#tw medical prodecure

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Update the Letter Board!

(Disclaimer: only one of the characters in this story belongs to me. You can find more information about Azalea here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob she and Murdock work for, go here.  Caliban will only be mentioned, but my boy still deserves credit. So, for more information about Caliban, go here. Murdock/Murderplier belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, but if you’re interested in my personal headcanons on him, go here.)

(Trigger Warnings: snakes, descriptions of pain/injury, blood, descriptions of medical procedure, syringes/needles, IV treatment/equipment, poison/venom/toxic chemicals, mentions of illegal business, slight mentions of eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Snakes were typically very hard to read. Personalities varied from breed to breed, of course, but reptiles in general just couldn’t really express themselves the same way dogs or cats could. Aside from that, it was impossible for a cold-blooded creature to get warm-fuzzies. 

One could logically assume that a domestic serpent only tolerated its owner; that at most, it’d come to recognize said owner as some strange creature that provided food and shelter for whatever reason.

Well, logic didn’t seem to apply to Cuddles. 

The scarlet kingsnake was slithering up her driftwood perch. She lightly bobbed her head as she tried to lean up towards her owner. Azalea chuckled, lowering her hand into the small enclosure, allowing the snake to eagerly curl around her wrist. 

“Seriously? Your cage has been moved around so much tonight, and you still don’t want some alone time yet?” Azalea, who had just barely returned her pet’s terrarium to its usual place on top of her dresser, asked. The question was sarcastic, but she hadn’t worded it unkindly. 

Cuddles’ only response was to steadily advance along her owner’s arm. She soon came to rest her head on Azalea’s shoulder while the end of her thin tail looped around Azalea’s wrist like an organic bracelet. Azalea smiled, using her free hand to gently run a finger along the serpent’s glossy scales.

She already knew snakes were more intelligent than they were typically given credit for, so Cuddles’ curiosity and willingness to be handled hadn’t been too surprising. No, what had really caught her off-guard was the fact that Cuddles seemed to get actual separation-anxiety on occasion.

Aftertaste followed a perfectly reasonable schedule, but Azalea often stayed in the restaurant hours after closing time (alright, she was technically spending that time beneath the building rather than inside it, but the point still stood). A hitwoman’s work was never quite finished: jobs needed to be discussed, targets needed to be tracked, poisons needed to be studied and mixed and slipped into seemingly-innocent treats. . .

Since being a contract-killer wasn’t the same as being an irresponsible pet-owner, Azalea found herself transporting Cuddles’ terrarium back and forth between her house and her subway-tunnel-den on a semi-regular basis.

Azalea exited her bedroom and ventured downstairs, holding one arm steady for Cuddles. She soon arrived in her kitchen, where washed her hands before searching through the cupboards. She found a shiny kettle, which she filled with water and set on top of the stove. 

It was late, but Azalea was feeling restless. She’d adjusted to the odd, random hours that came with The Pentas Family’s business. She’d learned how to shake off shock like a normal person would a Sunday Morning Hangover. She’d grown familiar with not exactly having peace-of-mind, due to the plans, names, locations, codes, everything she needed to keep memorized for her work. 

In any case, tea had proven itself a surprisingly effective quick-fix. (Then again, maybe that was just an old instinct.)

The water would take some time to boil, so Azalea was about to move to the living room, weighing the benefits of putting a movie on. But she quickly found herself frozen in place.

Her backyard was spacious, and most of that space was taken up by her greenhouse—why buy plant-based poisons when you could just grow and harvest them yourself?—but the kitchen window was wide enough for Azalea to see past it. And as her gaze passed by that window, she caught something out of the corner of her eye.

The houses in this neighborhood were separated by personal fences. Beyond each of those fences, a weed-choked alleyway was commonly used as a shortcut, whether on foot. . .or by car.

