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Alicia Keys Remembers Being 'Manipulated' By Sleazy

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My sister lost her face when we were kids.

The story I would like to share with you all is a deeply personal one—one that I haven’t shared with anyone else, and am only sharing now because the most terrible aspect of it has just now resurfaced in my life. I’ve spent the last decade trying to forget it; some days even trying to convince myself that it hadn’t happened, but it’s nonetheless reasserted itself into the realm of truth, and I can only hope that retelling that tale and expressing the trauma it’s brought me will somehow free me of its torment.
The manner of its reintroduction will be explained later, after I share the details of its initial appearance. Then, you’ll hopefully believe my story, and understand the burden that’s been placed on my nerves and mind following its recurrence.
I was twelve when my sister lost her face, and someone else’s took its place. It happened right in front of my eyes as we were playing outside. It was the day after Christmas, and I had wanted to play with the football I’d gotten as a gift. My dad had to work that day, so I begged my younger sister—ten—to play with me. She agreed, although in return I had to help her setup the Gamecube she’d received.
It had been snowing that entire week, something I would’ve ordinarily called a Christmas miracle, if the snow’s presence hadn’t served to accentuate the horror of that morning. It had fallen thickly the night before, and Alicia and I had to trudge through the buildup outside our backyard window; the blockage rising nearly to our stomachs. We eventually cleared a path to the open space of our backyard, and, standing in isolated pits within the snow, tossed the ball back and forth.
We did this for about ten minutes before growing bored with the lack of movement—going for passes being entirely impossible, and even lunging to one side or the other being too cumbersome to be done more than a few times before exhaustion. I was about to give up and tell her to just head inside, when I remembered that Dad’s shed had been left unlocked. It was where he had hidden our gifts, and he’d given me the key on Christmas morning to go get them. I had forgotten to lock it, although I told him that I did when I brought the key back. It was cold, and I hadn’t wanted to go back out there.
I told Alicia this, and suggested that we play a new game. One person would go inside the shed, the other would stand a few feet outside the entrance, and the person therein would have to dodge the football. There would be no worry of it being lost, and at least one person would be able to freely move around—it being a fairly big shed.
She agreed, and before she could think to say it, I declared that she would be in the shed first, since the game was my idea. She assented, accepting this older-brother logic, and pushed her way into the snow-less shed. She flicked on the light inside, illuminating the mostly bare interior, save for a workman’s table and some weather-proof boxes filled with lawncare stuff. She had plenty of space to move around, and there was nothing within view that could be seriously damaged by the ball, or her clumsiness.
She announced she was ready, and I threw the ball. She dodged the first throw, but once I got a clear idea of her grace—or lack thereof—it was an easy job hitting her with it. I was twelve, so it wasn’t like I had the arm-power to actually hurt her. Plus, her puffy coat, which made her look like walking purple marshmallow, was thick enough to absorb most of the force.
We hadn’t decided on rules for swapping out, so I couldn’t argue when she said that ten tries were “enough”. It was my tenth, and I had hit her seven times already. This time she didn’t move around, vainly hoping to miss my shot, but stood still—hunched forward. I suspected she would try to dive under it, so I threw it low—also hoping she’d at least have the sense to cover her face when she dove.
The ball soared through the air, and just as expected, she quickly dove to the floor. It struck her just before she landed, right on the top of her head. She exhaled a loud, “oof”, and lay face down on the floor.
I ran to her, an alarm of panic already going off in my head. I snatched her up, and instantly recoiled upon seeing her; dropping her to the floor again. She stared up at me, eyes wide, and frantically questioned me—asking how bad it was, why I was moving away from her, etc. She patted her face, as if to see if there was blood, which there was not.
She calmed down a bit, rose to her feet, and continued questioning me. With each step she took towards me, I took two away from her, until my back was pressed against the rear wall of the shed. She advanced innocently, although to me it had seemed awfully sinister.
