#hey jude is to be taken in small doses

[thewickedkings]

Between the Two of Us ~ Chapter 2

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Summary: Jurdan High school AU. Rivals Jude and Cardan are forced to partner up for a history project, and drama ensues. (I know, I know, I suck at descriptions)

Trigger Warnings: I don’t think there’s anything so far, but please let me know if there’s anything I missed!

Jude stepped out her warm shower and into her bath robe, humming softly to herself. She’d gotten up early and went for a run, so she still had half an hour before Cardan was supposed to come over. Maybe she’d make herself a nice comforting breakfast to mentally prepare herself. She’d definitely need the extra dose of comfort food before dealing with Cardan. And to think she would have to do this for the rest of the semester.

Happy thoughts, she reminded herself. Think happy thoughts.

She opened her bathroom door, drying her hair off with her towel, and immediately jumped back in surprise, her towel slipping from her fingers.

Cardan Greenbriar was in her room. He was in her room, lounging on her chair, completely at ease as if he wasn’t in her bedroom. She blinked to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.

Cardan looked up at her from where he sat on her chair, smirking. “Forget about our meeting?”

Jude’s mouth hung open in shock. She quickly closed it, her brain scrambling to catch up with the situation. “I didn’t forget. But it seems you forgot we were supposed to meet at 11:30, not 11:00, Cardan.”

“I’m nearly positive I said 11:00, Jude.” He leaned back in her chair, amused. “But maybe I’ll make a habit of coming early.” His eyes lowered from her dripping hair and landed on her bathrobe, and Jude felt herself blush.

“Shut up.” She marched over to her closet, grabbed the first outfit she could find, and walked back to her bathroom. “Give me a second, and then we’ll get this over with,” she growled, and tried not to slam the door behind her.

She looked up into the mirror, and realized she looked worse than she thought. Her brown hair hung down the side of her face in wet strands, and her cheeks were flushed, a side effect of dealing with Cardan.

Something about the way Cardan always seemed so in control of the situation got on her nerves, and she wanted to, for once, have the upper hand with him. He never seemed fazed, and Jude both envied and hated him for it.  

She combed out her hair and changed into a casual shirt and mom jeans, doing her best to make sure it didn’t look like she tried in any way for him.

When she walked back in the room, Cardan was looking at his phone, his brow furrowed. Jude had to admit that it was jarring to see him against the messy clutter of her room, and she felt somewhat exposed at him seeing the space she had made her own.

With his attention on his phone, Jude gave him a quick once over. He wore faded skinny jeans that were ripped at the knees and a soft black sweatshirt. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the faded scar just above his sharp jawline, and a small part of her wondered how he had gotten it.

Cardan caught her gaze. “Like what you see?”

She made a gagging sound. “You wish. Come on, let’s go downstairs. I need food before dealing with you.”

“What, haven’t had coffee yet?”

She threw her folder at him and walked towards the door. “I hate you.”

“Do you?” He raised his eyebrows as he deftly caught the folder and got up to follow her. “Besides, I was just getting you back for changing my locker combination. How the hell did you do that? It took me three days to figure it out.”

She smiled. She was particularly proud of that. It seemed her hour of practice and watching Youtube videos had been worth it. “I am a woman of many talents.”

He snorted. “Well, I’m sure you can include lock-picking on your resume, right under thief.”

She walked into the kitchen and grabbed eggs from the fridge. “I didn’t steal your car keys. I just conveniently misplaced them. Do you want some?” she asked as she cracked an egg into a bowl.

“No thanks. How will I know you didn’t ‘accidentally’ poison them?”

Jude’s thoughts flashed back to her plans to poison him and she choked back a laugh. That was a little too close to the truth.

Their conversation was interrupted by Jude’s older sister Vivi, who came rushing down the stairs, shoes on and car-keys in hand.

She paused when she saw Cardan leaning against the kitchen counter. “I see Jude’s finally brought home a b- Cardan?”

Jude ignored the fact that Vivi had just exposed her nonexistent love life and asked, “You two know each other?”

