#confrontation

angst & conflict starters: volume i

sentence starters for angst and conflict.
feel free to change the pronouns/tenses/etc. as you like!
content warnings: aggression, conflict, death (mention), swearing, violence

• ❝ here’s an idea: go fuck yourself! ❞
  
• ❝ fuck off already, will you?! ❞
• ❝ stop pretending you give a damn! i know you don’t! ❞
  
• ❝ you never cared, did you? ❞
  
• ❝ why are you such a prick? ❞
  
• ❝ i hate you! i wish we’d never met! ❞
  
• ❝ you son of a bitch! i hope you rot in hell! ❞
  
• ❝ what have you done?! ❞
  
• ❝ how could you?! ❞
  
• ❝ what the hell is wrong with you! ❞
  
• ❝ you’re not my friend, you’re a monster. ❞
  
• ❝ this is all your fault! ❞
  
• ❝ i don’t give a damn. ❞
• ❝ don’t care. i’m not your friend. ❞
• ❝ does it look like i give a shit about your problems? ❞
  
• ❝ oh boo hoo! you and everyone else. ❞
  
• ❝ keep talking like that and i’ll break your jaw. ❞
• ❝ go ahead, hit me! ❞
• ❝ what are you gonna do about it? ❞
• ❝ what are you going to do? kill me? you can try. ❞
• ❝ you want me dead? then kill me. ❞
  
• ❝ i wish you were dead! ❞
• ❝ i should’ve killed you when i had the chance. ❞
• ❝ i ought to drag you out back and shoot you. ❞
• ❝ i’m going to put you down. like the rabid animal you are. ❞

first time meetings & icebreakers: unfriendly version

sentence starters for conflict and unfriendly icebreakers. 
feel free to change the pronouns/tenses/etc. as you like!
content warnings: swearing, aggression, and conflict

• ❝ get lost! ❞
  
• ❝ out of my way! ❞
  
• ❝ watch where you’re going asshole! ❞
  
• ❝ what are you staring at? ❞
  
• ❝ what the fuck are you looking at?! ❞
  
• ❝ got a problem!? ❞
  
• ❝ keep gawking and there’ll be a problem. ❞
  
• ❝ can i helpyou? ❞
  
• ❝ you’ve got one of those damn faces. ❞
• ❝ you’ve got the kind of face i want to punch. ❞
• ❝ you’re an ugly motherfucker aren’t you?! ❞
• ❝ just spit it out, i don’t have time for idiots. ❞
• ❝ just met you and i’m bored already. ❞
  
• ❝ talk fast. you’re already losing my interest. ❞
  
• ❝ yeah i’m [name]what’s it to you? ❞
  
• ❝ yeah i’m [name]. the hell do you want? ❞
  
• ❝ hey fuckface, are you [name]? ❞
  
• ❝ so you’re [name]? you’re an even bigger jackass in person! ❞
  
• ❝you? this has to be a joke! ❞
  
• ❝ oh no.why the hell did they stick me with you?! ❞
  
• ❝ goddamn it, looks like i’m stuck working with you. ❞
  
• ❝ fine, i guess i’ll work with you. just don’t do anything stupid. ❞
  
• ❝ we just met and i’m embarrassed already. ❞
  
• ❝ how do you get through life being such a fucking moron? ❞
  
• ❝ you looking for a fight? ❞

confrontational starters

starter sentences forconfrontation & violence.
feel free to edit tenses, pronouns, etc. as you like!
content warnings: aggression, conflict, swearing, threats of harm/violence. 

• ❝ ask me if i care. ❞
• ❝ why should i care!? ❞
• ❝ would you just shut up?! ❞
  
• ❝ go to hell! ❞
  
• ❝ ask me if i give a fuck! ❞
• ❝ i don’t give a fuck! ❞
• ❝ how about you fuck off? ❞
• ❝ you have to the count of five to run. one…two… four… ❞
  
• ❝ you better run! ❞
  
• ❝ keep running! ❞
• ❝ it’s only a matter of time before i found you. ❞
• ❝ keep running! pray i don’t find you!  ❞
• ❝ you’re dead! ❞
  
• ❝ keep talking and i’ll break your jaw! ❞
• ❝ next time, i won’t miss. ❞
• ❝ i could/should kill you where you stand. ❞
• ❝ i should’ve killed you/them when i had the chance! ❞
• ❝ [name]you’ve failed me/us for the last time. ❞

This story would probably be classified as an everyday micro aggression, but micro aggressions can be huge, blatant, discriminatory and very, very public.

