Monster Bash, Tier 1: Troll vs. Witch

  “Goooood evening, faithful fans, and welcome back to Monster Bash! Last night we saw another exciting fight, but there’s one more Round for Tier One of this competition, before we move onto Semi-Finals next week,” I say, and I quickly start heading over to the commentator’s table. The two unimportant characters are still adjusting papers uselessly, but I walk up to a beautiful young woman waiting with her own microphone.
  “Thank you for joining me again, Jayalaw. We’ve had an exciting few fights, but now we’re at the last fight of Round One, and I think this one is going to be a little unusual. Troll versus Witch, what are your thoughts?”
“My bets are on the witch,” Jaya said. “Because one thing about magic is that it is variable; you can do so many things with it. A troll can rely on his or her brute force and durability, but those can only carry you so far. A witch has more options at her disposal; the only thing that might stop her is a conscience, or an oath to do no harm. In some traditions like Wicca, the actions a Wiccan takes comes back to them threefold.”
  “Luckily for tonight’s contender, this witch is no mere pagan. A sorceress and student in sorcery and witchcraft, she will give out troll a run for his money. However, trolls are not without their own brand of magic, and they are known for being tricky. So, while I think the witch is more powerful, I think our troll may have a trick or two up his sleeve. And witchcraft isn’t compatible with trolleri, so I can’t even offer an opinion either way. There are too many variables for me to decide. Crafty witch plus devious troll equals I have no idea what will happen tonight.”
“As long as he isn’t an Internet troll, I think she’ll be fine,” Jaya snarks.
  “Haha, yes,” I say, chuckling. “Those internet fiends can spit acid, and since they’re spineless and gutless they’re pretty flexible. They can shapeshift into the ugliest thing they can imagine, and don’t even get me started on the flame wars. Luckily for us, this troll is a nature guardian with botanical magic, and not a loner with an inferiority complex. Oh, and speak of the devil, here are our competitors!”
On the left side, near the trees, a flat-panel truck backed towards the gate as two stagehands opened the gate, the suspension straining with the weight of its cargo. Standing on the back of the truck was a two-storey tall, forest-green monster. Its legs were brown and covered with bark, and it wore a loin cloth fashioned from some unidentifiable animal skin. Its back was covered in twigs, leaves and moss. The trolls face and hands were oversized, and he had a large, beak-like nose, an underbite filled with sharp, little teeth and small, yellow, beady eyes. He stepped off the back of the truck, making the ground shake as he did. Then the truck drove off and they shut the gate.
  "In this corner, from the Taynish National Nature Reserve, a young troll guardian known only as Gremby. Standing seven-point-sixteen metres tall, and a skilled master of trolleri, he is our heaviest competitor, weighing in at over two tonnes!"
On the right side near the church, a short woman wearing handcuffes was lead through the gate by two stage hands, one holding each arm.
She was wearing a black, draping dress and a wide-brimmed hat, and wasn't very muscular. One of the stagehands unlocked the cuffs and the two of them left and locked the gate behind them.
  "And in this corner, Melissa Maitland, at just nineteen years old, she is our youngest competitor. By day, an art student with an interest in history; by night, a self-trained sorceress and mistress of the dark arts. Now, let's get started!"
I jump up and scream. “It’s Beauty versus Beast, who will win? Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Three . . . two . . . one, FIGHT!”

The troll makes his way down the path, but immediately, Melissa holds out both hands, chanting quickly under her breath and lifts her hands. The closest six headstones lift from the ground and come to float around her. The organizes them to float beside her like an enormous, morbid, stone deck of cards.
She starts throwing them at the troll's head as she moves forward, advancing. Gremby raises an arm and the headstones crack, against him. He grimaces from the pain, but keeps heading forward. When Melissa throws her sixth headstone, Gremby lowers his arm, weeping some kind of sap.
  "You're nae the only one that can use magic, witch," says the troll in a deep, crackling voice with a slight Scottish accent. He holds out his injured arm, and branches burst out of and from his skin, they grow at amazing speed, closing the four-metre distance between them and wrapping around her. The crooked limb bends and twists to bring the girl in front of his face, then the branch tightens and Melissa groans with pain. Clenching her teeth she looks up at the sky and speaks in a strange tongue. There's a rumble of thunder, then a flash of light as lightning strikes. It connects with the troll's shoulder, boils the sap in an instant and the whole limb explodes. Melissa falls safely to the ground as twigs fell around her.
With a roar, the troll smacks at the ground with his remaining arm, slamming his fist to crush the witch. But Melissa rolls to the side, then deftly runs up his arm and onto his shoulder. She grabs both sides of his head and pulls.
  "Oi!" growls the troll. he swipes around his head, and the witch goes flying. She lands awkwardly on the grass, and cries out in pain. "Tryin' to rip mah head off?! You despicable sack of meat . . ."
The troll places his hand on the ground, sending a pulse of energy into the ground. The grass surrounding Melissa flutters, then grows from blades of grass into fern-like fronds which curl around her arms and legs, then knot together. The troll makes his way towards her, menacingly. Melissa was quite rattled, but shaking herself off, she uses her magic to pull herself out of the ground, the monster blades of grass falling limp the instant they are separated from their roots. She takes three steps back, a deep breath, then thrusts both hands in the direction of the advancing troll. The troll stumbles back a fraction, then presses onwards, gritting his teeth. Melissa closes her eyes to concentrate, trying to push and lift, but the troll was too heavy. She dropped her arms and opened her eyes, glancing around desperately. Then, she turned and ran towards the gate.
  "Where are yeh goin'?" asked Gremby, and as he spoke, green vines began to grow from his left shoulder to replace his missing arm. "I'm not done with yer yet . . ."
The witch grabbed the fence, and began fiddling with the padlock on the chain that held the gate shut.
  "You can't run, lass. I'm comin' fer you."
She muttered something which unclasped the padlock, but she didn't open the gate, instead, she grabbed the loose chain, turned around and threw it at the troll. It landed on his arm, but gesturing with her hands, she manipulated the metre-and-a-half long chain to snake along his shoulder and wrap around his neck. The troll grabbed at the chain, but as soon as Melissa clapped her hands together, the chain pulled tight. Then, she twisted both clasped hands, and the two ends twisted, and there was a creaking, cracking sound as the loop of the chain knotted tighter. Breathing heavily, Melissa gestured three more times, as though miming tightening a socket wrench. Each time the chain twisted again, tightening the loop even further, cracking and cracking. The troll collapsed to its knees, his beady eyes bulging, he couldn't speak.
Then, with a cheeky grin, Melissa spun a pirouette like a ballerina. As she did, the trolls neck twisted, and she dislocated his head with a wet crunch.
The head fell to the ground with a thud, and the body slumped backwards.

  "Oh my GOD! We have a winner!" I screamed, running up to the gate. "That was absolutely excellent. A real twist at the end, I thought you were really fleeing for your life . . . but you were really just getting your hands on that chain, there. How does it feel to have won?"
  ". . . good," says Melissa, nodding, still catching her breath.
  "You're a girl of very few words. Is there anything else you'd like to add?"
  "Couldn't talk . . . I was concentrating," she says, nodding.
  "Well, folks, there you have it. When I saw the size of that troll, I thought he had it. But lo and behold, the little girl did it. Ladies and Gentleman, put your hands together for tonight's winner, the Witch!"
A few people applauded as a few stagehands approached the troll's corpse, trying to figure out how to move the two-tonne mass.
  "Well, there you have it. That is the end of Tier One of Monster Bash, out of Eight we have four champions. We'll return after a short break to clean up this mess, but don't go away. We will not be done until we find our Monster Supreme. Our remaining winners will face off, one by one, until only one is left standing Who will survive this morbid clash, who will survive this creature clash? Come back next time to find out. Until then, goodnight everybody."

