Okay I swear that I am normal about Ody, Poseidon, Penelope, Zeus and hermes,- I love the way you draw their designs! Especially Hades, he so attractive bro-
DANG ODY HAVE REALLY THICK THIGHS (and boobs, who said that?-) (Rip chiton, it looks like it's fighting for its life.)
Penelope is so lucky....
Anyways your art is delicious thank you so much for the meal *noms* noms* very talented of you.
the way i will always be that 8 year old girl crying bc she misses her mom except that now im 24 and i decided to move out and for once its not my mom deciding to not spend the night at home and leave me wondering if shes even alive lol
david? it’s gretchen. i’m just returning your call about your niece.
alternatively titled: we’re all here for a fucking reason, you know. you don’t get sent some place like this for no fucking reason.
tw: violence, abuse, alcohol, vomit
it’s october 23rd, 2020, and it’s not like she’s not trying. you can say what you want about jude - a liberty nobody’s been willing to pass up before - but she is trying. contrary to popular belief, jude doesn’t, like, get off on being in a lousy fucking mood. she doesn’t like being miserable, it’s definitely not her big fucking goal. it’s just, misery seems to love her. but she’s a fighter, and she’s not gonna lay down and take it - she’s not gonna let it swallow her whole. not without a struggle, at least.
so, it’s the anniversary of her mom’s death, but she’s making an effort, you know? and at 8:30 pm, she’s sober, she’s made it to the weekend without getting in trouble at school, and she’s pretty dead set on pretending that nothing is as fucked up as it is, or she’ll at least die trying.
she’s even - get this - displaying a little bit of school spirit.
2:07 pm
“are you going to the football game?” clara wilkerson had asked in sixth period chem lab, and jude tried not to laugh. it was important that she didn’t laugh, because clara, her chem lab partner, was pretty damn hot. she was smarter than jude, a pretty brunette with big green eyes, and she seemed to think jude wasn’t a total waste of space, so, you know. big win for jude, who was hoping that, sooner or later, she might be able to get in clara’s pants.
“i dunno if that’s my thing,” jude had shrugged. she had nothing against sports, and she had nothing against standing around outside at night, but it still wasn’t an activity she’d ever been dying to partake in.
“what?” clara feigned shock. “watching the eleven meanest guys in our school homoerotically tackle the eleven meanest guys from our rival school while sipping watered-down hot chocolate that burns off your taste buds? what’s not to like?”
“well, when you put it like that,” jude laughed.
“exactly. it’ll be fun, you’ll see. here, give me your hand,” she instructed, and jude handed it over with a skeptical look. clara proceeded to write her address on jude’s hand, which was maybe some kind of weird power play and/or mating ritual, since clara had jude’s number, and could have absolutely just texted it to her. “so, you’ll pick me up at 6:45?” clara asked. and jude, to her credit, agreed.
10:38 pm
it’s not like it was easy, pretending that it wasn’t the day that it was, that there wasn’t that heat beneath jude’s skin. pretending that she was distracted, like it was okay. nothing’s ever easy, right? and it wasn’t okay, not exactly - there was the clipped tone of some of her jokes, a little too high, a little too thin. something inside of her chest at the center, aching a little.
but it was almost okay, or she could almost pretend that it was almost okay, and it was really nice to not be at home. it was nice to have someone to laugh at her jokes, nice to be standing around in the cold autumn night under the too-bright stadium lights.
and now, as she braces herself against the wind, walking through the parking lot hand-in-hand with clara, she thinks that maybe she almost had fun. “you’re smiling!” clara announces gleefully, and jude looks over at her. “told you it’d be cool. like i said - what’s not to like? you, me, a bunch of screaming teenagers around us; it was fun.”
jude grins over at her. the parking lot is busy, now, hoards of kids moving en masse from the bleachers, body heat between them in the sharp, cold breeze. “oh, sure,” jude agreed. “i’m all about football now. you’ve converted me.”
so it’s kind of nice. except - well. they’re walking, and there’s this plane overhead. and it’s such a small thing, jude knows that, but her smile fades all the same, because it’s like this bitter fucking reminder. like the world is mocking her for being stupid enough to think that she’d ever be okay, that she’d ever be able to make it through a night without spiraling, least of all tonight. for being stupid enough to think she deserved that much in the first place.
without thinking much of anything at all, she turns to kiss clara then, under the distant whirr of the plane, as if maybe the noise of their breathing will be enough to drown it out. it’s their first kiss, jude’s hands on clara’s hips, like blood on blood alone will be enough to ground jude, enough to let her forget. like if she couldn’t just say it ( any of it, what plagues her ), then being touched can be enough to anchor her to the ground. always a valiant effort with her, right?
but then they’re standing in a flood of light, a truck full of boys stopped in front of them. the boys in the back whistle at them, and the one driving hangs his head out of the window, face an ugly sneer. jude recognizes him, of course - just some asshole, like all the boys are, but she knows him; he beat the shit out of her at a party for talking to his ex, and jude had ended up in the hospital with 47 stitches. “moved on from your regular sluts, bright?” he says, and jude pulls away from clara. clara rolls her eyes, but jude, she squares her shoulders and flips them off, squinting in the light.