Vivi smiled. “I went to high school with his sister. How do you know Cardan?” She wagged her eyebrows playfully.

Jude shot her a glare.

“We have classes together,” Cardan responded. “But Jude clearly wanted to get to know me better, if you know what I mean, and so she generously invited me over to ‘work’ on our history project together.”

Jude scowled. “I didn’t invite you. You invited yourself.”

“If you say so. But I know you wanted me to come over.”

Jude fumed and looked at Vivi. “He’s delusional.”

But Vivi just looked between them with a knowing smile.

“What?” Jude snapped.

Before Vivi could say anything, Cardan pointed to the stove behind her. “Uh, Jude, I think your eggs are burning.”

“Crap.” She ran and lifted the pan from the stove, but it was too late. The eggs were already black around the edges. She opened the trash can and dumped the eggs inside angrily.

She turned back around, and both Cardan and Vivi were trying to keep a straight face.

“I hate you guys.”

“Ah, so it’s not just me she hates,” Cardan responded wryly.

Vivi examined the remains of her scrambled egg that were still stuck on the pan. “I don’t know how you managed to mess up scrambled eggs.”

“She did tell me she was a woman of many talents,” Cardan said solemnly, before both of them broke into laughter.

 ~~~

 After Vivi left on a mysterious date she wouldn’t say anything about and Jude remade her eggs, they were actually able to get some work done. Jude tried not to let her surprise show when Cardan actually gave helpful input and took the project seriously, instead of sitting back and letting her do all the work like she had expected.

When Jude had suggested women’s rights as their topic, instead of dismissing the idea like a jerk, he suggested doing something more specific, and together they decided to do their project on the gender wage gap in the United States. She’d thought Cardan was just another dumb rich kid with too much time on his hands, and maybe he was, but she realized he was smarter than she gave him credit for.

By the time they were finished, Jude was actually proud of their outline. She looked up at the time and realized it was already half past one. She had to be at work for her first shift at two.

Jude had applied for a job at Courtside Coffee, a small coffee shop that was not too far from their school. She hoped to have a decent amount of savings before college. Jude didn’t want to depend on her sort-of father any more than she already had to. Madoc had taken them in when her parents had died despite the fact that they weren’t his biological children, but that didn’t mean she was going to keep taking his charity money throughout college.

Jude cleared her throat. “Um, I have work at two so I have to go. I think we did enough so far.”

Cardan got up and started picking up their papers. “Yeah, we’re pretty much done anyways.”

Jude went to grab her keys from the key holder on the wall, except they weren’t there. Frustration prickled up her neck. She’d told Taryn she needed the car today.

She picked up her phone and called her. After a couple of rings, Taryn answered, her voice lowered. “Hey, Jude. I’m kind of busy right now.”

“Taryn, I need the car. I told you I had my first shift at work today.”

“Oh, shoot. I forgot, sorry.”

Jude clenched her fists. This wasn’t the first time Taryn had conveniently forgotten Jude needed the car. “Well, where are you? How am I supposed to get to work?” Her voice raised in frustration.

“Uhhh… I’m kind of on a date?”

“You’re on a date? With who?” Of course both of her sisters were on dates today and she was stuck here with Cardan, she thought bitterly.

“I’ll tell you later. Can’t you just get a ride with Cardan? He’s still there right?”

Jude realized she must have let Cardan in this morning before she left. “Are you serious?”

“Come on Jude. I’m too far anyways to get back in time for your shift.”

“Fine,” Jude responded, her voice clipped, and hung up. Another reason she had wanted this job was to save up for her own car. Sharing with Taryn clearly wasn’t working.

She felt Cardan’s gaze on her. Heat prickled up her neck when she realized Cardan had probably heard the whole conversation.

“Is there something you need to ask me?” Cardan asked, playing with his keys innocently.

She gritted her teeth. “Can you give me a ride to work, Cardan?”

“I thought you hated me,” he said coyly, crossing his arms and leaning back against the doorway.

“Cardan, come on,” her eyes flicked to the clock. She had to be there in fifteen minutes.

“Wait, let me just savor this a little bit. Jude Duarte, begging for my help.”

“Cardan, I’m going to be late. Is it a yes or a no?”

“I’ll take you, but only if you come to one of my parties.”

Jude blinked. This had to be some sort of trick. “You want me to come to one of your parties?”

