End of Innocence

Matthew Michael Murdock was blinded in an accident when he pushed an old man out of the way of a speeding truck in Hell's Kitchen, New York.

He eventually becomes the costumed vigilante, Daredevil, after his boxer father is killed by the mob for not throwing a fight.

Picks up at the end of "Accidental Hero". A fifteen year old Matt Murdock comes home to a world that can never be the same for him. How will he adjust to his new life?

Chapter 1

"It's good to be home, Dad."

My voice bounces around the room, which feels quite a bit smaller than the last time I saw it. Yeah. Saw it. Past tense.

"I'm gonna put your things away, Matty. I'll be right back."

Just how far could you go in here, Dad? No place that I can't hear you, that's for sure. Won't be any secrets in here now.

It's a nice day, and Dad's in the back opening the windows to let the spring air in. Not that it's gonna make this dump smell much better. The fire escape outside the bedroom opens onto an alley where there's always some wino taking a piss or the rats scrambling to get scraps before the pigeons do. A classy neighborhood, this ain't. I can also smell the laundry hung out to dry on the lines between the buildings and hear it flapping gently in the breeze. All sorts of things that I can't identify off the top of my head. This is going to take a lot of getting used to, sorting all the input so it makes sense.

Well, a long journey begins with the first step, they say, and with that in mind, I begin to rediscover the place we call home. First things first, bathroom. I feel awkward using my cane in here. Should know my way around since I don't remember living anywhere else. I'll just take it with me in there, and then leave it in the bedroom. Reach out—there's the coffee table. So far so good. The bathroom is to the right, the door in the middle. Wait, that's the wrong door. I'm too far to the right; this is the door to Dad's room.

"You okay in there, son?"

"Yeah, I'm just gonna go to the bathroom." Damn. I backtrack out of Dad's room into the living room. The bathroom door is maybe a foot away. I trail my hand along the bathroom wall, and run smack into the sink. Ow. I thought it would be farther away from the door than that. The toilet is directly across on the opposite wall, so all I have to do is turn around. I lean my cane against the sink and misjudge when I turn around and bang my shins. Crap! I didn't realize how really small this room is.

I take a whiz, then hit the flush handle without even thinking. It hits me that I've done that enough in here to be able to find it automatically. Wonder how long it'll be before everything is routine enough again that I won't be fumbling around?

I remember that we were out of soap on the sink just before I had the accident. There doesn't seem to be any here now, either. Usually we keep a spare bar under the sink. I start feeling around in the cabinet. Spare roll of toilet paper. Can of something, probably Comet. Yeah, I smell it. Here we go—a little square wrapped in paper. I unwrap it and feel for the wastebasket with my foot. Bang! Turned it over.

"Everything okay, Matty?" Jeez, is he going to ask me that every two minutes?

"Just kicked the trash can in here, no worries." I bend over and search the floor to see what I've spilled. Nothing that I can tell. Must have been empty. I drop the wrapper in and wash my hands. Should have checked for a towel first, because I can't find one hanging up by the sink. Usually there's one by the tub. Thud! "Shit!" I kick that cast iron bathtub really hard and pitch forward into the tub. I catch myself with my hands on the back wall, just as I hear Dad coming up behind me.

"Lemme help you here." He grabs me around the waist and pulls me upright. I spin around to face him.

"Leave me alone!" I scream in his face. "Don't treat me like I'm helpless! I'm not HELPLESS—just cut it out, okay?" I stomp past him, arms flailing. I find the wall outside the door and then the door to my room. I slam it shut behind me. Two steps—no, three—and I fall onto my bed, tossing aside my dark glasses. They clatter onto the floor. Smooth move, Matt. Now you'll probably step on the damn things. Fuck.

He's outside the door. I hear him breathing—he might even be crying. I don't feel like inviting him in. I bury my head under a pillow to try to shut it out.

"Matty, I didn't mean—aw shit, son."