“they’re just being jerks,” clara said quietly, “let’s go.” jude’s car isn’t that far away. they could just go. they could just walk away. but when was jude ever going to leave well enough alone? that heat, that raw anger pulsing beneath her skin, barely contained all day, waiting for any excuse to slither out of her like a sickness. just give me a fucking reason. isn’t that what she’s always thinking?
“the fuck did you just say?” jude challenges, and clara tenses beside her, gripping jude’s arm through her jacket.
“just surprised you found someone willing to be out in public with you,” he said, opening the door and approaching them. he moved toward them in that quick, confident way that boys seem to always have about them. he was close to them now, so close, and fucking with them. fucking with them just because he could, just because he saw them, because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and boys love seeing if they can scare girls. “not that i meant to interrupt,” he adds, skeezy, gross. “go on. go ahead, i’m happy to watch. we can all have a little fun here, right? after party, yunno,” he continues, and jude can smell the alcohol on his breath, that’s how close he is to her.
she doesn’t stand down, though, not even as clara’s nails bare into her skin even through her jacket. it’s that wicked, wild heat inside of her, that vicious anger. ( you’re like a feral fucking dog, clara will yell at her in a few minutes, once it’s all been said and done. ) “he’s not worth it,” clara whispers, “we can just walk away.”
jude does not just walk away. “get back in your shitty fucking truck, and get the fuck away from me, or i’ll kick your ass,” she says, trying to feel taller than she really is. he has at least five inches on her, maybe more, but she crosses her arms anyways.
( she must know by now, though, that there’s no way this is going to end well, right? maybe she had been trying, maybe she had been sober and not in any trouble so far, but she must know now that the choice to not walk away is the fatal one, right? which just goes to show, she knows: anything that happens next is deserved. anything that happens next is just her doing it to herself. )
“oh, yeah. ‘cause we all remember how well that worked out last time,” the boy says, and that’s enough.
“jude,” clara says, “walk the fuck away.”
the high school parking lot hasn’t been redone since 1976, and the concrete parking blocks are falling apart, crumbling where they stand, chunks of concrete strewn around the parking lot. maybe, if anybody’d cared enough to try and fix up the parking lot any time in the last 20 years, there wouldn’t have been a chunk of concrete at jude’s feet. and without a chunk of concrete at her feet, she certainly wouldn’t have sent it flying through the windshield of the truck. but there was, and she did, and so the cop that parked in the high school parking lot during school events came over, and jude wound up being driven home in a cop car.
but she’d tried, you know?
11:21 pm
not that it mattered. not that she’d say so to her uncle, who dragged her inside by the collar, a hand on her neck she could just not shrug off. “what in the everloving fuck is wrong with you?” he asked, as soon as the door was shut behind them, closing out the cool autumn air and leaving room for only guilt.
it was a question that she was uninterested in answering, so she raised a middle finger behind her as she climbed the stairs. she moved to slip into her bedroom, but he followed her like a shadow, gripping her by the arm before she could manage. she whipped around, and she wanted so desperately to be calm, but she wasn’t. “have you got any idea how fucking lucky you are, jude? that they’re not pressing charges, that you’re here right now, and not in a fucking cell? jesus christ! and you’re looking at me like you’re pissed off. who the fuck do you think you are?”
jude glared up at him, chest heaving, eyes dark and wild. what a miserable fucking question. “i think,” she began flatly, “that i’m a future player for the Mets.” there was that vein on his neck again, and she knew, of course, that she was only making things worse for herself. that’s what she does best, but it’s okay, everyone - she’s going to get what she deserves. “it was a good throw,” she added, “you should have seen it. you would have been proud.”
“did you think of that on the way home?” he asked quietly. he, too, was trying to pretend he was calm, and doing a shitty job at it. “how long did that one take you, jude? ten minutes? twenty?”
“i thought of it on the fly, actually,” she answered, and he laughed - an unpleasant, humorless, bitter little laugh in the quiet, airless space of the house. “it’s a talent. a calling, even.”
“your calling is being a destructive piece of shit. good for fucking nothing, i swear. have you ever taken responsibility for a single thing in your goddamn life? no. everything is always somebody else’s fault, right, jude? just like your fucking mother. you’re not a future player for the Mets. I’ll tell you where you’ll be in two years, jude. you’ll be dead, or you’ll be in jail. you wanna talk about being proud? your mother, she was no prize, but even she would be so fucking ashamed of you.” it’s the way his voice bleeds into a vocal fry when he’s angry, the way his eyes burn.
she closed the door to her room behind her, and david let her. she allowed herself a minute or two to get herself together, shaking on her bed, before she slipped out of her bedroom window, into the cold night.
