#dsaactivity

Wow, it's been a long while since we've updated but hello! I suppose I should introduce myself, I'm Lady, the newest captain aboard DSA. I'll be answering questions, updating lists, and doing anything else that's needed aside from bios and of course graphics. I know the page has been rather inactive as of late, but this was such an amazing group before our little hiatus, and I hope to get that rolling again. So I will be doing a couple of things to start off with until I can get a hold of the other captains.

First, I'm going to do a bit of spring (or summer) cleaning on the askbox, answering any questions I can.

Secondly, the few questions that I have seen pertain to some of the characters being inactive. However that's absolutely and completely permissible as we captains haven't been exactly active either. So if everyone who would like to keep their character would please send a brief message in (just a simple 'hi' or something like that would be fine) within the next week so you're kept on our roster. Because...

thirdly, I will be reviewing characters who have been inactive for a long period of time and have not sent in their check-in message after this is all done.

Thank you so much everyone and I hope that we can bring this role play back up and running to it's former glory. I know there was a semi-recent re-vamp, so I really hope we can bring back the activity!

Toulouse flipped slowly through his sketchbook, studying each drawing carefully. The subject was the same in all--her brown eyes shone up at him from the page. His finger traced the curve of her charcoal cheek. Maybe, he mused, maybe it was scary to have a writer fall in love with you, but it must be terrifying to have an artist fall in love with you. He turned the page, and smiled. This was his favorite drawing. Alice looked over her shoulder at him, the gentle curve of her spine shading her bare back. She was pulling on side of her dress up her shoulder so he could zip it in place. She had a playful half smile, and a not so innocent twinkle in her eye.

He sharpened his pencil and turned to another blank page. Sketching quickly, but carefully, he smiled as Alice's familiar form began to appear. She stood, hip cocked, her hand resting on it, her ring visible. He knew she would always, and forever, be his favorite subject. He loved her so much that it was never a chore to picture her, and transfer her to paper. Quite the opposite. She was his favorite. He sketched her lines, her messy hair and slim fingers. He soft lips, quirked into an easy smile. Her long legs and her toes. Every part of her that he could, he committed to memory.

This place was hers and hers alone. No one else knew about it, no one else would know about it. This was space for thoughts and sacred prayers, to clear her mind and focus, to give thanks for the blessings of her life and ask help with the troubles. It was the place she went to breathe when things became suffocating, when she wanted to celebrate and give thanks for a happy moment in time, when she needed guidance, when she felt lonely or angry; it brought the comfort of home and the peace of mind she needed.

She found the door and quickly jimmied the lock, pushing it open, closing it behind her and setting her honey on the floor before she pulled out her box of matches from one of her pockets, the hiss of the struck match the only sound in the room. Despite the chill she felt warm and welcome, the only home she had away from home, where she knew every inch of space that was as much a part of her as her own skin. She picked the honey back up, holding it firmly by the body of the jar and moved towards the back, her bare feet not making a sound as she walked. In the small light offered by the match she found in the back corner her altar, getting to her knees on the bare floor.

'We do not take luxuries of comfort.' Her mamou had told her. 'When we pray, we do it propa, on our knees wit' hands folded, child. De merciful Loa see us so honest an' truly offa'ed to dem an' take pity on our pleas. We shame dem when we do not suffa a littal for deir gifts.'

On her knees, she watched the match burn, the beautiful golden glow turning her skin a warmer brown, faintly illuminating her altar until she felt the severe heat on her fingers and then blew it out before picking up another match and striking it.

First, she lit her incense, the sweet heavy smell bringing back endless memories of home and prayers past, of wise words from her grandmother, of gifts bestowed and blessings taken. The smoke purified the air, the energy, and her. All her burdened thoughts and fears drifted away like the curling, white smoke to the ceiling and disappeared without another trace. In this room, in front of her altar, she was safe. She needn't fear judgment; her smallest requests were heard, the smallest of her problems gently considered.

She moved to light her candles, the white candle and then the black candle, one for positive energy the other for negative, a symbol of balance in herself and her surroundings. The world couldn't function without a positive and negative, too much positive meant a rose colored world and a too much negative meant a drowning sorrow. Without the negative, people could never appreciate their happiness. Without the positive, people could never grieve.

