Appetite
Chapter 1 | The Knife’s Edge
The kitchen pulsed with a frantic energy, the kind that teeters on the edge of chaos, where motion masks the inevitable unraveling—pushed beyond its limits, straining under its own weight, yet somehow never breaking. Flames hissed, knives clashed against cutting boards, and the air carried the thick, metallic scent of raw meat, butter, and burning ambition.
Moxie moved through it like an eager soldier on the first day of war, stomach tight with nerves but hands steady. The weight of the chef’s coat felt heavier than it should have. She had dreamed of this moment for years—standing in a world-class kitchen, under the command of the infamous Davina Von Laurent. A place where perfection wasn’t a goal. It was the bare minimum.
"Two Wellington, plating in sixty seconds!" Gabriel’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp as the blade in his hand.
Moxie wiped the sweat from her brow and reached for the sauce reduction she had prepared, her fingers curling around the warm handle of the pan. Every movement had to be precise. One mistake and she wouldn’t just ruin the dish—she’d ruin herself.
From across the kitchen, Davina watched.
She had been watching all night.
Moxie felt it in her bones, a weight heavier than the heat of the stoves. The Executive Chef stood at her post near the pass, posture regal, hands clasped behind her back. She didn’t bark orders like the others. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone ensured obedience.
Moxie plated the dish, brushing the edges clean before stepping back. A second of silence stretched unbearably long before Davina finally spoke.
"Passable," she said, voice smooth, unwavering.
Gabriel shot Moxie a barely perceptible glance. In this kitchen, passable was the closest thing to a compliment from Davina Von Laurent.
Moxie exhaled, but the moment of relief was short-lived.
A commis chef stumbled near the pastry station, knocking a bowl of caramelized hazelnuts onto the floor. The sound of scattering nuts was deafening against the controlled hum of the kitchen.
The air shifted.
Davina’s head turned slowly, eyes settling on the unfortunate chef like a blade pressing against skin.
"Clean it up," she said. Her voice held no anger, no inflection at all.
The chef scrambled, hands shaking as they gathered the fallen ingredients.
Moxie didn’t look away.
She had seen chefs scream in other kitchens. She had watched them break under pressure, their tempers flaring hot and fast like oil to flame. Davina didn’t scream. She didn’t need to. Her silence was a scalpel, dissecting those who failed beneath her gaze.
Moxie had idolized her once.
Now, standing in the heat of her domain, she wasn’t sure if she had stepped into a temple or a tomb.
The air in the kitchen was thick—not just with heat, but with tension. It coiled around Moxie’s ribs, constricting with every passing second.
"Two Wellington, plating in sixty seconds!" Gabriel called again, but this time, something was wrong.
Moxie’s eyes flicked to the cutting board. The reduction she had prepped was gone.
Her stomach lurched. Someone had moved it.
She scanned the station, heart hammering against her ribs. No time to look. No time to panic.
Across the room, Davina remained at the pass, still watching.
Moxie had two options: freeze and fail, or adapt.
She reached for the nearby demi-glace, grabbing a fresh pan. The sauce wouldn’t have the depth of the original reduction, but she could salvage it. With practiced movements, she deglazed with a splash of red wine, reducing the liquid in rapid time. The scent of caramelizing shallots and thyme bloomed in the air, masking the acrid taste of panic creeping up her throat.
Fifteen seconds.
She whisked in butter, smoothing out the sauce.
Ten seconds.
With the precision of a surgeon, she drizzled the glossy reduction onto the plate, cleaning the rim just as Gabriel’s voice cut through the heat.
"Service!"
The plates were lifted and carried out of sight. The second they disappeared through the doors, Moxie felt the weight of Davina’s gaze sharpen.
A single beat of silence.
Then Davina turned to Pierre. "Wine pairing?"
The moment passed. Moxie exhaled, light-headed from the adrenaline.
Gabriel, standing beside her, let out a low chuckle. "Not bad, rookie."
She wanted to ask if that had been a test—if someone had deliberately moved her sauce just to see if she could recover. But in this kitchen, questions didn’t matter. Only results.
Still, as she cleaned her station, she caught Davina watching her from across the room. The woman’s expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way she regarded Moxie now.
Something close to approval.
But not quite.
The kitchen had its own rhythm, a brutal symphony of motion and steel. Moxie had begun to adjust to it—learning when to move, when to stay out of the way, and when to become invisible. Yet some nights, the rhythm faltered. Something slipped between the beats, like a discordant note only she could hear.
Tonight was one of those nights.
The dinner rush had finally slowed, and the scent of rendered fat and smoldering rosemary clung to Moxie’s skin. She exhaled, pressing her palms against the cold edge of the counter, steadying herself. Gabriel and Pierre were already making their way toward the back entrance for a smoke break, their voices low, distant. The kitchen was never truly empty, yet at this moment, it felt abandoned.
A dull hum filled the space—the refrigeration units, the lingering heat from the stoves. Yet beneath that, something else.
A whisper.
Moxie froze, fingers tightening around the metal surface.
It had come from the walk-in freezer.
She turned her head toward the heavy steel door, its surface beaded with condensation. The sound had been faint—just a soft murmuring, the kind of noise a half-conscious person makes in the haze of sleep.
