Idol Prompt 11: Haver
Oct. 2nd, 2024 09:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
inkstainedfingertips“How many times have I told you to stop talking that fucking nonsense?” he roars.
I’m sitting in the middle of the living room floor and flinch as he screams at me. My body reflexively tightens knowing what’s coming next. The kick he delivers to my back sends shockwaves of agony racing through my entire body but I stifle my cry. It drives the breath from my lungs and leaves me seeing stars. Tears well in my eyes and I fight to keep them from falling. He leans down, his face hovering mere inches from mine, a sneer on his lips. His breath washes over my face, warm and stinking of beer and cigarettes.
“Don’t you dare cry, you little shit,” he growls, his voice low and menacing. “Don’t give me another reason to whoop you.”
As if he’s ever needed a reason before. Not wanting another punch of kick though, I run my sleeve over my eyes and let out a long, stuttering breath. He lingers in front of me in silence, practically daring, if not hoping, I give him a reason to wail on me again. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard the taste of blood fills my mouth. It does the trick though. It keeps me from saying or doing anything to provoke him further. It always does.
With a disgusted snort, he turns and storms out of the room, slamming the door so hard behind him, it feels like the house around me is shaking. I look to my mother who is sitting on the couch with a cigarette between her fingers and a look of disinterest on her face.
“Why do you keep speaking that gibberish? You know he doesn’t like it,” she says.
She takes a drag from her cigarette, sending tendrils of smoke curling toward the ceiling, then turns back to the television, laughing along with the canned laugh track.
I’m ten years old.
* * * * *
“You need to do something,” he says. “You need to stand up for yourself.”
I look away, a familiar sense of shame making my cheeks burn. Deep in my heart, I know Tommy’s right. But whenever my dad is raging the fear wraps around me like iron bands that squeeze the air out of me and all I can do is tremble. Any sense of courage or confidence I might have been able to muster melts away like snow in the warm spring sunshine.
“Dude—”
“Tommy, leave me alone,” I say.
“No. Because you can’t let him keep getting away with this.”
I run a hand through my hair and try to ignore him, turning my attention back to the book in my hands. The book flies across the room, hitting the wall with a hard thud then falls to the floor, face down. I turn to Tommy, my eyes burning with rage.
“You just broke the spine of my book,” I snap. “All those pages are going to be dogeared.”
“There. That’s it. There’s the anger I know is in you,” he says excitedly. “You need to grab hold of that feeling you have right now and use it on the old man.”
“I can’t, okay?”
“You can.”
“I can’t! I’m… I’m scared of him.”
Tommy throws his hands up and snorts in disgust, reminding me a little too much of my father in that moment.
“He’s bigger than me. Stronger—”
“Excuses,” he says. “Those are just the excuses of a coward.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
I’ve known Tommy since I was six. I’m an only child, so he’s like my brother. We’re so close though, that we came up with our own language when we were younger. It’s our thing. It’s how we keep other people from understanding what we’re talking about. My dad calls it gibberish and nonsense and always gets irrationally angry when he hears us speaking it. Personally, I think he just uses that as an excuse to wail on me.
Tommy feels sorry for me. He’s always encouraging me to stand up for myself and to do things well outside my comfort zone. To not back down from the bullies and to not take shit from anybody. I know he’s trying to do something good for me. To lift me up and help me learn to become my own person. And sometimes, it works. Sometimes, I get a rush of confidence. Once in a while, I feel strong enough to stand up for myself. But it never lasts.
Most of the time though, his words go in one ear and out the other. It frustrates him to no end and that’s when he tends to get mean. To say cutting and belittling things. And it’s in those times when I feel like he’s not much different than my dad. He’s always quick to apologize, of course, but his words sting even worse than my dad’s because I feel like he should know better than to treat me the way he tells me I should be fighting against.
“Seriously though,” he says. “I hate seeing him treat you like this. It’s not right. Your dad is a bully and if you don’t stand up to him, he’s going to keep doing it. When you punch a bully in the nose though, they always back down. Always.”
I roll my eyes. “And how many bullies have you punched in the nose?”
My door flies open, slamming into the wall behind it so hard, it knocks a few books off the shelf next to the door. My dad is standing there, reeking of booze and weed, his face red, nostrils flaring, and eyes narrowed to slits. His face radiates pure malevolence.