The thing about her that frightened me, that unsettled me to my core, was what was different about her. In the brief moment during which she had laid face-down after being struck by the ball, her face had changed, completely. The rest of her had stayed the same, even her hair, but the features of her face hadn’t just been altered—they’d been swapped out for someone else’s. There was another girl’s face in place of my sister’s; her voice came from its mouth; she looked at me with another’s eyes. My sister had always had freckles, regardless of the season, but this new face had none. Her nose had always been short, and pointy, but its replacement was fuller—less narrow. Her green eyes had given way to brown ones, these larger than their predecessors.
Bodily, she hadn’t changed from what I could tell, but the face which stared at me worryingly was not that of my sister.
The fact that her voice hadn’t changed kept me from questioning who she truly was. Her awkward gait, immediately recognized despite her dizzied stumbling, supplemented the certainty of her identity as well. It was still my sister, at least on the inside. I calmed myself down, and apologized for acting weirdly; told her that a huge red mark on her face had made her look all bloody, but that it had started to fade. She walked over and pushed me, berating me for freaking her out. I tried to laugh, but that unrecognizable face creeped me out too much, and I could only manage a slight smile.
I moved past her and left the shed, calling out behind me that I was tired and wanted something to eat. She said she’d follow, and I didn’t protest. Our mom was home that day, and I wanted to go to her—wanted her to see my sister, and tell her the news in a comforting way; something I knew I wouldn’t be able to accomplish. I entered the kitchen, passing by the baker’s rack which had been repurposed as holder of random things. The top shelf held several pictures of the family, and I was relieved to find that in all of them which showed my sister, her appearance was just as I had known it. The unfamiliar features which she now displayed were entirely absent.
I found my mom in her bedroom, following along with exercises from some workout DVD. I entered, my sister coming in shortly after me. My mom glanced at us, saying that she’d be done in a second and would make us something to eat. Then she turned towards us again, her face full of worry. I thought that was it—that she had seen my sister’s new, unfamiliar face. But rather than shriek away, shouting in surprise, she instead came quickly to my sister and embraced her.
“What happened to your face? Where did this bruise come from?”
Obviously, I was dumbstruck. Sure, a bruise had formed on Alicia’s forehead, but my mother hadn’t acknowledged anything else. She hadn’t taken notice of the completely new face. In a moment of desperation, hoping that she was just playing along for my sister’s sake, I pulled mom aside and asked if that was the only unusual thing she noticed about Alicia. She looked to my sister, confusion now in place of worry, and said: “Why, is she hurt somewhere else, too? What were you doing out there?”
I felt dizzy, as if I’d just received some terrible news that I had no way to cope with. I muttered out some explanation—that we’d been playing with my new football and it had hit Alicia in the head. My mom chastised me for playing rough, and made me apologize to Alicia. I did, sincerely, because it was my fault that she no longer had her own face. Mom took the football away, and said that Dad would decide when I’d get it back once he got home.
Dad. For some reason, I thought that he would be able to recognize the falseness of Alicia’s new face, if mom couldn’t. There was no really rationality behind this belief—it was just the dumb hope of a kid faced with an inexplicable change to his normal life.
I spent the rest of that afternoon in my room, half-heartedly playing with other gifts, waiting for dad to get to come. The sound of the garage going up renewed my spirits, and I called out to Alicia as I started downstairs. She hurried past me, both of us wanting to greet dad for our own reasons. Hers, probably to tell dad what I did. I was fine with that, let her greet him first.
As you may have predicted, my heart sank when he entered the kitchen and scooped her up in a hug—totally oblivious to the change of face. I greeted him in turn, and Alicia wasted no time in telling him how I’d “hurt” her, although she did—for her own self-aggrandizement—express that she felt fine, that there hadn’t really been much pain at all. Dad, mostly to assuage mom, did officially confiscate the football, and I was not to get it back until the bruise on Alicia’s face healed.
The bruise healed, but the face stayed the same—that is, the same new, unwelcome visage.