She forced herself to breathe.
Someone must still be inside.
Moxie stepped forward, boots tapping softly against the tile as she approached the freezer. She hesitated for only a moment before gripping the handle and pulling the door open.
A gust of freezing air coiled around her skin. Metal shelves stretched in neat rows, packed with hanging cuts of dry-aged beef, tubs of duck fat, sealed jars of fermented vegetables. Her breath came out in pale plumes as she stepped inside.
Nothing moved.
She scanned the space, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The whispering had stopped.
She reached out, fingers brushing against a crate of vacuum-sealed foie gras. The plastic crinkled beneath her touch.
Something dripped onto the back of her hand.
Her breath hitched. The droplet was thick, slow-moving. A deep, dark red.
Blood.
Her gaze snapped upward.
Above her, nestled between the hanging cuts of beef, something else dangled from the hooks.
A butcher’s apron.
Torn. Stiff with dried blood.
It shouldn’t have been there.
A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature crawled down her spine. Her instincts screamed at her to step back, close the door, and walk away.
Yet, she didn’t move.
The freezer felt different now. The weight of something unseen pressed against the edges of her perception, the air thick with more than just cold.
A flicker of motion in the reflection of the steel shelf—not hers.
Her stomach twisted.
She turned sharply, expecting—what? A chef who had lingered too long? A trick of the light?
Nothing.
Only the neatly stacked inventory, the sterile hum of the refrigeration unit, and the lingering scent of raw flesh.
Moxie inhaled sharply and stepped back, forcing herself to walk, not run.
She gripped the handle and pulled the freezer door shut behind her, sealing the cold and whatever else might have been lurking inside.
The kitchen’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The room looked the same as before. Yet something had changed.
Moxie wiped the blood from her hand, staring at the dark smear on her palm before rinsing it away.
It had to be from the meat. It had to be.
She didn’t look at the freezer again for the rest of the night.
The scent of burnt sugar lingered in the air, cloying and sharp. Elise stood at the pastry station, eyes half-lidded as she caramelized a delicate lattice of spun sugar over a plated dessert. The golden strands hardened almost instantly, forming an intricate cage around a quenelle of blood orange sorbet.
Moxie barely noticed.
Her mind was still in the freezer, replaying the moment over and over. The blood, the torn apron, the flicker of motion she had imagined—hadn’t imagined—out of the corner of her eye.
She worked on autopilot, filleting a branzino with practiced precision, the blade gliding through flesh and cartilage with ease. The muscle memory was there, but her mind was not.
"You're distracted," Davina’s voice sliced through the din, smooth and effortless as always.
Moxie’s fingers twitched around the knife. She forced herself to keep her movements steady, her face neutral.
"Just tired."
Davina hummed as if considering whether or not to believe her. The sound sent something sour curling in Moxie’s gut.
"Fatigue breeds mistakes," Davina said, her gaze flicking to the fish under Moxie’s blade. "Mistakes breed failure. Do you want to fail?"
Moxie didn’t answer.
The air was too thick. The kitchen was too loud, yet somehow still too quiet. She could feel the eyes on her—Davina’s most of all.
The moment stretched, heavy and taut.
Then, somewhere near the prep station—a scream.
Sharp. Raw. The kind that came from deep inside the body, not just the throat.
Moxie turned, her pulse hammering against her ribs.
One of the junior chefs was clutching his hand, his fingers slick with bright red blood.
It poured from his palm, thick and fast, pooling onto the stainless steel counter. The knife had slipped—no, not slipped. It had sunk into his flesh, embedding deep enough to nearly sever a tendon.
The kitchen erupted into movement. Gabriel grabbed towels, pressing them into the wound. Elise had already turned away, uninterested. Pierre barely flinched.
Moxie’s stomach twisted.
The sight of blood wasn’t new. It was the reaction—or the lack of one—that sent a sliver of ice into her chest.
Then Davina stepped forward.
"Back to your station," she said, voice quiet but firm.
The injured chef’s breath hitched. He looked at her, wide-eyed, as if she had spoken in a language he couldn’t understand.
His fingers were still bleeding.
"Hospital," Gabriel muttered. "He needs stitches."
"No." Davina’s head tilted, just slightly. "He finishes service first."
A heartbeat of silence.
"Yes, Chef." Gabriel said dejectedly, a look of shock flickering across his face.
The room pulsed with something dark and unseen.
Moxie knew what was about to happen before it did.
Gabriel, jaw clenched, nodded once. The injured chef’s hands trembled as he tried to wrap his fingers in the towel, as if sheer willpower alone could stop the bleeding.
Moxie stepped back. She could taste the iron in the air.
She couldn’t do this anymore.
She placed her knife down on the counter—deliberate, final.
Davina’s gaze shifted to her.
"I’m done.”
The words fell like a blade, severing something she hadn’t realized was still tethered to her.
For the first time, Davina’s expression flickered.
She handed over her apron. “I just can’t do this anymore.” she said, almost like she was about to break in a million pieces.
Moxie waited for a reprimand. A warning. Some kind of resistance.
Instead, Davina simply smiled.
"Don’t worry! You’ll be back."
Moxie’s blood ran cold.