“How many times have I told you I don’t want to hear that bullshit gibberish in my house?” he fumes. “How many times?”
Before I can answer though, he delivers a backhand that snaps my head backward so hard, I’m half-afraid it’s going to come right off. It doesn’t. But the force the blow carries me across the room and sends me crashing into my bookcase. All the books and toys that had lined the shelves—as well as the shelves themselves—come tumbling down on top of me in a heap. My head is ringing, my vision wavers, and my mouth is filled with the coppery taste of my blood.
This time though, I don’t cry.
I sit amongst the ruins in the corner of my room glowering at my father. My heart races and the blood flows like fire through my veins. But when my father takes a step toward me, his hands balled into fists, the courage inside me predictably melts. I look down and tremble.
“I hear you talking that nonsense again and I swear to fucking God I’m going to beat you to death,” he slurs. “You hear me, boy?”
My voice fails me and I just nod. With a satisfied grunt, my father turns and walks out of my room, slamming the door behind him. The silence that follows in his wake is absolute. My courage failed me once again, but at least I didn’t cry. It’s not much but it’s something, I guess.
I am twelve years old.
* * * * *
“This is ridiculous. When are you going to stand up for yourself?” Tommy asks. “How much longer are you going to let him do this to you?”
I stare at myself in the mirror, gingerly touching my swollen, blackened eye with my fingertips and wince at the sudden flash of pain.
“Well? When?”
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss. “I don’t want him to hear us. The last thing I need is for him to come in and smack me around again.”
“I’m serious, man. Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life?”
I smile wryly. “He’s going to die one day.”
Tommy stares at me with a look of disgust on his face. “If you don’t learn to stand up for yourself now, you are going to back down from every challenge you face in your life. You will tuck tail and run every time somebody bullies you. Is that really how you want to spend your life? Scared of your own fucking shadow? Letting people walk all over you?”
The frustration that’s been building inside of me finally erupts and I glare at Tommy, my face red, my nostrils flaring, looking for all the world like my father when he’s on one.
“It’s my life. Why do you care?”
“Because I care about you. Because I want better for you,” he replies hotly. “Better than you want for yourself apparently.”
“Shut up,” I growl.
“Then stand up for yourself. Stand up to him. Stop being such a pussy!”
I stare at myself in the mirror, taking in every fist-shaped bruise on my body. On my face. My torso is a mass of purple and black mottling, a roadmap of my suffering. Everything inside me hurts. And not just because of my father’s punches and kicks. A tear spills from the corner of my eye and races down the purple flesh on my cheek.
“What the fuck are you doing in there?” my father bellows.
“Nothing,” I call back.
“Get the fuck out here.”
“How much longer are you going to let this happen?” Tommy asks, his voice soft as a whisper.
“Coming," I call
I am sixteen years old.
* * * * *
Lightning flashes outside, briefly illuminating the room around me. I stand beside the bed looking down at my father. At my mother.
“It’s time,” Tommy says in our unique language—gibberish as my father calls it. “It’s time for you to take a stand and show them they can’t do this to you. Ever. Again.”
My father opens his eye as another bolt of lightning flares, lighting up the room as bright as the noonday sun. The flash glints off the edge of the axe in my hand and for the first time in my life, I see fear in the old man’s face. Thunder rumbles overhead and in that moment, I feel strong. I feel powerful. And for the first time in my life, I feel in control.
“Boy, what the fuck are you doing?” my father says, his voice quivering. “You’d best put that axe down or I’m going to beat you like you’ve never been beaten before—”
“Do it,” Tommy cries. “Do it now.”
My father starts to sit up and my legs shake so hard, I’m afraid they’re going to give out beneath me. My courage is quickly evaporating and the axe trembles in my hands.
“Do it!” Tommy shouts.
As I roar louder than the thunder crashing outside, I raise the axe above my head. My father holds his hands up, his face twisted with terror and as I bring it down, his scream immediately cuts off. I raise the axe again and again, bringing it down with all the strength in my body, thunder punctuating the wet, meaty slaps of the axe biting into their flesh.
I scream until I have no more breath in my lungs as the axe rises and falls, dark red founts spraying into the air all around me. All the years of pain, shame, and humiliation I’ve endured fuel the rage flowing through me—a rage that keeps me going until the axe slips from my blood-slicked hands and clatters hard to the floor.