She shook the flame away and sat on her ankles, smiling as the flames flickered their greetings in the hollowed cusps of the candle, the light falling on the light blue of the cotton that covered the small wooden table that everything was placed on. The flames left streaks of light across her mama and mamou's pictures and as always she felt the twist in her heart. She pressed a kiss to two fingers and gently touched her mama's frame and repeated the same action for her mamou, the replacement ritual she had come to do instead of kissing their cheeks before leaving for school or for groceries or before bed. No more teaching, no more stories, no more physical bodies she could run to when she needed to cry or share her joy. There was no one to turn to when she felt so lonely the ache in her heart was unbearable. She had watched them both die; had watched her strong, beautiful mama wither away bit by bit, piece by piece until she was nothing but a shell of a woman. At seven she had to learn her mama wouldn’t be there to teach her to cook, to walk her to school, to hold her up to catch the pretty beads at Mardi Gras, to be there and teach her that the terrifying stain was the sign she was entering woman hood. She wouldn’t dance at any more of the neighborhood parties, wouldn’t fill the house with her voice as she sang while she cleaned and cooked, would never sing Tia to sleep when the nightmares trapped her in darkness. And it had hurt to go through life without her.

But she’d had her mamou and she had taught her everything: How to cook, how to clean, how to dance, how to meditate, how to make every little concoction and salve and poison she knew, taught her how to stand on her own. ‘Jus’ because we might be de only ones standing does not mean we are wrong.’ Her grandmother had loved her and cared for her and kept her safe, giving her continuous support and knowledge. And then came the news she would leave Tia the same way her mother had. And for the second time she watched a woman she had depended on and loved die. It wasn’t a short process, it took a few years to draw out the pain and unfairness, for her skin to become too loose for her body, for her body to fail her, before her mamou couldn’t get out of bed and then finally didn’t open her eyes one morning in the spring.

What Tia had been left with was a house, a shop, and the knowledge left behind by her mother and grandmother.

And bills and debts and emptiness.

She touched the pendant around her neck, passed from her grandmother to her mother and then to Tia. It had been made by her grandfather as a present to her grandmother before she fled the Caribbean, a tiny pendant that when opened played a faint melody. It was meant to be a reminder for her when she missed him and it had come that she had opened it so often the music didn’t play anymore.

But the weight was a constant around Tia's neck, an anchor for her when she felt too tight for her skin or her thoughts were too scattered. And it had become part of the ritual at her altar, her own little touch that let her feel closer to her mama and mamou as she sat on her knees and opened the jar of honey, raising it to the four corners: north, south, east, west and setting it with a gentle sound back on the altar. She reached for the pink candle and slowly let it sink into the golden mass, striking another match to light it, and opened her palms towards the ceiling.

"Odu Legba, Papa Legba, ouvre la porte," she sang. "Vos enfants sont en attente. Papa Legba, ouvre la porte, vos enfants attendent."

She waited a moment, basking in the energy of the room, breathing in and out at a measure pace before took a breath to begin her petition.

"Merciful Erzulie, grant me halp, not for myself but for anotha." Her voice was a whisper in the room, reaching for all corners. "I am in need of ya protection, de strength of ya strongest hand aroun' my littal monsta." She reached into her pocket and pulled out the smallest vial she owned that contained a single hair she had plucked from her shirt earlier. It caught the light of the fire and turned it a brighter shade of red. Taking the hair between her fingers, she continued, "I worry about 'im," she gently held it into the flame of the pink candle and dropped it in the honey when it caught fire. The faint singed smell drifted and melted into the incense where her plea would be carried and delivered. "An' it would bring me a certain peace ta know you watch ova 'im."

She hadn't expected to care for the little beast. And judging by the reactions of others on board, it seemed he had a talent for sneaking in and not letting go when he wanted; though she didn't think he was aware of it. There was an imbalance in him, something she wasn't sure how to go about. A piece of himself lost, perhaps, or an unbearable confusion. Maybe both, maybe neither.  But it made her feel better to think he had protection and guidance when she couldn’t be around for him. Because she loved the little monster as her own; how smart he was, how loyal he was, how sweet he could be. There was a strength about him that a child of fifteen shouldn’t have to know and though she was aware he could handle himself, it put her mind at ease to do this.