I’m an artist by trade and have been since my late teens (I’m 34 now), I’ve lived in Vancouver since 2007 and I’ve been to the Vancouver Art Gallery more times than I can actually count (also, I have memory problems so that’s probably a major reason). I’ve been physically disabled for years, but due to internalized ableism among many other things I wasn’t able to admit it to myself until I had a stroke in late 2013.

That’s enough backstory. Today. Today, I use a wheelchair. I haven’t been to the Vancouver Art Gallery since I started using a wheelchair (although I have been many times with my walking cane and knew a wheelchair was probably inevitable due to the fact that I suffer from progressive conditions and so I’ve been mentally making notes of their wheelchair accessibility for a long time). I’ve seen several other visibly disabled people visiting the gallery in the past, and a number of wheelchair users. The gallery has fully accessible entrances, shop, floors, lifts - even a street-level dedicated 2 hour disabled spot next to the drop off zone right outside their doors.

There are some things that are less accessible - in order to gain access to the café you have to ask a member of staff to take you to the service elevator and once you get up there you better be ready for a fuss because someone will need to move tables AND chairs around to accommodate your wheelchair. The disabled bathroom (on the ground floor) also requires that you physically go around the corner to the security office and ask them to open the door for you (it is automatic - YAY - but locked). Some art plinths are too high to really see what’s on them from a wheelchair.

Still, it’s a ‘very old’ building (for Vancouver, mind) - it used to be the courthouse and the main building was completed in 1905. This was obviously long before it was believed disabled people should ever be seen outside of institutions, so they’re doing very well considering we also have no Canadians with Disabilities Act.

I’ve made mental notes of all of these things, so I thought I was well prepared to zip along in my tiny manual wheelchair and enjoy some fine art.

First of all, let me tell you. I’ve been used to having art gallery security follow my every move with their sharp little eyes and turny little heads, having walked around with a mobile phone in my hand or my camera around my neck; clearly worried I’m going to break that archaic rule of no photographs in some exhibitions. Today, both of those things were tucked away. From the moment I wheeled past the (very friendly) doorman into the galleries the security staff’s eyes were on me. They followed my every move, even stood watching me while I sat still and read some of the large texts on the walls. Obviously they were terrified I was suddenly going to lose control of my little manual wheelchair and go zooming around crashing into rare paintings sculptures all willy-nilly.

“Whatever” I thought “I’m used to this attention”. (I’ve somehow always made security staff suspicious of me - whether in an art gallery or simply at the drug store, it’s the same story; followed everywhere). I have to laugh because at this point I probably sound a wee bit paranoid, but believe me. This is my life.

Having consumed and enjoyed many classic Canadian paintings I make my way to the lifts up to the second floor to see Korean artist, Lee Bul’s exhibit. I am most excited about this, having seen some of her drawings and models online before. A giant room of her drawings spin around me, I take them in with glee, thoroughly enjoying them, and zip round the corner into the room with her latest work; large interactive sculptures made of mirrored shards and a mirrored floor. Several of these sculptures you pass through and experience the shapes and reflections, giving the viewer a chance to gain their own highly personalized experience of the piece. I patiently wait my turn by the first sculpture as I’m excited that it is clearly more than large enough for me and my tiny wheelchair. (I’m very petite and so a manual wheelchair fitted to dimensions I need is luckily very compact - I take up little more room than a person sitting in a compact office chair).

The sculpture clears of the couple of people in front of me (I’d rather wait a turn than cram in there with them, and thus just see my own reflections and in turn ‘reflect’ on my solitary existence and narcissism!). I take a couple of photos (photos are allowed on this floor, as they often are with these kinds of artists and exhibits - the large room has four large sculptures and is filled with people taking selfies).

Suddenly, out of nowhere a member of the security staff has appeared in front of me, bending down with hands on knees (wheelchair using friends, you know the shudderingly condescending stance I refer to; as if I were a small child that needs to learn a lesson). I sweat a little, as is my usual response to the sudden appearance of security staff. I’m fully expecting a ‘no photos please’, even though I know that photos are allowed - I always check.
But what comes out of her mouth is this, “Wheelchairs can’t come through here.” No politeness, no niceties, no pleases, no addressing me as a person. I am object. She says it very loudly, likely because I’m obviously physically disabled and either I won’t understand her or I won’t hear her - maybe both!

I am so utterly stunned I just say “WOW OKAY”, turn myself around so that I’m facing away from her and wheel myself out; past the crowd of people that were behind me waiting for their turn. I wheel around the sculpture (which I will note had no more room than inside the sculpture), proclaim loudly to my significant other (‘M’) “Apparently I’m not allowed through there.”, in my best (but shaky) Cross British Voice. He just asks “What? Why?”, so I point over my shoulder and state “SHE SAYS SO”.

