#asher gray

In the same way, a story with no conflict is sweet but not compelling, enjoyable but unsatisfying. There is no impetus for action. There is no drive for better. There is no hope for change because the characters do not want it. We need that pain that is born of conflict, of hatred or loneliness or fear, to propel the story forward because comfort stagnates. It is not sustainable. Who would read 80k words of fluff without a drop of conflict? Perhaps there are people who would like that, but I am not among them.

But the soul cannot live on despair alone. Too much conflict, and the audience grows numb to it. They build a wall around their heart, a thick skin of separation between themselves and the story. They stop rooting for the characters in order to protect themselves, and if it gets that far, then you've lost. You need the audience to stay invested. Some of the worst books I've read were not the ones with barely any plot, but the ones in which I did not care one way or another what happened to the characters. Even if a story has the best concepts, plots, and arcs, none of that matters if the audience doesn't care about it.

"No,you're definitely not chopped liver. I like chopped liver."

here’s a little short horror thing I wrote. I’ll put it under the cut because it’s a bit... Tw for death, suicide, gore. Anyway, hope you like it!

I’m not dead! I’ve been MIA for a while now but I ain’t dead xD and I’m hoping to actually be back for a bit!!! Maybe not every day but more then I have been!

I was tagged by @toboldlywrite (thanks bud!) to do this so here we go. Basically the game is to post the last seven sentences you wrote. I am technically gonna give a whole ten but that's because it's all one paragraph and if you cut the first three sentences of the paragraph out it doesn't make any sense lmao

Anyway, here it is:

There was something alive about a house. Something hot and squishy and raw. It had organs, a nervous system, blood. Perhaps not in the same sense as a person. But a house had a life of its own that continued after its owners died or moved away. That is why empty houses always feel full of ghosts- its living is louder in the absence of others. That is also why a house always feels warmer when it is loved. Loneliness petrifies its soul. A house does not want to be empty; a house wants to love and be loved. In that way, a house is just like a person.

I perch myself on the toilet, birdlike, ready to take off. I’ve already checked for hidden cameras, and I don’t see anything obvious. I know this is a police station, but I can’t be too careful. Men’s eyes are often where they shouldn’t be. The fact that this is a police station doesn’t change that.

I just need to keep going. I’ll bring in a few reporters. Shine their investigative light on Uncle, get revenge on two birds with one stapler. And then? I think I’ll take some time off. The only person I will allow in my presence is my mother. And I’ll finally feel safe.

The silence- the aloneness- brings me some clarity. Takes the edge off. Finally, I can sit still. I don’t have to rush to fix the crime scene or sit, a convincing victim, in an empty, heavily-surveilled room. Because here’s the thing: it doesn’t matter to them whether I’m a victim. If I don’t play the part they expect me to play, if I don’t grieve the way they want me to grieve, they won’t help me.

I am a victim. I need you to believe that. I don’t know why it matters to me but it does. I am a young girl who has been repeatedly preyed upon by adult men who should know better, who should do better. I am a victim to a system that would rather give a rapist a slap on the wrist than give a victim the justice they deserve.

Listen, I know I chose to kill him. I know I could have stopped when he begged for mercy, that he would have been severely injured and probably would have served jail time as well. And maybe that would have been a fair sentence, rather than the capital punishment I dealt him.

But think of it this way: everything I have done was self-defense. I lied about what happened to protect myself from prison, where I'd inevitably be raped again, ironic as it may be. I forged those extra bits of evidence to protect myself from a system that doesn't believe women when they come forward. 

And, really, I kept hitting him with that stapler, even when he was suitably fended off, to protect myself and all the other girls he could have attacked in the future. He wasn't going to get the punishment he deserved from a bunch of cops and government officials who do the same thing to their wives and countless other women. I had to act as the hand of justice because no one else would have.

Honestly, I don't feel bad about it at all.

Fuentes leaves me alone again. I think this is part of their process: making a person sit alone brings them to their worst selves. Even though I’ve always found safety in solitude. This isn’t solitude. Not really.

It's because of the camera in the corner, pointed right at me. If I want to be truly alone- and I do- I need to get out of this room. A bathroom break, anything. I need to not be seen for just a few minutes. So I can pull myself together. Relax for just long enough to reset.

I clear my throat. Glance furtively, like I’m embarrassed to admit to bodily functions, or perhaps to be an imposition to the lovely policemen and women infesting this building.

Don't get me wrong, I understand why there are laws and why they must be enforced. But police do not exist to protect people. They protect the letter of the law, and their own egos. If people were to stop committing crimes, they'd be out of a job. Good people are therefore naturally the police's enemies. That's why they didn't protect me. That's why they never protect the people who need them most.

“Can I use the bathroom?” There is no reply, but the door electronically unlocks, so I’ll take that as a yes.