Cardan and his group of friends were notorious around the school for the parties they threw. From what she’d heard, they were typical high school parties, filled with bored kids that wanted to get drunk. Her first and only experience at a high school party had involved her awkwardly hiding out in the kitchen eating snacks while a couple made out against the fridge, and it was safe to say she wasn’t looking for a repeat of that incident. But she was desperate.

“Fine, I’ll go to your dumb party. Let’s go already.”

Jude grabbed her phone and wallet before walking to the door.

Cardan held it open for her, grinning a little too wide. “After you, my lady.”

Something told her this would come back to haunt her in the future.

Here’s chapter two!! Let me know what you think :) I’ll hopefully be faster with the updates from here on out because I finished outlining and have most of the next chapter already written so I’ll probably post that within a week. Hopefully. Again, thanks for reading! Your comments on the first chapter made my week <3

Tagging: (Bolded tags didn’t work. I don’t know why, it might be your settings or just tumblr acting up, but I’ll tag you in the comments for now! If I forgot to tag you our messed something up, just send me an ask and I’ll fix it as soon as I can!)

@jurdan7 @cardan-greenbriar-tcp  @amoosewithflannelforfur @aneuwin @mercrutiodidntdieforthis @hizqueen4life @mi-mavencalories @simonelovesff @b00kworm @nope-has-lied @andromeddea @aesthetics-11 @queen-of-glass @runnybabbit9  @afexiss @the-keen-queen @yesimtheslytherinwitch @fizziefaerie @abigneignenn @storiesandschemes @aelin-queen-of-terrasen @words-of-the-wise  @thedazzlingheights @magicalbookwyvern @kittkatandbooboo @queen-of-no1 @iminsanenotobsessed  

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged!! <3

[real-fanta-sea]

Red thread trash - AU Trikey fanfic

Hey! I promised to upload my fanfic here as well - find it right below the “Keep reading” button. Let me know what you think about it - your feedback fuels me like anything else :) I included some minor hints of pop culture/literature every now and then and generally had a great time writing it even though it’s still short.  I plan on updating it soon so if you like it, stay tuned :) Chapter 1 -  My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense “You are sick, dickhead!” That was all she was able to spit out before shutting the door with such force all the yellowish photos on walls thumped the disgusting, bleached out wallpaper they were attached to. It was getting dark and a sharp sound sent shockwaves through creeping silence of the night. Tired street lamps gave out eerie orange light which sculpted everything in soft outlines and gave a fine monochrome touch to washed-out colours of the early evening. Dust, startled by the outburst, sat back on surfaces it originally sat on, creating a delicate icing on the ugly cake of an apartment it was in. It was full to the brim, filled with dying cacti in flower pots, virgin self-improvement books, some of them sealed in original plastic, action figures, statues, souvenirs from places so distant and abstract no one ever heard of them, old calendars and along with dozens of empty ball pens an assorted clutter of a bachelor. It was a miracle the small, one-room apartment did not explode with everything stored inside. On the wall next to the door, the landline phone decided to commit what it’s silent owner contemplated for years and fell down from the holder, and hit the ground with an ugly crunch. The sound made the owner snap from lethargy. Up to now, he only stood in the middle of the place, staring at the door emotionless.

 He felt nothing but a gentle touch of the street light and bags under his eyes growing heavier. When he heard what happened to his world link, he blinked and with a sigh, he took a step forward and hanged the phone back to the holder, inspecting it only to find nothing broke so far. “There, there, not today- You’ll outlive me, little friend” he let out a raspy mumble and rub back of his neck with his other hand. He didn’t feel anything out of ordinary. His back hurt a bit from the lair of his improvised bed and his sedentary job - the latter was most likely the culprit there, but he wouldn’t admit it. His stomach rumbled angrily through the thin skin and onto the fabric of his shirt - two cups of ramen a day were not enough to shut it anymore. His nose was full again - and the dust irritated it as much as it annoyed him. Yet somewhere deep inside him, the void seized power a long time ago and he didn’t give a shit about any of these things anymore. For the life of his, he couldn’t bring himself to grieve the recent loss of a lover either. People always came and went, he thought to himself. People always used him. Cheated him. Played him and inevitably left him when he