𝒂 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒐𝒏𝒆’𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕 ; 𝒂 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅, 𝒊𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆. matthew swallows the lump in his throat, swears he can hear the pieces of his heart crack against bone and tissue. to hear his son sound so small, so helpless, it’s unnatural. he hadn’t been called ‘ daddy ’ since jack was young enough to still be scared of the monsters that crawled under his bed, since he’d cry out in the night and matthew would come running. that same instinct, to cradle him in his arms until the darkness was successfully chased away, bubbled within him now. behold the healing hands of a saint ! ( 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝙾𝙵𝚃𝙴𝙽 𝙳𝙾𝙴𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙴𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙻 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝙾𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝙰𝙽 𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝙻 ; 𝙶𝙾𝙳’𝚂 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚄𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙻𝙳 ? 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝙾𝙵𝚃𝙴𝙽 𝙳𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙺 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴 𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴𝙳 𝙳𝙴𝙴𝙿 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝚂𝙾𝚄𝙻 ? )
he sits now, so close that his knees bump against jack’s. i’m here, you’re safe now, i’m here, focus on me, dear child. he recalls those months where jack would whimper at the slightest noise, would only sleep when the gentle croon of matthew’s voice and heart and lungs were near. ( 𝙰 𝙲𝚄𝙱 𝙲𝚄𝚁𝙻𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝙸𝚃𝚂 𝙵𝙰𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁’𝚂 𝙲𝙷𝙴𝚂𝚃, 𝚂𝙴𝙴𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰 𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙴𝙻𝙳 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙻𝙳. 𝙰 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝚃𝙾𝚁 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶. 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚈𝙴𝚃. 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚈𝙴𝚃. 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚈𝙴𝚃. ) during those months he wore this same expression, concern, and guilt, unforgiving against the lines of his face.
his reply, as certain as the stars above, is spoken in a docile tone : “ you’re the bravest kid i know, you’re gonna be just fine, i promise. ” he has to refrain from wincing at the memory of his own becoming, hearing the deafening roar of the world beyond these walls was terrifying. he’d woken up alone in that hospital room, screaming for his father. who came as soon as he could hear him, who chased the world away. his father had been a gladiator so that his sons could become heroes. ( 𝙼𝙰𝚃𝚃𝙸𝙴 ? 𝙸’𝙼 𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴, 𝙼𝙰𝚃𝚃𝙸𝙴, 𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙽, 𝙸𝚃’𝚂 𝙼𝙴, 𝙸𝚃’𝚂 𝙳𝙰𝙳. 𝚈𝙾𝚄’𝚁𝙴 𝚂𝙰𝙵𝙴. ) matthew reaches out with open palms, “ jack, i want you to listen to my voice, okay ? listen to my voice and nothing else, ” he pauses, “ then when you’re ready, i want you to take my hands, ” he offers a wry smile, “ i know the world sounds really big right now, too big even. so we’re gonna make it smaller for you, but you gotta have no fear, you hear me ? no fear. ”
𝐎𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐘, little jack murdock sees too much– 𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙨 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜… little specks of dust & dead bugs, deep scratches on linoleum from the repetition of every day movements. his dad had seen nothing, it was black and that same black 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍; not the veins in his eyelids, blood pulsing under thin / thread bare epidermis.
𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏, the child fights against his body as if it were not his own, nails 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 to tear down cheeks and leave streaks not caused by tears, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚜. the only thing keeping him from it, is the way he tangles said fingers instead in his hair— peering at his father from beneath sweat tangled bangs, plastered to his forehead with condensation.
“ dad, i can’t— “ he can’t even think, jack can hear his own breathing, can feel his own heart beneath ivory ribs… every rush 𝙤𝙛 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙, a dangerous spike in blood pressure that 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒔 threatened to consume him. if only his teachers knew, if they knew not to touch him– leaving him black and blue, and lashing out. he’d left one with a black eye, another 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍. they didn’t understand, and neither did the boy as was clear with the way hands now dragged down from hair and reached out 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙧𝙙𝙤𝙘𝙠.
one upon a time these hands had been smaller, and while they still fit snug around 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓’𝒔 𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 ( a habit to hold just matt’s pinky ), they were far larger than little finger digits angry & red with irritation. his body had fought him then too, as if drowning in his own blood. 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚠, but he reaches out just as he had then… 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 in jack’s eyes all the more horrifying, as this pain will never leave him; this day will be seared into his mind henceforth. there is no more hiding / no more burying ugly truths.
𝒋𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍’𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒏, and the devil’s son bore his sins.
𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙩 is now the number of a boy, and it damn near carves itself across his ribs as the boy dares to move; clinging onto the lapels of his father’s suit jacket, as pulling himself 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜— tears pour hot and irate, searing through the slate gray front of his father’s usual work attire.
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