Daredevil #371 ***To Be Continued*** * * * * * * *
By Rob Payne
"Requiem for a Love"
I stare at the floor. The crimson suit, my second skin, is draped over my knees. My hands are still soaked from the tears, even though my cheeks dried minutes ago. I slick my hair back; a move I have discovered is something I only perform when I attempt to set my head on straight.
With eyes wide open I take a personal inventory.
My name is Matthew Murdock. More often than not I'll settle for Matt. By day I'm a defense attorney. Protecting the alleged from the state. By night I'm a demon. Protecting the state from the alleged.
I love, among other things, apple pie, Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here, and the feel of 100% cotton on my body. I'm not interested in colors, at least in my day job. Though, red is a must at night. My girlfriends, when I acquire them, enjoy the preoccupation of dressing me in Armani, Versace and whatever else their model friends tell them is in fashion.
Despite this I am not hip, nor do I try to be. My purpose in life is really, very simple. To save lives. I could not care less for the style or popularity my public position could afford me.
However, I do consider myself a man about town.
A night rarely passes, if ever, that I do not prowl above the streets. I am searching, hunting, for something that may or may not be there. New York City always contains the potentiality. Not for love or lust or passion or money. Bur for evil, or rather the human extension of it.
Tonight I am forced to reassure myself that everything about my life is right. I am only human and humans are allowed to make mistakes.
I try, but know I will never settle for that. I am supposed to be a hero. The papers have dubbed me so and at times I have believed it. It is unacceptable for a hero to make mistakes, to lose.
Yet, tonight I have lost. I am no hero.
I suppose one could say I was lucky. I never had to see the pain on her face, or the sadness and the fright that was pouring out of her swollen eyes.
It is true that I am not completely blind. I have what some call a "radar sense." Whatever it is, I am allowed to view the world in dense shapes and slight movements. Some also call this a "blessing." I cannot see the hell that surrounds me.
I do not agree. I would give anything to see and not feel the fire of life. I have managed to forget the rapid pounding of her heart, but I still retain the echoes of her starched screams for help. She clutched my waist, begging for her life, the blood from her body seeping through to my flesh. It was warm but cooling by the minute.
Some would say I did all that I could.
Once again, this is not true. She was not dead when I found her. She was still alive. I am forced to blame myself. My efforts to help rebuild Hell's Kitchen have been jaded and the nearest hospital was miles away.
I listened to her pleading and to her begging, knowing full well she was about to pass. I could have spared her the pain.
I imagine that she was beautiful, to match her soft skin. I want to believe she was pure, to match her perfect frame.
The floorboards squeak as I stand from my bed, the suit falling passed my feet. The calluses, from too many long hours, stick to the rosewood, as though they were still wading through the puddle of blood.
For an extremely brief moment, too brief really, my mind goes numb. Tiny strings of water cascade over my naked body as I stand in the shower. The mixture of heat and moisture washes away my thoughts, as though my brain was going through a car wash. The memories are the dirt and grime covering my windshield.
The wheel chair I've been using for the past few weeks rests next to the bed.* For a long moment I stare at it. As the dampness of my skin hardens and becomes cold the memories flush back inside.
[[[ *Injuries he suffered during his fight with Bullseye in issue # 11 - Beck ]]]
I was at the offices by 8:30 this morning, putting to good use the handicap amenities I took for granted in the past. I met with a few clients, low lives and the wrongfully accused alike. Nothing major. By noon I had lunch with Foggy who was worried and fidgeted like he knew something but didn't want to tell me.
"What is it," I asked.
"What? No-nothing." He took a large bite out of his ham sandwich and slurped his cola.
"If you need any help, just let me know. Okay?"
He nodded and looked at his watch.
I could have pressed him and he would have told me anything I wanted to hear. But I let it go. My mind was already occupied.
After lunch I took a long ride through Central Park, enjoying the sounds of children and single mothers.
By four I was at the courthouse. Justice Randall P. McFarland was the presiding judge as Foggy handled the case. I watched, having been out of that game for too long I wanted to remain second chair a few more days. Foggy was still anxious, constantly sweating and checking his watch. He purposely averted his gaze from me.
The nervousness that exuded from Foggy spread to the judge and he called for a recess. At this point I decided to go home early, as I had someone waiting for me.
Foggy attempted to stop me. At the time I did not find it odd, I was under the assumption that he just wanted me to stick around for help when he would need it. As I left I caught a glimpse of my old friend checking his watch for the hundredth time that day.
As soon as I entered the apartment I stepped out of the wheel chair. The Devil doesn't need it.