That’s the end of the story. I was forced—by my unwillingness to broach the subject and risk derision—to accept my sister’s new face. I grew up alongside this visual stranger, though I never forgot her true, natural appearance. My sister never acted differently, my parents never treated her differently, and she was in every other aspect the girl I had always known. The odd, unexplainable thing was that there was—to me—a clear discontinuity of identity for this girl. Pictures prior to that dreadful morning showed the original face, and pictures taken after showed the new face, but no one ever commented on the disparity; as if their eyes saw a persistence of identity between the images. That, more than anything, troubled me. The suggestion that there was either something wrong with everyone—incredibly unlikely—or something wrong with me.
But what? And how? I hadn’t been the one to get hit in the head, and yet it was as if I had been stricken with some sort of neurological disease. This consideration troubled me for much of my teenage life, and I became somewhat depressed—although I did my best not to show it around my family and school faculty. I did not want anything approaching an investigation into what harrowed me, because I doubted I’d be able to keep my secret to myself under questioning. When the time came for me to move out, to pursue a higher education, I was unusually excited for it—compared to others of my age. I, which I admit with no small amount of guilt, was happy to leave that house, where my sister wearing a stranger’s face still lived.
I went through college without notable incident, and managed to experience a rather ordinary social and romantic life. I graduated with collegiate honors. I married my “college sweetheart”, and we settled into a humble home together. These things, the fact that I could live a normal life without any sort of psychiatric issue or ineptitude, convinced me that I hadn’t been crazy, that something was truly amiss about the reality surrounding my sister’s face.
The pinnacle of the weirdness, the thing which has reintroduced the bizarre phenomenon into my immediate life, was the birth of my daughter. She was a healthy baby, and her mother was as fit and well as a mother could be. I think of myself similarly, and neither of us have ever indulged in anything which could bring about some abnormal feature in our child. But I swear to you, even on my daughter’s life, that something was wrong with her. At first, I attributed the oddness to the natural development of a child. That her features, specifically her face, had yet to “set” in a way; that her genes were still reconciling themselves to become a representation of both her mother and father.
But as she aged, and a year, and two, and three passed, she did not inherit features from either parent. My wife saw nothing wrong with this; it was, she said, perfectly normal for the child to look absolutely unique in respect to her parents. And there was of course no doubt as to the legitimacy of the child. What frightened me wasn’t the uniqueness of our daughter. It was the familiarity of her face. It was, undeniably, the face of my sister—the original face.
There was no series of gradations for this transformation, beyond just the filling out of the infant’s face into a toddler’s. She had assumed this role as my sister’s doppelganger without subtlety, as if predestined.
I did not tell my wife this, and swore to myself not to mention it to my daughter when she was older. And of course, my parents did not recognize the face of the toddler as having been that of their own daughter, and neither did Alicia recognize her former face. Thankfully, my daughter did not exhibit similar behavior to my sister’s. I think I would’ve gone properly mad if Alicia in her truest form had been reincarnated as my child.
My daughter and my sister get along quite nicely now, and Alicia has shown herself to be a very caring and responsible aunt, and has looked after Liara—what we named her—whenever my wife and I need a sitter. I have no answers for this apparent exchange of faces. I have not once detected anything remotely sinister in their natures, but still...The event itself, the lack of its recognition by everyone connected to it but myself, it haunts me nightly. I feel that I’ve been the subject of some cosmic joke, and I can’t think of what I might’ve done to deserve it.
Can you?
submitted by WeirdBryceGuy to nosleep


{Original Canon} Giron's Walk: A War-Torn Kingdom (Part 6: Aerilon)

“Once the spell is complete, the ether magic will teleport you all somewhere random in the world,” Mylonite said. Giron once again remembered the difference between what the gods called Ether and what he called Ether. “It'll be a safe location, but it will be up to you to find one another again.”
Aere Region, Hearth, 5E 1
Months have passed since the skirmish at the Central Mountains, and Giron had a pretty good idea it had been about a year since the War ended. Definitely won’t be getting back to Euroria at this pace, he thought as he drove the cart into the plains and hills that defined the eastern region of Hearth.
