As far back as he could remember, John had never felt any connection to the name he was born with.Â
It was the only âgiftâ his selfish bastard of a father had ever given him, like an ugly sweater two sizes too big. You had to call that name at least three times for John to realize you were talking to him. Tom would often whack him upside the head for âignoring himâ.
John hated his school uniform. Calling the skirt a kilt made him feel a little less uncomfortable but it didnât solve the problem. Heâd scuff up his shoes and get his knees dirty playing football with the boys after class. Tom would scold him, demand that he be âmore like his sisterâ.
John stole a pair of scissors from Cherylâs room and cut his blonde hair choppy and short. He was grounded until it grew back.
So while stuck in his room, John would read the books heâd hidden under his bed. Big tomes with heavy covers and musty, yellowed pages. Books that talked about sigils and demons and protections and summonings.
There were spells to change your appearance. Spells that could make his body feel right. He memorized these pages with more intensity than he had ever shown for his schoolwork.
John found the right people to surround himself with. People who were just as interested in magic as he was, people who used the right name for him (and hundreds of nicknames too).
Chas was sweet about it. Offering to share clothes that would absolutely swamp John. Ready to defend his best mate without hesitation.
John left home the second the opportunity presented itself, couch surfing until he and Chas could scrape enough money together to share a flat. Tom had yelled, sworn, screamed at John for being an âungrateful bitch of a daughterâ to a daughter that had never existed.
With a mix of spells and medical treatments, John was finally able to feel like himself. He could stand in front of his mirror and really see himself. The flat chest under a white collared shirt. The stubble on his cheeks.Â
His business cards read John Constantine.Â
It felt right.