Breathing like I’ve just run a marathon, my entire is body shaking wildly. I’m exhausted. I lean down, planting my hands on my knees and draw deep, shuddering breaths. My head is spinning and my heart thunders in my chest, but in the absolute silence that reigns over the house, for the first time in my life, I feel… free. The weight that has pressed down on me for so long is gone.
Standing up again, I look at the damage I have wrought. Crimson sprays arc high onto the walls around me and there is a thick, scarlet pool on the floor beneath my feet. Reaching down, I pick up the axe and toss it onto the bed beside what’s left of my mother and father then laugh.
“You did it,” Tommy says. “You finally did it. You stood up for yourself. I’m proud of you.”
I turn to him and find myself staring into the full-length mirror on the other side of the room. I’m coated in crimson, head to toe, and my hair is matted with gore. But when the lightning flashes again, illuminating the room and I see myself, not even the thick sheen of blood can hide the purple and black mottling on my face.
“You won’t have to worry about that ever again,” Tommy says. “You did it.”
“We did it,” I say to myself in the mirror.
I am eighteen years old, and I am finally free.
I’m sitting in the middle of the living room floor and flinch as he screams at me. My body reflexively tightens knowing what’s coming next. The kick he delivers to my back sends shockwaves of agony racing through my entire body but I stifle my cry. It drives the breath from my lungs and leaves me seeing stars. Tears well in my eyes and I fight to keep them from falling. He leans down, his face hovering mere inches from mine, a sneer on his lips. His breath washes over my face, warm and stinking of beer and cigarettes.
“Don’t you dare cry, you little shit,” he growls, his voice low and menacing. “Don’t give me another reason to whoop you.”
As if he’s ever needed a reason before. Not wanting another punch of kick though, I run my sleeve over my eyes and let out a long, stuttering breath. He lingers in front of me in silence, practically daring, if not hoping, I give him a reason to wail on me again. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard the taste of blood fills my mouth. It does the trick though. It keeps me from saying or doing anything to provoke him further. It always does.
With a disgusted snort, he turns and storms out of the room, slamming the door so hard behind him, it feels like the house around me is shaking. I look to my mother who is sitting on the couch with a cigarette between her fingers and a look of disinterest on her face.
“Why do you keep speaking that gibberish? You know he doesn’t like it,” she says.
She takes a drag from her cigarette, sending tendrils of smoke curling toward the ceiling, then turns back to the television, laughing along with the canned laugh track.
I’m ten years old.
* * * * *
“You need to do something,” he says. “You need to stand up for yourself.”
I look away, a familiar sense of shame making my cheeks burn. Deep in my heart, I know Tommy’s right. But whenever my dad is raging the fear wraps around me like iron bands that squeeze the air out of me and all I can do is tremble. Any sense of courage or confidence I might have been able to muster melts away like snow in the warm spring sunshine.
“Dude—”
“Tommy, leave me alone,” I say.
“No. Because you can’t let him keep getting away with this.”
I run a hand through my hair and try to ignore him, turning my attention back to the book in my hands. The book flies across the room, hitting the wall with a hard thud then falls to the floor, face down. I turn to Tommy, my eyes burning with rage.
“You just broke the spine of my book,” I snap. “All those pages are going to be dogeared.”
“There. That’s it. There’s the anger I know is in you,” he says excitedly. “You need to grab hold of that feeling you have right now and use it on the old man.”
“I can’t, okay?”
“You can.”
“I can’t! I’m… I’m scared of him.”
Tommy throws his hands up and snorts in disgust, reminding me a little too much of my father in that moment.
“He’s bigger than me. Stronger—”
“Excuses,” he says. “Those are just the excuses of a coward.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
I’ve known Tommy since I was six. I’m an only child, so he’s like my brother. We’re so close though, that we came up with our own language when we were younger. It’s our thing. It’s how we keep other people from understanding what we’re talking about. My dad calls it gibberish and nonsense and always gets irrationally angry when he hears us speaking it. Personally, I think he just uses that as an excuse to wail on me.
Tommy feels sorry for me. He’s always encouraging me to stand up for myself and to do things well outside my comfort zone. To not back down from the bullies and to not take shit from anybody. I know he’s trying to do something good for me. To lift me up and help me learn to become my own person. And sometimes, it works. Sometimes, I get a rush of confidence. Once in a while, I feel strong enough to stand up for myself. But it never lasts.