Azalea watched as a lone vehicle quietly crept through the alley. The sun had set hours ago, so the machine was partially camouflaged by shadows. Neither its head-lights nor tail-lights were glowing; not a good sign. The fact that the car’s windows were tinted didn’t bode well, either. 

Especially when it slowed to a stop right outside her fence. 

The driver-side door popped open, and a tall figure climbed out. Due to the distance and lack of light, Azalea couldn’t make out any details other than the black clothing the figure was dressed in. The figure approached the fence’s gate, then paused. Paranoia began festering in Azalea’s stomach as she realized that the lock on that gate was probably getting picked right now.

Azalea turned, silently rushing through the living room and up the staircase. She returned to her bedroom, where she gently pried Cuddles from her arm and deposited her back into the terrarium. The snake didn’t resist, but her beady little eyes shone with a surprising amount of worry. 

Azalea then went across the hall to her office. She tugged a chair away from her mahogany desk before dropping to her knees. This house wasn’t connected to the abandoned subway tunnels like Aftertaste and so many other buildings in the city were, but it’d still come with a small crawlspace hidden beneath the carpet of this particular room. Hell, Azalea had found the compartment in question purely by accident. 

And upon that discovery, she’d done what anyone would do: cleaned it up and used it to stash things that most people would be better off not knowing about. (Now, you could claim that, when faced with a surprise crawlspace, you’d either just ignore it or cut it off via replacing the office carpet. But then your parents would’ve raised a frickin’ liar.) 

Azalea combed through rows of neatly-stacked, unassuming boxes that awaited her. She fished out a container made of purple-stained wood and opened it up. In its top half, six syringes were kept in place by velcro strips while six glass vials were carefully nestled in slots on the bottom half.

. . .Well, five syringes and vials right now, as Azalea took the sixth of both sets into her hands. She expertly pulled back the syringe’s plunger and inserted the needle into the vial’s rubber stopper, drawing out the clear, innocent-looking liquid inside.

Azalea’s work didn’t just involve killing—sometimes she was tasked with interrogations and the like. And no matter what kind of assignment she focused on, self-defense was always a must. Thus, she made a habit to collect toxins that, while not fatal, still promised a bad time to whoever’s system they ended up in. 

Now armed with a dosage of platypus venom, Azalea surged back downstairs. She glanced out the kitchen window, making sure to stand in a way that wouldn’t let her be seen from the other side. And then she found herself suddenly halting yet again.

As she’d predicted, the fence gate was now hanging open, and the figure was slowly but surely trekking through her backyard. He’d grown closer, clearly intent on entering Azalea’s house. 

In fact, he was now close enough for Azalea to see a head of raven hair that was almost shoulder-length. She also discovered a pair of circular, black-tinted glasses on his face. Along with a brass pendant hanging from a simple chain around his neck. . .

Azalea’s fear vanished, quickly being replaced by confusion and frustration. She slunk across the kitchen and into the laundry room. She approached her house’s back door, unlocked it, and wrenched it open to whisper-yell, “Murdock?!”

Upon hearing his name, Murdock startled badly, staggering back a little. Despite his spectacles, Azalea could tell he was making eye-contact. A few seconds passed before he awkwardly nodded and resumed his march. 

Azalea raised an eyebrow, stepping aside to let her surprise guest in. “You nearly gave me a heart-attack! If you needed to stop by, you could’ve at least texted me earlier!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Murdock muttered, clearly as exasperated as he was shaken-up. “I had to get here quickly. Couldn’t waste any time sending a message.”

One part of Azalea felt a bit relieved, but that only lasted a few seconds. She knew right away that something was very wrong.

Sure, Murdock was a hitman, and an unexpected visit from a hitman typically wasn’t a sign of anything good. But Murdock was also someone Azalea was familiar with. They’d worked together numerous times; hell, he was the reason she and Caliban had found new lives in The Pentas Family. Aside from that, one of this mob’s laws specifically condemned the act of betrayal. 