She turned, ignoring the weight of Davina’s stare burning into her back. Ignoring the whisper of something wrong curling around her ribs.
She stepped through the doors and didn’t look back.
Moxie had spent five years behind the pass at Château Noir, plating dishes under the cold, watchful eye of Davina Von Laurent.
It wasn’t just a restaurant. It was a world of its own—elitist, exclusive, and utterly relentless. A place where tables were booked months in advance, where a single misstep in execution could mean the end of a career.
Moxie had been the perfect soldier. A steady hand beneath Davina’s iron rule, mirroring her precision, her ruthlessness. She had studied every glance, every subtle shift in tone, every impossible standard Davina set—not because she admired her, but because survival demanded it.
She had simply handed over her apron and left.
Château Noir closed shortly after. No explanation. No press release. Just shuttered doors and whispers that Davina had vanished.
Moxie never looked back.
She told herself it wasn’t her problem anymore.
5 Years Later
The air smelled of rain and city asphalt, a far cry from the stifling heat of a kitchen. Moxie sat by her apartment window, watching the evening traffic bleed red and white across wet pavement. Five years. It didn’t feel that long, yet somehow, it felt like a lifetime.
She had spent the first year trying to scrape Davina’s voice out of her head. The second convincing herself she had made the right choice. By the third, she had stopped waking up in the middle of the night, expecting to hear the hum of the ventilation hood or the sharp clap of a chef’s knife against the cutting board.
Now, at thirty years old, she had built a new rhythm. Not better. Just different.
Her fingers drummed against the wooden table, absentmindedly tapping out the cadence of a knife against a cutting board.
The knock at the door cut through the quiet.
Moxie turned her head, brows knitting together. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
She pulled herself from the chair, stretching out the stiffness in her shoulders before crossing the room. The city noise buzzed faintly outside as she unlocked the door.
No one was there.
Her stomach tightened. A package sat on the welcome mat, wrapped in a crisp, black envelope.
Moxie stared at it.
A cold prickle crept up the back of her neck. She hadn’t ordered anything.
The envelope was heavy in her hands, the kind of luxurious cardstock used for wedding invitations or elite galas. A gold wax seal pressed into the flap bore an emblem—an intricate ouroboros, its serpent body twisted in an endless loop.
Something deep in her chest tightened.
She already knew who had sent it.
Moxie peeled the wax seal away, unfolding the paper inside. The handwriting was precise, elegant, and painfully familiar.
Chef Moxie Harlow,
You are cordially invited to an exclusive, transformative culinary experience.
A weekend of indulgence, discovery, and transcendence.
Come taste the extraordinary.
Where: Witchitaki Luxury Lodge, Witchitaki, Wisconsin.
When: Friday, August 22nd, 2025 - Sunday, August 24th, 2025.
A second sheet was tucked behind the invitation—a plane ticket, already booked in her name.
Moxie exhaled slowly.
Davina.
It had been five years. No letters. No calls. No unfinished business.
So why now?
Her fingers curled around the thick paper. The logo at the bottom of the invitation glinted under the apartment’s dim lighting. The ouroboros.
A symbol of devouring oneself. Of never-ending cycles.
Moxie’s lips parted, an exhale she didn’t realize she had been holding slipping out.
She could tear the invitation in half. Toss it in the trash. Walk away like she had before.
Instead, a wry smirk ghosted over her lips.
"What’s the worst that can happen?"
She placed the letter back into the envelope and set it aside.
Three days.
Then she’d see Davina again.
Chapter Two | The Arrival
The airport was smaller than she expected.
Moxie stepped off the plane, the artificial chill of air-conditioning quickly replaced by the weight of the humid Wisconsin air. Witchitaki Regional Airport was a single terminal, the kind of place that felt abandoned even when people were present.
She pulled her carry-on over the scuffed linoleum floors, weaving past a handful of other passengers—all of them quiet, too quiet. There was no post-flight chatter, no exhausted sighs of relief. Just the distant hum of the baggage carousel and the slow, rhythmic click of polished shoes against tile.
She scanned the space, looking for any signage or transportation desks. Instead, her eyes landed on something else.
A driver stood near the exit, dressed in a crisp black suit. His face was unreadable, pale against the dim lighting of the terminal. A small white placard rested between his fingers.
Miss Moxie Harlow.
Her pulse gave a slow, measured thud.
He didn’t move. Didn’t gesture for her. Just stared.
Moxie adjusted her bag and approached, stopping just short of a comfortable distance.
"All this for me?" she said sarcastically.
The driver didn’t blink.
"Your car is waiting, Miss Harlow."
His voice was neutral—no warmth, no inflection. He turned on his heel and walked toward the exit, assuming she would follow.
The automatic doors slid open, revealing a sleek black Mercedes S-Class, polished to a mirror sheen. The windows were too dark, swallowing reflections.
Moxie hesitated for just a breath, then pulled the door open and slid inside.
The ride through the Wisconsin countryside was long. Too long.
The farther they drove, the less civilization surrounded them. No cars passed in the opposite direction. No towns. No road signs. Just the dense stretch of trees pressing against the highway, swallowing them whole.
She checked her phone. No service.
Of course not.
The silence inside the car thickened. The driver hadn’t spoken a word since they left the airport, his eyes locked on the road, posture impossibly still.