At this moment the utter humiliation of the situation sets in completely and I have no choice but to wheel myself away as fast as I can into a corner, behind all of the sculptures and hide. I have no idea if I want to burst into Loud Ugly Tears or spontaneously combust with the very rage of the entire thing. I should state here that I have a number of social and sensory processing issues that all feed into some terrible anxieties; the worst of which is probably Confrontation with Strangers. As a disabled person I’m faced with this reality almost every time I leave my house, even if it’s imperceptible to others.

I stare at the sculpture that’s in front of me with its flashing lights and its surreally appropriate words and blink back hot tears. I grip so tightly on the grip bars of my wheels that I dislocate a knuckle. The bile that regularly burns my stomach and esophagus has turned itself up to 11 and I just want to pop out of existence with a little ‘pffft’ and cartoon dashes in my absence. I wait what seems an impossibly long time, watching the sign on this sculpture flash on and off, off and on. I can’t get any coherent words to line up with my Secondary Voice in my head, just the pictures that my thoughts often exist in are left behind, reeling and spinning and floating around. I’m dizzier than usual. I am outraged, I am deeply hurt, I am horrifically humiliated. I am a young disabled person who appears even younger than she actually is. I wear Doc Martens, biker jeans and have tattoos and extremely short hair. Who the fuck cares.

I stare at every single interactive sculpture in this giant cave of a room, I look down at the mirrored floor, scratched from thousands of feet marks, and hopefully a few wheel marks too. I see my wavy, wobbly, swaying face. I mouth the words ‘None of this is for me.”

M finally rounds the corner of the big, black mountain of an interactive sculpture I chose to hide behind. He tells me he’s spoken to the security manager, because the lady who told me I couldn’t wheel through the sculpture didn’t know anything about official policy. The manager has gone away to check whether this is ‘in writing’ or not, but he generally thinks it’s probably a ‘common sense’ rule. I ramble, perhaps incoherently about why this is such an outrage and why it was handled in exactly the wrong way, and why I just wanted the proverbial ground to swallow me until the manager returns to the floor.

The manager was good. Clearly all about customer service and smoothing things over. He introduces himself, states that no, this isn’t a written policy and that the security staff clearly have a difficult job of making sure everyone enjoys the art safely and respectfully and that yes this clearly wasn’t handled in the best way. Miraculously (I don’t know how) I take a deep breath, pull myself together, and words start eloquently flowing from my mouth of their own accord. “Yes”, I say, “but I just want you to know that the way I was spoken to today was rude and utterly humiliating. It is absolutely discrimination.” He agrees, apologizes and says that yes, he took a look at all of the interactive sculptures and he agrees, I would have no problem fitting in any of them and I should feel free to enjoy them as anyone else. M tells him how he hopes he can spread the word and educate his staff on how to handle this situation in the future and again, somehow eloquently my mouth opens and I state “My wheelchair is a part of my body, I know its boundaries just as anyone does, and have control over it just as much as any other person in here”. He didn’t once crouch down to talk to me, didn’t once raise his voice, he shook my hand, he spoke directly to me, made promises and apologized. We will still be writing in to follow up.

Was the situation rectified before I left? Mostly, yes. Was the security manager good at his job and the ultimate smooth talker? Absolutely. Did he understand how to address a disabled person and speak to them as he would anyone else. Definitely.

I have a number of other things I need to have you listen to before I stick these aching, swollen fingers into a heat pack and give them a rest.

1. This should never have happened. First off, there was so much room for me in there, remember that I was able to turn myself around, with ease, and leave. Yes yes, I understand that I could have crashed and damaged the art. I am not ignorant (something the security staffer clearly assumed I was). But here’s the thing, so could have any ambulatory person that walked through there. Anyone could trip, stumble, turn around too fast, be too wrapped up in taking selfies with friends, run through in a wild manner - I could go on. Me using a wheelchair does not make me any more likely to damage the art than any of the other hundreds of people that will go through it while it’s on display. This is a risk that both the artist and gallery take into consideration when creating an interactive sculpture. Had I in fact been too large to fit through there (as could have any ambulatory person), she could have easily said, in a quiet professional and friendly tone, something along the lines of “I don’t think you’ll fit through this next bit, would you like me to guide you out of here?” Yes these people have pretty crappy jobs of telling people NO all day, but I wasn’t breaking any rules or doing anything other than using wheels to move around instead of legs.
2.  So, I wasn’t actually able to go back and enjoy the sculptures I’d been kicked out of. How could I? That experience was thoroughly ruined. I was still reeling from the whole thing, hot coals burning in my guts, tears burning in my eyes and the memory of how the group of people behind me backed away and averted their eyes as I stalked out of there (yes you can stalk in a wheelchair, believe me). I am very awful at shrugging things off and moving on. Really it’s one of the biggest things I struggle with mentally, but I am trying my absolute hardest to practice this whenever I can. Today, I actually did manage it to some degree. I turned my back on the shiny interactive sculptures, and slowly and deeply took in Lee Bul’s smaller, darker, intenser models. I am a dark intense person anyway, so this probably suited me. I sought out the quiet corners of the gallery and revelled in the distant sounds, the beautiful art that nourishes my brain meat and tried my damnedest to reset my sensory systems so that I could continue on and enjoy my day without even a meltdown.