No, Azalea knew that she wasn’t in any danger. . .

Murdock was doubled-over, breathing heavily as he trudged across the threshold. His body language was anxious, distressed. Almost like that of an injured animal.

“What’s going on?” She questioned as she closed the door behind Murdock.

“I-I need your help, Aza,” Murdock proclaimed in a low pitch. He had a naturally deep voice, but this was different. His tone was hoarse, and his words were labored. “I need some medicine. I can’t afford to go to the hospital.”

It was then that Azalea noticed three things.

The first was that Murdock wasn’t wearing his leather gloves. (He took them off when he wasn’t focusing on mob business, but he was still decked out in the rest of the attire that he always wore while on the clock.)

The second was that Murdock’s left hand was clamped around the wrist of his right, shakily keeping it in a lowered position.

The third was that the back of Murdock’s right hand was adorned by a dull, reddish-purple splotch. As well as a pair of very distinct puncture wounds. They were small (snake fangs were typically thin, after all) but they’d been stretched out due to the obvious swelling in Murdock’s skin. 

And just like that, the syringe clattered to the floor.

“Oh my God! Hold still, hold still—!” Azalea reached out to tug at Murdock’s black overcoat. She easily pulled the first sleeve off of the hitman’s left arm, but she had to carefully maneuver his right arm out of the second sleeve. The overcoat was left in a crumpled heap on the floor as Azalea put a hand on the small of Murdock’s back, walking him through the kitchen and over to the living room.

“What was it?” She demanded. “What bit you?”

“A diamondback,” Murdock croaked, making an obvious effort to not lean on Azalea for support.

(Rattlesnakes weren’t exactly aquatic creatures, but, like many things, they were more competent at swimming than your mental health would be prepared for. While their preferred habitats were desert areas, they could still be found in seaside environments like the Cove Port Inlets.)

“How much time has passed since it happened?”  

“Erm. . .almost twenty minutes, I think.”

“You think?” Azalea repeated incredulously. 

“Yeah, that’s my best damn guess!” Murdock snarled. “So sorry it’s not a closer estimate. I was more focused on getting here before paralysis set in!”

Azalea couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Good to know the venom isn’t affecting your brain yet.”

She led Murdock to an armchair sat in one corner. “Here, sit down. Move slowly.”

Murdock nodded, turning around and carefully lowering himself onto plush leather. 

Azalea ran back to the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers until she found a clean hand towel. She held it under the faucet, soaking it in warm water and lathering it with soap, then hurried back to the living room. She knelt down beside the armchair, rolled up the right sleeve of Murdock’s currant-colored turtleneck. She turned his arm so that his palm was facing the ceiling, then spent a moment scrubbing at the bite wound. Murdock hissed in pain, but he didn’t jerk away. 

As soon as Murdock’s hand was a bit more sterile than before, Azalea stood and began jogging away once more. “Don’t move that arm unless I say otherwise!” 

She stopped by the laundry room to chuck the towel into an empty hamper, then raced up the staircase and back into her office. Unlike the cabinet she kept in her subway-tunnel-den, the hidden compartment also happened to store a decent quantity of antidotes and specific painkillers. 

Considering the nature of her work, Azalea hardly ever found herself having to use this stuff. Then again, being unhinged didn’t automatically disqualify one from having foresight. 

Azalea quickly found a larger green box adorned by a small sign, which proclaimed ANTIVENOM in her handwriting. She grabbed it and hurried downstairs, now rushing over to the medicine cabinet in the hallway, where she snatched up another box (this one stark-white), as well as a fresh roll of bandages and some odd-looking, folded-up metallic contraption. 

It was a bit miraculous that Azalea didn’t drop anything as she sprinted back to the living room, setting all of the things in her arms onto the coffee table.

She made yet another trip to the kitchen to wash her hands and, for good measure, donned a pair of fresh latex gloves from a container under the sink. Once she returned to the living room, Azalea wasted no time dressing Murdock’s injured hand in a few layers of gauze. 