Moxie cleared her throat. "How far is this place?"
The driver didn’t look at her. He tilted his head—just slightly. As if listening to something she couldn’t hear.
Silence filled the car with unease.
“Ah. Of course!” Moxie said, realizing that the driver was not there for conversation and pleasantries.
A flicker of something crawled up the back of her skull.
She glanced at the dashboard. No GPS. No visible controls.
Just the slow ticking of the analog clock, hands moving too smoothly, too precisely.
She exhaled through her nose and leaned back against the seat, watching the trees grow taller, their branches twisting into skeletal shapes. The sky had darkened prematurely, the kind of heavy gray that pressed against the horizon.
Then, through the thinning tree line, she saw it.
The Witchitaki Luxury Lodge.
It didn’t look modern.
Tucked into the valley, the sprawling estate looked as though it had been carved out of another era. Stone walls stretched toward the sky, the architecture somewhere between a European hunting lodge and a cathedral. It was massive, yet it blended too seamlessly into the surrounding woods, as if it had grown there rather than being built.
The gates creaked open without prompt, and the driver pulled through.
As the car rolled toward the grand entrance, the first drops of rain spattered against the windshield.
Moxie’s grip tightened around the handle of her bag.
Why did it feel like the world was closing in?
The doors swung open before she could reach for the handle.
A man stood in the threshold, dressed in a tailored black suit. His hair was slicked back, his posture too composed, too still. He regarded her with an unreadable expression, the sharp angles of his face perfectly arranged, as if he had been sculpted rather than born.
Pierre DuBois.
Moxie recognized him instantly—the Head Sommelier under Davina’s command, a man who approached wine like a sacred text. He never swallowed, never consumed. Instead, he let each sip bloom across his palate, extracting every hidden note, every whispered story, before parting his lips and letting it slip away—discarded like a prayer unanswered.
His gaze flicked over her once, subtle but exacting.
“Miss Harlow.” His voice was smooth, but something about it felt… dry. Like it had been spoken a thousand times before, each repetition erasing a sliver of authenticity. “Welcome to Witchitaki.”
Moxie stepped out of the car, gripping her bag tighter than necessary. The rain had stopped, leaving the air thick with the scent of wet stone and pine.
The lodge loomed above them, larger up close, its gothic edges softened by candlelight flickering from within. Despite its elegance, the windows were impossibly dark, reflecting nothing back.
Pierre extended an arm, motioning for her to follow.
“This way, Miss Harlow.”
Inside, the entry hall swallowed sound.
Despite the polished marble floors and high vaulted ceilings, there was no echo—no ambient noise at all. Only the hush of her own footsteps.
The scent hit her first.
Not the usual luxury hotel sterility. This was different—deep, layered. Notes of herbs, slow-roasted stock, something vaguely metallic. A smell that should have belonged in a kitchen, not a lobby.
Her gaze flicked upward. A massive chandelier, wrought iron twisted into the shape of a serpent eating its own tail, hung above them. Its candles burned too steadily, their flames unmoving despite the draft.
She shivered.
The reception desk was immaculate—a grand slab of black marble, polished to a perfect mirror sheen. A woman in a high-collared uniform stood behind it, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
Pierre stepped aside, letting Moxie approach.
“Miss Harlow,” the woman greeted, dipping her head slightly. “We have your suite prepared. If you would sign in?”
She gestured toward a guestbook, an old, leather-bound thing resting on the counter. The pages were thick, yellowed at the edges.
Moxie picked up the pen. The ink flowed smoothly, but as she signed, her eyes drifted to the previous names.
There weren’t any.
The pages before hers were empty.
Moxie’s stomach tightened. “I thought this was a full event?”
The woman’s smile was polite but hollow.
“Everyone that should be here will be here. You’re just the first to arrive.”
Pierre exhaled through his nose—something between amusement and approval.
The woman turned slightly, reaching into a drawer. “One last formality.”
She placed a small, velvet-lined tray on the counter.
Moxie’s gaze flicked to it.
“Your phone, please,” the woman said smoothly. “And any other electronic devices.”
Moxie hesitated. “Excuse me?”
The woman’s expression didn’t waver.
“This weekend is meant to be immersive. No outside distractions. No interruptions. All devices will be secured and returned upon departure.”
Moxie didn’t move immediately.
A dozen thoughts flickered through her mind—an immediate unease, a prickle at the back of her skull.
Still, she had agreed to this.
With a measured inhale, she pulled her phone from her pocket and placed it on the tray.
The woman’s smile deepened slightly, as if she had expected no less.
She slid the tray away, out of sight. “Enjoy your stay, Miss Harlow.”
Pierre gestured down the corridor.
“This way,” he said. “The parlor awaits.”
Moxie hesitated for just a fraction of a second.
Something was wrong.
She knew it.
She followed anyway.
The hallway was lined with tall, antique mirrors.
Moxie tried not to look, but her gaze kept flicking to the reflections. The candlelight bent in strange ways, shimmering against the glass like it was struggling to hold its shape.
Pierre walked ahead of her, his reflection moving in sync—at first.
Then, as they passed a particularly large mirror, Moxie saw it.