Monster Bash, Tier 1: Vampire vs. Human

  "Wow, that looks atrocious . . . no really, I can't draw humans for shit, can't we get a professional artist or something to do these match cards?" I ask, frowning as I talk into my headset and glance up at the illustration. "Too late? I mean, can't we . . . wait now? We're live right now . . . ? HELLO! and good evening, monster fans!"
I quickly compose myself and smile.
"Welcome back to Tier one of Monster Bash. Last night, we saw a quick and dirty match, but there’s more to come. Who will win tonight’s fight? Stick around to find out,” I say, adjusting my suit as I lean against the fence. “Now, it has come to my attention that some viewers are a little upset that we are being disrespectful to these grounds, but let me assure you, first of all, that Horton-Meier was made fully aware of the content and extent of what Monster Bash entails, and willingly offered the grounds, fully informed. Second of all, know that we here at Monster Bash Conglomerated are not heartless, and part of our contract included a restoration of these grounds, not only of any damage we inflict, but also a renovation of the pre-existing site. When we leave here, it will be as peaceful and pristine as the day they first opened their gates”
I stand up and adjust my headphones as I once more approach the commentator’s desk.
 “Yet again, I am joined by the lovely Miss Jayalaw, to help us comment on this evening’s proceedings. Now, Jaya, with media these days portraying vampires as sparkling juggernauts, it may seem like vampire is the obvious choice. But I am going against type this evening, and I think I’m backing mankind. What do you think of tonight’s competition?”
 “Human beings can be quite nasty,” Jaya replied. “Though I do hope that he knows what he’s getting into. Vampires can be killed in numerous ways, but the favored choice is a wooden stake through the heart. Wood does happen to be everywhere, even in the pencils we use. So theoretically, the human would just have to get close enough to the vampire to destroy them, unless he’s allowed to use a bow and arrow.”
 “Well, none of the contestants are allowed to bring a weapon onto the field, but there’s a reason we picked a graveyard instead of a boxing ring,” I say, looking out upon the churchyard. “If it’s a case of a one, two, punch, then it’s not much of a fair fight, because it’s not a realistic setting for any of these creatures to occupy. And vampires, although fast, they’re really fragile, so I think that if our human plays smart until he can fashion himself a club or a stake, then it’s game over. Of course, that’s a really big ‘if’.”
“It’s a shame that people weren’t buried with sharp sticks, although a human digging for one would be desecrating remains. Would garlic be considered a weapon? In theory, could the human bide his time until dawn hits? If so, then the vampire would either have to forfeit or burst into flames.”
 “I sense a little trepidation on your part. I don’t think it will be that hard for our man. With trees, crumbling gravestones, the vestments in the church, I think there’s plenty he could use to defend himself. Vampire’s greatest defense is that we can’t tell them apart from humans. But walking into this arena, our guy is ready to fight. And hey, Hitler, Napalm, Clowns. . . I think mankind really is the greatest monster in this fight. Oh, and here come our contestants!”
Over at the fence by the tree line, was a tall, pale-skinned man in a straight jacket and a muzzle, but he walked calmly, and casually, glancing around and standing tall, his slicked, black hair shining greasily in the moonlight. He was being lead from behind, a stagehand holding the buckles on the spine of the jacket. After entering the field, the stagehand unbuckled the straight jacket and the muzzle and the two of them ran back and closed the gate behind them.
In one swift motion, the vampire threw his arms back, and the straight jacket slipped off of his body onto the ground in front of him to reveal a white shirt and matching pinstripe vest and trousers. He casually removed the muzzle the way a rockstar would remove their sunglasses.
 “In this corner, we have Samuel Bergstein, originally a bank teller, he was bitten by a vampire at the age of twenty-nine, and is our oldest and wisest competitor having walked this earth for one hundred and fourteen years.”
On the other side near the church, a black man with long daggy hair, wearing an open shirt with a singlet and a pair of jeans walks towards the field, with two stagehands holding each arm. They walk him inside the graveyard, stand him a few metres away from the fence and shut the gate behind them. The man looked a little anxious, but hopped on the spot and flexed his muscles, which were well-toned and athletic.
 “And against him, we have Jerome Ratray, he is thirty-six years old and standing at six feet - or one-point-eight metres - and weighing in at one hundred and ninety pounds - or ninety kilos - he is an electrician and in his spare time an amateur kick-boxer. Alrighty then!”
I stand up and scream “It’s Predator versus Prey, who will win? Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Three . . . two . . . one, FIGHT!”

Jerome starts jogging down the centre path, and the vampire, Samuel, chuckles as he begins to swagger towards his opponent.
 “How old are you?” asked Samuel. Jerome doesn’t answer, instead he stops in the middle of the path and puts up his fists, waiting for the vampire to meet him half way.
“That’s right, thirty-six . . . so young. I hope you’ve lived a good life, because it’s going to end, tonight.”
Jerome didn’t respond, he was focussed, breathing steadily, fists clenched.
 “Do you have any idea how many people I’ve killed in my lifetime?” asked Samuel, but again, Jerome doesn’t answer. “I’m talking to you, son. Do you know how to speak?”
 “I ain’t here to talk,” said Jerome coldly.
 “So he does have a tongue,” says Samuel with a chuckle. “Why so stoic? I want to enjoy this, savour the moment, because it won’t last too long otherwise.”
 “You tryin’ to scare me, sucker?” asked Jerome. “I didn’t come here for compellin’ conversation, I came here to kick yer ass. Vampires are only dangerous because they look like us, we don’t see ‘em comin’. Well, I see you sucker . . . you ready to dance?”
Jerome took two steps forward and threw his fist. The vampire dodged left with amazing speed, but it was a fake-out, Jerome swung a right hook and got him in the neck. Samuel stumbled back, but Jerome advanced quickly, almost hopping forward, since he was so light on his feet. He swung three more powerful punches, left-left-right, twice in the kidney, once in the forehead. Samuel fell onto his back, and scrambled backwards.
 “No, come on, keep on talkin’!” taunted Jerome. “Weren’t you sayin’ somethin’ about how very old you are?”
Samuel clambered to his feet, then leapt through the air. Jerome stepped aside and watched as he flew overhead, landing in front of the church.
 “You want to play rough, do you?” asked the vampire.
 “I ain’t playin’, sucker,” said Jerome. “I’m gonna kill you.”
Samuel lept up and grabbed onto the edge of the roof, placing his feet flat on the wall as he hung from the church, then using all the force in his legs, he dove at his prey. He tackled him around the waist, and the force sent them both sprawling back. The vampire quickly got to his feet and kicked Jerome in the head. Jerome grabbed his ankle to stop him doing it again, but he jumped away, with a speed that whipped his foot out of Jerome’s grip. Samuel landed on top of the church, and sat on his haunches, looking down at Jerome as he got back up.
 “There, isn’t that better? Doesn’t it feel more natural, to have you at my feet, and me standing above you.”
 “Sounds to me like you’re hiding, because you know if you were standin’ down here, I’d rip yer head off.”
 “Such a savage beast . . . how do you manage to even tie your shoes?”
 “Seriously, how are you plannin’ on winnin’ from all the way up there?” asked Jerome, sounding frustrated. “What are you waitin’ for, old age? Stop hidin’ like a scared, little mouse and fight me!”
Samuel sighed, then leapt off the roof. He landed a metre in front of Jerome, but immediately tucked into a somersault, rolled forward and kicked with both feet into his chest.
He jumped up as Jerome stumbled back, and ran forward with inhuman speed. He crouched low and jabbed with a suckerpunch at full speed, that knocked the air out of Jerome, causing him to lose more ground, stumbling back. Then Samuel jumped to his feet with an uppercut, he was moving fast, to keep ahead of his opponent. Jerome managed to batter it away, with both hands, and tried to regain his composure; so instead Samuel changed the uppercut into a powerful slap that echoed like a thunderclap. He swung his other hand to try to slap him again, trying to knock him silly, but Jerome grabbed his fingers, squeezing the spindly fingers tight, and through clenched, bloody teeth he growled and gave Samuel a headbutt. The vampire was knocked back, but Jerome had a tight grip on his hand, he pulled him back and repaid the favour with a suckerpunch of his own, straight to the stomach. Samuel doubled over, and Jerome kneed him in the face, then swung a punch at his face, then another. Samuel let out a pained cry, as blood started dripping from his nose and mouth. But Jerome kept advancing. He swung an uppercut at his opponent’s chin that made a heavy sound, and knocked him onto his back.
Jerome stood there for a moment, sweating and breathing heavily. He was exhausted and he stopped to catch his breath, but then he looked over at the church and walked past Samuel. The vampire was a bloody mess, and he tried to look around, he groaned as he sat up. he cradled his face with a shaking hand and he rolled onto his feet.
Behind him, the human grabbed the wooden railing of the steps leading into the church and yelled out as he ripped it off, and brandished the makeshift club in his hand.
One end had two nails sticking out, which he elected as the business end, and he walked back towards his opponent to finish him off. Taking a running swing at the hunched figure, he knocked Samuel over again, the nails ripping two wounds into his side.
 “No, stop!” yelled out the vampire, but Jerome swung downwards, and Samuel wailed in pain. As he lifted the bludgeon to swing again, Samuel got to his feet. Mid-arch, Samuel swiped at the piece of wood at astounding speed, and snapped it in half. Then he grabbed Jerome’s fist and dove forward, sinking his fangs into Jerome’s shoulder, to drink the blood.
 “Argh! Get off me!” screamed Jerome. He used his free hand to punch the vampire in the head, throwing him off and in the process gouging deep cuts where the teeth ripped through. Seeing the snapped splinter in his hand, he angrily shoved it into the vampire’s chest. Immediately Samuel went limp. He fell onto his knees and looked up at Jerome, then at the makeshift stake in his chest. He was bleeding heavily, cold blood pooling on the ground around him.
 “You got me,” he said, looking back up, “I think . . . I think I’m finally dying.”
 “Mate . . .” said Jerome, shaking his head. “You talk too much.”
After a few seconds, the vampire slumped to the side, then finally Jerome sat on the ground, breathing heavily.

 “Ladies and gentlemen, that was amazing, I think we have a winner!” I yell, running forward. “I knew it! Mankind, all the way! I think . . . what?”
I stop and put a hand to my headphones as the operators talk to me.
“Okay, I’ll check. Jerome? How are you feelin’, man?” I say walking closer. “Can we get a medic, here?!”
 “That sucked,” said Jerome, wiping the sweat from his brow.
 “We’re not done yet, man. There may be a technical knock-out here.”
 “What?” said Jerome, he looked a little woozy as he looked up.
 “You’ve been bitten. If you turn, that’s T.K.O., Vampire wins.”
 “Vam . . . what? Vampire’s dead,” said Jerome. Once more, an ambulance comes flying through the gate and stops short, and two nurses come out of the back.
 “Yes, the vampire’s dead. You will come back next tier. But if you turn, then you come back to fight as a Vampire,” I say. “Can we get some help here, please?”
A nurse straps his arm with a blood pressure bracelet and the other other checks his temperature, then puts a stethoscope to his chest. After a tense few seconds, the nurse shakes her head.
 “No, he’s gonna be fine,” she says. “Don’t worry, you’re still human.”
 “All-RIGHTY then!” I yell out. “That was touch and go for a second there, scary stuff, but it’s official! We have tonight’s champion! Please everyone, congratulate, the Human!”
The nurses both clap as I walk back towards the desk.
 “That was pretty exciting, but there’s one more round for tier one. Come back tomorrow night, for some more, amazing action!”