needed them the most. They left him miserable. Vulnerable. Hurt. He didn’t need nor want them anymore. He abided them. He just wanted them all to die a horrible, gruesome death and if possible, to watch the whole process from the first row, bathe in their cries and pleading and enjoy his utter shortage of fucks to give with a wide grin on his face. Aaand it would make the show so much fun if he got to sprinkle his popcorn with a bit of fresh blood! Hell, if he murdered his shrink first, he would help more people than that stupid jerk ever did in his life. Come to think of it... Suddenly, before he could slide any further on his twisted spiral of thoughts, there was a familiar pressure on one of his feet and a soft purr vibrating against his shin. He blinked the mental image of creatively mutilated psychologist away and eyed his pet with a soft smile. The tomcat which settled on his foot was one of the new members of the pack as he prefered to call his furry companions. It gave those obese fluffy balls of fur a feral glamour of feared predators they might have shared with their ancestors. In reality, his pack preferred the luxury of being fed three times a day and shedding hair on his sweatshirts while sleeping wherever they collapsed. The tiny apartment currently held six members including the human one. They were all flawed to perfection, collected from behind the bars and given a new life. John Silver, the tomcat, curled up securely on his master's barefoot, lack one paw to be a complete, light grey cat. He probably lost it in a scientific experiment which went tremendously wrong and accidentally involved an electric can opener and children of his previous master. He never meowed about it but other cats knew anyway. Then there was Jude Hardy, a brown cat who smelled so bad other hissed anytime at her anytime she came close and made her spend life under the kitchen sink. Johny Lemmon had shotgun scars visible through his tabby and white fur - he got them for meowing too loud. Somewhere under the blanket on a bed was a tabby named Ulysses who lost his tail and ear on his way home one day in an accident. Right beside him slept his sister Sybile who was terribly short-sighted and bumped to anything when she attempted walking around the flat. She was there when her brother was hit by the car but there was nothing she could do to prevent it as she didn't see it coming. The only human left in the pack was named Trevor Philips.

With a cat in his arms, he made his way through a maze of full bookshelves and sat heavily into an old armchair, fidgeting to find the perfect angle. Nothing could ever compare to a fuzzy feeling of love he shared with his pack. A soft touch of fur soothed him in a way his prescription pills would never do. Trevor raised his eyes from a purring bundle of joy he held and run his fingertips down its spine, scratching and gently stroking every now and then, completely lost in his own palace of thoughts again. There’s still a couple of hours left till next dose, he thought to himself. He vividly remembered the first week he was forced to medication - a wild roar of anger and disgust from being put on a schedule, from becoming a number not worth anything else but chemical alternation. He hated every touch of an old, naphthalene smelling nurse or the bull kind of a doctor who forced his jaw open to the point it snapped on one wonderful evening. He always had himself for a person not bound by any chains or rules. His persistence in breaking rules and spitting medicine was legendary. Heck, he did it for fun. It gave him all the attention he never had and fuck people who had to pay for it with their health of job. However, one day, he woke up a different person. The mighty, untamed creature he once was was gone, and the only memory it left were nail scratches on sterile white walls of his cell and a variety of body fluids mixed and smeared all over the ceiling in a brutal, honest impersonation of Michelangelo’s chapel. The day the beast went missing was a breaking point. The world he woke up to was void of bright colours. Every bit and piece of his existence felt detached, taken aback, abstract. He would always recall the feeling of cold liquid under his bare feet and a horrid smell that brought him to senses. He never asked the doctor how long he had stood in his own faeces nor did he ask why he pissed blood. He would never tell him. Instead, he got yet another dose of medicals. And he obeyed this time. And every time they came he accepted it. Trevor knew too well they broke him and shaped him like a piece of Tetris puzzle so he could fit in the line. He knew he lost himself in the process. But since he got separated, he couldn’t bring himself to care. And when they eventually let him out of the bright white hell, when they dressed him in a cheap second-hand suit