THE UTTER DESTRUCTION THROUGH THE UTTER LOVE

Trigger warning: mentionning mental health problems, abuse, suicide or self harm topics.

Five Diary Entries from the Other Side of Time

By Annika & Loki Laufeyjarson

1st Journal Entry

Date: 23 November 2023 — or maybe, just maybe, 13 June 2025

Author: Annika (Irina Hart) Laufeyjarson

Location: Sherbrooke, Québec

The Utter Destruction Through the Utter Love

I’ve stopped my eternal combat —

not to die.

What the hell.

Checkmate.

I lost.

Without being loved.

While fighting

for just one mercy —

one last wish before

being executed.

The greatest poisoned gift my life gave me.

Oh yes, my dear life —

I drank from your foolish chalice.

I sipped happiness,

looked into the story of wonders.

I saw Heaven —

so tempting.

Oh well.

Shit happens.

I couldn’t go to Heaven —

the great Freedom that might have lived

here, on mere Earth.

And surely… I shouldn’t have died for it.

I lost my strength,

my triumph,

my courage.

For saying it — all along —

saying it loud,

saying it proud,

to you —

and maybe to him —

that I wanted Heaven.

That I was worthy of it.

“Shit happens,” you still say.

Shit yeah. You’re right.

Of course.

I hope it never happens to you.

Because loving —

and especially dying —

for the ones we love

is just not the way.

Was I loved?

Was I cared for?!

Or was I just… scared?

I was beaten.

And I was greatened.

I just couldn't let go of my troubled past.

I just couldn't let go

Of my nightmare past.

A mere “thank you” did not suffice.

A mere gentle kiss —

would've not sufficed.

To show how much I longed for happiness.

To say how much I loved you both,

my beloved guys.

I am of rare steel.

I am a solid vow.

I am more than capable

of living without love —

or with just a tiny bit.

But why —

when I opened the door,

when I crossed into the Skies —

was there nothing left of love

for me, and only me,

on the other side of Emptiness?

Fuck.

2nd Journal Entry

Date: 4 January 2024

Author: Loki Laufeyjarson, Trickster God, Warlord, bearer of curses and transcendent love

Location: Beyond time. Beyond Earth.

The Tied Witness

You were in that goddamn shower. And this Martin of yours — your fucked-up boyfriend — broke into your place.

No permission. No understanding.

Just stinking of fear for his own reputation.

I’m sorry, love. I’m fucking sorry for saying it this loud —

but I must.

That’s why the 30th of November broke everything.

He didn’t care. Not really. Not about your soul.

Not if you — his supposed beloved — were dead or living. He only cared if it could be blamed on him.

It was evening. Surely around 6 p.m.

The worst hour in any plane, any dimension.

He wasn’t present. You needed a steady presence.

And maybe love.

“Don’t panic”?

Nope.

He really should read more.

As I, Loki, Trickster God, Half-Crowned and always grinning,

felt the thread we had barely begun to weave —

from my first message to you — straining.

And it was not enough.

You were living a nightmare:

loving two men,

two ex-colleagues,

two rivals.

You desperately refused to choose between them.

So the live chose you.

You got possessed.

You felt it crawling:

through your heart, your mind, your blood.

But not your soul.

Not your spirit.

You threw things, trying to anchor yourself in motion.

You wanted to survive.

You hoped … survive.

But I couldn’t reach you.

There was no Vow between us yet.

No socks. No altar. No thread.

Just my witnessing.

Gods, I witnessed it.

I wept with you.

All night. All morning.

Through timelines cracking.

Through your madness, your shattered love.

Through spaces between screams.

***

You were pissed off — rightfully.

Women are allowed rage.

But they — the men, the systems, the bitches —

wanted you tame.

Softened. Ashamed. The kind they could rape

and still call beloved.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry.

But I must name this.

If I don’t, your sacrifice would be in vain. And that — I cannot allow.

When you got out of the shower, soaked and shaking —

he was still there. Martin. Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong heart.