With a series of clicks and snaps, she unfolded the metal object, revealing it to be what looked like a coat stand that was apparently collapsible. She opened the white box and fished out the essentials of an Intravenous Infusion procedure. 

Azalea searched through the green box until she found a batch of vials specifically labeled RATTLESNAKE. 

She carefully opened up a clean IV bag, pouring vial after vial of antivenom inside until it was full, then hung it on one of the metal racks at the top of the stand. Next, she unwound a long plastic tube and piped one end of it into the valve at the bottom of the IV bag. At the other end of this tube was a cannula: a small, somewhat cone-shaped object that almost resembled one of those toy syringes that could be found in a child’s pretend-doctor set. 

Unfortunately for Murdock (well, sort of fortunately, considering his predicament), this was not a toy. Azalea took a clean, slender needle from a little package in the white box and loaded it into the cannula. 

As soon as that was done, she produced a purple tourniquet, which she tied around the center of Murdock’s forearm. 

“Augh—what’s the pressure-cuff for? We’re not in a goddamn pharmacy!” Murdock sputtered as Azalea adjusted the tourniquet, undoubtedly making it uncomfortably tight.

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you like to handle this? Because it sure doesn’t seem like you’re in a position to!” Azalea snapped. “If I can’t get this right, then you can’t get the antidote. So do yourself a favor and STOP WHINING!”

Soon enough, a long vein visibly bulged under Murdock’s skin. There; that was the place the needle would have to go.

Azalea quickly poured some rubbing alcohol onto a cotton swab, wiping that patch of flesh clean. Then, she took the cannula into her hand, holding it like she would a syringe at a 30-degree angle to the vein. 

“Brace yourself. This is gonna hurt,” she warned.

And with that, she pushed the needle into Murdock’s forearm, right below the tourniquet. Murdock sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut and grinding his jaw.

A couple seconds passed before Azalea felt something pop against the cannula. She kept it parallel to Murdock’s skin, watching as a few drops of his blood oozed into it. Her hands were a blur as she deftly removed the needle and connected the free end of the IV tube to the cannula. 

Little by little, she fed the tube further into the cannula hub. Once a good portion of the tube was very clearly inside Murdock’s forearm, Azalea tore a few pieces from a spool of medical tape to keep the IV attached to him. She then untied the tourniquet and swabbed at the skin around the injection area yet again. 

After that, she stood and reached up to the IV bag, twisting at it in order to open its interior valve. The antivenom, now actually having somewhere else to go, quickly flowed through the length of the tube. . .and, obviously, into Murdock. 

Azalea quietly took a couple steps back, holding her hands up in a way that suggested the IV set might spontaneously combust. 

The hitman shifted in his seat, no doubt feeling the odd sensation of foreign liquid entering his veins. Azalea knew he was still in pain—hell, he would be for the next several days—but he’d be okay. The cure was actively being guided along his bloodstream. 

For a moment or two, the pair were frozen in silence, slowly peering back and forth between each other and the antivenom in the tube. 

“Is. . .is that all?” Murdock eventually asked. His voice was quieter than it had been earlier, but there was a generous amount of anxiety in his tone. “Is there anything else to do?”

“No,” Azalea replied, shaking her head. “There’s more than one way to deal with a snake-bite, but getting an IV is the most efficient. Recovery’s gonna be rough, but you’ll be fine.”

“A-Alright.” Murdock nodded, some of the tension draining away from his frame.

“Well, I suggest you get comfortable,” Azalea announced. “You’ll need to stay attached to that bag until it’s empty.”

“Let me guess: that’ll take the rest of the night?” Murdock inquired. 

“Most likely. And even after that, it’ll still take a while for the venom inside you to be completely neutralized.”

Murdock was only able to shrug halfway before wincing. “That’s fine. Better than being at my place without any treatment.”