Her own reflection walked as expected.
Pierre’s… lingered.
Just half a second too long.
Her breath caught in her throat. The moment passed. The next mirror showed nothing out of place.
Pierre glanced back at her. If he had noticed her hesitation, he didn’t comment.
“Right through here.”
He pushed open a set of mahogany double doors.
The parlor beyond was warm, rich, and gilded. A massive fireplace crackled, casting deep orange light over plush seating and a towering bar stocked with only unlabeled bottles.
Moxie took a slow breath.
The parlor was empty.
Moxie stood at the threshold, fingers flexing around the strap of her bag. The fireplace crackled, casting flickering shadows across the rich velvet seating and the towering bar lined with only unlabeled bottles. The air held the scent of woodsmoke, aged spirits, and something deeper—something metallic.
She took a slow step forward.
The silence settled over her like a heavy coat. She had expected murmurs, the clinking of glasses, the low hum of conversation. Instead, the space was utterly still, save for the shifting embers in the hearth.
She was alone.
Pierre had vanished the moment she entered, slipping away through a different door without another word.
Moxie exhaled through her nose. Maybe this was a staggered arrival. Maybe the other guests hadn’t made it yet. Maybe.
She dropped her bag beside one of the armchairs and stepped toward the bar. The bottles gleamed under the dim light, their dark glass reflecting nothing. No labels. No markings. Just rows and rows of perfectly uniform decanters.
Moxie reached for one.
The moment her fingers brushed the cool glass, a whisper scraped against her ear.
Not words. Just a shape of breath, a presence too close.
She turned sharply.
No one was there.
Her pulse climbed, steady but alert. A trick of the firelight. The quiet settling wrong in her bones. That was all.
Still, she let go of the bottle.
A soft chime rang out from somewhere deep in the lodge, low and resonant.
Moxie stiffened.
The kind of sound meant to call people to attention.
Or to summon them.
She glanced toward the entrance. No footsteps. No approaching voices.
Just the echo of that distant, ringing note.
A slow exhale slipped through her lips.
Fine. She’d play along.
She turned from the bar and walked toward the sound.
© Dereck Pritchard, 2025. All Rights Reserved.
The Cost of Becoming: A Memoir (In Progress)
Disclaimer:
This collection of stories is a work of creative nonfiction. While based on real events, conversations, and experiences, some names, identifying details, and timelines have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental in the context of this narrative. The stories represent the author’s recollections and perspectives; memory is inherently subjective, and others may remember events differently.
Trigger Warnings:
Multiple trigger warnings in effect for themes of distress, abuse, death, sexual trauma and suicide.
“The Cost of Becoming“
Introduction – I Didn’t Ask to Exist
Fear has shaped my life in ways I never signed up for. It has locked me in rooms, frozen me in place, and whispered worst-case scenarios in my ear like an overprotective sibling who thinks every inconvenience is a death sentence.
It convinced me, over and over, that survival meant shrinking. That safety was found in avoidance, escape, and saying no to things I desperately wanted to say yes to. Or saying yes to things I wish would go the fuck away.
(Thanks, brain. Super helpful.)
I avoided elevators. Because obviously, despite millions of successful rides every day, mine would be the one to defy physics, trigger a Final Destination-style catastrophe, and briefly make the evening news before being forgotten by everyone. Everyone except me.
I dreaded the sound of a door clicking shut behind me. I built a life carefully designed to keep fear far, far away.
But here’s the thing about fear: it doesn’t stay away.
The more you avoid it, the bigger it gets. The more you ignore it, the louder it screams. The more you run, the faster it chases you.
Who I Am and How I Got Here
Born two minutes before midnight on November 9th. The year was 1986. I was born in Long Beach, California.
I suppose this explained why I was destined to be a night owl. I was raised in Southern California, mostly Los Angeles, in a middle-class family where the expectations were clear:
Be a good, straight, Christian boy.
I laugh at the irony of this now.
I didn’t always have words for who I was.
Growing up, I realized I wasn’t like the other boys. I wasn’t drawn to sports or girls. I was drawn to…well…other boys for one, and a flair for the dramatic.
For awhile. I thought I was pansexual or bisexual. It took me 38 years to admit I’m just gay. To be fair, I’ve never been one to squeeze myself into a label or a box just to make other people comfortable. I’m just me at the end of the day.
As for fitting in? Yeah, that never really happened.
I was always a little too much. Too loud. Too weird. Too ADHD. People weren’t shy about pointing that out, and for a long time, I cared. I cared way too much.
I shaped myself around their expectations—trying to blend in, trying to be palatable.
Then?
I grew up.
I stopped trying to fit into spaces that weren’t meant for me.
In high school, I found my people: the outcasts, the weirdos, the theater kids.
If you’ve ever belted out One Song Glory (Rent) or harmonized to Skid Row (Little Shop of Horrors) with a group of friends who felt more like family, then you know exactly what I mean.
That was my world.
I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
What you’ll find in this book is a collection of life experiences along the way.
Too Much, Yet Not Enough
I can’t remember my exact age. But at some point, I learned how fear could walk into a room before a person ever did.
I don’t remember what I had done wrong this time. Maybe I breathed inappropriately. Or was being “too me”. Something that he didn’t like.