Here’s the crux though. Why, above anything else these things shouldn’t happen. I will never be able to go back to the Vancouver Art Gallery, or any art gallery, for that matter, without this incident burned into my highly detailed visual memory. Every time I visit a gallery this will be on my mind: Am I allowed to be here? Is this art for me?

I am a person. Disabled people are people. I am an adult; disabled adults are still adults. Talk to me like a person and an adult. Include me in your decision over whether my body and my mobility aids are suitable for something. Stop watching me like a hawk while neglecting to watch other patrons. Do not exclude me because you think you know better about my ability to control myself or my mobility aids than I do.

Have some bloody compassion. Disabled people are people.

All aggressions are harm. Many actions have lasting consequences long past your part in it.

They can Bickering all The Time, but They Truly Believe in the Power and Potentiality of Each Other.

If this isn’t True Friendship I don’t know what it is :,)

Prompts: Discovery, Confrontation, Mental Health

Note: I don’t know why this was so hard to write but it was. It was meant to be just a simple comfort fic, starting from the second scene. Then I thought hmn maybe I should start with a bit of context and it just went haywire from there. I don’t even know if this can count as comfort. 

Trigger warning: Graphic suicide attempt in the first scene. 

Luigi slammed the door shut. Fuck. What did he do? What the fuck did he do? He poured himself a glass of whisky and slammed it down. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck did he do!? He shot down another glass desperate to get the screaming out of his head. “Shut up! Just shut up! Shut the fuck up!!!”

He slid to the ground. Why wouldn’t that bastard just stop screaming? He slammed his hand against his head. Just get out of his head. Just get the fuck out. Just fucking stop.

He took a swig from the bottle. He could still see his brother writhing and screaming on the ground. His hands were covering his face; he couldn’t see what he had done. But the smell. The smell of burning flesh. He took another swig. Just get out of his head. Just get out.

Tears streamed down his face. Fuck. He scrubbed his eyes desperately. He wasn’t a fucking pussy. He wasn’t…

What had he done? What the fuck had he done? Why had he let his anger take over like that? Why?

He dropped his head in his hands.

He didn’t even remember picking up the beaker. He didn’t even remember throwing it. He just remembered seeing rage. He just remembered an anger he couldn’t control and…

And then the screaming started.

The fucking screaming that just refuses to stop. Just stop screaming. Just fucking stop screaming.

“Luigi, what did you do? What did you do to your brother!?”

He didn’t know. He didn’t know what he did. He hadn’t meant…it wasn’t supposed to… He was just angry.

“The burns are extensive, Mr Largo. I don’t know if…”

No. Don’t fucking say it. Pavi was going to be fine. He had to be fine. Luigi couldn’t have killed his brother. He couldn’t have…

Why was he so angry? He couldn’t even remember what his brother said that pissed him off so badly. He couldn’t remember what his brother had done to deserve…

He didn’t deserve that. No one deserved that. What had Luigi done? What the fuck did he do to his brother?

Stop fucking screaming.

He couldn’t even call for help. He just stood there staring. He just stood there watching his brother scream and convulse and…

“Stop fucking screaming!!!”

He clutched his head in his hands. He couldn’t even justify what he’s done. He couldn’t even… He hurt his brother. He hurt his brother. He maimed him so badly that…

Luigi couldn’t breathe. The guilt tightened in his chest. What had he… He clenched his eyes shut. It still didn’t remove the image of his brother writhing on the ground. What had he done?

He couldn’t take it anymore. The guilt in his chest; the screaming. He needed it to stop. He wanted it to stop.

He numbly walked into the bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet and took the sleeping pills. He closed the door and stared straight into his face.

Bastard. That was the bastard who dared hurt his brother. He hurt his brother.

He slammed his fist into the mirror cracking it.

He dared touch his brother. He was supposed to protect his brother and…

Smash! Glass went everywhere. His knuckles were bleeding but he didn’t care.