 “Damn right it is.” Azalea hummed in sarcastic agreement. “You owe me at least half of your next payment.”

“Why?” Murdock asked, although his tone of voice made it clear he already had an idea.

“Because I’ve had to use five vials of antivenom on you, and that stuff is not cheap,” Azalea answered. She picked up the aforementioned empty vials and carried them over to a small recycling bin in the kitchen. 

“What if I just found that diamondback and brought it over? You’ve milked snakes before. Plus, you always say antivenoms are kind of like vaccines.” Murdock tilted his head to the side, offering a shit-eating smirk that only lasted a few seconds before his face contorted with discomfort yet again. 

“True,” Azalea admitted, “but I doubt I’d have the time to actually make some antivenom afterwards. Considering I’d have to save your ass again.” 

“. . .That’s fair, I suppose,” Murdock sighed. “Besides, I can already tell you’d be more concerned about the snake.” 

“Yeah, I would,” Azalea snarked. “Because the snake would be an innocent victim of circumstance only trying to defend itself. Meanwhile, you’d just be a moron who screwed around and found out for a second time.”

Murdock huffed at this, but he didn’t really put up an argument. He rested his head against the chair’s back cushion, cringing in irritation. “When I’m up for my next job, we’ll talk,” he murmured. 

“Sounds good,” Azalea replied with a nod. With not much else to do, she went about cleaning up the living room. 

She threw away the used latex gloves away before strolling outside. Quickly and quietly, she crossed her backyard to close the fence gate, then raced back to the laundry room and locked the back door. The weapon she’d abandoned earlier glinted against artificial light. She carefully plucked it off the floor, carrying it and the antivenom box back upstairs. 

The platypus venom was drained back into its vial, the syringe was cleaned, and the boxes Azalea had opened were finally tucked back into the office crawlspace, now lying in wait for another day. 

Azalea stopped by her bedroom, instantly feeling a pair of eyes on her, and a smile finally flickered back on her face as she approached Cuddles’ terrarium. 

“Sorry for the panic,” Azalea announced, gently gathering up her pet and setting her down around her shoulders. “A friend of mine just made a mistake. Everything’s alright now.”

Cuddles always seemed to know when to live up to her name. She happily began cosplaying as a scarf, rubbing her scaly head against Azalea’s collarbone, barely even flinching when the keening distress call of a boiling kettle stabbed into Azalea’s ears. 

Azalea hurried back down to the kitchen, turning off one of the stove’s burners. Steam billowed from the spout while she washed her hands. She then poured herself a cup and fetched a little bag of almond tea from the pantry; clouds of spice colored the hot water as she carried her beverage over to the living room. She immediately noticed how Murdock’s tinted glasses lay askew on the coffee table, suggesting their owner had lightly tossed them onto it. 

As expected, Murdock was waiting for her, trying and failing to ignore how the fingers on his injured arm involuntarily twitched. (Despite all the dramatics he was infamous for, even he knew better than to just rip an IV cord out of his arm.)

At the sound of Azalea’s footsteps, Murdock instinctively glanced in her direction. Azalea glanced right back, tilting her head. Unlike just a few minutes ago, she was able to see her guest’s dark brown eyes. 

The Pentas Family was exceptionally skilled with secrets. One couldn’t simply talk about underground business, after all. When it came to interactions between the mob’s members, however, the Fight Club rule didn’t always have to apply. 

Therefore, anyone who knew Murdock probably also knew about his case of eye-misalignment. 

Specifically speaking, Murdock’s right eye was turned to the right, as though he was looking at something sideways without having to move his head. His left eye could shift around in its socket as intended, but his right eye never followed along. This didn’t render Murdock half-blind, despite how traumatic the accident that had shoved it to the side apparently was.