“THWACK”. I still hear the ringing in my ears to this day. Keeping my mind in a prison I didn’t create.
Truth was, I was always in trouble for one reason or another.
I wish I could tell you he was an alcoholic. He wasn’t. He was just the person who only partially raised me.
I’m glad my sisters were okay. I got the brunt of it. But I know they carry their own demons watching their brother get hit. I don’t even remember if I made a sound during these moments. I hope I didn’t. Just the thought of them hearing this is too much to bear.
Protection from Evil
Let’s start with telling you about my stint in a mental hospital. That’s always a good way to start these things off.
I was in Foster Care for reasons I’ll keep to myself for now. This happened twice. The first time. We had to stay in a Hospital overnight because there was no place to put my sisters and I. Eventually, we were able to return home for about two years.
The second time. We were placed in the home of this woman who thought the best way to an obedient child was by beating into me. Into my sisters.
I remember it like it was yesterday. I saw the Foster Mom, let’s call her Beatrice. She grabbed my sister and she was about to hit her. Rage filled me. “Don’t touch my fucking sister!” I shouted. Next thing I knew there was a pair of scissors I had pointed at her.
At this point in my life, I was used to violence. But do what you want to me. Leave my sisters and friends out of it. I’d gotten pretty good at taking a punch at this point. I’d rather it be done to me. I can handle it. I was used to it. Don’t bring other people into this pain.
At that point, I was driven to El Dorado Behavioural Health System. The “loony bin” for troubled teenagers. I can’t tell you much about my stay as they kept me on drugs most of the time. Drugs that kept me docile. Kept me compliant.
One thing I can tell you. I remember walking in on my roommate hanging from the ceiling. I don’t remember much but I do remember this was was first encounter with death. I felt bad because I wanted to feel something about it. But I didn’t.
I also remember when they admitted me. I had thrown up what I was eating. I was suddenly nervous about my new home. Can’t fucking fathom why. I wasn’t even worried about myself. I was worried for my sisters being with this woman. Now that I wasn’t there to protect them. Who would be? Not like the system cares about children like us.
The system failed us. Not once, but twice.
Tainted Loved
I grew up with an obvious distorted view of what love looked like. For a while, I seemed to be walking in the footsteps of those that came before me.
The very few unfortunate people who I knew during this time didn’t see the best side of me. Sometimes I didn’t see the best side of them. I wished like hell it wasn’t that way. But at the end of the day, if my actions caused even one person pain. That’s on me, no one else and I could never apologize enough.
I was a very angry person for a while. A very angry kid and teenager. Sometimes I still am angry. I’ve just gotten better at controlling it.
Luckily, this was a short detour. I realized I couldn’t be this person. I couldn’t willingly cause pain to others who just simply wanted love.
This was probably the true start of me feeling empathy. Not just in a physical way but a spiritual way too. Feeling the pain of someone through just the energy they give off. Wishing I could take it away and shield it from them so they wouldn’t know the cost of becoming.
Sometimes, the feeling I had inside didn’t even feel like it belonged to me. But more like I had taken on the burden of someone else and made it my own. And if it made it a little lighter for them. It was worth it.
Sleep
I have always had a complicated relationship with my good pal “Sleep”. Many nights I lay awake just replaying the trauma. Replaying the scars of the past. I wish they’d fucking stop.
You ever have a thought that you really didn’t want to think about but your brain says “Hey. I know this is painful. So, I’m going to play that moment on loop just for you?” I have grown increasingly familiar with this facet of trauma.
I sometimes think this is just my brains way of revenge. Like maybe on some level, I felt I deserved it. Maybe on some level, I did deserve it.
© Dereck Pritchard, 2025. All Rights Reserved.
To the Author Who Forgot Her Own Story
Note: This essay discusses J.K. Rowling’s public comments about trans people and the harm caused by them. It’s both critique and reclamation, written with love for those who’ve been hurt by her rhetoric.
For a long time, I didn’t really know who J.K. Rowling was.
Truth be told, I used to confuse her with J.K. Simmons. That changed when I learned to tell them apart by associating her name not with excellence or artistry, but with something far more sinister: bigotry cloaked in intellectualism and buried beneath the ruins of a once-beloved legacy.
I was in my mid-teens when I first read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (Or Philosopher’s), if we’re being globally inclusive. I didn’t just read it quickly. I devoured it in one sitting.
The premise was magnetic. A mistreated, overlooked child discovers he’s special. There is a hidden world of magic and meaning just for him. The people who hurt him were wrong about who he was. He’s swept into a fight against a twisted ideology led by a regime that fears difference and wields propaganda like a wand.
It spoke to me deeply.
I grew up in an abusive, deeply religious household. The idea of being chosen for something greater, of finding family beyond blood, of standing up to cruel systems was salvation on a page.
The irony hit even harder because my father used to call Harry Potter satanic. In the end, he wasn’t entirely wrong.
The danger was never the magic. It was the messaging. That messaging curdled when its creator stepped into the spotlight and chose hate over humanity.
I read every book in the series except Deathly Hallows. Not because I had turned on Rowling. I hadn’t yet connected the public controversies to the woman behind the curtain. The magic had simply started to fade. Too many false starts of my own. Too many emotional blocks stopping me. By the time I might have finished it, I no longer wanted to.