12:12 am
she’d tried, right? but that had gotten her nowhere, so obviously, it was a total waste of time. that’s what she was thinking as she sipped shitty vodka from the little bottle she’d pocketed from the skeezy liquor store down the street: what a waste of fucking time.
tonight was always going to end this way, wasn’t it? there was no reality where she drove clara home and kissed her goodnight; jude didn’t deserve that. there was only now, here, leaning over the railing of the overpass, vision drunk and swimming, thinking about what a waste of fucking space she was. she polished off the bottle, then flung the bottle into the street, closing her eyes and listening for the cracking noise of glass meeting asphalt.
maybe i’ll go get high, she thought, then turned around and started walking against the wind.
2:08 am
david bright stood around the corner of the wall, a metal baseball bat in his hands. it was the anniversary of his sister’s death - or had been, until midnight - and somebody had broken into his fucking house. well, broken in was a strong word to use, since he’d forgotten to lock the deadbolt in lieu of who had greeted him at the door the last time he’d opened it, so a bobby pin or a credit card was enough to jimmy it open. still - he could hear the culprit moving around in the dark, and from where he stood, he could see the front door, still wide open, swinging lazily on it’s hinges, letting in a draft, an open square of darkness in the wall like a missing tooth.
he was going to handle it, though. he’d had a bit to drink, but you don’t play piano for years without learning some hand-eye coordination, and whoever it was that was stumbling around his house after leaving the door wide open behind them, he could handle them. he was a man who handled things, wasn’t he?
he could see their shadow, swaying in the night, in the moonlight, and he turned the corner, swinging the bat as he did, proud of himself for catching the intruder off guard.
jude swore as the bat hit her shoulder, and, far from sober, that one hit was enough to send her slipping to the ground, landing on her ass.
david saw her, then - that flash of red hair, the wide, frightened eyes, the jacket that had belonged to his sister. he’d deny it, of course, even to himself - he’d thought she was an intruder, right?
( of course, maybe he always knew it was her, even before he grabbed the bat, even before the first swing. why else would he not call the police? )
he’d heard her voice, though, after he’d hit her for the first time, but he swung again anyways, like it was a movie he was watching, like things were already in motion, like they were outside of his control. so he swung again, his position readjusted to hit her in her new space on the floor, and there was that loud, sick and vicious sound of metal hitting skull. a horrific thud.
instinctively, slowly, a wounded animal, jude curled into a ball, arms above her head in defense, and he swung a final time, leaving an angry red mark on the soft flesh of her skin. “stop!” she slurred in the darkness, tasting blood.
jude saw, even through her swimming vision, that single flash on his face, that crack in the facade; an expression so familiar it made her feel sick. that horror. what have i done? anger that’s gotten the best of you. a burning under your skin. some things run in the family, she thought dizzily, terribly, and then, it was like it had never happened, and despite what had all just transpired in no time at all, despite the smell of alcohol coming so strongly from the both of them, he was calm again.
“you forgot your key,” he said, maybe as a question or maybe as a statement, and he took a shuddering breath. they stayed there, jude gazing up at him.
to david, her glassy, dilated eyes seemed to look right through him, a fever-bright stare that seemed to burn into his skin like a brand. ( had she always looked that much like delilah? with those fucking eyes, so fucking green? jesus. )
it was quiet for a long time before he finally said, “something needs to change, jude.” jude laughed, so quiet and so weak it was almost a rasp. and how.
without saying any more, he turned around, disappearing into the hall with footsteps that echoed in jude’s mind, making her head ache furiously. she sat there as he left her behind, body aching like one complete wound.
shame and anger spun in dizzy circles around her head, and it was a long time before she thought she’d be able to make it upstairs to her bedroom. she dragged herself up, eyes closed, her only true sense the metallic taste of blood. he’s going to kill me, she thought, as she closed her bedroom door behind her. he’s going to kill me one day, and i’m going to let him. and that will be on me.
she wants to break something. she wants to break. she wants the room to stop spinning, she wants the pain to stop, for the pain to get worse. FUCK! this is something she owes to herself. letting men do what they want to her - since when is that her? and her uncle was right, she knows; her mom would be so fucking ashamed. jude is so fucking ashamed.
something needs to change. she barely stifles a sob. i am so fucking spineless. holy shit.
she barely made it to the bathroom, but she did, vomiting vodka and stomach acid as she clung to the porcelain. please let me black out, she thought. please let me black out. i don’t wanna remember this. please let me just forget this.
she did black out. when she finally managed to stand on two feet, to crawl out of bed and drag herself into the bathroom to vomit again, she saw her reflection in the mirror, the skin of the right side of her face an angry swell of black and red, and she thought to herself, i must have been in a fight at a party or something. just a fight, or something like that. some stupid fight.
