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@highscribeofaetherium @theducktator @koshka @keilah-h @lightoverdarkness6 @mineralizedwritings @esther-c @savannah_grace2009 @rae @anyone-else-idk-lolllll
Y’all don’t get too mad at me, ok?? 😅
This is why Riker needed all the good luck wishes👇
my baby 😭😭😭
TW: MENTIONS OF BLOOD. DRUNK CHARACTER. HINTS TO/MENTIONS OF PAST PHYSICAL ABUSE. PTSD. RIKER TRAUMA/THOUGHTS.
How long had he been outside? How long had it been since he’d left his father’s house?
Riker groaned and slowly shifted into a sitting position, rubbing his tear-stained cheeks and rubbing his—what he assumed to be—red-rimmed eyes. He rolled up his white shirtsleeves to his elbows and grabbed his dark brown coat.
Where the sun once sat the moon illuminated, casting the occasional stream of light. Brick walls, concrete below—an alleyway.
Riker forced himself to his feet, his head pounding and his heart pulsing. He had to return home.
Despite the feeling of betrayal, despite the anger, despite the sadness, despite the fact that his father’s rage would likely still be present and would undoubtedly lead to pain upon pain, he had to return, no matter how he felt.
Besides, when had he begun dwelling on—and showing—his feelings? Emotions…tears…both made a man weak. His father’s words always made that point very clear, and countless beatings made sure it stuck.
Riker brushed back his waves with his hand, chewed on his bottom lip, folded his coat over his right arm, and slipped out of the alleyway.
Though by scant moonlight it was difficult to make out where the sidewalk and street sat, experience taught Riker how to navigate even the darkest of streets
But the darkness, however used to it he was, was far from a comfort.
A shiver made its way up Riker’s spine, and he quietly chided himself. There was nothing to be afraid of. It wasn’t as if he was being hunted. It wasn’t as if he was being followed. It wasn’t as if someone would sneak up behind him and end everything in a moment.
Right?
Stupid. Stupid. Wasting his time on thinking, and for what? What could he think that would change the fact that he had an older brother he never knew about, was never told about?
Riker huffed. Pity, even his own, was undeserved; it certainly didn’t belong to a filthy, sinful—a hard figure stumbling into Riker’s own frame stopped Riker’s steps and his thoughts in their tracks. Riker stumbled but righted himself. He couldn’t even watch where he was going? Stupid. Stupid. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to…”
Harsh brown eyes met Riker’s gentle dark blue, and his breath caught in his throat. Leon? What was Leon doing out in the middle of night? Why was Leon wandering the streets? Why…why…how did Leon carry the telltale scent of alcohol?
Leon stumbled, cursed, and leaned a single arm against a brick wall to steady himself. “You? What are you doing out here?” He slurred, slightly swaying on his feet.
“I was on a walk,” Riker lied; he bit his bottom lip and quietly added, “do you want help getting home?”
“Help? You want to help me after you helped kill my wife?” Leon chuckled and took a stumbling step forward. “I’d sooner die than accept your help.”
He hadn’t “helped” murder Aadelheide; he had murdered Aadelheide. He’d murdered so many.
The blood that stained his hands would never, could never, be washed away. Regardless of what many said.
But the simple fact that Leon was still alive meant Riker could help Leon, even if he didn’t want it. “Please. I-I can help you, and—”
“Help!?” Leon roared, his voice loud and his tone booming, “You expect me to…to want your…your help?” Leon asked, his eyes piercing, his words mashing together, barely tangible.
“I…I want to help.”
Something in Leon’s eyes blazed, and his jaw hardened. The brown of his eyes sparked. He took two swaying steps towards Riker, his breath carrying the scent of alcohol. “My wife is dead because of you, Isabel might be dying, and now you want to offer your…your help!?”
“Leon, I’m sorry. I-I never meant to kill Aadelheide, and I…I didn’t know about Isabel. I’m sorry, Leon…I’ll never be able to make up for what I did to you and to so many, and I’m sorry, Leon, I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry won’t bring Aadelheide back!”
“I-I’m so sorry, Leon—”
Leon’s firm hands pressed against Riker’s chest; he shoved with an unseeable but somehow very present strength.
Riker stumbled back. Cold metal caught his left arm; skin tore, and crimson blood fell. Riker moaned in pain, clutching his bleeding arm to his chest.
The world spun; his head pulsed; his heart pounded.
Leon stumbled forward.
Leon swayed before him, above him, a dark presence in the barely lit night, alcohol fumes wafting around him.
The late nights following a long workday and an even longer time afterward filled with alcohol…when his father finally returned home.
The yelling.
The beratement.
The curses and the fury.
The blows that followed every bit of anger.