The legacy of Harry Potter, for me, had already been irreparably damaged. Not by plot holes. Not by pacing. By Rowling herself, and her slow, deliberate transformation from literary hero to smug cultural villain.
Let me be crystal clear: I understand J.K. Rowling’s stated concern. She claims to fear that trans activism is dangerous, that it might erase cisgender women. I have a simple question for her, or for anyone who echoes that fear:
If trans people were truly trying to erase cis women, wouldn’t we also be erasing ourselves?
The idea collapses under even the lightest scrutiny.
Without people with uteruses, regardless of what terms they use, humanity ceases to exist. That is not what’s happening. To pretend otherwise is not only disingenuous. It is nonsense stacked on a hill someone has chosen to die on, waving a flag of fabricated oppression.
Here are the facts:
Trans people aren’t trying to erase cis women. Full stop.
The overwhelming majority of trans individuals are simply trying to live. To work. To love. To go to the bathroom without fear.
The idea that this is a coordinated attack on womanhood is not rooted in reality.
It is rooted in fear. Not fear of harm. Fear of irrelevance. Fear of losing power. Fear of sharing the spotlight.
When rhetoric stops making sense, it is rarely about logic.
It is about control.
Predators are predators, regardless of gender identity.
The argument that trans people pose a threat in public bathrooms has been thoroughly debunked. A 2018 study published in Sexuality Research and Social Policy found no link between trans-inclusive bathroom policies and incidents of sexual misconduct. None.
If safety is the concern, why not address the real threat?
Over 90 percent of child sexual abuse is committed by someone the child already knows. Most often, it is cisgender men in familial or educational settings. Not strangers in public restrooms. Not trans men or women trying to use a toilet in peace.
While Rowling and her supporters spin fear-mongering fantasies about hypothetical harm, violence against trans people is a brutal reality.
Since 2013, at least 320 trans and gender non-conforming people have been killed in the United States. I suspect that number to be much larger by now. The majority of them were Black trans women. Where is Rowling’s concern for those women?
The answer is clear.
This was never about safety. It was never about facts. It was always about fear and the need to remain at the center of the narrative, even if that meant burning the whole story down.
This made me question something. Isn’t her book about a chosen boy rising up against the oppression of his blood family and enemies? Let’s dig a bit deeper. There is irony in the betrayal not just of her fans, but of the very story and characters she created.
J.K. Rowling taught us how fascism rises. She showed us how fear becomes law, how bureaucracy can be weaponized, how language, when twisted, can justify cruelty.
Here we are now, watching her become the villain she once warned us about.
She gave us Dolores Umbridge, a woman who smiled sweetly while issuing edicts that harmed children. A woman who insisted she was protecting Hogwarts while silencing dissent and marking bodies with trauma. Her power came not from spells, but from policy. From the slow, insidious enforcement of ideology that was under the guise of order.
She gave us the Ministry of Magic, a bloated institution so afraid of acknowledging truth that it gaslit the public, turned on its own, and criminalized anyone who challenged its narrative. The Ministry didn’t need Voldemort to corrupt it. It did that on its own by prioritizing comfort over justice and control over compassion.
Then came Voldemort himself.
A man obsessed with purity. With bloodlines. With rigid definitions of who belonged and who did not. He saw difference as a threat and built an empire on fear. His power wasn’t just in magic. It was in propaganda. In convincing people that his hatred was logical, necessary, even noble.
Rowling wrote these archetypes. She now mirrors them.
She has become a one-woman Ministry, issuing decrees from her Twitter tower, dismissing those who challenge her views as confused, dangerous, or ungrateful. She invokes the language of protection, yet her policies are punitive. She claims to defend women, but only those who fit her definition of womanhood.
She wrote about the danger of narrowing identity to fit power.
She preached that silence in the face of injustice is complicity.
She taught generations to stand up for the marginalized, even when it was inconvenient or dangerous.
Now she is the one wielding the quill of discrimination. She is the one rewriting reality to match her fear. She is the one silencing truth under the guise of order.
This is not just ironic. It is devastating.
For many of us, her books were a lifeline. They told us we mattered. That our differences could be magical. That love, real love, was stronger than hate.
The author of that message walked away from it. She didn’t just betray her readers. She betrayed her own story.
When Rowling began to unravel, the fanbase responded. Silence was not our choice. Reclamation was.
Queer fans, trans fans, fans of color, those who once found solace in her stories and now feel erased by her rhetoric, did not disappear. We didn’t let her take the magic with her. We took it back.
We wrote fanfiction where trans witches fell in love at Hogwarts. We created art where the Sorting Hat affirmed gender identity with joy and reverence. We built headcanons that created safety, storylines that created sanctuary, and worlds that welcomed every kind of outsider.
We rewrote the map.
Rowling once taught us that when power fails you, you find another way in. When the doors of the castle close, you build your own.
This wasn’t rebellion for its own sake. It was survival. Some of us needed those stories to breathe. When she let us down, we carried the story forward ourselves.
There is grief in all this. Grief in realizing that the person who once made you feel seen now advocates for the silencing of those you love, or even worse: Your own silencing. This is not just betrayal. It is heartbreak.