He hurt his brother. He hurt his brother. There was no forgiving that. He did not deserve forgiveness. He did not deserve anything. He hurt his brother.

He picked up a glass shard and placed it on his wrist. He watched the tip draw blood. He dug the shard deep into his skin and pulled it down. He watched the blood pour from the wound. This was what he deserved. He placed the shard on the other side of his wrist where he knew where his artery was. He dug the shard in his skin.

There was a sharp knock at the door. “Luigi?”

Fuck. “What the fuck do you want, Carmela?”

“I…I’m scared. I… I heard the Genterns talking. They said something happened to Pavi. They said they don’t know if he’s going to die.”

Luigi shut his eyes. He dug the shard deeper.

“Please Luigi. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m scared. Please.”

Just get the fuck out of here and let him finish. Just let him…

He heard sobs through the door.

Fuck. Luigi closed his eyes and pulled the shard out of his wrist. He pressed down as blood gushed from the wound. “Give me a minute, Carmela. I’m taking a shower.” Luigi turned on the shower and headed back to the medicine cabinet. He wrapped his wrists tightly with bandages. It soaked through. He haphazardly wrapped another layer around his wrist. He looked at the glass on the ground and he couldn’t bring himself to clean it up.

He turned off the shower and sighed. He pulled down his sleeve to ensure the bandages were hidden. He left the bathroom. Carmela was sitting on the bed. “Don’t go in there. There’s glass everywhere.”

“Brother…is…is Pavi going to be ok?”

“I don’t know.” He slumped onto the bed next to her.

“Do you know what happened?”

Luigi closed his eyes. He saw himself splashing the contents of the beaker on his brother. “No.”

“Is Pavi going to die?”

“I don’t fucking know, Carmela!”

She looked down, admonished.

Fuck. “Car-”

“I’m scared.”

“I know. I’m scared too.”

Cautiously, Carmela placed her head on his lap. “He can’t die.”

Guilt clenched his throat shut. Pavi writhing on the ground.

Carmela started sobbing quietly.

He placed a hand on her head. “He’s going to be fine, Carmela. Everything’s going to be fine.” But it wasn’t, was it? Even if Pavi survived… If he survived. Fuck. He hurt his brother so badly he didn’t know if he’d survive. What had he done? What the fuck had he done? A fresh wave of tears burned his eyes. What the fuck had he done?

He felt arms circle his waist.

What the fuck was she comforting him for? He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve shit. He hurt his brother. He maimed his brother. He killed his brother. He killed his brother. He killed his brother.

***

Pavi headed to Luigi’s office once more. He was sick of this. How many times had he done this this month alone? If his brother refused to care for himself, then Pavi was done. He was so done. He wasn’t his brother’s nursemaid, reminding him to eat or sleep time and time again. He was exhausted.

Pavi entered Luigi’s office and sighed. His brother was asleep at his desk once more. His jacket draped over the seat of his chair, his left hand outstretched on the desk, with his head lying on it. Pavi just sighed once more and picked up his brother’s jacket and laid it on his brother.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Paviche. I’m sorry.”

Pavi could only watch his brother whimper in his sleep. He felt a twinge of guilt at his annoyance. He raised his hand to wake his brother when something caught his eye. He headed back to the front of Luigi’s desk and stared at the outstretched hand. The sleeve had been pulled up slightly. Pavi’s eyes darted to his brother. He was still asleep. Pavi unbuttoned the sleeve and pushed it back.

Angry red scars decorated his brother’s forearm. The ages of the scars varied but there were a few that were new; too new. But the scar that caught his eye was a well healed scar that ran down his forearm; too long and too deep.

Luigi stirred.

Pavi pulled back. He headed to the alcohol cabinet and poured himself a glass.

“Pavi, what are you-” Luigi cut himself off as he stared at his exposed wrist. He fell silent. He pulled down his sleeve and buttoned it.

“I would ask-a you how-a long but some of-a those are years old; even before papa…”

“Mind your own fucking business.”

“I don’t-a understand.”

“What’s there to fucking understand?”

“Why?”

“Why.” Luigi scoffed. “Just forget you saw it.”

“Fratello.”

“What?”

“I’m-a trying to understand. Help-a me to understand.”

“What’s there to fucking understand?”

“What is-a it? Punishment? To feel-a something? Help-a me understand, fratello.” So, he would know what to do next; how to help.

“Just forget about it, Paviche.”

“No. I will-a not just-a forget about it.” Pavi spat. “I will-a not let this go. If-a you don’t-a tell me tonight, I will-a not stop hounding you about this until you tell me.”