Monster Bash, Tier 1: Zombie vs. Demon

“Good evening, sports fans, and welcome back to tier one of Monster Bash. Last night’s round saw some incredible action, but who will win tonight’s conflict? Stick around to find out,” I say, as I walk towards the commentator’s desk. “We have a beautiful arena here at Horton-Meier Churchyard, which has been graciously offered to us for these fights. They have a magnificently maintained churchyard, and an Anzac Memorial for those who died during their service, I have to say, my heart goes out to those poor souls . . . ‘lest we forget’.”
I approach the desk where two unimportant characters are looking busy alongside a gorgeous, young woman.
“Once more, I’m joined by Jayalaw at the sidelines to comment on tonight’s fight. Jaya, tonight we see a zombie facing off against a demon . . . I’ve got to say, this one seems like a Curb Stomp battle, does the walking dead stand a chance against this hellspawn?”
“Depends on the type of walking dead,” she responded. “As well as the malevolence and strength of the demon. Most people characterize zombies as walking carnivores or brainwashed slaves for Caribbean magicians, but some in pop culture know how to think. Not all demons are necessarily evil, per se, and quite a few can be benevolent. It’s a real toss up because the interpretations vary widely.”
 “Well, that seems as good a time as any to check our profiles. Let me see here . . .” I reach down and snatch a few papers from one of the two-dimensional side-characters. The nameless cutout doesn’t even speak. “Hmm . . . well, there’s good news and bad news for our zombie contender. Apparently he’s classed as a ‘Romero’, which is to say, he’s a bit of a shambler. Aggressive, nonetheless, but speed will not be in his favour. However, our demon is looking like she’s on a lesser rung of demon hierarchy. A bit of a lesser, barely above an imp, with only a few lashings of dark magic. Ooh, wait . . . hellfire. I dunno, I’m still leaning towards the demon.”
 “Shamblers seem to be resistant to pain, and can only be killed with beheading or a direct shot to the skull. So our demon can’t play with her opponent based on that sort of immunity.”
 “Y’know, you have a fair point. Perhaps I’m being unfair. But y’know, I think the real decider here is whether or not the zombie bite is going to work in his favour. This demon is flesh and blood, So, if she can get turned by the zombie, that’s a T.K.O., that’s out. I guess we’ll just have to find out. Oh, and here come our competitors now!”
On the left side, near the trees, two stage hands were walking a zombie towards the gate. He had green saggy skin and a metal bucket on his head, as well as a wire lasso, much like a dog-catcher would use, tied his neck which they were using to lead him into the churchyard. As they closed the gate behind them, one of the stagehands approached and quickly removed the bucket. The zombie immediately snarled and dove for him, but the stagehand sprinted and the one holding the lasso pole held firm.
 “Ooh, he’s a vicious one! In this corner, we have Donald Vanderbilt, says he used to be a shop assistant, but was bitten and infected over ten years ago. Died at the age of thirty-three, and since then has managed to infect seventeen more people. So watch out, we’ve got a biter.”
On the other side of the field, three stagehands entered with a book, and a small tray. One used a medical bag filled with donated blood to draw a symbol, while another chanted from a book. The third arranged and lit candles as well as several bones, herbs and other small items. The chanting stagehand cried out and the candles seemed to explode with flame and became a firewhirl. In the centre, a red-skinned woman with horns and a spear-tipped tail appeared, with yellow eyes, black hair and nails, and cloaked in what looked like a black and charred bikini.
 “And, showing that she knows how to make an entrance, in this corner, we have . . . uh, Rkk’lugh O’ash’sh kss-Ra? But, she also goes by the name ‘Carver’. Hellspawn of the Fifth Circle for eighty-six years, Sla’ankin underling and a practitioner of infernal arts. I don’t think I understood half of that, and I wrote it. But okay . . .” I stand up and scream “It’s Creep versus Corpse, who will win? Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Three . . . two . . . one, FIGHT!”

The zombie began shuffling forwards, and Carver chuckled.
 “What folly is this?” she said, looking at the commentators. Then, shaking her head, she strolled along the path towards the zombie. “Alright, let’s bring this to an end . . .”
Carver moved within five metres of the zombie, then stopped. The zombie kept shuffling forwards, and after three seconds it was one metre closer.
 “This is a farce,” said Carver, she took one step back and raised a clawed hand. Her eyes flashed orange as fire ignited from her nails and spread into her palm. Then she punched forward, and a stream of fire burst forth from her hand, and hit the zombie’s feet. She motioned her hand up and down, covering the zombie with flames and smoke. It screamed hoarsely as the flames hit its face. Then Carver dropped her hand and shrugged, looking away from the black smoke.
 “Does this make me champion?” she asked.
Suddenly, a burning zombie leapt out of the smoke and, still smouldering, grabbed her right wrist with both hands, and dug its teeth into her fingers. The demon screamed in pain, her inhuman voice shredding eardrums, a sound like angry nails on a chalkboard.
Swiftly, she punched the zombie in the face and threw him off her, sending him flying into the fence.
 “You festering MAGGOT!” she shrieked, looking at her hand. Rich, red and black blood spilled from her knuckles, “What have you done to me?! Corrupted blood . . .”
Her hand seemed to twitch and rot as she looked at it. Carver frowned angrily as she held her infected hand in front of her face and grabbed her own wrist with her other hand. She took three deep breaths, then clenching her teeth she twisted sharply, crack! The bone snapped. Then, digging her claws into the flesh, the demon ripped the loose, rotten hand off of her arm and dropped it in the dirt beside her. Tears of blood fell from her eyes as she looked at the bleeding, rendered stump of her wrist, then looked through the smoke at the smoking zombie, staggering to its feet. She leapt over the fire and marched towards the shambling corpse.
“Come on, try it one more time!” she roared. “Show me those teeth, I want to see your HUNGER!”
As she came within three metres, the zombie lashed again, but this time, she was ready, she stepped back, and kicked high at the side of his head. A bone cracked, and the zombie fell onto the ground once more. Then, seething with rage, the demon took two steps towards its face, raised a leg high, and slammed it into the zombies head. The decayed head split like a meat watermelon, the zombie’s body  twitched a few times before falling still.

A bell sounded, and I came running forward.
  "Ladies and gentlemen, we have tonight's champion," I cry as I step around the rotting hand and over to the dead zombie. "That was a lot closer than I was expecting. My stomach dropped when he bit your hand there, Carver, but you pulled through in the end. I mean . . . ripping off your own hand? Wow. How does it feel to have won tonight?"
  "That was revolting," said Carver. "But I am proven victorious. What can you offer me for my hand?"
  "If you need medical help, there's an ambulance on standby. And before your next fight, I'm sure the stagehands can patch you up, and we'll need to check the rulebook about finding you a prosthetic or something so you're not handicapped next fight."
Carver started to look a little woozy as more blood spilled from her wrist.
  "Okay, let's double-time that ambulance, guys!" I say, stepping away. "She's been a real trooper this evening, ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the Demon!"
Everyone applauds, but the clapping is drowned out by the sound of the ambulance as it crashes through the gate.
  "Come back tomorrow for Round Three! It's going to be a good one, trust me!"

Monster Bash, Tier 1: Werewolf vs. Ghost

Good evening, sports fans, and welcome to the inaugural Monster Bash!
For the longest time, for Halloween, Mankind has celebrated those twisted creatures of sinister might and dark magic for the fear they can incite. But, I don’t think it’s enough to include an entire barrage of beasts every single time we want to celebrate one day. After all, how can we decide which of these nightmarish freaks is truly Monster Supreme?
Well, pure and simple, why not drop them in an arena and see who is left alive? Well, standing at least . . . or floating. Whatever, we want to know which one can outlast the others in a standoff.
So, for this Halloween Countdown, we’re doing to throw down in the ring, and see which of eight classic monsters will defeat the rest, and be 2015’s Monster Supreme. I’ve selected eight monsters to play within an elimination contest bracket, paired them up randomly and we’ll see who wins.
So, without further ado, let’s go to the arena!