The wafting air of a pot roast coming from the kitchen gently assaulted my nose. As I stepped on the plastic floor I noticed the lingering scent of Karen's perfume was not fresh. Though, I could still smell her hand lotion bouncing off the counter tops.
This interested me. Since the destruction of Hell's Kitchen and my subsequent beating,* Karen and I had grown emotionally closer than I could ever remember. Each night I would come home and we would eat and talk and sleep.
[[[* Hell's Kitchen was destroyed by Shotgun in Issue # 5 and once again, Matt suffered his injuries in 11 - Beckster ]]]
Tonight the food was waiting but Karen was not.
I found a sheet of paper resting on my dresser; it was blank save where she had etched in her name and the word "love."
A Dear John letter from a woman who can't write in Braille to a blind man.
My knees have become weak at the thought of this and I collapse into the wheel chair. My first real use for it in days. I begin to weep again.
The roast is still sitting on the counter top, no doubt frozen by the 76-degree temperature of the apartment. Without getting out of the chair I pull open the nightstand drawer and retrieve a bottle of Jack Daniel's that has been sitting there since Reagan was in office. I pop the cork out and down a shot, my mind filling with images, created from fantasy, of Karen's and the young girl's face covered in tears and blood.
I drop the empty bottle of Jack onto the carpet and slide into bed, hoping sleep will whisk me away from the demons gnawing on my heart.
I wake up two hours and fifteen minutes later feeling restless. The dreams have already begun to fall into the abysmal cell of forgotten memories. My comforter is thrown about the bed, dripping onto the floor. My sheets and pillows are stained with sweat. Small pools of the perspiration follow me as I enter the bathroom.
The aural outline of my face haunts the mirror in front of me. I am shivering, cold from my own sweat.
I cross back to the living room and turn on the television. The early morning news is on, rehashing the stories from the previous night.
Election coverage between the two new mayoral candidates.
The bombing of a school library.
Wilson Fisk has donated an exorbitant amount of money to the rebuilding of Hell's Kitchen.
A new supermarket has opened up.
And finally: "A young woman was brought into the ER soon after midnight. Police say the Daredevil found her beaten and raped. Apparently the cities' masked avenger did all he could to save her... I guess that just goes to show you that not everyone's perfect, right, Ron?"
I turn off the television and close my eyes.
When I undressed earlier in the evening I was trying to remember any conversations Karen and I might have had that was leading up to her abandonment. At the time I couldn't remember anything and I still couldn't as I lay on the couch.
"What's wrong?"
We were eating pasta and it was she who was worried about me. I was the one acting strange and distant.
I shook my head, "Don't worry about it."
She sighed and took a sip of her wine before responding. Calmly she replied, "How can I not worry about it, Matt? After everything we've been through and you still won't talk to me."
"I'm sorry."
And then we sat in silence, staring at our food.
"This is good," I said, "where did you learn how to make it?"
She continued her silence, staring at me.
Later that night we made amends and held each other in our sleep.
That was two days ago.
I sit up and reach for the phone, dialing as I place the receiver to my mouth.
"Hello," Foggy Nelson's voice crackles over the line.
"It's Matt."
There is a long pause. I can hear him adjusting his position in his bed, no doubt to get more comfortable. I begin to wonder if that hard thumping isn't his heart, screaming in his chest miles away.
"What time is it?"
"Almost five."
"Can't this wait until we see each other at the office?"
"She left again."
Another long pause. And then, "I know." This catches me off guard, though immediately I realize I should have guessed. Before I can respond Foggy continues, his voice much stronger than I remember in the past, "She called me today, right before we went to lunch. She said she was going to be out of there by five. I guess she was, huh?"
Now it's my turn to wait for the right words. My mind's train has currently derailed.
"Listen," Foggy says, "she gave me a number if I wanted to reach her. I think she really left it for you, though."
I write the number down and hang up the phone.
My hand reaches for the pillow under my head and I place it over my face. I contemplate killing self, cutting off the air to my lungs and asphyxiating underneath the stitched picture of a duck. A mallard my mother bought before I was born and that I've kept with me since I left for college.
The thought of my mother causes my stomach to contort and I sit up, the suicide attempt over. Sister Maggie. Mother.
She left when I was but a small child and was nearly killed three weeks ago. If she had been removed again I know that too would have been my fault.
Nothing is sacred for so-called superheroes.
I wonder if she would be upset with me. With all this loathing and hatred I have in my soul for myself.
A week after my beating and brief paralysis I was visited by a man of faith. The Christian faith. His appearance gave me hope and somewhat of an understanding... but only for a time as short as he sat in my living room.
I had the innate feeling he was sent by my mother, though neither he nor she would admit to that. It was God's will.