“I get angry. And it’s there and it burns. And I can’t fucking control it. And normally I can just let it out; kill whoever pissed me off but-” Luigi fell silent.

“But what, fratello?”

“If it’s you two, if you piss me off. I have to get it out. I have to get it out before I react. Because we both know what happens if I don’t.”

Pavi looked away.

“That’s it. There’s no big revelation. No new hole you need to fix. I just needed an outlet, that’s all.”

“And-a what about the other one? The long scar that-a runs down your arm.”

Luigi was silent.

“How old is-a that?”

Luigi refused to answer him.

“I thought-a this was new. I thought-a this was because of-a papa.”

“Pops was just the last straw.”

“Tell me how I can-a help, fratello.”

“You can’t help. I don’tneed your help.”

“You can’t-a save someone who doesn’t-a want to be saved.” Pavi spat.

“Good. So we’re both in agreement then.” Luigi stood and put his jacket back on.

“Fratello, please.”

“Please what?” Luigi just stared down at him. “I don’t need you chasing me around all the fucking time making sure I eat. I don’t need you making sure I sleep. And I damn fucking sure don’t need you there making sure I don’t fucking off myself.”

Pavi closed his eyes.

“I don’t need a babysitter. You’re not my fucking savior.”

“I’m-a just trying to help, fratello.”

Luigi slammed his hand on the table. “I’m not your fucking pet project to use to distract yourself from pops.”

“That’s-a not fair.”

“Isn’t it? Then what do you call running around trying to deal with everyone’s feelings? You’re doing the same thing to Carmela even if she’s too dumb to see it. You’d rather manage everyone else’s feelings than deal with your own.”

“That’s-a not true.”

“Have you cried since pops died?”

Pavi was silent.

“And don’t give me bullshit about not caring for him or hating him for what happened at the opera. You are the only one in this house that fucking defends him. So if he’s so great, then why the fuck haven’t you cried? Why the fuck haven’t you grieved him? Don’t come here and give me bullshit about dealing when you haven’t fucking dealt with it either.” Luigi headed to the door. “I’m going to bed.”

“I’m-a just trying to help, fratello. Why do you always-a do this?”

“Because it’s not going to work. You can’t fucking save me. And you’re going to tell yourself you failed and blame yourself. But it isn’t your fucking job. You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.”

“Fratello!”

Luigi ignored him and left.

***

Pavi watched his brother stare out at the city, drink in hand. He sat in a chair.

“I’m guessing you heard nothing I said yesterday.”

Pavi sighed and sipped his drink. “You’re right, fratello. I’m-a not dealing with-a papa.” He took another sip. “It’s-a not like I jumped to acceptance; it’s-a not like I’m in denial. I just… I’m-a not even numb. I just… don’t-a grieve papa. It’s-a not like I hate him or I don’t-a love him. I just… don’t-a grieve him. Does-a that make me a creature, fratello?”

“Pavi, that doesn’t-”

“Make sense? I know.” Pavi just stared forward. “I keep-a telling myself it’s-a because I don’t-a believe what he said at the opera. That he was-a just sick, upset, dealing with dying; and-a he hadn’t really meant what he said. You and sorella were most affected by what-a he said at the opera; so because I don’t-a believe it; I’m ok. I’m-a coping.”

“That’s not…I mean…”

“I know.” Pavi looked at the ground. “I don’t-a know if it’s because I’m-a heartless or if I’m-a really so self centred. I… I do miss-a him. And I do love him. I just-a don’t… I wanted to cry at the funeral. Or at least, I felt like I should cry. Not-a for the cameras. It felt-a like the right thing to do but… Am I broken, fratello?”

He heard Luigi sit opposite him. “No, Paviche.”

“I see the way you and Carmela grieve him and I don’t-a understand why I don’t feel like that. And it’s-a not like I can’t-a feel. I remember what-a mama’s death felt like. But why don’t-a I feel…”

“I can’t answer you, Paviche.”

“You’re no help.” Pavi joked, trying to lighten the mood.

“I know.” Luigi replied all too seriously.

Pavi sighed. “Maybe I’ve just-a gotten used to losing people. If-a you jump, fratello, do you think there’s a chance I won’t-a feel it?” Tears pricked at the back of his eyes. This; this he could feel. But losing papa… he couldn’t even shed a single tear.

Luigi sighed. “Pavi, you can’t-”

“I know. But I have to try.”

“It’s going to destroy you when you fail.” When, not if.

“Then-a fight, fratello. Fight against-”

“It’s not that fucking simple.” Luigi stood and headed back to the edge, staring out over the city; keeping his back towards him.

“Then tell-a me, fratello. Talk-a to me.”