Most of the time though, his words go in one ear and out the other. It frustrates him to no end and that’s when he tends to get mean. To say cutting and belittling things. And it’s in those times when I feel like he’s not much different than my dad. He’s always quick to apologize, of course, but his words sting even worse than my dad’s because I feel like he should know better than to treat me the way he tells me I should be fighting against.
“Seriously though,” he says. “I hate seeing him treat you like this. It’s not right. Your dad is a bully and if you don’t stand up to him, he’s going to keep doing it. When you punch a bully in the nose though, they always back down. Always.”
I roll my eyes. “And how many bullies have you punched in the nose?”
My door flies open, slamming into the wall behind it so hard, it knocks a few books off the shelf next to the door. My dad is standing there, reeking of booze and weed, his face red, nostrils flaring, and eyes narrowed to slits. His face radiates pure malevolence.
“How many times have I told you I don’t want to hear that bullshit gibberish in my house?” he fumes. “How many times?”
Before I can answer though, he delivers a backhand that snaps my head backward so hard, I’m half-afraid it’s going to come right off. It doesn’t. But the force the blow carries me across the room and sends me crashing into my bookcase. All the books and toys that had lined the shelves—as well as the shelves themselves—come tumbling down on top of me in a heap. My head is ringing, my vision wavers, and my mouth is filled with the coppery taste of my blood.
This time though, I don’t cry.
I sit amongst the ruins in the corner of my room glowering at my father. My heart races and the blood flows like fire through my veins. But when my father takes a step toward me, his hands balled into fists, the courage inside me predictably melts. I look down and tremble.
“I hear you talking that nonsense again and I swear to fucking God I’m going to beat you to death,” he slurs. “You hear me, boy?”
My voice fails me and I just nod. With a satisfied grunt, my father turns and walks out of my room, slamming the door behind him. The silence that follows in his wake is absolute. My courage failed me once again, but at least I didn’t cry. It’s not much but it’s something, I guess.
I am twelve years old.
* * * * *
“This is ridiculous. When are you going to stand up for yourself?” Tommy asks. “How much longer are you going to let him do this to you?”
I stare at myself in the mirror, gingerly touching my swollen, blackened eye with my fingertips and wince at the sudden flash of pain.
“Well? When?”
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss. “I don’t want him to hear us. The last thing I need is for him to come in and smack me around again.”
“I’m serious, man. Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life?”
I smile wryly. “He’s going to die one day.”
Tommy stares at me with a look of disgust on his face. “If you don’t learn to stand up for yourself now, you are going to back down from every challenge you face in your life. You will tuck tail and run every time somebody bullies you. Is that really how you want to spend your life? Scared of your own fucking shadow? Letting people walk all over you?”
The frustration that’s been building inside of me finally erupts and I glare at Tommy, my face red, my nostrils flaring, looking for all the world like my father when he’s on one.
“It’s my life. Why do you care?”
“Because I care about you. Because I want better for you,” he replies hotly. “Better than you want for yourself apparently.”
“Shut up,” I growl.
“Then stand up for yourself. Stand up to him. Stop being such a pussy!”
I stare at myself in the mirror, taking in every fist-shaped bruise on my body. On my face. My torso is a mass of purple and black mottling, a roadmap of my suffering. Everything inside me hurts. And not just because of my father’s punches and kicks. A tear spills from the corner of my eye and races down the purple flesh on my cheek.
“What the fuck are you doing in there?” my father bellows.
“Nothing,” I call back.
“Get the fuck out here.”
“How much longer are you going to let this happen?” Tommy asks, his voice soft as a whisper.
“Coming," I call
I am sixteen years old.
* * * * *
Lightning flashes outside, briefly illuminating the room around me. I stand beside the bed looking down at my father. At my mother.
“It’s time,” Tommy says in our unique language—gibberish as my father calls it. “It’s time for you to take a stand and show them they can’t do this to you. Ever. Again.”
My father opens his eye as another bolt of lightning flares, lighting up the room as bright as the noonday sun. The flash glints off the edge of the axe in my hand and for the first time in my life, I see fear in the old man’s face. Thunder rumbles overhead and in that moment, I feel strong. I feel powerful. And for the first time in my life, I feel in control.