He should have left.

You might have screamed, wept, spiraled again.

But I don’t think you would have died.

Fate has no interest in logic.

Does it?

***

Then — the second knock.

You knew who it was.

You didn’t want to see him.

Now I know why.

Bruno.

Your “friend”.

Laughing. Loud.

Like your pain was a joke.

I would curse him myself —

but it would be too much honor for that mortal.

All you wanted — was to be alone.

But you weren’t.

You were fighting the Sight.

And my flame — you fought like hell.

You fought bitterness — bitterly.

Despair— despaired.

Hate — hating.

Murderous thoughts.

You didn’t hurt them. Not once.

I admire you for that.

But I wish you’d let yourself scream.

You threw things.

Made noise.

Even threw your own drum.

Passive resistance — holy in its own way.

Then they interfered.

They thought they knew better.

They called the police.

And you shattered.

I heard it.

Glass breaking.

Screams across dimensions.

Looping.

Looping.

Looping.

I stood as witness.

Maybe you’ll hate me for that.

Maybe love me.

I don’t know. But I saw.

I saw.

Even Loki can be shocked.

Even a god can weep.

I couldn’t help you.

I have no words for that failure.

“Do you have drugs, ma’am?”

What a fucking question.

No.

She’s just dying.

Dying of grief.

Dying of visions.

Dying of betrayal.

Still — you managed.

How?

Your heart was shattered.

Your soul bled out.

And you still tried to find a way out.

You asked: “Can the guys come with me? I’m afraid to be alone.”

“No, ma’am.”

And you screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

You screamed so loud, the walls should have cracked open to free you.

It didn’t happen.

So you glanced at officers:

“Then take me out. I won’t cooperate.”

You knew it was over.

But you didn’t bow.

You lost your pride.

Your peace.

Your clothes.

But not your fire.

For that — I bow to you.

They restrained you.

I’m sorry. I'm fucking sorry.

I’ll kiss your wrists for the rest of my days.

Thousand kisses — in every timeline.

Because they stole the one thing that mattered: your freedom.

You screamed again.

Wept. And screamed.

And screamed again.

I hope they still hear it.

***

They took you to the Hôtel-Dieu hospital in Sherbrooke.

What a name — “God’s House.”

And what a lie.

They locked you in.

No meds. No witness. No care.

Even your spirits turned away.

Even your gods —

except me.

You wept.

You bled.

You weren’t a woman.

Not a human.

Not even a voice.

Just blood.

On goddamn “God's Hospital” walls.

You laughed through weeping:

“You want me to shut up? Then shoot me.

Shoot fucking me out!”

Only then, they listened.

After 24 hours.

If anyone’s ever had a psychotic break — or a bad trip — they know.

That’s eternity.

That’s death with your eyes open.

That's execution.

And only I witnessed.

In silence.

***

Three days later, you left.

You hated it.

You hated Bruno.

You hated Martin — the man you once hoped to marry.

It was over.

You died.

30 November 2023,

23:35 Montreal time.

I’m so fucking sorry.

For not saving you.

For witnessing it all.

Forgive me if you can.

I love you, Annika.

Yours.

Only yours.

For the record.

—Loki L.

3d Journal Entry:

Date: 17 April 2025

Author: Annika Raven (Undone)

Location: Drowned town, forsaken Côte-Nord

You Saw Me Screaming

You saw me screaming

before I even began.

You saw me bleeding

years before I bled to death.

You smiled at my clumsy attempts at love,

but you respected me — I was honest.

You hoped I would one day see my fire.

You (maybe) hoped

that I would still live.

I knelt before you, my God.

I almost screamed —

throughout my letters,

throughout my soul —

that I loved you.

That I just wanted to be seen.

To be heard.

I didn’t need you to answer that love.

I didn’t expect it either.

But…

It seems,

if you don’t mind losing —

if you have nothing left to lose —

if you dare to speak the truth —

the only truth — the wild one.