- - -

  “Thank you, Matt,” I say to myself, as I am somehow now standing in the middle of a twilit graveyard and wearing a tuxedo and heavy set of headphones while holding a microphone. “I’m standing here, in the Horton-Meier Churchyard, a scene which has been graciously provided to us for this year’s Monster Bash. Just a small property, but it has a lot of character and useful sites for these fights.”
I start walking to the far side, where there is a table set up with two secondary characters and a pretty young woman wearing a glitzy formal dress. Her skin was brown, and her curly hair draped around her shoulders.
 “This year, I’m joined by Jayalaw, who will be helping us to comment on tonight’s entertainment. How do you feel about tonight’s fight?”
“I think that there’s more to the contestants than meets the eye,” the woman said. “For some reason people don’t like werewolves, but most of the time they are normal human beings. We’ll have to see if the were-part of the wolf will be able to apply human smarts.”
 “Indeed, especially up against a ghost. You can give a geist a good whack, but if you want to take them down, you’ve got to find that haunt, or exorcise them somehow. So, the werewolf will have staying power, but that won’t count for anything if he doesn’t fight smart this evening.”
“The ghost also shouldn’t take things for granted. They may be dead with an immortal soul, but souls are only human, and humans make mistakes. Both contestants need to be on their toes his evening.”
 “So you think the human factor will be the deciding factor in this fight?”
“Oh definitely. There aren’t many monster stories where the monster uses his brains to get out of a bad situation. But to be honest I don’t watch many reality shows, so I don’t know how to predict winners. I merely plan to observe, to see who avoids wiping out.”
 “Well, someone will have to wipe out tonight, I’m afraid. Oh, and they’re bringing in the contestants now . . .” I say. Off to the left side of the churchyard, near a copse of trees, the gates were opened by two stagehands and a large truck backed into the yard and the helpers opened the doors. A man wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, with salt-pepper hair and a five-o’clock shadow jumped down out of the truck. On both of his wrists, heavy chains were tied.
 “In this corner, tonight we’ll be seeing Gareth Donahue, a thirty-four-year old car mechanic from Darwin, who also happens to be a ravenous werewolf,” I say. On the other side of the field the gates are opened and two stage hands step in carrying what looks like a jar with a candle inside.
They place it on the ground and open the lid, and instantly the glass shatters, and a small girl flickers into existence, a woman wearing a business suit that looked rumpled and wet, and her dark hair was hanging around her face. Her whole body seemed to flicker slightly and glow a sickly shade of blue.
 “And in this corner, he’ll be facing off against Sasaki Tsukiyami, a Brisbane girl migrant from Japan who was murdered by a jilted lover at the age of just twenty, and returned as a vengeful spirit . . . whose possessions have been donated to us by the Tsukiyami family for the sake of this evening’s entertainment.” I stand up and scream. “It’s Hound versus Haunt, who will win?  Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Three . . . two . . . one, FIGHT!”

Gareth begins by jogging across the graveyard towards the ghost. She watched, creepily, tilting her head awkwardly, her black hair hung over her face so that only one of her eyes could be seen. As he came within three metres, she suddenly shrieked.
 “Don’t you dare . . .” Sasaki hissed.
 “What, are you scared?!” said Gareth with a smirk. “Or are you just trying to scare me?”
He swung a right hook at her head, but his fist passed right through. He just sighed.
“I should have figured as much . . . so does this mea-”
The ghost shoved him with both hands, and Gareth went flying backwards. Head over heels, he landed awkwardly on his shoulder and rolled backwards, landing on his front.
 “You can’t hurt me . . .” Sasaki hissed, as she lifted off the ground and floated towards him. He didn’t move at first, and it seemed like maybe he’d been knocked out, but after four seconds, he suddenly pushed himself up and shook himself off.
 “I’m starting to really hate you,” said Gareth, his voice deep, almost hoarse, “I’m gonna have to lose it . . . faster than I expected.”
There was a sickly cracking sound as his bones began shifting and growing. There was a swift ripping as his muscles expanded through his shirt and became covered with wiry, brown fur. His face became elongated, his teeth grew. As he transformed, he got to his feet in time for claws to shred through his shoes. The werewolf snarled and as the clothing fell from him and the last of his form snapped into place, he took a step forward and roared.
The force of the sound made the ghost’s clothing and hair move as though in a sudden, strong gust of wind. The werewolf snarled and leapt, face-first with jaws open wide. He dove straight through the ghost, but as his enormous form flew through hers, her body dissipated like smoke.
The werewolf looked confused, as it sniffed around, pawing at the ground. Sasaki reappeared, looking a little dazed as it stumbled to its feet, but before the ghost could regain her composure, the werewolf ran forward and slammed a great claw through her, and into the ground. Breathing heavily, the wolf sniffed left and right. After another ten seconds, Sasaki reappeared, this time behind him. Before he could turn around she floated off the ground and grabbed him by the hair on his back. The werewolf barked sharply, as she drifted upwards, and pulled him off the ground. The werewolf twisted and swiped, grunting and snarling but couldn’t reach the fur on its back. The ghost drifted a good five storeys above the ground, and sideways so they were floating above the gravestones. Then, she dropped him. A headstone crumbled as he landed on top of it with his chest, and the werewolf made a high-pitched yelp.
It crawled away from the headstone, limping, and looked up at the ghost in the air, frothing at the mouth with rage. After a few deep breaths, the werewolf stood on its hind legs and pounced up. It leapt almost twice his height, claws outstretched, but it wasn’t high enough. It tried again, but couldn’t get any higher, and the ghost floated overhead, looking down at the wolf from above.
The werewolf let out a mournful howl, then seemed to tense and flex its muscles. The beast started to shrink, muscles shivering and bones snapping as he returned to a man-like form. But the transformation did not complete, rather than Gareth’s human form, he reduced to a wolf-man, with muscular arms and a wiry mane, but smaller and with more exposed skin.
 “Gotta fight smart . . .” growled Gareth, holding his bruised side as he wandered towards the path in front of the church. Gareth saw the shattered remains of the glass jar near the fence, he sniffed at the pieces before scraping it into a pile, scooping it with the dirt so he wouldn’t cut himself, then he looked up at the sky. “You’ll never win if you fly around up there!”
Sasaki flickered for a moment, then held out her arms, as though on an invisible crucifix and screamed as she began to plummet down towards the ground. Gareth scooped up the dirt and glass quickly into both hands, and as Sasaki landed on the ground, he threw it.
She shrieked in pain as her ghostly form dissipated again, like smoke.
 “Salt and iron,” said Gareth, smiling. “You can’t just slip through salt and iron, can you, bitch!”
Sniffing around, Gareth caught a scent and ran towards the church. It was only a small, wooden thing, barely twenty-five square metres. Inside, the lights were lit, and Gareth was looking around until something caught his eye. Sitting atop the lectern, and very much out of place, was a little, china doll. He approached it, but as he got half-way, Sasaki appeared behind him.
 “You can’t hide from me . . .” she warned. Not wasting a second, Gareth leapt towards the lectern, and grabbed the doll, landing awkwardly and rolling into the wall. But he managed to get to his feet.
 “Does this look familiar?” he said, breathing heavily.
 “No . . . wait, don’t!” shrieked Sasaki, as she recognized the doll.
With a cruel grin, Gareth held the doll above his head.
 “NOOO!” screamed Sasaki, but the doll’s head collided with the corner of the lectern, and shattered. Sasaki screamed an otherworldly scream and her form was encompassed by blinding light, then exploded into particles of smoke.

A bell sounded, and I stepped out from behind the commentators desk.
 “We have a winner!” I yelled, running towards the church. “That was way more exciting than I imagined . . . ghostly apparition has its benefits, but being linked to an inanimate object seems to be one killer weakness. Gareth, come out here!”
Gareth stumbled out the door, still holding his side, but smiling.
 “Gareth, you’ve survived round one. How do you feel?”
 “I feel like crap,” he said, breathing heavily. “But I’m glad I got rid of that shrieking banshee . . . that was fun, but it hurt like hell when she dropped me.”
 “Yeah, I think you’ve got a broken rib. We’re gonna get you patched up before your next match. But, ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the Werewolf!”
The other three commentators clap, and Gareth stumbles off towards the churchyard gate.
 “Alright, but that was just round one. To find out the Monster Supreme, you’ll need to stick around. Come back tomorrow for Round Two, where two more monsters will face off in our Monster Bash!”

Short of Breath, Long of Thought

Good evening, my faithful followers . . . don't worry, I'm not dead. Not yet, anyway.
I've disappeared for a while, for a hiatus, a holiday, a healing reprieve. Call it what you will, but I'm back.
And not without pomp or ceremony, because I always act a little pompous and ceremonious on a day like today. After all, today is my birthday.

Hip . . . hip . . . hurrah.

Y'know, that reminds me. During this month, in 1819 (and several months preceding), there was a series of riots in Germany by a collection of anti-Semitic Germans, who killed many Jewish citizens, and destroyed their property.
they were known as the Hep-Hep Riots, for the way the rioters called out "hep hep" to the German Jews they were rounding up and beating, the same way that a shepherd would call to round up sheep. Just something to think about.

Yes, we've come around once more to my birthday, and that means that we have to resurrect that old, dusty tradition. The Halloween Countdown:

A count of the days, counting down from thirteen,
From today, thirteen nights till we see Halloween.

Now, I must admit, it's been a while since I've written anything for the blog. I do sincerely apologize, I didn't want to see you all suffer . . . not like that, anyway. But, don't think I've forgiven and forgotten you all! Rather, I was working on something special for the blog, for this very countdown. No, please, don't go getting your hopes up.
See, the reason I haven't written a blog post is because I was working up until this very second on it . . . and I'm still not done.

See, I came up with a twisted, little idea for the Countdown. Because it's Thirteen blog posts, I thought I could write a little story with 13 chapters. Sounds fun, right?
Well, yes . . . but, I bit off more than I could chew. So in the interests of completing in time, I've decided to spit out the gory, bloody chunk of meat I've been chewing on in the hopes of nibbling on some lighter Halloween Candy.
Don't fear! I still plan on writing that story, and I think I'll even give it to you all next year. I've written chapter one, and it is delectably morbid fare. I won't give you any spoilers, since I will share it with you next year, all I will say is this:
"the scariest moment is when you come to terms with reality."

But, this year, we'll try to make this a little easier. After all, I haven't been feeling well lately . . . so please, pity, the poor, simpering madman.
For that reason, the Word of the Day is: 'ANXIETY'

Anxiety /ang'zuyǝtee/ n. 1. Tension or unease of mind caused by fear of danger or misfortune. 2. Concerned desire; eagerness. 3. Psychology A state of fear and tension found in some disorders of the mind.

See, I have been feeling a little nervous, lately. A little anxious. It's hard to shake that oppressive cycle of self-destructive worry. But, I've been learning. It's weird, though. See, anxiety is a bad thing, definitely, for me it is one of the most unsettling and disruptive forces in my waking life (and my Beloved has forewarned me that sufferers can even have 'anxiety dreams').
But, anxiety is not really a "bad" thing. Just like fire, blood and knives, it's not the thing itself which is evil, but the things that we do with it.