“Boy, what the fuck are you doing?” my father says, his voice quivering. “You’d best put that axe down or I’m going to beat you like you’ve never been beaten before—”
“Do it,” Tommy cries. “Do it now.”
My father starts to sit up and my legs shake so hard, I’m afraid they’re going to give out beneath me. My courage is quickly evaporating and the axe trembles in my hands.
“Do it!” Tommy shouts.
As I roar louder than the thunder crashing outside, I raise the axe above my head. My father holds his hands up, his face twisted with terror and as I bring it down, his scream immediately cuts off. I raise the axe again and again, bringing it down with all the strength in my body, thunder punctuating the wet, meaty slaps of the axe biting into their flesh.
I scream until I have no more breath in my lungs as the axe rises and falls, dark red founts spraying into the air all around me. All the years of pain, shame, and humiliation I’ve endured fuel the rage flowing through me—a rage that keeps me going until the axe slips from my blood-slicked hands and clatters hard to the floor.
Breathing like I’ve just run a marathon, my entire is body shaking wildly. I’m exhausted. I lean down, planting my hands on my knees and draw deep, shuddering breaths. My head is spinning and my heart thunders in my chest, but in the absolute silence that reigns over the house, for the first time in my life, I feel… free. The weight that has pressed down on me for so long is gone.
Standing up again, I look at the damage I have wrought. Crimson sprays arc high onto the walls around me and there is a thick, scarlet pool on the floor beneath my feet. Reaching down, I pick up the axe and toss it onto the bed beside what’s left of my mother and father then laugh.
“You did it,” Tommy says. “You finally did it. You stood up for yourself. I’m proud of you.”
I turn to him and find myself staring into the full-length mirror on the other side of the room. I’m coated in crimson, head to toe, and my hair is matted with gore. But when the lightning flashes again, illuminating the room and I see myself, not even the thick sheen of blood can hide the purple and black mottling on my face.
“You won’t have to worry about that ever again,” Tommy says. “You did it.”
“We did it,” I say to myself in the mirror.
I am eighteen years old, and I am finally free.
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on 2024-10-03 05:05 pm (UTC)It's my favorite entry I've read this season so far, I'm so serious. And honestly? It might be my favorite I've ever read in lj idol. It just really hits on so many levels for me. I feel seen with it, as someone who has endured a lot of heavy shit in the past (including alamost being killed). I did see where it was going (it's how I would write this and we have very similar tastes I think!) and that only added to how much I love it, because it's exactly what I hoped would happen to the father who I instantly hated.
“You won’t have to worry about that ever again,” Tommy says. “You did it.”
“We did it,” I say to myself in the mirror.
I am eighteen years old, and I am finally free.
congrats, you've made me cry once again! That feels so uplifting to me despite the gore? You have nailed in those three lines, so perfectly, the relief you feel when you're free of them forever after the weeks/months/years of misery and pain and worrying about how you'll get the hell out and then just getting out no matter what happens.
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on 2024-10-07 02:58 pm (UTC)I am really blown away by your kind words, and I am so very grateful. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
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on 2024-10-07 04:50 pm (UTC)And I connect with it very much <3
I suspect that you and I "click" because we share some of the same darkness inside precisely because we've gone through some heavy shit. Kindred spirits of a kind. I was thinking this too. It's great to find someone else who just gets it, you know? But I'm sorry you know what it's like to experience that level of heavy stuff. No one should ever have to. 🫂
No, thank you for writing this seriously. Stories where the abuser is stopped one way or another are so dear to me. I've loved horror movies from an early age and one of the main reasons for that is the final girls in a lot of them, winning out over who/whatever is making their life hell. I connected with it as a kid and still do. This story feels so much like that to me.
Final boy Tommy Jarvis! (I really hope you've seen Friday the 13th movies haha, if not this Will make no sense at all!) Also, sorry for the myriad comment edits, my phone hates me.
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on 2024-10-07 07:56 pm (UTC)Nobody should have to live with that sort of heavy stuff, you are absolutely right. And I am so sorry that you've had to and can relate to it so much. It sucks.
I have loved horror movies since I was a kid too, and I do not think I ever really realized why until you wrote this. Being able to overcome the monsters and winning. That just feels true and right. It makes so much sense. Thank you for that!