“Looks like we’re here!” Phillip said, poking his head out of the cart. “The Aere Region! I’ve heard the region’s honey is the best you can find on this side of the Channel.”
“Really?” Giron asked, a little curious.
“Indeed,” Leon replied - going over the finishing touches of a song the minstrels were working on. “Back when the Crestkeep Company’s Dragon Branch still traded, it was a top seller - most of Hearth’s beekeeping businesses boomed during that time.”
“Sadly, trade with Duran all but was destroyed when the War started at the beginning of the era,” Phillip sighed. “No Duranian trading, no Crestkeep Company. Trade really took a hit when the Taiyan army decided to do what it did. Even the Dragon Branch’s incorporation of Teparian technology didn’t help.”
Giron hummed in acknowledgement, having heard of the Duranian trading company during his travels. “Well… it’s going to be a while til we get to Aerilon… and the next town is about an hour away.”
“Well, once we get there,” Oscar said. “We’ll be parting ways, since us three want to travel around the region at a bit of a slower pace… and a hero such as yourself no doubt has places to be.” Giron just nodded, and the cart continued on its pace.
An hour later, Giron stopped the cart at a small town, where he parted ways with the minstrels. “Try not to get yourselves thrown out as much as before,” he said.
“Of course! Of course!” Oscar replied jovially, as Giron rode away from the small town, and back into the region.
As he drove the cart, Giron looked around. He could see buildings, old and ruined, some destroyed by siege engines. I had a feeling this region would be hit the hardest, being the capital… and where we as the heroes were for a time. As he continued, he could see overturned ground, some of it exposing rail tracks. Was that part of the network I helped design? He thought. That’s… a possibility.
Soon, evening came, and Giron stopped at a small tavern. Might as well stay the night here, he thought, as he entered. The tavern’s patrons turned to him. “Don’t mind me,” he said, before heading over to the counter. “You have a room?” He asked the innkeeper.
“We’ve got a room - 5 silver pieces, it is.”
Giron passed over the coin and received the key. “Thanks. Any news? I’m on my way to Aerilon.”
“Well,” the innkeeper replied. “You’re only about half a day’s travel from here to there. A lot of people have been moving back into the city, rebuilding the place.”
“What about the outer towns? Stonedell and Arborvale?”
“Eh… those were abandoned. Relics of the heroes who lived there. Wait…” The innkeeper leaned forward, eyes narrowed at Giron’s face. “You’re-” He was cut off by Giron putting a finger to his lips.
“Shh…” he hushed. “Let’s keep that on the downlow for now.”
“Haven’t you heard?” the innkeeper whispered rather harshly. “The Heroes are making their way to Euroria. What are you doing all the way out here?”
“Blame Mylonite for sending me all the way to Vespionia,” Giron whispered back, before sighing. Not that I regret it now.
“Well, there’s something that might interest you, Mr. Soldier,” the innkeeper said. “Apparently, a young woman has taken residence in one of the old cottages you heroes built, near Arborvale. Only one, I’ll say. No idea why.”
“Hm…” Giron muttered. No idea why that’s interesting, but I’ll see about that, I suppose. “Thanks for the room. Oh, and…” Giron pulled some more silver pieces.
The innkeeper shook his head. “Nah, don’t worry. Dinner’s on the house. Least I can do.”
The next morning, Giron said his goodbyes to the innkeeper. After prepping the horses, the cart was on its way again.
True to the innkeeper’s word, it was about half a day before Giron entered Aerilon. His eyes widened in shock. The place was a mess. Granted, it was still being rebuilt, but… there was so… much… damage.
“Well…” Giron remarked. “For beings made of shadow… they’re certainly effective.” Just like in Vespionia… and some of the towns we passed, he thought grimly. Finding a makeshift stable the residents had made, he met one of the head traders and spoke about what happened to the original owners of the cart.
“I won’t be needing it,” Giron remarked, effectively giving the merchant cart to the city. As long as that portal in Stonedell is intact… he thought.
Exploring the city for a bit, Giron decided to head over towards Arborvale. I wonder who this woman is… he thought as he approached the woods. As he continued, he could hear voices.