For starters, anxiety is meant to protect us. You're walking through the forest, you hear a twig snap, a strange noise or see a shadow flicker past your vision, then your body reacts. You tense up, adrenaline floods your body, your breathing quickens and shortens, your eyes narrow, your brain goes into overdrive analyzing your senses and thoughts to try to quantify the danger.
Anxiety is meant to be your friend, your bodyguard and your protector.

By that same token, anxiety can also have a positive influence. I want to share something with you fine readers from two earlier blog posts. These are two different blog posts I wrote in 2013, but I will copy my own words here, because I want you to stay focussed here, not off reading those elsewhere. Here's what I said:

  "The thing is, relaxing isn't fun. I don't like to relax. Sleep is boring, sitting around is just stupid and not thinking is a slow torture. I don't like holidays and I don't like to relax."

- The Absurd Word Nerd, Pause for Thought, Sunday, 21 April 2013

  "See, I like a challenge, I like to make my mind-gears whir overtime, and overclock my cortex to a point where I feel like it doesn't fit in my skull. I like thinking BIG, so even when I tackle something potentially 'simple' I like to see if I can complicate it."

- The Absurd Word Nerd, The Writing on the Wall, Thursday, 30 May 2013

In retrospect, both of these are fuelled by a sense of anxiety. I don't like sleeping and relaxing, and I don't like being bored or boring. Now, this kind of anxiety is one of excitement, but that is, nonetheless, anxiety. Just as the definition says, some anxiety is concerned desire, or eagerness.
It's the same reason why people enjoy horror films. Adrenaline, fear and horror are not bad things. So, even though I am still working on my feelings of anxiety, I am confident that a little Halloween fun will do me good.

And, of course, since it's one of the scariest things I'm dealing with, it might just inspire a little fear in my readers. For now, I'm going to go eat some birthday cake. But until tomorrow, I'm the Absurd Word Nerd and I hope you enjoy this Countdown, and that you're all excited about Halloween!

First Things First

Sorry for the long gaps between posts. I'm just having trouble sleeping lately, but I don't want to talk about my anxiety all the time, that can get a bit heavy and depressing if that's all I'm talking about. So, what do I want to talk about instead? Well, a while ago I was doing research for stories, and I came across a trope regarding early incarnations of modern characters, and that idea struck a chord with me.
For example, there are a lot of vampires in the modern day fiction, but there are all kinds of variations, from Nosferatu to Edward Cullen, even to the Count of Sesame Street. So, what inspired all of these? You may think Dracula, but you'd be wrong. No, he wasn't the first. Vampires did exist in folklore, such as the Greek vrykolakas and the Romanian strigoi, as well as some German poetry about vampires. But the very first vampire character in fiction was actually Lord Ruthven, of the 1819 short story The Vampyre by John William Polidori; you can even read it online at Project Gutenberg if you want.
But isn't that fascinating? I think it's fascinating, these progenitors of fiction, predecessors that inspired modern characters; even though they are not as famous as their later incarnations these firsts iterations are both fascinating and inspiring.
The Word of the Day is: 'FIRST'

First /ferst/ adj. 1. Being before all others in time, order, rank, importance, etc. (used as the ordinal number of one); 1st. 2. Motor Vehicles Of or relating to the lowest gear ratio. 3. First hand, From the first or original source. ♦adv. 4. Before all others or anything else in time, order, rank, etc. 6. For the first time: She first met him at a party. 7. Rather than something else; sooner. 8. At the beginning. 9. First up, at the first attempt. ♦n. 10. Anyone or anything which is first in time, order, rank, quality, etc. 11. (pl.) The best quality of certain goods.

So, the following list is a list of firsts. However, I have to say, it can't be a comprehensive list. One of the things I discovered while doing my research is that stock characters are a nebulous concept.
For instance, what was the first vehicle? Some might say the "car", but is a vehicle a vehicle if it is man-powered? If so, does a bike count? What about a rickshaw? A pair of shoes? If not, what about a horse? Is a horse a vehicle? It's an animal, but if animals can't count, could a horse-drawn carriage count? If that counts, what about a sled? What about a rickshaw, or are we not counting human-drawn vehicles?
There will be different definitions based on each person's understanding of what defines a certain thing (in this instance "fictional character"), so I will try to list a few examples of "other firsts", and my reasoning for why they don't count, as well as my definition for that stock character.
So, with that disclaimer out of the way, this is . . .

The A.W.N.'s List of Stock Character Firsts

The First Mary Sue
What is a Mary Sue?
A fictional character whose accomplishments are unreasonably positive and successful, with very few flaws and is written as an author surrogate to live a more successful life vicariously through the character, but is not an author insert.

Honourable Mentions
First, I considered Dante Aligheri, from The Divine Comedy, since that's an early author surrogate, but the story is about Dante going to Hell, so I don't think that is unreasonably positive and successful. Also, since Dante is his real name, and the character doesn't do anything unrealistic, I think this is merely an author insert. So, after then, I considered Marco Polo. Although Marco is his real name, I figured that the character's exploits of travelling to outlandish places and surviving was wild enough that the character wasn't really him. But I felt uneasy about him having the same name, and the semi-fictional accounts of his exploits didn't feel like they painted the main character in a great light, so I also dismissed MP. However, in researching him, I found my true Mary Sue.

FIRST!
"Sir Jehan de Mandeville". Sir Jehan is a fictional English knight who travelled all over Africa. He served the Sultan of Egypt, fought the bedouins, was offered marriage into royalty (but denied, for he could not forsake his religion); he also travelled through Europe, including Russia and Ukraine, drank from the Well of Youth, served the Emperor of China & his story is totally true, you can trust me, because it was confirmed by the Pope as a true story.
However, this is a total lie. In truth, this is a French story, called The Travels of Sir John Mandeville, a fictional travelogue that was written before 1357 and the British Sir John Mandeville does not exist. The story is most likely written by a Frenchman, some suggest Jehan a la Barbe, others say Jean le Long, but either way, this character did not really exist, so he was not self-insert. While some facts are accurate, it is believed that these are accomplished by careful research of the writer (Jean de Long, one of the writers, was a monk who collected genuine travelogues, which would explain why he would need to live vicariously through his Mary Sue character), and the fact that the character meets royalty and serves them greatly, yet does not appear in history, exposes this story for the fiction that it is.
It just seems like some preening French fanboy idolized English knights, and wanted to go on an amazing adventure.

The First Murder Mystery Detective
What is a Murder Mystery Detective?
A fictional character who solves crimes for a living, often murders. They are suited to the job because of an extraordinary skill set that they possess, and for this reason they often find themselves encountering cases which are more difficult than the commonplace. They, along with the reader, investigate the clues and their job is finished when they uncover the answer to the mystery.

Honourable Mentions
Around the 1300s, China had its own version of the Mystery Genre, called Gong'an, which centred around fictionalized versions of historical judges and magistrates who deliberated over local crimes. Despite having some interesting characters, such as Judge Bao & Judge Di, these crimes are not mysteries, as the plot of the story is the telling of how the crime was committed, and ends with the judge using some manner of making the guilty party confess. Also, many involve supernatural elements, using magic to solve the crime and all of them contain very little investigating or detective skills, so they are dismissed outright. Next, I considered the works of Conan Doyle, and while quintessential, he was not progenitorial, as more came before him.
The first murder mystery in English history was The Notting Hill Tale by Charles Felix, which involved a complex mystery of poisoning, only discovered by the lawyer managing the deceased's estate, but the lawyer himself was not a detective and only solved the case after the fact by looking through his papers. So, for a long, long time, I thought the very first was "Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin", the main character from The Murders in the Rue Morgue by Edgar Allen Poe. But then, in doing some last-minute research, just now in fact, I discovered that there was a detective that came before him.

FIRST!
"Zadig". An ancient Babylonian philosopher, Zadig travels from Babylonia to Egypt and then back again, encountering woes, helping others and getting into trouble thanks to his trysts with women (femme fatale, anyone?). What is most odd about Zadig is that he comes from Zadig ou la Destinée by Voltaire in 1747, and it is written as a satire of the philosophical and political issues of his day. Yet, Zadig himself is like Genre Refugee, because although he partakes in drama, romance and tragedy, he has an uncanny ability to use his powers of "discernment", to determine truths based on keenly observed evidences. He dedicates himself to justice, firstly as a philosopher dedicated to uncovering truth and reality, then as a Babylonian minister (basically an arbiter of law) and then as a wayward traveller who seeks to help those which have suffered injustice.
Admittedly, he only uncovers one murderer within the novel (unless he arbitrates over a few as a minister), but only by using his skill to discover the lead witness - the queen - and not through direct analysis of clues. But by the nature of his discerning skills; his solving of several mysteries, riddles and troubles in the land including crime and murder & finally evidence that Zadig was the character that inspired Edgar Allen Poe to write Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin (as Poe himself admitted), leaves no doubt in my mind that Zadig is, in fact, the first murder mystery detective in fiction.
If you're curious, you can read it online if you want (Zadig begins on Page 47),

The First Slasher Killer
What is a Slasher Killer?
A fictional antagonist within a story with a monstrous look, either through costume, disfigurement or genetic anomaly. They kill three or more people and often cause fear either because they stalk their victims effortlessly, they terrorise their victims mercilessly or they kill their victims gruesomely. They tend to have an iconic weapon, yet most murder using a variety of methods.