Luigi was silent. Pavi just watched him stare over the city. Finally, the quiet voice came. “I look forward and I don’t see anything. I don’t see a future. I don’t see a reason. I just see darkness. There is nothing to go on for.”

Something ugly filled Pavi’s gut. “Am I and sorella not-a enough, fratello?”

“You’re just reminders.”

“Reminders of-a what?”

“That everyone would be better off without me. That if I was never born; you would be…happier.”

Pavi got to his feet. “That isn’t-a true, fratello.” Pavi moved towards his brother, “That-”

“Just stay back.” Luigi’s back was towards him. He caught sight of the exposed forearm and fresh blood that flowed down his wrist.

“That isn’t-a true, fratello.”

“Just imagine it, Pavi. I died as a baby as I was supposed to. Rotti meets Isabella and they have you. And you’re not neglected. You’re happy and you get all the love and attention you deserve. And Isabella never gets that face transplant.”

Something twisted in Pavi’s gut.

“Because she didn’t need to worry she was losing pops. She didn’t need it. And you grow up with your mother happy.”

“And-a what about sorella?”

“Maybe Isabella has a second child. Maybe she does eventually need a transplant. And pops meets Irene and they have Carmela. But its different this time. Pops is there. He doesn’t let Irene bully you. He doesn’t let Irene destroy Carmela’s self-image. And you’re happy. You’re all happy.”

Pavi scoffed. “Are you listening to yourself, fratello? It’s-a like you think papa would have magically changed if-a you were not here.”

“He was busy with GeneCo; with-”

“Si. He was-a always busy with-a GeneCo. Even after your transplant. Papa had-a no reason to neglect us after but he still did. Si, papa was-a busy with-a GeneCo and I couldn’t-a fault him for it. But the times he was-a home, he could have paid-a more attention; he could have spent time with-a us. He didn’t have to blame mama for something out of-a her control.”

“I had an arrest, Pavi.”

“That wasn’t-a anyone’s fault. But papa chose to blame mama. That was-a why she had the surgery.”

“And if it wasn’t because of me-”

“Papachose to blame mama. And then-a when he married Mama Irene, he should-a have seen the kind of person she was. He could-a have stopped the bullying at-a any time. He could-a have told her off for-a the way she talked to Carmela. You seem-a to think that-a life would be better without you but it’s still-a papa’s choices. Not-a yours.”

“And what about your face?”

Pavi fell silent.

“I told you, Paviche. You would be better off.”

Pavi stayed silent. “And-a if you killed yourself, what-a would that change? Would that magically make me better?”

“Maybe.” Luigi was silent. “At least I won’t fuck up again.”

“Fratello…you haven’t-a touched me or Sorella since.”

“So, what? It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make things better. It doesn’t change that I’m still an asshole 95% of the time. It doesn’t change that I still hurt you.”

“Then-a change that, fratello. Leaving doesn’t-a help. Leaving will just make it worse.”

“How?”

Something in Pavi’s chest dropped. “What do you mean-a how?”

“How would leaving make things worse? You would be happier without me.”

“That’s-a not true, fratello, and you know it.”

Luigi was silent.

“You know that right, fratello?”

Luigi refused to say anything.

Pavi approached him slowly. He grabbed his right wrist before he could hurt himself further. He watched fresh angry cuts decorate his brother’s wrist. So much for ‘keeping his temper in control’. “I would-a go through that a 100 times if it meant I would never have to lose you, fratello.” He said quietly.

Luigi pulled his hand back. “Paviche, your savior complex is suffocating. I’m not your fucking project.”

“Fratello, do you think-a I’m doing this to what, feel-a good about myself?”

“Then what?” Luigi hissed. “Why won’t you just leave me to my own shit?”

“Did-a you ever think, fratello, that-a I do this because I’m-a terrified of losing you. Can-a you imagine what it was-a like finding you standing on the ledge, not-a knowing what to do, what to say?”

Luigi sneered. “You should have just pushed me.”

“Fratello!”

“Pavi, please. Just stop this.”

“You won’t-a believe me, will you, fratello? You will-a never believe me no matter what I say.” Pavi headed back to the chair and took a long swig of his drink. “Did I do something to make you think that, fratello? We argued a lot-a sure but…I thought-a it was-a normal. I thought-a we were just annoying each other…I didn’t-a think…”

“It’s not you, Paviche.”

“You just don’t-a believe you deserved to be loved.”

Luigi was silent.

“That’s-a it, isn’t it, fratello? I’ve got it right. I’ve finally gotten it right.”

“You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.”

“Because it’s-a what you think you deserve?”

Luigi didn’t answer him.

“Fratello, I don’t-a know if it helps…but I forgave you a long time ago.”