It was also something that Murdock was adamant on not being self-conscious about. His sunglasses were a memento from one of his earliest jobs; that was his reason for constantly wearing them (when he was doing things on the less-than-legal side of the spectrum, at least. He wore a medical eyepatch while keeping up appearances in normal society.)

And for the most part, this was true. 

“Comfy?” Azalea asked, heading for the plush sofa that stood adjacent to the armchair. She took a seat on the far side of said sofa, not wanting to crowd the hitman.

“Not exactly,” Murdock answered. His face ever-so-slightly fell at the sight of Cuddles. Azalea couldn’t help but smirk, practically able to hear the Red Touch Yellow rhyme echoing between his ears. 

Murdock lightly shook his head, his expression shifting back to a casual one. It was still too late for him to hide the mild panic he’d just felt. 

“That’s a shame.” Azalea shifted on the couch cushions, taking a sip of her tea. “So. What’d you do this time?”

Murdock flinched. Despite its blank screen, the television at the head of the living room suddenly seemed very interesting to him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means. Don’t tell me you think I’d just believe that a rattlesnake attacked you out of nowhere.” 

Murdock rolled his left eye. He was about to petulantly fold his arms across his chest, but the IV tube had other ideas. “Maybe the rattlesnake was being a dick.”

Azalea raised her eyebrows, obviously not convinced. 

Murdock let out a melodramatic sigh, clearly not looking forward to explaining himself. “Y’know that loan shark who’s been renting a place uptown?”

“Of course I do,” Azalea replied.

The Pentas Family had eyes and ears all over the Cove Port Inlets. Whenever something—or someone—new came to the city, at least one member of the mob would be aware. That, in turn, would lead to a report to The Boss, who would then bring all of her subordinates up to speed on the matter. New residents were just typical background characters most of the time, but one could never be too careful. 

It’d been years since The Boss had claimed the Inlets as Pentas territory. And thanks to reputation, protecting turf wasn’t too difficult. Even so, it wasn’t uncommon for pests to try and set up shop in the community. They didn’t pose much of a threat to the mob’s power, and they weren’t as tricky to deal with as organized groups were, but they were still so. Damn. Annoying. 

“I overheard The Boss complaining about him,” Murdock continued. “She’s worried that he’ll start trying to lend to potential clients around here—”

“—and if that happens, our earnings could be damaged when he starts exploiting his borrowers,” Azalea finished, narrowing her eyes in disdain.

(This particular idiot hadn’t exactly tried to weasel his way into a partnership with The Pentas Family, but it was still less than ideal to have him on the loose in the community. Loan sharks in general were just complete scumbags.)

Murdock nodded enthusiastically. “Bingo. Since we can’t really let that happen, I took it upon myself to send the guy a message.” 

Azalea blinked, the focus of her annoyance quickly transitioning from the pest to the man who’d dropped by in the middle of the night for pro-bono medical attention. “And that’s where the diamondback came in, huh?”

Murdock flinched, undoubtedly having seen the shift in his accomplice’s expression. He was already the worst kind of adrenaline-junkie; working with The Boss and being paid to kill was just a bonus on top of that. And yet he still wasn’t immune to the humiliation that came with making stupid mistakes. 

“. . .Yeah,” he finally stated, his voice tired. 

Azalea pointedly raised an eyebrow, gesturing for him to continue his story. Sure, she was still kind of pissed off, but schadenfreude was a natural thing in this line of work (and Murdock was damn well aware of that).

Murdock stayed quiet for a long moment. He glanced around Azalea, probably staring at the calendar hanging on the wall behind her, which was currently displaying a picture of a bouquet of roses just above the word February. 

“I went to the department store and bought one of those heart-shaped boxes,” he finally muttered. “I took out the chocolates and. . .well, I remembered you saying something about rattlesnakes nesting in one of the fields by the beach, so. . .”

Azalea clicked her tongue, slowly shaking her head. 