She tucked the vial away in her pocket and reached under her altar for the paper and pen she kept stashed under. The paper and pen had been blessed with holy water and purified with the smoke of incense and were used only for prayers. With the most important request done and gone, she could ask for her own personal plea from the Loa she had served since she was five. She flipped the pen between her fingers for a moment in thought, being sure she knew exactly what she wanted to say before she wrote it down. Ink was permanent and a mistake on the paper could mean a mistake in the request. Uncapping the pen and in her best and most patient script, she wrote: I am but a vessel for your work, Mother Erzulie. Show me the way to peace. To the inner strength that carried my mother and grandmother. Show me how to keep strong when there is so much that would break me.

So much had happened in such a short amount of time and she had given thanks every day and every night that she was her mother’s daughter. She hadn’t wanted to be alone in the world, she hadn’t wanted to struggle through bills and payments, she hadn’t wanted to finally get it all right before she was ripped away from the only home she knew by a man she had never met. She hadn’t wanted to be criticized for how she had lived, for how she had been raised, for her dress or her hair or the way she spoke. Not by some man who claimed to be her father but had never even set eyes on her until he had been notified his underage biological daughter was now living on her own. Not by the same man who hadn’t shown an ounce of respect to her mother or grandmother or what they did; what had been in their blood for generations. And then for him to send her off, to wash his hands of her and put her on a ship simply because he couldn’t grasp and understand who she was, onto a ship where she had been mocked and disrespected - but there was the catch. What didn’t kill her just made her stronger. Words couldn’t hurt her and vague threats didn’t scare her. She’d been through enough and had seen enough to know this ship was full of nothing but children. Some broken, some sad, some angry, and some deluded but no one was better than another, no one was worse off. Oh, there were some who thought they were just the cream of the crop, who wanted to be seen as big and bad but it was just… sad. They were lost, they didn’t know who they were, and Tia felt nothing but pity for them.

With the tip of the pen she pricked her finger and smudged the blood right under her words before she picked it up and began folding it away from her: once, twice, three times. She held it by the corner and let it sit in the dark orange of the flame from the pink candle and watched as the flame caught with a small jump and then began to slowly burn and consume the paper.

The fire curled the edges as the ash fell to gently dust the blue cotton, the heat of the fire warming her face and fingers and playing shadows across her features as she watched the entire thing be consumed by light. And when she could no longer bear the heat, she dropped it, watching the last bit singe the blue cloth as the fire burned itself out, a permanent blemish that ticked off her prayer count. Her mother’s and grandmother’s had been filled with them.

“I t’ank you for takin’ de time ta listen to my prayers,” she said, staring into the steady flame. “An’ I know dat whateva you choose ta do for me will be what is needed most.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead, her sternum, the right of her chest and to the left, opening her palms to the ceiling again. “Vous êtes bon d'ouvrir les portes pour mes prières, Papa Legba, et je vous remercie.”

With it all done, she slid her ankles out from underneath her so she sat on the floor in front of her altar, her eyes going back and forth between her mama’s portrait and her mamou’s.

“Tu me manques tous les jours.” She said softly. “Il n'ya pas un jour qui passe sans que je ne pense pas que de vous. Et j'espère ... J'espère que je pourrai vous rendre fier.” Ten years without her hadn’t lessened her love for her mother or the drive to make her proud. A year without her grandmama hadn’t made her forget where they had come from, where they had started. What honesty and hard work meant. What it meant to stay true to her history and not back down from any threat.

“Tu me manques. Je t'aime.” She whispered, pressing a kiss to two fingers and touching them to the portraits again before she leaned forward and blew out the black candle and then the white, dousing her corner in almost darkness. The pink candle and incense would burn until they couldn’t anymore, a small beacon in a dark corner of the ship.