“What are you bozos doing here?!” A woman’s voice.
“Ah… a fine lass.” That voice… gruff sounding. “Think ye can fight with that measly sword and those measly arms?”
Bandits? Giron thought, quickening his pace. Soon, he saw a clearing, with a woman being accosted by three bandits. He pulled the bow from his back and grabbed the bowstring, the bow instantly creating an arrow.
“Don’t ye worry, lass. Just put down the sword, and we can have some fun.”
Damn it. “Leave the woman alone, thugs.”
Ceedree wasn’t expecting a hero of Chertia to show up at her doorstep, much less kill the bandits that were harassing her. For a former fairy and companion of Moirean, she didn’t think any of the heroes would’ve been in Hearth - much less end up in Aerilon.
Despite that, the hero - Giron - was surprisingly a nice fellow. When Moirean last talked with her… before he faded away… he didn’t mention much, if at all, about the heroes.
“He must’ve really cared about you. And you him.” Giron gave the bandages where he had been hit by one of the bandit’s clubs in the side of the head a bit of a light touch as he spoke.
Ceedree, touching her locket, nodded. “Yeah…”
“I understand that feeling… he would want you to live your own life, make your own decisions. You’re not tied to the chains of your past, and you have a great future ahead of you. Places to go, people to meet… and you might find that special someone out there. Ultimately, though, it’s your own decision. No one else can make it for you.”
Leaving Ceedree’s cottage - I wonder why Moirean didn’t mention her… - Giron returned to Aerilon. He spoke to an old man named Jacob, who seemed… interesting, but Giron wasn’t sure why.
After exploring a little more - and being rather dismayed at the horrid state the train station was in - Giron entered the ruins of the community centre. The rubble had been cleared away, but a lot of work still needed to be done.
It was here that Giron pulled out a book from his pack. He remembered when he and the other heroes received this book… back when they arrived at Swinstead.
“Oh, before I go,” Mylonite remarked, before snapping her fingers. A strange book appeared in front of every person. “If you so wish, you can use these to send letters to people. They’re magic - with a bit of ether magic mixed in, so the letters will appear where you want them to be. And yes, that includes other realms, I know some people were thinking. These people can then send you letters as well. Now then, farewell.” With that, the goddess disappeared in a flash of light.
“I suppose this is as good a chance as any to send a message,” Giron muttered to himself, thankful that the ruined centre was empty. Finding a place to sit, he begins to write.
Meanwhile, at Ricky’s Tavern in Euroria, one of the heroes sees their book flash, as a letter appears. They pull it out, and read it to the rest.
Hi all. Sorry, but it seems like I can’t make it back to Euroria. That portal sent me to Hearth of all places - and western Hearth at that. I’ve been here for about over a year now, going around, but I’ve made it to Aerilon. While I would like to celebrate our victory, I have people at home who desperately need me. So… no need to keep a drink for little old me - I won’t be needing it. Take care guys. - Giron, the Honest Soldier
P.S. Yeah, apparently a bunch of travelling minstrels I ran into from Lera named me that. They know about us over here. If you ever hear some minstrels play songs like “The Terror of Taiya”, “The Scourge of the Seas”, and “The Chertian Heroes”... well, it’s them.
By the way, the Aere Region’s honey is actually top-notch. Take it from me… and those minstrels. They… got a bit annoying at times. But yeah, the honey’s good.
Oh, and if Gameboy Wolvix hears this, let him know I managed to clear a bandit gang in Hearth’s central mountains - by myself. God, I felt like shit after that. I was covered in blood - felt a lot like him at that point. I don’t even know how many there were.
Giron sighed with a smile as the letter he wrote disappeared. They’ll like that, I imagine, he thought, putting the book away and leaving the ruins of the community centre.
Soon, he found himself on the road to Stonedell. Walking down the ruined path, he could see the charred remains of the orchard, before the mountain that defined Stonedell slowly came into view. As he walked, he thought on his journey so far since the War.