Honourable Mentions
For a long time, I believed the first slasher was the killer from Black Christmas, a 1974 slasher film. However, despite the film being a horror with abundant murder, the killer in those films was not iconic, and while he was a serial killer, he was not a slasher. Also, just like with the Murder Mystery Detective, I thought I had found my man in The Terror, a hooded serial killer from a 1927 play (and 1928 movie, the first ever horror with recorded dialogue), but that wasn’t the first.
So, I looked earlier - much earlier - to find an iconic murderer, disfigured and in costume, and I actually came across Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus. Titus, the titular character of the play goes mad after his daughter is raped. He even cuts off his own hand, disfiguring himself, and he is a renowned Roman General and often portrayed wearing his Roman Helmet and decorations, so he is quite iconic and he kills six people through the course of the play (as well as condemning his two sons to execution. However, fourteen people die throughout the course of the play, and although he kills over 50%, most Shakespearean tragedies are bloody and Titus, despite his insanity and horrendous murder, he is not portrayed as fearsome, as he is not really a villain and not all portrayals include the iconic Roman General costume (and the disfigurement is just his hand), so fear is not a part of his character. So, while this kind of play inspired Grand Guignol theatre, which was the progenitor of Gorn which is a subtrope of the Slasher genre, the character himself is not the kind of scary monstrous killer I’m looking for.

FIRST!
"The Bat", I uncovered this character when I was researching superheroes. The character inspired Batman, but he is by no means a superhero as he is the villain, so I put him aside. However the Bat is a masked criminal who dresses up as a bat, commits crime and also terrorizes his victims and commits murder.
In this play from 1920, several people are staying in an old, mysterious mansion so they can look for a treasure stashed within. But as they do they are terrorized by The Bat, a legendary criminal who has committed robbery and murder in the past. At first he scares them with flickering lights, threatening notes, mysterious phone calls and glimpses of him through the windows, but when the occupants refuse to leave, and instead bring in more people to investigate, the Bat starts killing them off one by one. The play was a mystery and melodrama moreso than a wholehearted horror, but the villain’s use of fear, a frightening masked killer and several murders at the hand of the caped criminal makes The Bat the first Slasher Killer.
You can read or download the original play online in digitized pdf format [link may cause a download], or if you prefer a more visual medium, you can find the silent film on YouTube.


So, I was going to make a list of ten, but the research was taking too long (and I could only come up with 7 Stock Character definitions anyway), and it's been so long since you've heard from me. So, I'll continue this list in a later blog post (or two). For now I just hope that this inspires something creative in you, as it has in me.
Also, if you disagree with my definition, or you think you know of an earlier incarnation of one of these characters (or, just an early incarnation of any fictional character or trope), feel free to leave a comment.
Until Next Time, I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and you read it here first.

Healing Diary: The Mindtrap

Anxiety is a cruel beast. Just as I think of depression like a black dog, I think of anxiety like a living organism. Not exactly like butterflies, but it's as good an analogy as any. And just like any other living thing, it feeds, it grows and it fights for its survival. Anxiety feeds on doubt and stress, it grows in severity and avoids any predator that would defeat it.

In fact, butterflies are a good analogy, because they start of as cute, little caterpillars. But caterpillars feed and feed and feed until they're strong enough to grow up. Unfortunately, when these caterpillars grow, they don't turn into butterflies. In my case, they metamorphose into panic attacks.

The Word of the Day is: 'PANIC'.

Panic /'panik/ n. 1. A sudden terror, with or without clear cause. ♦adj. 2. (of fear, terror, etc.) Suddenly destroying self-control and causing hasty, unreasoned action. ♦v.t. 3. To (cause to) feel panic.

I had a panic attack three days ago. It was a terrifying, confronting and painful experience; so, I am dealing with it in the same way that I deal with a lot of life's troubles. I want to write about it, because it was a terrible ordeal, but here I am the one that's in control. I am here to vivisect this monstrosity, in the hopes that as I pull it apart, it will die on the operating table.

So, what exactly is a panic attack? Well, essentially, it is what happens when your body triggers a fight-or-flight response, without any actual, physical danger. It may seem like a malfunction, but it is more accurate to call it a dysfunction. The flight-or-flight response isn't broken, so much as overly sensitive; your fear response is working perfectly well, but when you suffer from anxiety, your body is responding to stressors more severely.
A panic attack is what happens when those stressors (or your response TO those stressors) develops to the point where something harmless makes you react as though it is an imminent threat. In my case, it was something as simple as boredom, silence and loneliness . . . to me, it felt like I was dying. So, why would something so simple set off a panic attack? Well, because it wasn't that simple.

It started way earlier than that. Remember how I said that anxiety defends itself? Well, regular people with regular anxiety know how to handle it; you do things you enjoy, you talk to people, exercise, eat food that you like, laugh and smile and ignore such petty problems. But when you have chronic anxiety, the way that it defends itself is insidious. It starts by feeding on those little doubts you have, the ones that we all have. But the really sneaky part is that it continues by attacking your defenses. If you eat to feel good, it makes you feel sick about eating and worried about your weight. If you like watching movies or listening to music, it occupies your mind; it makes you lose focus and forget about the joy that it brings you.
Or, like in my case, it made me draw away from people, I hid away because I began to worry about what could go wrong on social occasions. Then, as those worries continued to fester, I entered a heightened state of anxiety. It meant that my body was often producing adrenaline, I would feel a tightness in my chest and I would feel exhausted because of the drain on my body from worrying all the time. This meant that I would feel tired, and go to sleep. Fatigue is a common symptom of anxiety, and if you are sleeping during the day and don't get out of bed, it becomes practically impossible to do any kind of stress relief. Worst of all, this stress took something away from me that matters the most . . . my ability to write. When you're stressed, your mind wants to think about that stress, it becomes a constant distraction and makes it hard to focus. When I lose focus, I can't write, and so that wore me down the most. It will probably be different for different sufferers of chronic anxiety, but for me, this was when the trap was set. Not a bear-trap or mousetrap, but a trap to set off a panic attack; a mindtrap.

Everything was already in place, the target was isolated, demoralized, tired, distracted, weakened and surrounded by attackers, of anxiety and stress, and without even my ability to write all of my weapons had been taken away from me. Even though I worked to fix my sleep and exercise, it was already too late. It just took a trigger, and that trigger was silence, boredom and loneliness. I was watching a video in the hopes that it would cheer me up, but I was losing interest in it and when I lost interest, my mind began to wander. It started a cascade effect, and I began to doubt everything. I doubted the reason for what I was doing, I doubted my ability to cope, I doubted whether or not I would get better, my ability to write and my ability to cope. Then I started doubting my own life, if I was going to have anxiety for the rest of my life; would it continue to take the things I care about away from me? Then I doubted the purpose of my life, and what good it was to live if I wasn't doing any of the things that mattered to me; and I doubted whether life even mattered at all.

I felt trapped, and when my anxiety closed around me, I freaked out. My response was flight at first, I ran, I jumped from my chair. Then it became one of fight. But because the attack was in my head, I couldn't see what I was fighting. I ran outside, I threw my shoe at the floor, I yelled out and screamed. To any mentally healthy person, it would seem that I was acting like a crazy person, and by some definitions I was. But if you saw the steps that lead me to that position, and the way I had been trapped by my own mind, it would seem perfectly logical to you, as it did to me too.
I think that's the most disturbing part about mental illness. It's not mind control, it's not possession; and although I personify and identify my anxiety like an animal, it isn't literally a thinking creature. It is the result of my mind reacting to stimuli in a way that it considers logical. Like I said, it's not a malfunction, it's a dysfunction, and if you were in my shoes, you would act the same way.

As a result of this panic attack, I was exhausted, tired, unable to focus. But thankfully, I had one key thought, which was "I need help". So, I asked for it. I grabbed my computer, and I looked for help with panic attacks. I knew that more than anything I wanted to talk to someone, and I learned that Lifeline is not just for crisis support and suicide prevention, but that they offer support for those suffering a panic attack.
I called them up, and a very nice lady on the phone talked to me, and helped me to calm down. She talked some sense into me, gave me some advice and guided me to a better mind-space. I thanked her and hung up the phone, but since then I was in a much more vulnerable state. If I was left alone for even a second, or I was left in silence, I would feel stressed and depressed, and it was very tiring. And I think, if there is a reason why anxiety produces panic attacks, that is it - it leaves you prone for another one, while also providing plenty more stress, doubt and fear to feed those little anxiety caterpillars.

I am feeling better. You'll notice I'm writing again, I've also calmed down and I am no longer on the verge of another attack, I feel pretty good. And the craziest part is, all I did was some of the simplest stress-relief there is.
After seeking professional help, I spoke to my girlfriend; I got a good night's sleep; I got some exercise and I meditated whenever I felt my breathing get sharp and shallow. It's simple, but effective stuff. And I guess that's the part about this that you need to remember, although it seems like a silly analogy, anxiety really is a lot like butterflies. It's not really that powerful, all things told, and it can't really hurt you. That's why it needs to be so insidious and set up little traps to catch you. But, if you do those simple little things, you won't let the butterflies in your stomach get the better of you.