There was an inherently precarious balance on the fine line between good and evil. Some preferred to see in black and white. Break a law, break a rule, break standard and you were shackled in the black. Do everything right and abide by the mandate of authority, be it God, a king, or a president, and you were cast in the trust of the white. Unfortunately there was innate predisposition towards the black, even if one lived under the guise of white. Corruption was inevitable to gods and kings alike, and they all fell from the purity they'd sworn by when their crown was first set upon their brow. Sometimes it visible. Sometimes it slid past the implicit trust the subjects had in their ruler and tainted the rules and laws they made. John had learned not to trust anyone in power.

Bagheera's face was still hot from chewing out some hooligans that he discovered trying to play a prank on a teacher involving soiled food. Ever since the students had come to "his" ship, as he commonly put it, the amount of messes and pranks had more than doubled. If he had his way, he imagined, he'd throw them all into the brig. However, he had recently learned that people don't come in black and white. Even somebody did do something against the rules, it did not mean that they were a bad person. He even learned that breaking the rules himself was a little fun, especially with Jessie. He continued to walk across the ship. He found himself wondering who these kids were and what their story was. He could deduce that they must not be too bright seeing as they just got caught by somebody whose job wasn't even to look out for things like that. They weren't the new three siblings that had been wrecking havoc on their peers lately, they weren't dumb enough to prank a teacher. He pushed the thought aside.Whatever,the thought to himself,they brought it upon themselves, whoever they are.

Bagheera hadn't even realized how far he had walked until he found himself on the sun deck. It was loud and full of people, but that didn't bother him. He liked to accommodate people and he could only do that when there was a full deck. Standing up straight with his hands clasped behind his back, he meandered through the forest of people. He smiled, nodded his head to people that he shared a glance with, and he waved to small children that looked up at his tall figure, all things that the captain had taught him to do to gain a better aura of friendliness. Not wanting to talk to anybody, he avoided any faces he recognized. Bagheera had been feeling down lately, the cause was unknown.

His private and generally judgmental thoughts were suddenly broken by a cry from behind him. He whipped his head around. A young boy, no more than 10 had tripped and was gripping a bleeding knee. Bagheera realized that the boy looked familiar. He knew he had never met him, but there was something about his face that reminded Bagheera of somebody he knew, somebody very important. Bagheera rushed to the little boy and crouched down, placing a napkin on the boy's knee. "Oh dear, are you alright?" He asked him. "Here, hold this down on the cut. It'll make it feel better." Bagheera looked intently into his eyes, looking for a spark that would jog Bagheera's memory. None was found. Before the little kid could answer, a man and his wife were at the boy's side.

"We can take it from here." Said the father's low voice. Noticing how much Bagheera had really done, he grabbed his attention and said, "Really, thank you so much." This time more friendly. Bagheera nodded as to say your welcome, and got out of there as fast as he could. Getting a better look at the father's face helped Bagheera to remember. The boy was a spitting image of himself.

Nothing was right anymore. Memories were blurred together in a drugged and drunken stupor. Nothing affected her anymore. The only thing that made it past the haze was an intense craving. Or perhaps it was a longing. She could not tell her emotions apart anymore. For what, she could not tell. It had inhabited her system ever since she returned to the ship from her visit to her Greek family. Unable to lose the feeling, she buried it beneath a heavy layer of narcotics and alcohol. There were those that would suggest that she talk about her emotions, about what she was feeling, but she could not. No one that she knew would understand. Everyone in the program had their own sob story, but none as full of loss as Meg's. There were those who had lost family, but not in the same way as she had.

Meg had not lost her family in the expected way. Her mother, father, brother, sister in law, and niece were all still alive. All happy in Ohio without her. Not that she missed them. At least, that was what she told herself. In reality, she missed her whole family more than anything. They had kicked her out and abandoned her when she needed them most. That was almost worse than losing them to death. At least with death, she could remember them at their best. With this, she just knew how much she was not wanted by them. It was something that she did not understand at all at the time, and still did not now. How a mother could no longer want her child was such a foreign concept to her. Even though she was not in the child's life, Meg still missed Eros with every fiber of her being.