And I truly want to believe it, but something inside of me refuses to follow a path that could, in all likelihood end my suffering.
"A fool's paradise," Karen once said.
I envy her conviction if not her choice.
I wonder if I should visit with mother, I have no doubt she'd see me, even at this early hour. But I choose against it. Her's would be a voice that spoke only in riddles and I have misplaced my Bible and could not possibly unravel them.
No, I grab my blood stained uniform of the night and dial up a different friend.
On the roof of my building I watch as the sun rises over the skyscrapers and construction vehicles. I have never seen a sunrise in its truest form. That of thousands of vibrant colors illuminating everything its light touches.
I see one bright shade of red in a semicircle inside a painting of duller, more abstract maroon.
Alone, perched, overlooking a neighborhood in rubble I have plenty of time to contemplate my night after dark.
I donned the suit, a habit, really and struck out into the darkness. Swinging in the air away from my bedroom window and landing with ease on a rooftop a block away. The first scream came not two minutes after I ventured deeper into Hell's Kitchen. I pushed my senses toward the beckoning scream and discovered a mugging was afoot.
Not another minute passed until I slammed my heels into the back of a large, Hispanic man. The shock, along with the massive pain sent him sprawling to the ground, unconscious. I kneeled down and handed the rather large purse back to the middle-aged woman who was far more afraid of me than she should have been.
Feeling good I bowed and tipped my invisible hat to her. As she attempted a rather nervous "thank you" I shot off my billy club and flew away to help another unfortunate soul.
A few more helpless citizens saved and my self-esteem was soaring higher than a SHIELD fighter jet.
My thoughts of Karen were slowly dwindling out of my consciousness until I heard a cough, similar to the bleeding of a sheep.
It came from the alley, directly below me. I glanced over the side and saw her outline, crawling on the cold cement ground. A black trail was dragging behind her.
I cursed to myself and leapt into the crag between the two buildings.
My fingers caressed her back, something that has been proven to reassure the victims that I am not a specter of evil, but someone here to help. However I was instantly appalled at what I found. Nearly a dozen stab wounds covered her spine and ribcage. Without digging into them I could sense most were several inches deep, though at least two were driven all the way through, opening up her chest.
The blood dripped out of her body, splashing into already formed puddles below us. I can remember each and every drop. Two hundred and forty-eight.
Tears began to well inside me as she wrapped her limp arms around my waist and clawed at my back. "H-help... help meh-me...."
All I thought to do was kneel down and hold her tightly. The structure of her face, the high cheekbones, the small, jutting chin, reminded me of Karen. And I worried that this was my former love and I had lost her through my own selfish acts.
I held the girl until her wretched sobbing stopped and her arms fell to the ground.
I nudged her forehead with my shoulder and her head slumped back. I forced myself to check her pulse and her breath. It wasn't necessary. I had felt her heart losing its force against my own chest and her warm breath had been gently turning into frost.
The television crew lied. The girl was not alive when I brought her into the ER. She had died fifteen minutes sooner.
I have returned to the rooftops, returned to the bloody suit, to wait for a friend. Every time I catch a blast of sirens in the distance my gut reaction is to leap off this ledge and bound toward another victim. But I sit perfectly still.
I'm not exactly sure why I stay.
"Hey, lover," the distinct Russian accented voice comes from behind me with a slight edge that causes me to wince. I had heard her coming but decided to let her get the drop.
"Natasha," I resist the urge to turn around and take her in my arms. I know that physically The Black Widow can bring resolve to my pain. But that is not what I want... not yet.
"You would think I'd be much more comfortable with these late night, no, early morning get-togethers you're so fond of-"
"Karen left today."
This stops her. "This isn't about me, is it?"
I shrug and hold the billy club in my outstretched hands. "She simply wasn't here when I came home. She told Foggy she was leaving."
"I thought the two of you weren't... a couple anymore."
"It's complicated."
She takes a seat next to me leaning just slightly over the edge, "While I appreciate the honesty here, why are you involving me in this?"
"I no longer have the ear of another masked avenger and I need someone I can trust."
She begins to stand, I assume to leave, but I grab her wrists, pulling her close to my face. The words come out simply, without any sense of control, "I don't want to be alone."
WRITER'S SOAP BOX
* * * * * * *
First of all I just wanted to thank Becker for giving me this chance, as it has so far turned out to be quite a writing experience. And we're only on the first issue! Also, I'd like to thank Ben for his support in this endeavor and I hope to live up to his expectations and yours, of course.
And, on that note I'd like to let everyone know you can contact me at gathmalok@aol.com
I'd love to hear what my readers have to say.
See y'all here next month.
Ciao.