and gave him a small place to live, he didn’t rebel. He obeyed. He followed the lead. He spoke to his shrink. He got a pet. He got a job. He drank water. He ate. He slept. He shat. The same fairy tale noir of a lonely life on repeat forever. He fit the line too well. Trevor let his hand slip from Silver’s back onto an armrest. Orange coloured light from outside mixed with neon from a place he could see through a narrow alley which led to his block of flats. A bright red, intrusive and obscene. A moth trap set up with fresh meet every week, he thought to himself. He eyed the place from his armchair and looked around. His last love interest came from that bar. All she left behind was a used toothbrush in a plastic cup on a kitchen sink, a pair of bob pins under the bed and lingering smell of cheap perfume piercing everything it touched with a brutal force. She was not that different from any other woman he ever knew. Each of them wanted money and stripped men of it by shaking their asses and burying faces into their sagging cleavages. Even if they did not admit it, be it high-class wive all glamour and chic or a grey mouse of an accountant in his shithole of a job, they all were miserable whores, bitches not worth a dollar yet they would surely kill for it if given a chance. They all wore insufferable perfumes and fake smiles that made his blood boil. Unfortunately, when he got a job as an assistant in a small branch of a Fleeca bank, he had no idea the place would be full of such creatures. He recalled the first day of work with a sigh, being yelled at for not bringing a latte for accountants, then for not fetching paper clips fast enough, and then again and again till he was let out in the afternoon, completely stripped of dignity and quite frankly, he didn’t even have the energy to sustain one at given time. Now that the fifth year of his atonement passed by, all he wanted was to burn the place down as a celebration. He hasn’t done it yet. His favourite coffee mug was there and he chose not to risk such a loss. The red light took over and illuminated his way when he carefully put Silver down and took a couple of careful steps towards an old cupboard and let it moan its screech into the night. With a light chuckle, he grabbed the colourful box realising they made his mind work in schedules and tech plans. He never put it on the same place two days in a row when he first came there. Now it had its fucking place right beside unused penis-shaped pasta he received in secret Santa game at work a couple of years ago. They had their place too. Never moved an inch. Trevor popped the lid and slid an elephant worth of pills into the palm of his. Funny how everything looks like candy a second before you start tripping balls. He knew the thrill too well. Fishing a dirty glass out of the sink, filling it with piss some still called water and swallow it like an obedient little bitch he was. Good, good. Let them keep you alive or let them kill you in ways which are not as fun as drugs. As he felt the chemicals taking rule over him, everything was good somehow. The room swayed. The colours exploded. He fell on the bed. Good. Good. Good.

[judemurdock]

hey there demons, it’s me, ya boy, back at it again with another character.

rip, anyway this is jude, he’s very angsty and he hates everyone, i love him so much.

TRIGGERS BELOW: rape, heavy transphobia, murder. read at your own discretion

Ten Easy Steps to Creating a Monster

Step One: You’re born into a body that feels wrong and a name that doesn’t fit right. Sierra Murdock, they tell you it is, until you have no way not to respond to it, to feel that unease in your chest, like something is off but you can’t place exactly what it is. You go to church with your parents every week, and listen to the parents of people in your youth group talk about the dirty gays and the transgenders that will certainly go to hell. You aren’t meant to have overheard that, and your parents don’t know how to react when you ask them, at the age of six, “who are transgenders?” You are innocent, Sierra, with wide eyes and curly hair, and a soul too young to be tainted. When it’s explained to you, everything makes sense, and you understand. You understand why your skin feels awkward and you always feel like crying. It’s nothing that can be helped, when you’re not sure that you can verbalize it or even if you want to. So you continue being Sierra for several years, feeling all sorts of anger at the people in your church so you leave it, and your faith, behind. With it go all of your friends, some of whom have adopted their parents belief that you’re going to hell, just because of who you are. The ones that don’t believe that are told by their parents they’re not allowed to play with you, like being not trans is contagious and they could catch the disease next.