Since I didn't check what time it was when we got home, I don't have any idea how long I've been holed up in here. I might have fallen asleep for a little bit; it's damn hard sometimes to tell the difference between whether I'm daydreaming or really asleep since the scenery never changes now. I check my watch. Not even noon yet. I better try to find my shades before I forget about them. Okay, now, how hard did I sling those things? I don't remember hitting the wall with them, and it's a good thing I threw them away from the window, or they could be down in the alley.

I ease off the bed onto my knees and start the search. I get lucky and find them on the second pass, checking to make sure I didn't knock one of the lenses out. That would sure as hell look goofy. Nope, still there. Probably scratched the shit out of them, like that really matters anyway. I put them back on, just because I have a feeling that we might have company of some sort today, and I'd rather not have people staring at me to see what my eyes look like now.

The phone's ringing, and I hear Dad's heavy steps on the wood floor. Eavesdropping is going to be my main source of information now, I guess. He's talking to someone about me. I get a little closer to the door, but I don't open it. It's a woman; she's got a shrill nasal voice and talks really loud. Something about coming over here tomorrow.

"Yes, Mrs. Foster--" Dad tries to get a word in edgewise, unsuccessfully. "Yes, ma'am. Matt's fifteen, almost sixteen." I hear him huff, and her still babbling. "That's right—he goes to Brandeis. He's an honor student there—or was." Geez, Dad, thanks. Now you think since I'm blind, I'm an idiot. Great.

"Tomorrow? How about in the morning around ten? Okay, good. We're on the fourth floor, apartment 4B. We'll be looking for you then. Bye." He drops the receiver with more force than he needs to, so I gather that he's not thrilled about meeting this Mrs. Foster. There's a knock on the door; Dad shuffles over to answer it.

"Hello, Jack." It's Aunt Grace from down the hall. "I thought you fellows might like some chicken salad sandwiches. After I gave you the plate of cookies, I scolded myself for not thinking about making something more nutritious for you for lunch."

"Come on in, Grace! That's mighty sweet of you. I was just thinking about what I was going to fix us for lunch. I need to go get some groceries. Please, have a seat."

"Oh, no, I need to get back so I can watch my stories. Don't worry about bringing the plate back. I'll come get it later. Hope you boys like sweet pickles. I put a little in the chicken salad. No onion, though, 'cause it gives me heartburn. Bye, now!" The front door shuts, and I jump back onto my bed, like I haven't been listening, because I hear Dad's footsteps coming to my door.

"Matty?" He says through the door, then knocks hesitantly. "Aunt Grace brought us some lunch. Come on out and eat. Please?"

"Go away. I'm not hungry." That's it, Matt. Teach him a lesson. Be a little prick. You're entitled. I throw a pillow at the door and it connects with a satisfying thunk. So there!

My door bursts open with the force only an angry boxer would have. "Look here, buddy boy, that kind of stuff isn't going to cut it, and you know it!" I almost think I can see him looming over me like a dark cloud, fists clenched in rage.

I start yelling. "That's just it, Dad, I can't 'look here' or anywhere else. Or hasn't that sunk in yet? I'm seriously screwed here. Go ahead, slap me upside the head. I'll never see it coming." I stop. I can't believe I just said that to my father, Battlin' Jack Murdock. He could take my head off my shoulders if he wanted to. But that's not the reaction I get.

Instead, he stops like I've hit him. The air rushes out of his lungs in a huge whoosh. He turns away and walks back into the kitchen. "When you do get hungry, there's sandwiches out here from Grace."

I follow him into the kitchen. The chicken salad smells great. She's made it like that—with sweet pickles, no onions—as long as I can remember. She knows it's one of my favorite things she fixes. That's why I smiled to myself when I heard her say that to my dad, like she was telling us something new. Maybe she's getting old and forgetful. I bite my lip before I apologize.

"Dad? I'm sorry that I went off on you like that just now."