Healing Diary: Why I'm Nervous about Driving

I get very anxious about driving my car. I used to be really confident, and if you read my post about getting my provisional license, I was ecstatic that I could drive on my own, I felt free, I described it as one of the greatest feelings in the world.
But now, when I drive, I feel this sense of dread. Not about crashing or anything, oddly enough, I know how to drive safely and I have airbags even if I crash. No, my concern is getting lost, running out of petrol and, basically, my car losing its abilities to get me home.
It's irrational, you don't have to tell me that, I know that. But there's precedence for it. There were three incidents in my life which have triggered this anxiety when it comes to driving. The Word of the Day is: 'LOST'

Lost /lost/ adj. 1. No longer possessed or kept: Lost friends. 2. No longer to be found: Lost articles. 3. Confused as to place, direction, etc. 4. (of time, etc.) wasted. 5. Not achieved or won: A lost prize. 6. Attended with defeat: A lost battle. 7. Destroyed or ruined. 8. Lost to, a. No longer belonging to. b. No longer open to: The opportunity was lost to him. c. Unfeeling to: To be lost to all sense of duty. ♦v. 9. Past tense of lose.

Incident 1: You Can't Trust Petrol Stations

The first time I drove my car on my own late at night, it was because my brother James had just finished work and discovered a flat battery. He called me, asked if I could come with jumper cables, I said no problem. As I'm driving, I see that I have about a quarter tank of petrol. I figure, no worries, I'll just get some fuel. There are two petrol stations on the way, but one's on the other side of a busy road, I figure I'll pull into the one on the way. So, I pull in, open the fuel panel, undo the cap and rest it on the back of the car, then I put the pump in and pull the trigger . . . nothing. I was confused, so I put the pump back and walk up to the storefront. All of the lights are on, but it's closed, dead empty.
I thought that was pretty stupid, but I figure I'll cut my losses. I get back in my car and drive off. As I execute a lane-change, I see in my rear view mirror that I've left my fuel panel open. So, I easily pull over the car by the road. There, I get out, walk around to close the panel and . . . the fuel cap is missing. Because of the disconnect of not having the fuel pump work, the whole ritual of refueling had stopped mid-session, I hadn't put the cap on or closed the panel. I left it on the boot of the car, but it's not there anymore, it must have come off as I drove. I'd driven about 100 metres at this point, so I run up the road, looking in drains and all along the gutter for my fuel cap, but I couldn't find it. I looked for a solid 20 minutes, since I didn't know what would happen if I drove without a cap, but after searching for ages, I again, decide to cut my losses and drive on.

My dad bought me a new petrol cap a day later, but ever since that experience, I've been wary of petrol stations. I mean, if it's closed, why are the lights on? Even the lights up the aisles, is it for the security camera?
It's very confusing to me, because unless I'd looked it up beforehand, how am I supposed to tell if it's open or closed? The closed sign wasn't on the door, the shop was just empty and the door wouldn't open. I didn't even know that petrol stations could close, sure after I put some thought into it I can understand why some might, but I hadn't consciously considered it until then; especially because they leave their lights on even when closed, it was very misleading. So, I was wary of petrol stations.

Incident 2: "You Can't Find Your Way Home"

Not long after that, I was still pretty confident with driving, but I had become wary of petrol stations, so I avoid them unless I have to use them, not only because I don't want to waste money buying fuel any old time if I can wait for a cheaper day, but also because this was before I was on Newstart Allowance, so every tank of fuel was a scoop out of my slowly depleting bank account, and I liked to wait for a moment when I could con my parents into driving and then refuelling my car.
I organized to watch a movie with a friend of mine, at Indooroopilly Shopping Centre, a mall nestled beside the Brisbane CBD.
I left the house with a quarter tank of fuel, and I figured that, if it took too long to get home, I'd just refuel on the way back. In fact, as I drove into the city, I saw two petrol stations on the road I'd have to take back, so I felt safe that I could use them. In fact, as I drove into the carpark, I saw a third petrol station just next to the shop, so I felt satisfied that I had plenty of opportunities to refuel.
  Three hours later . . . 
I've seen my friend, we had a fun time at the movies, we had lunch, now it's time to go home. The sun is setting as I get in the car, and I see that my fuel is still around the ⅛ mark. It's enough to get home, but I figure I should get a refill anyway, if I can. So, before I even leave, I check my directory to make sure I know where the petrol station is. I find it, it's all good, I just need to go around the block and there it is. So, I drive out. Unfortunately, Indooroopilly is a shopping centre, and this petrol station is right beside it, as is the entryway, so by the time I spot it, I'm past it. But I don't worry at first, I just figure I need to circle the block and I'll get it next time, right?
Well, no. There's no "circling the block" in the city, because for some reason, whoever designed the city had more of a "plinko" style of traffic flow, whereby even if you knock around left and right, the one-way streets still drain you in the same, general direction. So, despite looking for more left turns to escape, I find myself passing down several side streets with "no left turn" signs, By the time I finally do, I'm passing a school zone, and I have no idea where I am. but, before I can take another left turn and start heading back, I find another "no left turn" at a T-section, I have to head right again.
So, I join another river of traffic, and I just get carried along. I consider pulling over to the side of the road to check my map, but I wasn't very confident with my parallel parking, and the side of the road was lined with cars bumper to bumper, no spaces except for alleyways, crossings and corners. Now, I'm heading further into hills and suburbia at this point and I have no idea where I am, so I decide "I'll meander until I can pull over, then I'll find my way again."
So, I find a side-street away from main roads, drive in and pull over next to some school field somewhere. Okay, so at this point, the sun is well and truly down, it's night time. I look for this school on the map and find it quickly, then I find a path back. I abandon that petrol station, it would be too hard to get back, I just want to find the highway that heads home, because I know there are TWO petrol stations there, remember. I'll be fine. The petrol is still around that eighth, but I'm feeling uncomfortable about it, and no longer is it an option, I know I need petrol, I just need to get back to the main road. So, with my path figured out, I get in the car and drive. I've memorized. Drive straight down, right, left, right, right (or something like that) and I'll be on the road back to the main path.
So, I drive straight down . . . right, then wait for it, drive down this road . . . left, and there's my turn . . . no right turn. I get to the intersection and it's a one-way street, or so it seems, I can't pull over, I have to turn in. So, I follow the road left instead, starting to feel uncomfortable, but maybe I can turn around? So, I try to correct this little error, but i can't. The road heads for an intersection, and my only options are to cross the road or turn left again into a slip lane. So, I opt for the slip-lane, but that slip-lane leads me onto a main road in a suburb I don't recognize. I am swept along, swaying and dipping with the hills as we go, and I don't remember this many hills driving into the city, so I feel very uncomfortable. But then I get to a T-intersection. I don't have time to decide, I have to turn right, I'm in the right-turning lane, so I enter it, but I'm on some kind of escarpment overlooking a rolling suburbia, and I start to get upset.
No no no no, I tell my steering wheel, as we follow another winding road, and I can't pull over, because cars line this street too. So I follow the street, but I don't know where I'm going, I feel lost. And I start going up and down hills, shifting gears so that the engine can manage. And I start to panic as I go up one hill that's so steep I'm in first gear, and I imagine the gurgling fuel getting sucked dry like chocolate milkshake at the bottom of a parfait glass, getting slurped dry.

In fact, as I head uphill, the "low fuel" warning light comes on. I panic and pull over. I immediately turn off the car and the lights and I start to fret. As I catch my breath, I realize that it's just the tilt of the car because I'm on a hill at a forty degree angle or so. There's still fuel, it's just not near the indicator in the tank; but I still feel my heart racing anyway.
I have no idea where I am, I have no idea how much fuel I have, I have no idea where the next petrol station is, I have no idea how much fuel I'll need to get home and even if I use my directory to point me in the direction of a local petrol station - thanks to my previous encounter with a small-chain petrol station - I have no idea if it will even be open at this time of night.
But, I am determined not to panic. With a surge of nervous energy, I jump out of the car and run up the street. There's an intersection up there, and a street sign. I just need to find two street signs, and I will have identified my location. Then, knowing that, I can find my way back to the main road. As I run up the street, I also realize, one of the stations I passed on the way here was covered with lights and had a recognizable name. Those brands are always open 24/7, I can feel hope for the first time all evening. So, with sore legs, I get to the top of this hill, I find one sign, but the other one is further down the road. I jog across for twenty metres or so before I come to it, I write the name down in my notepad, then I head all the way back. I walk down the hill, in an effort to slow my heart rate down, but it doesn't work, I'm anxious, but kind of excited, I have my first clues.
I get to the car, quickly open the door, grab my directory and shut the door. I don't know how long it will take to map this out, so I don't want to use my car's interior lights, I use the flashlight on my phone to search the book.

When I found out where I was, I realized it was rather far from where I had come from (about two pages in an A5-sized street directory), but I saw that I was close to a main road that would lead me to a highway, and towards home, I just needed to follow a little route to get to the highway. So, I double-check to make sure that I won't get turned away from my route, I hop in the car and, with fingers metaphorically crossed, I start the car. Easy as pie, Gemini fires up and we head up the hill, I'm a little upset that I have to head all the way up in first, but I follow the path and soon I'm on the main road again.
But, I'm not on the main road for more than a minute when I see an opportunity. A big, green sign pointing off, it had a street name on it that I recognized. It was basically a sign saying "highway - this way! >>" I took the chance, I slipped right through, and shortly after that, I was back on the highway, baby!
I came to a set of lights, and stopped, and as I sat at the lights, I realized that my feet were shaking. As my foot sat on the clutch, and my other on the brake, my heels were bouncing nervously, I couldn't control it. I used the floor mat to steady my feet, so that it wouldn't disrupt my driving, but it was very distracting. In fact, when I saw the petrol station, I didn't even realize that I was in the wrong lane. I quickly changed lanes, and as I did, I heard a screech of tires!