Step Two: Before you hit puberty, you come out to your parents, hands shaking and throat closing up on you. Your mind is racing as it imagines every possible outcome, kicking you out of the house, calling you a tranny, threatening to kill you, disowning you, or worst of all, ignoring what you say. Telling you it’s just a phase and eventually you’ll grow out of this, so stop being stupid and get out of my sight. The worst doesn’t come to fruition, thankfully, but while your father embraces you as you sob and shake and try not to break down any more than you already are, your mother distances herself from her family, from you. One week later, her bags are packed and she hasn't looked at you once since you came out, though she says, forlornly like you’re doing it to hurt her, “You will always be my daughter and that bond we have … if you ever want it back, just drop the silly attitude, Sierra.” Her words cut and sting and make you nauseous but you hold your head high as she goes and try not to cry.

Step Three: At thirteen years old, you start hormone blockers, preventing your body from developing any more female than it already has. It’s a bit late to be starting them, honestly, but money is tight since your mom left and you just hope that while it’s late, it isn’t too late. Your hair is cut short and your name isn’t Sierra anymore, it’s Marcus, but people don’t call you that. They call you tranny and dyke and all sorts of names that attest to just how cruel children can be. Prejudice isn’t born, it’s taught and the few friends you have that call you Marcus aren’t enough to offset the ones who still think of you as Sierra. It’s flat out hatred they have for you and you know that it doesn’t get any easier. Not for a long time and you won’t make it to a long time if it keeps up like this. Eventually, you’ll snap and like an exploding star, you’ll destroy everything around you.

Step Four: The names persist. They want you to cry at thirteen, fourteen, fifteen years old. They want to see you hurt and struggle because it’s proof that you aren’t a boy, because the people who push you down in the hallways are boys, who pull your pants down in front of the urinal and demand you pee standing up are boys, the teachers who conveniently don’t see anything are boys, and you, Sierra, you’re not a boy. You’re just a little girl trying to get attention. Your skin is littered with cuts from being slammed into lockers and bruises from being stuck with a team of boys who hate you in gym class which must be fair because you’re the one who wanted to be treated like a boy. And boys get pushed down in flag football, even though there’s clearly a no tackling rule, the gym teacher was watching another group play.

Step Five: The final straw comes on your sixteenth birthday, when you’re now Samuel. When your not so friendly group of flag football buddies corner you in the locker room and your shirt is pulled up, revealing your binder. They say that you’re just a little bitch and you can’t be allowed to go out into the real world like this, so really, you should be thanking them. They’re helping you. One goes to watch the front door to the locker room, another goes to watch the back, leaving just you and the ringleader, Sierra/Samuel, and no one is coming to help you. Unless you figure out a way out of this, the skin that already doesn’t fit right will be even worse, even more unbearable. When his hands reach for your jeans, you lose all sense of time and you don’t remember what happens next. You just know that he’s only the floor in front of you, bloody and bruised and beaten to a pulp. There’s a teacher in the room, and another, followed by the vice principal and the principal and a cop. They see you, curled up in the corner of a bay of lockers, shaking, crying and with your assailant’s blood on your hands. You’re taken out in handcuffs, stuffed into the back of a police car, and your dad leaves work to go to the police station. Your birthday present, your first dose of testosterone, is forgotten on the kitchen table.

Step Six: The parents of your abuser want you in jail for the rest of your life, they scream at you, call you a murder, yet it’s still a name you prefer to the slurs their son hurled at you. They can’t believe their son would do that and even if he did, trans lives are worth less than normal lives. He was going to go to a good college, play football, and maybe go pro. And because of you, he never will. People stand outside the court where you are due to stand trial and shout at you, say you’re going to hell, and a small, sarcastic part of you appreciates the almost bookends like way it echoes your life ten years ago. The boys who stood guard testify after being told that they would be accessories to rape and you are set free because you acted in self-defense. It wasn’t premeditated and there was nowhere you could have retreated to. It’s justifiable homicide and you truly are the victim here.