His name was tattooed onto her stomach. It was an odd place for a tattoo, but most did not question it. The tattoo was a few inches below her ribs. It was where she had first felt Eros kick. No one questioned it because the name itself had another meaning. Long ago, the Greeks had defined love into different categories. Storge, philia, eros, and agape. Storge was love through familiarity. Philia was the love between friends. Eros was love in the sense of being loved or loving someone. And finally, agape was love that was unconditional. As wonderful and beautiful as the last one may have seemed, Meg did not believe in it. She had thought that she loved enough to know that there were conditions to everything. Even, as her life had proved, love to children. So when the nurse had asked her what his name would be, the answer was automatic.

Meg lay back in the hospital bed. She was coated in a layer of sweat and was more tired than she had ever been in her entire life. Her droopy eyes opened with the soft calling of her name. She looked up at the nurse standing beside her and pushed herself up into a sitting position. Ignoring the stabbing pain that she still felt, she stretched out her arms to receive the bundle of blankets that was holding her son. "What's his name?" the nurse asked quietly. 

"Eros," she replied, not even giving it a second thought. She turned her gaze to the beautiful little child and smiled down at him. Her next words were quieter yet, little more than a whisper. "Because even though you were not born of love, you will feel it all of your life. There will never be a day when you are not loved by me. I promise. No matter what you do, I will always love you." Then, gently, she lifted him to her lips and kissed his forehead.

The memory of that day still plagued her. She had already been kicked out of the house at that point, and was forced to go through the ordeal of giving birth on her own. The nurses had been there for her, but that was not enough. She wanted to be with her mother, her sister in law, anyone. There was one point that she would have even settled for the father of her child, as terrible of a person as he was. No one had been there specifically for her, and the knowledge of that was bad enough. On top of that, she had known that she would not get to be with him much longer. The one time that her family had contacted her in the nine months prior to the birth of her son was to tell her that she was getting shipped off to a study abroad program. Knowing that she could not take her newborn son on a ship with her for gods know how long, she was forced to make provisions. 

The only part of her family that was still talking to her were the ones still in Greece. She knew that her Aunt and Uncle were unsuccessfully trying to have children, and hoped that they would take in the baby for as long as she was gone. Thankfully, they had agreed to take custody. Not forever, just for a year. After that, she would have graduated from the program and been able to get a job and home of her own. That was the agreement, and that was what would happen. The knowledge of that was the only thing that had let her leave Greece in the first place. 

Just being in the same country as the child had been hard enough, but leaving was a different story entirely. Every possible moment had been spent with him. The only time that she had left his company by choice was when she had to get the tools she would use to cope with the fact that she would not see him again for possibly another nine months. She almost had to be dragged off of the island and onto the ship to set sail. So ever since they left, she was more irritable than ever. More easily annoyed, more easily angered, and more easily saddened. All negative emotions that had been occupying her thought. To counterbalance this, she had filled herself with drugs and alcohol. 

Anyone who did not know her well might have thought that she was finally beginning to be kind to everyone. That maybe someone had fixed her and made her realize that she was really a nice person underneath all that hate and anger. It's a good thing no one here really knows me, she thought to herself. Meg was lying in her bed, tracing the tattoo on her stomach, and staring at the ceiling, counting tiles as the effects of the brownie started to take. She had been too lazy and tired to take any real drugs, so Meg had settled on one of the special brownies she had made in the kitchens the day before. It was not much of an effect, but it was enough to distract her from the intense longing. Yes, that was what it was. It was a longing for the company of her son.

She had carried him for nine months, loved him with all of her heart, and was not going to be there for anything important in his early life. She would miss his first words, his first steps, his first time with solid food. There were the good things that were missing, but also the bad. That was almost what she missed more. She wanted to be there for his sleepless nights. She wanted to freak out when he had a minor cough. She wanted to have to change her shirt five times a day because of spit up. She wanted all of it. Not one thing came without the other, and she wanted all of it. 

But instead of being with her baby boy, Meg was stuck on this ship with a bunch of teenagers who all thought that their problems were worse than everyone else's. She knew that she was guilty of the same thing, but felt as though she had more of a reason than most to feel that way. As far as she knew, Meg was the only student on board that had ever been forced to give up her child. No one else knew that pain, that hurt. Everyone may have had their own problems, but none were even near the same category as hers. 