And which iteration of Tommy Jarvis are you talking about? There were like, what, 3 different actors who portrayed him? ha ha ha. Of course I knew who you were referring to! ha ha
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on 2024-10-08 05:43 pm (UTC)I only speak the truth <3 I'll be so sad when this ends and don't see a story from you each week!
I would honestly eat up a book by you if you were to write one!
🫂
It's very hard and very unfair! And then you get stuck with memories forever, which also sucks!
And then, when you're a kid it can be very spirit crushing because of the sheer lack of physical autonomy.
I don't mind talking about things that happened to me as a kid or older, like I used to some years ago, but some of the stuff is very dark and I've actually upset a friend of mine more than once when referring to things (in that she got upset because of what I recounted, on my behalf, and cried for me). And it kind of made me really realize how bad it must sound to others who can't even imagine such a thing being an issue in their lives.
I have loved horror movies since I was a kid too, and I do not think I ever really realized why until you wrote this.
Ahhh, i love that my comment resonated so much, that makes me.so happy!
I've loved horror ever since I can remember - at age 6 I had a crush on Pinhead from Hellraiser and cried to be allowed to watch it and a nightmare on Elm Street 🤣
The first movie I watched was Scream and I connected so much to Sidney because for the first time I was seeing myself in another girl character. All the movies I'd seen up to then had girl characters who had no trauma, but Sidney in particular, her ptsd in the first and second and third installments, damn that was relatable. And she also has a similar attitude to me like even though she gets scared, cries, worries, she never gives up fighting or loses hope. This character - and others like Nancy from nightmare and Kirsty from Hellraiser in particular - were for me what superheroes were to a lot of other kids.
Haha, I was like "I bet they have because they love horror so much!" I was thinking of the original Tommy, who is scared but is an absolute warrior even then! Your character Tommy's voice really made me think of him. Like internally that is how he is thinking, he just knows he's too small yet.
The comment about how his dad is "gonna die some day" absolutely sounded to me like something he was intending on rather than waiting for !
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on 2024-10-18 05:31 pm (UTC)You are not the first person I have known who said they had a crush on Pinhead. ha ha! Sidney is very relatable and although she is not the first "Final Girl," there is something about her that seems a little more relatable than say, Jamie Lee? (although I do love me some Laurie Strode). Perhaps it is a recency bias, but there is a whole generation of horror fans who see a bit of themselves in Sidney, so I totally get it.
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on 2024-10-18 10:16 pm (UTC)You are not the first person I have known who said they had a crush on Pinhead. ha ha! haha omg amazing. I've only found one other person who does, but there are clearly more of us out there, lurking ha.
Sidney is very relatable and although she is not the first "Final Girl," there is something about her that seems a little more relatable than say, Jamie Lee? (although I do love me some Laurie Strode). It's true! I do love Laurie too, but I think Sidney is definitely more relatable. I find Nancy Thompson and Maxine from the X franchise very relatable to me personally too, but you're right . I think Sidney is so easy to relate to in her reactions and emotions! Crying but still telling the guy on the phone taunting her about her dead mom, to fuck off? Real!
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on 2024-10-05 01:47 pm (UTC)- Erulisse (one L)
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on 2024-10-07 02:59 pm (UTC)Thank you so much!
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on 2024-10-05 03:32 pm (UTC)The violence was shocking, but felt like it fit with the rest of the story until the end. The end was just ... Wow! LOL
Dan
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on 2024-10-07 03:00 pm (UTC)Thank you so much!
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on 2024-10-05 07:12 pm (UTC)I began to wonder if Tommy was simply another aspect of the narrator about half-way through, because I would hate to think of another 12-year-old taking the tack of you can’t let him keep getting away with this.” A child HAS no power in that situation, and will never "win" that kind of confrontation unless they're able to leave and survive on their own, or unless the abuser is dead or in jail. And that's as much about psychology as it is about physical strength.
Really, really well done, and tightly told.
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on 2024-10-07 03:02 pm (UTC)Thank you so very much for reading and sharing your thoughts. I am not sure though, what you mean by "K Vibe?"
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on 2024-10-12 07:46 pm (UTC)Excellent work!!
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on 2024-10-18 05:26 pm (UTC)