Step Seven: Your father doesn’t quite meet your eyes in the aftermath of it all, flinches a little when you let it slip just how jaded and bitter you’ve become. It’s a huge blowout that day, with you shouting at him for letting it escalate to that point. He’d seen the bruises, listened to you cry every day after school, and yet, nothing was solved. Each day you went back to the hell hole they dared to call an institution of learning, each day you came home just a little more broken and depressed, each night you went home and barricaded yourself in your room. Now, to be fair, whenever your father would ask if you were okay, you’d snap and scream and tell him to get the fuck out of your room and he isn’t a mind reader so how was he supposed to know that you meant I’m not okay. I’m sad and scared and I need you. Please don’t leave me. It’s all your fault that he never put the effort into being there for you and it’s because you rebuffed him at every turn. You did this to yourself.

Step Eight: Out, damned spot! Out, I say! You are Lady Macbeth and the blood on your hands doesn’t let you sleep. The few friends you had either hate you or are afraid of you or have simply just drifted away but regardless, your phone doesn’t ring anymore. During the nights, you pick up your guitar or you wander the streets aimlessly, trying to come up with something to make the buzzing in your head quiet, to drown out the little voice that says you’re a murderer and what you did is unforgivable in gin or rum, or whatever you can get your hands on. It used to call you Sierra, say that you’re a girl or something equally hurtful but you were able to ignore that because that you knew wasn’t true. Murderer, on the other hand? Hurtful, yes. Accurate? Hell yes. One of those nights, wandering the city awash in the neon lights, people attempt to bash you, but this time, you don’t let anyone hurt you. You know better now, know that they’re going to judge you anyway and this time, you won’t take it lying down because maybe they’ll leave you alone after. You fight for all you’re worth, put all of your pain and misery into beating the people who would beat you given the chance. When you look in the mirror after returning home, with a black eye and a swollen lip, instead of feeling upset, you feel proud and that is the moment you refuse to let anyone try to hurt you ever again.

Step Nine: Some people you meet through your more illicit hobbies clue you into an underground fighting ring and when you step into the club for the first time, you feel alive, skin tingling and blood pumping. You want that to be you, to be in the ring, fighting to hurt someone while they’re looking to hurt you except there’s no malice behind it. This is all about the money, not because you’re trans or because you’re a killer. You lie about your age, tell them that you’re eighteen because you need this and truthfully, for the first time, you’ve allowed yourself to want something that isn’t necessary to your survival. You rise through the ranks quickly and they introduce you as Jude “The Unbreakable” Murdock. The name sends a rush of adrenaline through your veins every time and you’re unable to resist the smirk you get when you hear it because you know that it’s true. You kind of love it.

Step Ten: Unbeknownst to you, someone from the Sanctum observes all of your fights and places their bets on you every time. You proceed to win every round you enter, because you’re small but you’re fast and quick on your feet, used to being on the lookout for people about to hurt you at any moment. You use your opponent’s size against them, striking hard and fast before you’re gone again. On your eighteenth birthday, that someone approaches you and offers you the one thing that you’ve been saving up for. They offer to pay for you to transition, in exchange for selling your soul. Without so much as thinking about it, you sign on the dotted line, shake their hand and within the next few months, you’re a changed person. It happens so fast it’s basically a whirlwind, but the how it happens doesn’t matter to you as much as it happening. It takes a few months to fully recover from surgery, but once you’re fully healed, it’s back into the ring you go, this time with more confidence. During your fights, you’re quick-witted, fast on your toes, and constantly analyzing. Outside of them, you’re jaded and angry still, but it’s the best defense you have, the best way to keep people at bay. People are a weakness, they only bring pain, and you’re not about to let anyone close enough to hurt you again. They may call you a monster now but you’re only Frankenstein’s Monster, Jude, and everyone who hurt you or stood by? They’re Frankenstein. Go destroy those who made you.