Mike Alfreds - Different Every Night
Trigger Warnings for explicit, non-graphic discussion of and allusion to rape, and non-graphic vomiting. Be safe. He'd been writing them since he was ten, and could bang them out faster than anyone besides Batman and probably the Flash, but he still thought coming down from the adrenaline of a mission by writing everything that happened in twelve-point Times New Roman was a special kind of torture. Still, he preferred getting them done immediately with everything fresh in his mind so that all he had to do in the following days was add new information and polish up details before he submitted it to the League.
With a cup of coffee and a good playlist, it was almost bearable. His recent case was long and grueling, however, so even with both of those things he found himself begging his best friend to come keep him company at the Hall, eventually winning him over with the promise of dinner after. And so Wally West was sitting on the edge of his desk, chewing bubble gum and swinging his legs in comfortable boredom.
But it wasn't pretty. There were a lot of girls Makes me wish there was somewhere worse than prison. He always hated rape cases. Bruce didn't let him start working on them until he was thirteen, and even then, there were nights when he couldn't sleep because of the bad taste in his mouth. I mean, it's so good to help, but This guy was just a kid, really, nineteen- and it messed him up so bad.
I had to ask him questions and he was just Scared his rapist was gonna find him for telling. Still makes me mad. The only reason I had to help was 'cause the police did jack shit, just because he was a little drunk when it happened.
Dick slowly moved his hands to his lap. He did always think it was impossible He didn't give consent.
The Sydney Morning Herald 22-09-1896
And it doesn't matter if he could have fought her off, she could have stopped when he didn't give consent. Because that's what rapists do, they have sex without consent. That's how It wouldn't have And he would have pushed her, or something, if he didn't want it," he defended weakly.
But it wasn't Do you have any idea how you sound right now?
The Sydney Morning Herald 15-06-1910
Saying he wanted to be raped? That's fucking Are you serious? You'd never say this if it was a woman or if the rapist was a man.
And I'm not joking. Like a math problem where something wasn't adding right, but he knew what the answer was, and now he didn't know where he had messed up. Dick, a guy has the right to consent as much as a woman - everyone does.
"40 Pieces A Year Club" for 2016
That kid said no, and the woman had sex with him, so it was rape and that's not fucking okay. With no warning, he felt like he was going to be sick. Arguing with Wally never made him feel this anxious, and talking about rape cases never brought him to the point of physical nausea. What the hell was wrong with him? He shook his head, hoping the feeling would pass if he kept telling himself it was irrational.
Mike alfreds different every night pdf elie
What if happened to you, man? And Dick tried not to twitch, or blink, or breathe, or vomit, but he must have done one of those things - not vomiting, he hoped; his mouth didn't taste like it - because Wally suddenly backed up a step from the chair, eyes popping out as he sucked in a quiet breath. Oh god, you I don't want to. It wasn't. That's not the kind of reaction he was supposed to get. Disgust or ridicule would feel much better - hell, downright dismissal would align with what he imagined and would feel infinitely more right than sympathy.
This wasn't how Dick wanted to do this. He had planned it in his mind, during the long nights when he couldn't even close his eyes. He wanted to spill it as an offhand comment, while drinking with Jason and Roy or possibly even with Artemis and Wally, just so that he could get it out.
So that someone would at least know.
Diario de la Marina ( 8/24/1907 )
And if everyone was drunk, they wouldn't talk about it. They would laugh, maybe, and then he could put it to rest.
That's not what happened. Damn her. Damn her for everything, damn him for still being screwed up about something so stupid, damn Wally for caring. It wasn't that he couldn't be touched anymore, exactly.
No one could take his most important sense away from him. But still, something had changed. Everyone was too close to him, always, setting off too many nerves and not giving him enough air. He wasn't scared. He wasn't. He just Dick wanted to scream. Stop it! Tell me I'm being ridiculous! It's okay. You're okay.
"40 Pieces A Year Club" for 2018
Please just go, we'll hang out another time. You've never told anyone? I said that. He was real. Right here. Not dissociating. Not today, not now, not with his best friend breathing down his neck He had a body. He had five senses. All of which were betraying him, the smell of rain and the taste of smoke horribly mixed with the white room and his skin beneath his fingers, but they were there.
Dick nodded faintly, and felt heat and pressure on his hand. Good feelings. Concrete, tactile warmth. Touching him, his hand, his body which was his and not just a sack of skin draped over a chair.
He breathed, slowly, and opened his eyes - which he didn't remember closing - to the office. Wally was kneeling in front of him, staring at him, worried, confused.
Afraid for him?
Of him? The repetition of his name solidified things a little, each syllable a reminder of who he was and that he existed. Richard Grayson.
Dick was at the Hall of Justice with Wally West. And Dick needed to write a case report. Needed to work. Get up.
Get out of the way. Move on.