“Shut it.”

“Fratello.”

“Just fuck off, Pavi.”

“Why?”

“Because its fucking bullshit. If you had done something like that to me, you think I would forgive you?”

“Si, fratello.”

Luigi scoffed.

“Was-a that after what happened?”

Luigi looked down at his wrist and fell silent.

“Did-a you think I would have wanted that?”

“You deserved retribution.”

“I deserved an apology.” Pavi spat.

Luigi fell silent once more.

“Do you know how many times you’ve apologized to me in your sleep, fratello? Why is-a it so fucking hard to say it to my face?”

Luigi still kept his silence.

“Forget it, fratello. I don’t…” His voice cracked. “I don’t-a know how to help you.”

“You can’t. I told you not to put it on yourself.”

“I’m-a really as-a useless as papa says.”

“Paviche, this emotional manipulation isn’t-”

“It’s-a not, fratello. I don’t-a know what to do anymore. I really don’t. I thought this was-a about papa. I thought if-a I just stayed here with you, you would-a get over it eventually. But this is…” His brother was broken beyond what he could repair.

“I told you, you can’t save me.”

Pavi closed his eyes. “Fine, fratello. I won’t-a push you anymore. You do what you want. But don’t you dare use me and sorella as-a your excuse. Don’t-a you dare say you’re doing this for us.”

“You would be better off-”

“No. Don’t. Don’t use me as-a your fucking excuse. Don’t say it’s-a retribution or any shit like that. Whatever you feel for papa, that’s-a what you’d put me and sorella through. Don’t-a fucking kid yourself and say it’s for our benefit.”

“I just don’t want to hurt you two anymore.”

“And-a what do you think-a doing this would do? I’m-a tired of losing people, fratello.”

Luigi was silent once more. He slumped in the chair opposite him.

Pavi stared at his brother’s arm. He stood.

“Where are you going?”

“I thought-a you didn’t want me here, fratello.”

Luigi was silent.

“To get the first aid kit.”

“Leave it, Paviche. I’ll deal with it later.”

“No, you won’t.” Pavi left the roof. He leant against the wall and took a breath. He couldn’t give up. He couldn’t give up on his brother. Even if he failed, at least he tried his best. He had to have tried his best. Pavi pushed himself off the wall and found the first aid kit. He headed back to the roof and found his brother still sitting on the chair, nursing his drink. Pavi sighed and sat back opposite him. It was better than staring off the roof.

“Just leave it, Paviche.”

“After all that-a hard work getting it from inside.” He felt his brother’s eyes on him as he cleaned the cuts that adorned his brother’s wrist. His eyes settled on the long scar running down his brother’s arm.

“I’m sorry.”

Pavi clenched his eyes shut. It was what he wanted all this time. It was what he was waiting for but… It didn’t sound like an apology. It sounded like a ‘goodbye’. “I hate you.”

Luigi stiffened.

“You won’t-a even fight. You’re just giving up.”

Luigi’s hand clenched into a fist. He pulled back his hand.

Pavi couldn’t look at him. He kept his gaze on the bloodstained gauze in his hand. He clenched the gauze in his hand. His hand shook. His eyes burned.

“Paviche…”

He dropped the gauze onto the table. He grabbed his brother’s hand and pulled it roughly towards him. He couldn’t fix his brother. He had to fix what he could. He would fix what he could. Pavi rubbed the antiseptic onto the cuts. He would fix what little he could.

Luigi cursed and tried to pull back his hand.

Pavi refused to let him. “I thought-a you liked the pain, fratello.”

“Paviche, stop.”

He numbly realized he had tears running down his face. He released his brother’s hand. He couldn’t look at his brother.

Luigi’s hand hovered over his shoulder. He pulled his hand back. “Paviche…”

“Please don’t-a leave me, fratello.” His voice was choked and small. He felt a hand at the back of his head. He lent forward and leant his head on his brother’s chest. “I can’t-a lose you.”

“Paviche… I can’t promise anything. I…”

“I just-a need you to try. I just-a need you to not give up.”

Luigi sighed. “Ok, Paviche.”

Pavi closed his eyes and leant into his brother’s embrace. That was all he needed for now.

“Fucking crybaby.”

Pavi just snorted. Just one day at a time. They would take this one day at a time.

The Confrontation - BlueTeller - 백작가의 망나니가 되었다 - 유려한 | Lout of Count’s Family | Trash of the Count’s Family - Yulyeohan [Archive of

Yet another TCF fanfic! This time, it’s a what-if scenario where Choi Han connects the dots about the dagger and confronts Cale about it in chapter 697.

I am warning you Javert