Before she had even left her son, she had decided to keep him a secret from the other people in the program. She had a terrible track record for trusting people, and knew that this would be the best thing for him. If no one knew that he existed, no one could use him for leverage. Not even Rixon had known, and she was constantly in contact with him. Granted, it was mostly through video chatting so that she could still sell for him while half way around the world, but people tended to pick up on the fact that someone was slowly growing larger than a planet. Not him, though. And for that, she was extremely grateful. He already used Addy against her, and chances were good that he would get more out of her with Eros anyway. But she did not need to worry about him anymore. She had paid him off a couple of months ago, and was now free from his death grip. The only thing she really had to worry about was how she was going to get her next high. 

Content was an odd sort of feeling.

There hadn't been much in Stitch's life that he could feel content with. Home had always been a disaster but he hadn't realized just how much he had missed out on until he'd been pushed onto this God-forsaken ship and although the ship itself was almost unbearable, the people on board were more than enough to make up for it. People seemed to care about him here. People wanted to be his friends here. He still wasn't entirely sure on why the wanted to or how he should even react to it. He was used to being alone save for the times when Reuben or even Leroy would bug him for his attention. Alone is what he was used to. 

He took his time, surveying the area before he'd set to work. The kitchen seemed to be a place around the ship where he frequented often. Not that it was intentional, it just had the most things to break. Ironically enough it had the most things he needed to make something should he want to. But he didn't feel like making anything like he'd done with Roxanne. Now was just a time for his itch to be scratched. For the sound of shattered glass and splintering wood. The chairs in the dining hall had been easy enough to break apart but the legs were strong enough to hold even as he threw them against the walls and cabinets and things on higher shelves he couldn't reach. 

Before the kitchen he'd visited the bathrooms, smashing mirrors, drawing grafitti, clogging the pipes with toilet paper. After that it had been the dining hall, but after the mess he and Roxanne had made of it a few weeks ago there hadn't been much to smash. At least the last time they'd been in the kitchen they'd been caught long before any real damage could be done. It left him a lot more to work with. Thinking about it now they really should have come back sooner. He'd have shown her how to really trash a place.

Stitch had no idea how Roxanne put up with him. How any of them put up with him, really, but Roxanne was so....Roxanne. There were a ton of other, better, influences on this ship and she snatched the opportunity to follow his. He couldn't help but feel a little pleased with himself at that. He was also grateful for the way she'd managed to completely jump any of his walls and work her way into his inner circle. He didn't know he could make friends other than Lilo. Especially ones like Roxanne. Or Tia. Without Tia, who knows he would have laid there unconcious after Barrel took him down?

He was grateful for everyone who's managed to get to him really. Roxanne, Tia...... Clopin. 

Everytime Stitch let his mind wander it always seemed to turn to Clopin. It always caused him to feel something in his chest he couldn't really peg or describe but it was good. It was different, feeling wanted. Being wanted. There was no telling how the two of them had gone from threats and violence to this but Stitch was....content. Happy. How things were were better than he could have thought they would be.

Another plate broke into two against the wall and clattered against the floor with the remains of all the other dishes he'd tossed against the wall. The room looked like it'd been hit by a hurricane (or this case a little monster). Everything that had been on the countertops, in the cabinets, in the pantry, were now strewn about the floor, some in giant heaps and it would probably take someone a lifetime to clean this up. Oh well, it wasn't his problem. As Stitch pushed himself off the countertop from where he'd perched, the door to the kitchen opened, a staff member staring at the disaster in front of her a moment before she directed her attention towards the only other person in the room. She started towards him but slipped on the tile that he'd previously smeared with butter and landed on her back. He snickered as he jumped over her and out into the hall.

Learning the ship hadn't been a tough thing for him but there were still some areas he hadn't explored. As he ran, turning in random directions and trying to get as far from the kitchen as possible, he realized that this part of the ship he'd found himself in he hadn't been to before. It was a random door he threw open and flung himself into, closing it behind him and resting his back against it. This would be a good place to catch his breath. No one should have followed him. Even if they did it wasn't like they could do anything to him. 