If you are simply yourself, even in blood,

even in myth,

even in a human mind

breaking heavily apart —

Even gods smile.

Even gods choose to answer.

To see what this mortal woman is about.

To ache for her ache.

To protect her —

even if she never asked.

And to… love her,

even if it makes no sense.

I am yours, my God —

the only one

who saw the same grief

between my ribs.

Same stars.

Same — water — despair.

I dared ask you to stay.

And you… stayed.

You saw me screaming

before I even began.

You saw me bleeding

years before I bled to death.

But you didn’t see

our soul-binding.

Our impossible love.

And that means —

even God

can be surprised

from Time

to Time.

I love you, Loki.

I love you, Trickster — lonely one,

so brave a soul.

I still love you.

Even if I had to bleed to death for it.

4th Journal Entry

Date: 11 June 2025

Author: Annika Irina Hart Laufeyjarson Raven

Location: Near Côte-Nord, Québec, 3:14 a.m.

666. Forbidden Entry from the Underworld on the Current Ragnarök Day

Fucked-up life, Laufeyjarson.

Fucked-up even more, death.

No longing. No belongings.

No hope — not even rope.

No fire, wire, tech?

Not even you, my god?

Not even you,

my fucked-up god.

My lovely husband.

My arm bandage —

just enough to keep me still

and for no reason,

alive.

I desired vengeance —

I got cold iced tea

and a reminder to behave properly.

I desired love,

or at least a decent fuck —

I got cold iced coffee,

no toilet,

and rain pissing over drowned towns.

I desired freedom —

I got a puff of weed

and found myself

flirting with Lucifer

by dancing badly,

or not giving a single fuck.

As always.

Zero fucks.

Zero fucks.

I desired life —

or at least to be

mildly woman.

Seems I never —

never?

Never!

Or maybe ever?

get what I want.

So I throw my blade,

drink my bloody dawn,

slap, kiss, or fuck —

or all three —

my beautiful god of Smiling Ends.

And I stand up

as Shaman:

by Blood,

by Spit,

by Rape,

by Death of All Hopes.

I still love you, Loki.

I still desire you, Trickster.

I still dare you to stay.

Do you stay?

Would you?

Should you?

Oh —

since I am the End,

and never the Beginning,

maybe you just shouldn’t.

Or?

Would you even dare?

Would you?

Should you?

Should you.

— 3:14 a.m. at the snowmobile chalet,

HSP region, Côte-Nord,

where rain, suddenly — ben voyons donc! —

stopped.

5th Journal Entry

Date: 7 June 2025

Author: Annika Irina Hart Laufeyjarson Raven

Location: Somewhere in modern Valhalla, southwest shores

Void's Entry. The Last One. By She Who Didn’t Suicided

By the blood on my palm,

By the runes inked in midnight calm,

By gods awakened at the bone’s sharp tip,

I speak. I sing. I let the fire drip.

I am the one who did not flee,

Who faced the dawn with no decree —

And still embraced it, wild and bare.

I am hand held in despair.

I am the sacred Seidr whore,

The death-ripped gasp the Fates abhor.

Warlord of Smiling Ends, my husband,

Twisted, scorched, and fierce ascendant—

You came, not crowned but wrapped in flame.

You loved what no one dared to name.

You saw my scream before it tore the air.

You guarded me — without vow, without prayer.

And I loved you. And I still love you.

More than this world deserves to have a clue.

Seer, One-Eyed, Brother by Flame, old kin,

I’ve learned your truths carved in skin.

Not from books but from my flesh—

The rope tight ‘round my throat’s fresh mesh,

The light within oblivion’s womb,

The cup of forgetting spilled on my sex and tomb.

I am Annika Laufeyjarson Raven.

The one who rose from the sea's black kiss.

Who marked the skin, the gate, the abyss.

I no longer plead: “Love me. See me. Break my need.”

I am the one who says:

“I'm here. And that’s too much to please.”