, there’s a bed and machines and all that but there’s windows everywhere and people still rushing about, “I’m so sorry . . .” that blank person voice fills your head again and someone has your hands. You look away from the hospital bed and snap your attention to your hands.

It’s your mother-in-law. She’s smaller than you, always has been, but right now she looked down right childlike next to you, “It happened so fast.” her voice sounded so small and so fragile. Cracking and barely above a harsh whisper. You’ve never heard this woman be anything but confident and, if truth be told, domineering. 

So this felt incredibly wrong. 

Her hands pull you to the edge of the bed and you finally see what you were hoping you weren’t going to see, “That’s not Rush,” you say. It’s him though. That’s you’re husband. You’re young beautiful husband. Long honey blond hair, bright hazel eyes, sometimes blue sometimes green, but always hypnotic. And his too big nose that you loved teasing him about.

He had been the envy of your hometown, too pretty for these small town folks. They called him Hollywood and Pretty Boy, and teased him about his hair, his accessories, his tight pants. He was too pretty for their backwoods taste. Definitely too pretty for the only brown girl in town. But that never bothered you two. 

“I’m only marrying you because the white girls just can’t seem to handle all of this,” he had told you one day. You were at the store, trying to find him some pants that would fit the ass that he was currently shaking in your face, “It’s too much for them!”

You were used to this. He was flamboyant and an attention seeker and always causing a scene. Shopping had always made him feel self conscious though and that made him double down on his dramatics. You saw right through his little wiggling dance, “I’m only marrying you, because my rice and beans gave you that ass and I’ll be damned if it goes to waste.” His laugh had startled the people who were around you. 

You were sure they were even more startled when he spun you in his arms and planted a kiss on your mouth with a loud obnoxious SMACK, “Yer damn right, Querida!”

“That’s not him,” You say again, but it still continued to be him. That’s his birthmark under his right eye, and those are his pink lips going pale, and those are his freckles on his cheeks, and his beard, and his mustache he was so damn proud of. But it’s all empty.

He’s empty. 

Because if he was here, if that was Rush, he would be smiling at you with that stupid little smirk of his and asking you “Why the long face BooBoo?” or griping and whining about being in the hospital, complaining about the smell attacking his poor gigantic nose, and throwing the paper cups at his mother’s face because he loved riling her up.

But he isn’t; he’s still. Still as stone. and so very Empty.

When you walked into a room, he was there, smiling softly, arms open, always ready to wrap you up and cover you in kisses. “Querida,” he would say and kiss your knuckles like some old timey romance novel. His eyes always bright and shining, like little suns and if he made you giggle with his theatrics he would blush like a school boy, “Te Amo, Querida.”

Where was Rush, in this body that looked just like him? He wasn’t there. 

“Where are you?” You’re hands are on his face now. Its cold, too cold to be him, “Rush?” He doesn’t answer you though. The hands in your chest are back. Squeezing your lungs and you hear screaming. Sharp and dissonant and far away but still right on top of you.

“Rush?!”

*****************************************************************

I’m not entirely sure what this is going to be in the end. Hysteria is more than just a moment or a snippet. It’s grief. My grief. Even though I’m not at that place i was before, it still feels fresh when i walk back there.