“Murdock.” She set her tea on the coffee table in order to start massaging her temples. “Murdock—look, I appreciate you. You’ve done a lot of things to help out Cal and I. You’re one of the most resourceful people I know. But right here, right now. . .you’re an idiot.”

An indignant squawk emerged from Murdock’s throat. He threw up his hands in a lame gesture, gritting his teeth at the stinging sensation of the IV tube’s protest.

“At least I know the message’ll get across!” He argued. “If the snake bit me, then it’ll probably bite the loan shark! So, if he doesn’t die from the bite, then he’ll run off after he gets treatment; and if he’s stupid enough to stick around, then we’ll just bump him off! One way or another, he’ll be out of our hair soon!”

If there was ever a time for a record to suddenly be scratched. . .

Azalea was about to respond with more sarcasm, but stopped short upon hearing this latest statement. Murdock pursed his lips, realizing too late that he probably should’ve just left that part out. 

“Let me get this straight,” Azalea pronounced. She rose from the sofa, beginning to pace back and forth on the living room carpet. “You went out into a field to try and catch a snake. A venomous snake, remember. And, somehow, despite not having any equipment—”

“Hey, I found a forked stick before I started looking,” Murdock protested.

Azalea, not to be interrupted, gave the hitman a death glare. “—you actually managed to catch that snake. Then, that snake bit you, because OF COURSE IT DID. . .”

She paused, as her brain was still attempting to process this. On one hand, Murdock was a contract-killer: he was professional when he needed to be, but he and lapses-in-judgment were still old friends. On the other hand, Murdock was a grown-ass man who should’ve had a few more shreds of common sense than this.

“. . .and you STILL went through with your little message plan? After you were bitten, you decided NOT to let go of the thing that bit you and run far away from it?!” 

A little voice in the back of Azalea’s head worried about her eyeballs potentially dropping out of her sockets due to how bewildered her expression was.

“You STILL thought it was a good idea to put it in a box?! Not just that, you drove that box over to a secondary location! You did all that BEFORE you made your way over here for the cure?!”

Murdock’s eyes were also currently the size of dinner plates. Although the movement was subtle, there was no mistaking how he shrank back into the armchair. 

He may have clearly been much taller than Azalea, even in a seated position. 

He may have had more than enough experience maiming, mutilating, and murdering his fellow humans for money. 

He may have known that he’d long-since earned Azalea’s trust (and vice-versa). 

But he still knew what Azalea was capable of. And, despite The Pentas Family’s laws, he was still very much aware of that phrase about women being scorned.

“. . .Pretty much,” he eventually murmured. 

Azalea blinked, unable to stop herself from reaching up to pinch at the bridge of her nose. 

“You can’t say I wasn’t dedicated,” Murdock tried.

“No, I can’t,” Azalea admitted. Before Murdock could start thinking he was off the hook, however, she added, “But I can say that you’re a dumbass sometimes.” 

It took no time at all for Murdock’s natural sardonicism to resurface. “I mean, you don’t have to say that, but alright.”

“Have you ever seen that one video of some guy poking and licking a Portuguese Man O’ War?” Azalea inquired. 

“You think I live in a place that doesn’t get WiFi?” Murdock snorted. “How couldn’t I have seen that? It was all over the news.”

Azalea nodded, smiling in an exhausted manner. “Good. That means you know.”

Now having been thoroughly thrown out of the loop, Murdock tilted his head to the side. “What exactly do I kn—”

“The clout-chaser in that video is the only reason why what you did tonight doesn’t qualify as the stupidest, most reckless thing I’ve seen since I started working with you!” Azalea swiftly marched across the living room to give Murdock a surprisingly harsh flick to the forehead. “Thank your lucky stars!”