Riker’s chest heaved. His breath caved.
Some days he just tried to protect his mother. Some days he just did everything he could to protect his sister.
But there was no one, had never been anyone, to protect him from the often-drunken rage of his father…his grandfather.
The pain…the shame…the guilt…the abuse all flashed before Riker’s eyes.
He had to protect himself from more pain…from the things an innocent boy once never had protection from.
Riker’s boot met Leon’s stomach; Leon cursed, stumbled backward, swayed, and tumbled onto the sidewalk.
Riker scrambled to his feet, keeping his left arm clutched tightly to his side.
He had to get away. He had to get away.
Quickly! Quickly!
Leon slurred a few choice words, glared up at Riker, and dropped his voice to a threatening, hoarse whisper. “The next time I see your face, I will kill you, Riker…I swear.”
Riker didn’t dare doubt him for even a second.
Riker stumbled, rushed, past Leon’s mumbling, slurring, drunk frame. He ran as fast as he dared and as quietly as circumstances demanded.
He paused only once to, despite the cold air, remove and utilize his undershirt to wrap the gash trailing from the inside of the wrist to the inside of his left elbow.
Riker stumbled down the walkway and up the steps. He fumbled with his keys and shoved open the door to his father’s house, clutching his partially covered arm tighter, his white undershirt red.
Standing in the kitchen doorway, cigarette in hand, Franz’s gaze roved over Riker, and he raised a single eyebrow. “Finally home after several hours?” He cursed and stepped away, mumbling, “Just my luck getting stuck with a son like you.”
Riker stumbled away, head spinning, thoughts colliding, heart beating what felt like one thousand times a minute.
Riker made his way into the bathroom, barely closing the door before collapsing onto the cold floor.
Leon was right: he was a murderer.
Franz was right: he was a mistake.
Perhaps the wound upon his arm was just what he deserved, just what was meant for a mistake…a murderer…a man that should have never existed.
Riker’s knees lifted to his chest. He clutched his bleeding arm close to his torso. He buried his face in his raised knees and cried.
What is strength?
Strength, my son, is being who God has called you to be.I will love this baby, this man named Riker, forever 💖🥹😭
But I honestly just need him redeemed already, and I’m the writer😂😅😬
What is strength?
Strength, my son, is being who God has called you to be.OH, alsooooooo
@savannah_grace2009 @rae @keilah-h @koshka @whalekeeper @lightoverdarkness6 @esther-c @mineralizedwritings @theducktatorI made a possible Blurb for Broken Shackles if anyone wants to offer their opinion on it 👇
In continuation of Freedom’s Fire…
The second world war has finally come to an end, and both Leon Wagner and Riker Schind are living with the aftermaths of war and tragedy.
The struggles of post-war Germany lay heavy on them both,
and hardships still lie before them.
Neither one of them know what to do or where to go next,
and the pain of their pasts is far from faded.
Will Leon heal from his deep pain? Will his faith be restored?
Will he finally forgive those that wronged him?
Will Riker’s guilt consume him? Will he realize that there is no sin
so great that God can’t forgive? Will he learn to forgive himself?
And will both of them finally come to the only One that can break the
shackles that keep them bound?
What is strength?
Strength, my son, is being who God has called you to be.@freed_and_redeemed nice!! I like it, it’s very to the point of the plot without spoiling too much. I’d read the book based on the description.
Where'd I get ya this time? The liver? The kidney? I'm runnin' outta places to put holes in ya.
@keilah-h Thank you so much! That means a lot 🥰 And that’s exactly what I was going for, so thank you!!!
What is strength?
Strength, my son, is being who God has called you to be.@freed_and_redeemed you’re very welcome!
Where'd I get ya this time? The liver? The kidney? I'm runnin' outta places to put holes in ya.
Somebody give them emotional support stuffed animals. A penguin for Riker, and a giraffe for Leon.
Communist jokes aren’t funny unless everyone gets them.
@theducktator lol yesssss
Where'd I get ya this time? The liver? The kidney? I'm runnin' outta places to put holes in ya.
No, Riker needs a soft white bunny rabbit…Clover worked for me and my nightmares, she’ll work for Riker too
If Riker doesn’t get that wound taken care of in the next five minutes, I’m going to build a time machine and go back to take care of it myself! And he’s not allowed to argue!
“Gargoyles and thickets, griffins and briskets."
We’ll give Riker a stuffed bunny and we’ll stick with the giraffe for Leon 🥰😂
and RAE, go build that time machine. It’s probably necessary.
What is strength?