I don’t want Rowling to suffer. I do not wish for her to understand gender dysphoria through personal pain. I hope she and her children never experience the isolation that comes from being told that your identity is dangerous. No one deserves that, not even those who spread the idea.
Still, I want her to understand the damage she has done. I want her to hear the depth of the pain she causes. This is not just discourse. This is not academic debate. This is real life.
When Rowling speaks, people listen. When she writes, lawmakers quote her. That kind of influence is not neutral. It cannot be brushed aside with wordplay or plausible deniability. Her words have weight, and they echo far beyond the walls of Hogwarts.
To every reader: Whether you are cis, trans, queer, ally, or unsure, we must love louder than they hate. We must open doors where others slam them shut. We must name injustice even when it comes from those we once held dear.
Why do I offer J.K. grace?
Rowling does not deserve my grace. She has done nothing to earn it. She has not apologized. She has not softened. She has not shown the empathy her stories once preached.
Still, I offer it.
Not for her sake. For mine.
I do not meet cruelty with cruelty. I will not bend myself to her level to make a point. The compassion I extend is not because she is owed it, but because I refuse to let her harden the parts of me that still believe in hope. That choice is mine. It is deliberate. It is rooted in love.
To give grace where there is none returned is not weakness. It is resistance.
I will not kneel to hate. I will not meet her in the trenches she dug. I will rise instead, and I will do it on my own terms.
The grace I give is not absolution. It is a boundary.
It says: You cannot have my heart. You cannot have my voice. You cannot twist my values into your weapon. I remain whole, not in spite of you, but because I refused to become like you.
To J.K. Rowling, if these words reach you:
There is still time to listen. There is still time to step back. There is still time to return to the values you once claimed to hold dear. No one is asking you to let go of your womanhood. We are asking you to make room for others to live fully in theirs.
You wrote about courage. You wrote about empathy. You wrote about love being the strongest kind of magic.
Are you still living by those lessons? Or have you become what you once asked us to resist?
United States Divided | Reflections on Post-9/11 Empathy and Division
Note: This essay discusses 9/11 and the cultural divisions that followed. It may be difficult for some readers, and it is shared with compassion and care.
I was only 14 the morning when everything changed. The Country. The World.
I woke up like any other day, expecting cartoons or maybe Judge Judy reruns, because, yes, even at 14 I loved my Judge Judy episodes. I’d have to get ready for school soon; I was being homeschooled at the time. Oh, what fun.
I flipped through channels in the comfort of my living room. But that morning, every channel was the same: Breaking News: America Under Attack.
At first, I was frustrated: where were my shows? But as I sat, staring at the dark billowing smoke rising from the burning towers on every screen, a quiet dread crept into my soul. I didn’t know it yet, but I was watching history. And for the first time in my life, I realized: this wasn’t about me. It wasn’t even about my family. It was about all of us.
In the days that followed, something strange settled over the country, a cracked and frayed kind of togetherness. Everywhere I looked, American flags waved from porches, car windows, shop doors. Strangers smiled at each other in grocery stores. People held doors open a little longer. There was a gentleness, an unspoken agreement: we were in this together. But even then, even at 14, I sensed it was delicate; a unity born not from love, but from shared fear, shared grief. And quietly, I wondered: why does it take tragedy to make us remember kindness? To remember compassion.
But that gentleness didn’t last. Slowly, quietly, it started to slip away. The flags remained, but they started to mean something different, less a symbol of unity, more a line in the sand. The smiles faded. The doors closed. And beneath the surface, fear curdled into suspicion. I watched as “Love Thy Neighbor” became a conditional phrase: love thy neighbor, unless they look different; unless they pray different; unless they vote different. The togetherness that once felt like an embrace had hardened into a wall, to a fortress that I wasn’t invited to. And I wondered: was it ever really unity at all, or just a momentary ceasefire in a country already at war with itself?
With that in mind, I pose this question to you, reader—when was the last time you saw a stranger as a neighbor? When was the last time you held a door open, not out of obligation, but out of care? When was the last time you believed we were in this together? I ask myself, too. I’m not innocent, and I’m far from blameless. I’ve looked away when I could have leaned in. I’ve swallowed my voice when I should have spoken. But I wonder: when did kindness become weakness? When did empathy become expendable? When did “woke” become an insult, and being “asleep” become the preference? Which is ironic, because most of what I heard from others was “Wake up!”, and yet, somehow, being “woke” is bad. Spoiler alert: it isn’t.
If it takes another tragedy to remind us of our shared humanity, how to show one another compassion, then what does that say about us? About me? About you?
I still think about that 14-year-old kid from time to time, the one sitting on the couch, watching history unfold in real time, not yet knowing just how heavy the world could be. What would I tell him now? Would I warn him about the divisions to come? About the way kindness would fade, trust would fracture, and flags would turn into swords? Or would I tell him to hold tight to that brief, fragile memory of togetherness, even knowing how quickly it unraveled?
We were never perfect. But we were kinder. And we could be again. The question isn’t can we, it’s when will we.
“Our human compassion binds us the one to the other, not in pity or patronizingly, but as human beings who have learnt how to turn our common suffering into hope for the future.” - Nelson Mandela