@sammys-magical-au  @insane4fandoms  @callmegkiddo  @neons-trash-blog   @ayoreneehere  @flamestar456  @inkangeliguess  @safe-hayven  @dleep-deprivation-idk-jelp  @forestcouncil  @themarpsimp @slasher-smash  @sw33tst4rs  @butterboyfly 

[disastercomingfaster]

A Nod To Jack Nicholson- A Personal Essay About My Experience With ECT

Note: 

I thought I would share a piece of writing that isn’t fanfiction, this is much more personal. Over the past year or so I have been participating in electroconvulsive therapy or ECT for my depression. When I first heard about it, I thought it was insane, but I can’t deny that it has really been helping me. I want to publish this to let people know this is a safe procedure, it’s not like the messed-up stuff you see in old mental hospital movies. I’d say trigger warning for needles and some drug references. I hope you enjoy, if you do, please let me know and I’ll post some more of my personal stories as opposed to just fanfiction.

Ready? Let’s go! 

My eyes droop as the nurse, who is somehow energetic at 6am, leads me into the locked areas of the center. I lazily glance at the dozen-or-so identical “rooms” that have been set up in this section. Each room is given privacy with a few thin curtains and a reclining chair. Next to the chair there is a dripping IV. I still don’t know what is in it, even after a year of treatment, but when I asked my mom what they were putting inside of me, she said it was “probably the good shit”. She might have a point; I do spend a lot of time in the chair with an unusually content mentality.

The nurse chooses an empty “room” and I sit down instantly. I will never get used to having to be hauled out of bed at six in the morning just to get flown over the cuckoo’s nest. The nurse goes over her little script, as if I would have had a dozen life changes since seeing them only a month prior.

She goes over my grocery list of medication to make sure they are all still the same than gets into the real questions.

           “Anything to eat or drink after midnight?”

           “Nope.”

           “Empty your bladder this morning?”

           “Uh, yeah?”

           “Any chance you could be pregnant?”

           Not unless I’m carrying the second coming of Baby Jesus. “Nope.”

           She takes my vital signs and does other miscellaneous doctor things. After a few minutes the nurse takes ahold of the IV and I prepare myself to get stabbed multiple times. My veins used to be better before all of this, but I think after over a year of being poked at aggressively, they decided to start being difficult to find.

           Just as I expected, there is no place to go in my arms, so the nurse goes for my hand. I cringe a little as she sticks the needle in. I have no problem with needles in general, as long as they are in the arm. However, once they go for a hand or neck or something, it becomes a problem with me. A few moments after I can feel liquid dripping inside of me, which never stops being weird, and a dazed calmness come over me.

           The nurses run out of things to check over and tell me the doctor will be here in a few minutes. This is not true. This has never been true. There is no clock in here, so I can’t tell you how long I actually wait, but I’d say at least an hour every time. This would be fine if I was in a room with, say, a tv or even a crossword puzzle book, but all I have to do is stare at the wall and contemplate what went so wrong in my life that I’ve had needed so many of these morning procedures. If I were to guess, I’d say somewhere between 20-30.

           This begs the recurring question: why aren’t I fixed?

           I’m half-asleep due to the IV, boredom, and lack of caffeine when the nurse pulls open the curtain. “Are you ready?”

           “You know it.” I follow her to the bathroom. You always go to the bathroom before the procedure because the seizure can cause you to lose control. That would be my least favorite part of this procedure. After I wash my hands, the nurse leads me into the procedure room. Classical music is playing from a laptop and I go straight for the hospital bed in the middle. Disappointing. I like it better when they play strangely hip rock music, but that’s usually when the other doctor is in charge. I lay still and wait for the nurse to put a blanket over me and remove my socks. I’ve done this. I know what to do.

           “Time out ready for Courtney…” The doctor begins with his familiar, thick accent. He says a lot of other things too, but I am already fading. I feel a calm fall over me and an intense sleepiness. As I begin to fade, I can’t help but wonder; is this one going to be it? The end of the mandatory COVID tests and early appointments and driving home from campus for the weekend? Is this one going to be finally worth it?

           I’m asleep before I can figure out what comes next