As he rested, he couldn't help but begin to take a sense of his surroundings. The smell of chlorine was nausiating here, and as he moved his feet, he could feel cold water against his skin. He knew which room he'd run into instantly and he didn't want to open his eyes but he did. The glassy surface of the pool stared back at him almost menacingly. While other people would maybe disagree, water was the most viscious thing that Stitch could possibly come into contact with. More than punches, more than Leroy. He felt frozen against the door, as if he feared the water would suddenly escape from the pool and come after him. 

"Stupid." He chided himself. There shouldn't be any reason for him to be afraid of something so trivial. He willed himself away from the door, feet dragging along the wet floor as he approached the pool.  Every part of him was screaming to turn around. Go back out. Never enter that room again. The bottom of the pool looked a million miles down from where he stood. He swallowed hard, his heart ramming inside his chest the unfamiliar sense of fear creeping along his skin and he needed something to support him suddenly. His hand found the metal ladder leading out from the water but slipped off as he leaned and suddenly he was submerged in ice. 

It was as if the world had decided to come to a complete stop. Nothing was moving, not even his heartbeat, and then suddenly he was sinking toward the bottom. He opened his mouth to scream but under the water it was more of a desperate shout. It was as he had felt nine years prior, his six year old self struggling and reaching for the surface as he'd sunk into the pool in their backyard. He'd only had that image of the clouds above him and Leroy's face watching him over the side of the pool, merely sinking to the bottom until he'd run out of air and woken up to his father pushing the water from his lungs after Reuben had alerted him and had jumped in after him.

Thirteen coils. It took thirteen coils to make a proper hangman’s noose. Any less would cause strangulation instead of the breaking of the neck. Clopin had tied the hangman’s knot a few times, making nooses just to scare gadjos. Well, he’d tied it more than a few times. There was something strangely hypnotic about the rope, folding it, looping it, and winding the coils, trying to perfect it. He had not yet perfected it. He was compelled to keep trying, finding the practice a good distraction anyway. You’d think it would be easy, he thought absently as he unwound a coil, drawing it tighter.

He needed the distraction. His stomach was roiling with homesickness, anger, and frustration. 800 Roma had been deported from suburbs near Parisin only two days. Some of them had been raised in France, yet they were being deported back to Romania, a “home” they’d never known. He wondered vaguely if the knew any of them. He’d put his money on yes. That many Roma so close to where he’d lived, it was inevitable he’d have known some. He just hoped none were from his kumpania. He untied the noose he’d just finished, displeased with the knot.

It was sick. His people were being driven out like diseased animals, taken from their home. It was entirely undeserved. France was their home as much as it was the gadjos’. It brought to mind the sound of glass breaking. Screams, yelling, things breaking. It was a smoke-covered memory. He’d been too young to remember anything more than snatches of this night, but his mother had spoken of it before. Gadjos had come, throwing rocks, smoke bombs, and God knows what else, driving them from their caravans in the dead of the night. Men had been waiting for them, grabbing people by their hair, shoving them around, laughing and spewing hatred from underneath their masks amongst the screams. They mimicked the actions of another mass attack on a people, years ago. The screams went unheard this time though. No one came to rescue them. His fingers wound a coil.

His throat felt tight. He couldn’t breathe easily on this ship. Every day it seemed like his chest got tighter, pressing in on his lungs, constricting them and making it harder to draw air. He tried to loosen it, to find a way to breathe, but nothing he tried was helping. The only thing that didn’t pull it tighter was Stitch. He seemed to loosen it, give him the time and ability to breathe easily, to take in air at his leisure. He was afraid that this was only an illusion though; that somehow the rug would be pulled from underneath his feet and Stitch would be gone in a flare of smoke, as if he were never there. He was used to no constants in his life. No matter how hard he clung to something, it always seemed to be taken from him in the end. His family, his home.

He pulled the loop on the opposite end tight, turning the coil over in his hands. It was the tidiest knot he’d tied so far. The coil was tightly wound. It wasn’t sloppy, which was good. A sloppy coil would make immediate death less likely. He slowly ran his fingers over the coil, looking down at the loop. He raised it, unthinkingly moving to pull it over his head, just to see how it fit, he absently told himself. Then the rope brushed his neck and he jerked it off and away from his neck, stumbling over to the window and fumbling with the latch, and opening the window the few inches it would go, and dropping the noose and watching it whip down, out of sight long before it hit the dark waters.