Strength, my son, is being who God has called you to be.Snippet of the scene I’m working on rn
(I’m in a writing sharing mood today😂)
👇
(fyi, there’s a chapter in between this and the last scene I shared, but I shared that chapter a while back and have edited it only a little, so 🤷♀️ but here’s this scene)
His world danced between reality and nightmares—memories. There were moments he heard voices but couldn’t make out words. There were times he listened to moans of pain or screams, but whether it was his or another’s, he didn’t have even the smallest clue.
A throbbing behind his skull; sweat trickling down his forehead.
Riker moaned and his eyes slowly fluttered open. His gaze roved over the room, though could barely focus. Walls…blankets…pillows and curtains.
Where was…how did he—it looked familiar, but—“You’re awake. Thank Adonai.”
Isaiah? How had…when had he-? Oh, now he remembered. But how had he arrived at Isaiah’s house? He last remembered being at his own home—Isaiah smiled gently and closed the door, coming to stand beside the bed Riker laid on. “How are you feeling?”
“I—I…when did I…?”
Isaiah chuckled softly and settled on the edge of the bed, facing Riker with another smile. “We brought you here from your father’s house. The other doctor Yosef brought suspected just what I expected: your arm is infected. We’ve been treating you for three days now. You’ve mostly been asleep or at least not aware of what’s going on as far as I can tell. Do you remember anything from the past three days?”
Riker bit his bottom lip. He slowly shook his head. Three days? It seemed almost impossible, or at least hard to believe.
“I assumed such. Are you hungry?”
“No. Isaiah, I-I don’t deserve—”
“Don’t.” Isaiah interrupted, firm but not unkind, “Don’t give me that. Everyone should be treated with kindness and compassion, regardless of who they are and what they’ve done. It doesn’t mean I accept sin, but neither am I in a place to judge. That is God’s job, and I am truthfully thankful it is not my place to do such things.” Isaiah noted in reply, wringing out a cool cloth and gently placing it over Riker’s forehead. “So don’t tell me you “don’t deserve my compassion”, because not only is that a lie, but I won’t listen to it either.”
Riker nodded meekly even though he knew, without a doubt, that he didn’t deserve Isaiah’s care nor an ounce of his compassion.
Isaiah slightly adjusted his rounded glasses and peered at Riker, raising a single eyebrow. “Why weren’t you caring for your wound?”
Why had he not cared for the wound he deserved? How was he supposed to answer such a question? How was he supposed to explain the churning inside, the guilt that wanted to tear him in half? Riker slowly began to sit up; Isaiah’s gentle hand on his shoulder leaned him back into a lying position.
“Lay back down, please. You need to rest. Did you think you deserved the wound, wherever it came from?”
Isaiah didn’t understand, nor would he. But despite feeling childish, Riker nodded.
“I see. So did you think by not caring for your wound, you were also doing something you deserved, doing something to punish yourself for the sins you’ve committed?”
Riker diverted his gaze. Stupid. He should have cared for the wound, even if only to keep it clean enough where he wouldn’t find himself in such a situation.
“That was wrong, Riker. You shouldn’t punish yourself like that…it was very dangerous.”
“I didn’t—”
“You knew exactly what you were doing, and you knew it was dangerous. That was the point: you were trying to harm yourself, to punish yourself for what you’ve done and for the sins you’ve committed. Am I wrong?”
He wanted to say no, he wanted to protest, he wanted to argue, but unwilling to lie to Isaiah, Riker mustered a small shake of his head.
Isaiah smiled sadly and gently flipped over the cloth on Riker’s forehead. “I’m not mad, Riker, at least not at you. I’m mad at the enemy for making you believe lies about yourself, but I’m not mad at you. Someone can correct you in love.”
Riker slightly ground his teeth into his bottom lip. What else was he supposed to do? What else was he supposed to say?
“You said a lot in your sleep…some things I have to admit I was a little shocked to hear, but all made sense. You made hints before, and, well…how you see God makes more sense now.”
What had he said? What had he mumbled in his sleep filled with nightmares and even memories—oh no. No…no! No one was supposed to know outside his family and…and Fin.
“God is nothing like your earthly father, Riker.”
How did he protest? How did he argue? Was it something still worth hiding? He didn’t know what he’d said while he was unaware—how could he know what his lips spewed without his permission?
What is strength?
Strength, my son, is being who God has called you to be.Yay! Now I need their addresses so I can send them Clover and Giraffy! Along with some hugs ofc!
And…I can’t find my tape measure and wrench…
“Gargoyles and thickets, griffins and briskets."
I just read that scene and…I’m now gonna cry for both my boi Nahim who also was in a similar place once and Riker…and I have my own tissue box this time, so I’ll pass them to you too.
“Gargoyles and thickets, griffins and briskets."
Ugh, Riker, stop it! God loves you! Isaiah, give the poor thing a bunny!
Communist jokes aren’t funny unless everyone gets them.
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