I didn't crash, but I don't know what happened, I can't remember. At the time, I assumed that I didn't check that the lane was clear, properly, and that the person behind me had hit their brakes, but I didn't see any lights in my rear view mirror, or in the lane I'd just left, and I hadn't hit anything because there was no crash. I pulled into the petrol station, and I checked the car and looked over at the road, there were no dings or skidmarks or wrecks, and I figured that if I'd gotten into an accident, one of the three other people at the pumps would have told me, but they didn't even look up when I checked around. Perhaps the brakes were mine as I slowed down to turn up the drive, and I was so focussed on turning I hadn't realized how quickly I'd decelerated, but I honestly don't know, all I know is that it also set me on edge.
I had a $20 note, so I filled up my tank that much, and paid the person inside. I made sure that I'd re-capped and closed my fuel tank, then I headed off. But I was shaken up, and the whole way home, my heels were still shaking.

Incident 3: "You Can't Trust Your Car"

Throughout all of these occasions, there has always been one constant: my car. I love my car, I call it Gemini. I bought the car from my friend who is a car fanatic, just like his father, and they took great care of the car. It has a lot of power, a lot of torque and although its fuel economy isn't as slick as newer cars, it's a reliable car and hasn't let me down.
Well, that is to say, it usually doesn't let me down.

It's probably my fault. See, I had an appointment to get to - I can't remember what it was, but it was just a month ago or so - and I got in my car, turned the key in the ignition and . . . nothing. I was confused.
There wasn't revving, no spinning, no lights. All I could hear was the keys jingling in my hand when I turned it in the ignition. The battery was flat. I didn't believe it, it made no sense that the battery would just die for no reason, so I checked around the console, and when I turned the dial for the lights, I realized that I could turn it off. The lights had been left on.
I don't know whose fault it was. There's a very high possibility that it was me, and I choose to believe that, although there is doubt in my mind because the "P-plate" stickers weren't on the windows (which are always on after I drive my car home), and the doors were unlocked, and since I park my car in an open carport, I always lock my car doors.

But, the reason why doesn't matter, what matters is my battery was flat. Now, I was fine with that. It's happened before, once Dad was driving and broke the alternator, but the alternator failed in an open position and that depleted the battery. That wasn't what made me anxious. Rather, Sean wanted to go out one time, and I told him "I can't, my battery is flat".
He said that he'd come around and we'd give it a jump start, so he drove over and we hooked up the cars, and we charged the battery. It was very, very flat because it took the full ten minutes before the ignition could even catch a spark, there was a tense five minutes when every turn of the key gave a slow, sad, rolling whir from the engine. But eventually, it started, and we got ready to set off.

Now, I think I made two fatal mistakes now. Firstly, I relaxed. I don't think that I should have been tense and anxious, that's part of why I have a problem in the first place, by being tense all the time. But I probably should have been a little more cautious, because I just rolled back into my same routine.
I got in the car, turned the air conditioner on, turned on the radio, all of that. Admittedly, some of this was to make me feel more comfortable. I don't like sitting in silence, so I always listen to the radio when I'm alone in the car, but that might have been a little silly. But I didn't think it would matter. I knew that the battery would charge when I got on the highway, I just needed to get onto the highway, so the alternator could recharge that battery as I sped along.
I stopped on one street to turn the corner, but as I hit the brakes, the lights dimmed slightly. I thought it was a little odd, but I was fine when the car stopped, so I went down the hill and turned the corner.
My second mistake was, I didn't use that opportunity to stop and/or change my driving. Because of my experiences with being unable to find a petrol station, I used to drive in quite a high gear, since that uses less fuel. It's a bad habit, but because my car has a lot of torque, it wasn't usually a problem. I could get away with it, since my car had the guts to do it. But I wasn't concentrating, so when I turned onto the main road, I revved up through second and third and got to my comfortable fourth, then cruised up the street and saw the lights.

I changed down to second and third, then I applied the brakes. As I did, the lights began to dim again. I figured I needed to come to a stop and revv the engine a bit, but I was freaking out about running up the arse of Sean's car that had stopped in front of me. If I had the time, I would have realized that I could have held the clutch in, and given the accelerator a tap. Hell, I could have slammed on the accelerator as hard as I wanted, since with the clutch disengaged the car wouldn't have moved forward; and after giving the battery some juice, I could have pressed the brake to my heart's content.
Hell, in a pinch, I could have applied the handbrake and given the engine a roar, ignoring the foot-brake completely. I did none of these things, however, I pretty much held the brakes, and prayed for a miracle which didn't come . . . the lights turned off, the engine went cold.
All warmth dropped out of my body, as silence and darkness fell over me. I turned the key, but it didn't even turn. The ignition lights turned on, but it wasn't turning the starter, the battery was as good as dead.

Sean was right in front of me. I pressed the horn, but the horn didn't work. I tapped it three times, hearing the pitiful click of the plastic button tapping against a metal switch that was on a dead circuit. So, I opened my door and rapidly tapped on my roof and waved to get Sean's attention. He got out and asked if the car would start. I showed him, no, totally dead out. I pressed for my hazard lights, but they too couldn't turn on, the car was dead.
He said to open the bonnet, and wait for him to come back, he needed to move his car out of the intersection. So, he got in his car, and drove around. As he left, I knew my hazard lights weren't working, and although my hood was up (the international symbol for "this car is fucked"), cars were approaching from behind, and couldn't see it. So, I stood around the back of the car, waving cars to go either side. That's perhaps the worst part, I was in the centre lane, cars either side and I felt like I was surrounded by danger. No sane person wants to get hit by a car, I needed to get people to go around me, as I stood in the path of oncoming traffic, hoping that they would see me and my unlit car as we stood in the middle of a busy main road.
Some people asked why my hazards weren't on, so I just called out "dead battery", they seemed to get it. But I was panicking, I wasn't sure what to do. I checked my RACQ card and called the number, but my phone was out of credit and wouldn't connect. Sean had disappeared from view (since it was a main road, and he couldn't just park on it, he had to move his car out of the way and run back), and I didn't know what to do. It was the only number I could dial anyway, so I tried 000. The operator asked if I needed fire, ambulance or police. I explained my car was obstructing the intersection, and I needed help to move it. He paused for a moment and asked. "So, do you want me to transfer you to fire, ambulance or police?"
I thought for a second, and in a stomach-sinking moment of clarity realized that I wasn't on fire, I wasn't hurt and there wasn't any crime going on. I apologized, and said I didn't really need any of them. I hung up as Sean returned. He asked who I was calling, and I said I tried to call RACQ, feeling embarrassed, exposed, lost and completely incapable of helping myself.
He told me to get in the car and he'd push. I offered to push, but he insisted, just get in, go down the hill and pull over somewhere. So, I got in my cold, dead car and he pushed the car to the intersection. My window was wound down so I could hear him, and he told me to ignore the lights, just go. The path was clear, so I let go of the brake, he pushed, and I turned the corner. I had to force the wheel around, because my power steering was off, and then I began to roll down the hill. Sean jogged to keep up and told me to pull over where it was safe, then he ran back for his car. I pulled into the first side-street, by braking slightly, then peering out my windshield in the darkness, trying to see where the curb was, and I steered myself as close to the side of the road as was comfortable, and braked to a stop.

After starting my car up again, I didn't feel comfortable driving at all. Even when Sean offered to drive my car for me and get me to drive the car he'd brought, I couldn't do it. So, we drove my car back to my place, and I got in the passenger seat, and we went to his house.
We just kinda chatted for a while, and blew off the outing we were going to go to, but for some reason, I lost my cool. See, I tend to just go with the flow, I enjoy different experiences, if someone needs for me to stay on the couch or make my way home, that's fine. However, I didn't feel comfortable, and as the time slipped on, I wanted to go home. So, although he was tired, Sean drove me to the train station and I caught one of the last trains inbound to the city.
But, as I stood at the train station, I felt uncomfortable. It's a feeling that I now associate with anxiety, but at the time I thought it was a niggling edge of depression. I was basically stuck, wondering what the point if that night was. I wanted to go out, and all I had achieved was a broken car, and feeling cold, stuck at a train station, with no idea when the train would actually come.
Worst of all, I remembered what I used to do at train stations. I used to think about story stuff, and solidify ideas. I tried to do it, but I couldn't, I was cold and exhausted and alone in the dark.
I managed to distract myself by reading the graffiti scratched into the chairs and phone alcove, and wondering what kind of maintenance would be required on the soda vending machine which stood out in the open, noisily humming away, and wondering what kind of technology stabilized the refrigeration temperature. It was all dumb, boring stuff, but it was better than sitting quietly and waiting, because my mind would then start going in circles, trying to figure out how exactly I got from happy at home to stuck at a cold, empty train station in the dark with a dead car battery, no writing done, no job and feeling lost.

I also had some trouble getting home, because after the train arrived, it was the last train meaning it stopped at central, and they told me to get a taxi home, and then I had trouble paying because I didn't have enough money in my front account. But, I was glad for that, because it occupied my mind, and kept me from worrying. When I finally did get home, I felt tired, but I talked to my girlfriend about it, and managed to move on. But ever since then, I have felt very uncomfortable about driving my car, especially refuelling it or driving with less than a half-full tank.


In conclusion, I know that it's irrational, and after buying a battery charger and restoring my battery, I have driven my car, and on some occasions - especially driving somewhere I know - I have even felt that sense of freedom I used to feel whenever I drove. I do enjoy driving.
But if anyone says they need me to drive somewhere, I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and try to avoid it, because there is this sense of unease. Thankfully, this is something that I'm working on with my psychologist, identifying these feelings and working to resolve, appease or annihilate them, but I'm not over it yet. I hope this has helped you to understand a little better what it's like to be inside my struggling mind.