Alicia… I hope that kid has a good life. The merchants… those that had fallen… I hope they rest in peace now. The people of Reania… and other towns… I hope rebuilding goes well. The minstrels… well, I suppose it was good meeting them. Would’ve been boring going through most of Hearth alone. And Ceedree… I hope she has a good life - Moirean gave it to her after all.
Walking up the steps towards the inner part of Stonedell, he saw most of the buildings had been bombarded, and his own home had been completely destroyed. His eyes turned to a section of the mountain…
And there the portal stood, still intact, and still functioning. He even saw the dais Mylonite had added when they travelled from here to Euroria.
Giron sighed. “Guess it’s time for me to head home.” Taking one last look around. “So long, Ahiro… maybe I’ll be back someday… but until then, this is goodbye.” Pulling out a small, old green gem - a gift from years ago - he placed it into the dais. In an instant, the portal’s colour changed from purple into a gold colour. Taking out the gem, he took a deep breath. Time to head home, he thought, before jumping in.
As soon as Giron went through, the portal closed.
In a tavern in a small town, not that far from Arborvale, the three minstrels bow to the audience as they sit on the stage.
“Thank you all,” Oscar said. “We wouldn’t have made it here without a good friend of ours - and a great hero to us all. The Honest Soldier… this song is dedicated to him and the people who saved the world from the dark God-King Taiya. We call it… The Chertian Heroes.”
Let us tell you a tale, a tale of great wonder, Of power and unity clashing with might! Let us tell you a tale of the Chertian Heroes, Of the people who brought this world back to the light!
Let us start with the Captain, the one known as Kira, Whose piloting prowess showed the way, too. She may crack a yoke, but her heart is no joke, She’s truly a hero, through and through.
And now to the Slayer, the one known as Angel, Silent and deadly with power to boot. He’s slain gods and men, and fought for them too, He’s truly a hero, through and through.
Now here comes the Soldier, the one known as Giron, A man on a mission, and very blunt too. You’ll know by his knowledge, and honesty too, That he’s truly a hero, through and through.
And onto the Beast, the enigma of all, Even his name is lost to us all, The one who is three and made the final blow, He’s truly a hero, through and through.
Heroes united against a great foe, Against Taiya’s power, his darkness unfurled. The Beast, the Captain, the Soldier, the Slayer, Just a few of the heroes who saved our whole world.
To the Artificer, the one known as Ace A man with the power to change the whole place. His nose may be long, but his kindness is strong, He’s truly a hero, through and through.
The Luscinean Queen, the one known as Neva, A cloud of great energy, and happy to boot. Absorbing the power to use for our good, She’s truly a hero, through and through.
The demigod child, the one known as Mizz, She’s quite the Kayotic, if you get my bizz, A child of Chertia, among this whole crew, She’s truly a hero, through and through.
Heroes united against a great foe, Against Taiya’s power, his darkness unfurled. The Artificer, Queen, and Demigod too, Just a few of the heroes who saved our whole world.
A toast to the Champion, the one known as Bulldog, That’s not his real name, but it is what he’s called. Avara’s great chosen, and leader of Aphon, He’s truly a hero, through and through.
Now here comes the General, the one known as Cajf, He fights for his Emperor, as he shouted and slashed. A true patriot, he won’t shy from a fight, He’s truly a hero, through and through.
Onto the Warrior, the one known as Lego, He’s known for his puns, and his iron-strong Will. He’s happy and brave, and he lifts all our spirits, He’s truly a hero, through and through.
Finally, the Sage, the one known as Shijiyu, His presence completes this powerful crew. He may be no fighter, but he’s certainly no blighter, He’s truly a hero, through and through.
Heroes united against a great foe, Against Taiya’s power, his darkness unfurled. The Champion, the Warrior, the Sage and the General, Just a few of the heroes who saved our whole world.
And so ends our tale, our tale of great wonder, Of power and unity clashing with might! Of the dark God-King’s fall to the Chertian Heroes, And the Heroes who brought this world back to the light!
The End
submitted by Giron_ to theworldofchertia