He stops what he's doing in the kitchen. I imagine that he's got both hands on the counter, leaning over on them, head down, from the way he sounds when he answers. "I know you're angry, son. I would be too if that happened to me. It's just that—that I don't want you to get hurt any more than you already are. It killed me to see you in that hospital bed, all bandaged and bruised up." His voice comes from a different angle now, so I guess he's straightened up, facing me. "I couldn't protect you. You have every right to be pissed off at me."

"What?" I'm incredulous. "You weren't even there! I'm not mad at you, Dad. I'm mad at how the universe decided to crap on me when I didn't do anything to deserve it. That's what I'm pissed off about. Certainly isn't your fault what happened." I trail the edge of the table around to where he's standing. "Come here, Dad." I hold out my arms. "We need a good manly hug. Right now. Give it to me."

He grabs me by the shoulders, then swoops me up in a bear hug befitting an old boxer. "You're right, Matty. I—we needed that."

"Okay, Dad, you can put me down now!" My feet are dangling. He drops me and ruffles my hair. Why do fathers always do that to their sons? We both laugh. I don't think we've hugged like that since I was a little kid.

"Want some milk, or water?" Dad's puttering around in the fridge now. Probably not much in there.

"Water's fine, I don't need any ice, either." He draws a couple of glasses from the tap, and sets them on the table. I take my seat next to the wall.

"Glass is at two o'clock, son. I'll get us some plates for the sandwiches. We don't have any chips, sorry. I've got to go to the store."

"That's okay, I'm not real hungry."

He sets my plate in front of me, and taps my hand. "Here, take this paper towel. You want one or two sandwiches? She brought us four, so there's plenty."

"Let me start with one, then I'll take another if I'm not full." The sandwich drops onto my plate, and I gather it up for a big bite. "Umm. Yum. Aunt Grace hasn't lost her touch on the chicken salad, that's for sure." She might not be a blood relative, but she's sure been good to us, and everybody else in the building, all these years. Many a day I've come home from school to a plate of hot cookies. Not many latchkey kids can say that. I chew thoughtfully, then realize Dad's not eating. "You okay, Dad? Who was that on the phone?"

"Aw, it was some woman from the Lighthouse calling to make an appointment to come here tomorrow for an interview. She was flapping her gums about all this stuff—like checking out what our home looks like, and what kind of living arrangements we have, and how much did you already help around the house, stuff like that. I dunno, she just makes me nervous. I know we don't have much. I'm going to have to tidy the place up a little better, and get some groceries in here before she comes, or she'll think I'm not doing right by you, Matt. I'm doing the best that I can, son. You know that, don't you?"

I hear the despair in his voice.

"Of course I do, Dad. Don't get upset about her. I'm sure she's seen a lot worse." I reach over and touch his arm. "We're gonna be fine. Don't worry. Now, eat some of this food. It's so much better than what I've had for the past week or so in the hospital." I push my plate toward him a little. "In fact, I think I'll have seconds."

"You're right," he says around a mouthful, "she still makes great chicken salad."

We finish eating and stack the dishes. Dad tells me he's going out for a while to pick up some food for the week. "Anything in particular you want, Matty? We need cereal and milk, probably some bread—I'll check—and sandwich meat and some cheese. Got a craving for anything?"

"Not really. But where'd you put those cookies Aunt Grace brought? I'd go for a couple of those."

Dad's been gone only a couple of minutes when I decide that I just can't sit around here. The slight draft coming in through my bedroom window tempts me to go out and sit on the fire escape. During the summertime, that's the only place to catch a breeze, and I know that perch like the back of my hand.

I trail the edge of the window and leap out onto the balcony of the escape. It creaks under my weight, swaying ever so slightly, making me a little queasy. I clutch at the brick wall to steady myself for a moment, then put my back to the wall and ease out to the railing. Good, that wasn't so hard. I sit on the floor and swing my legs out over the ledge, straddling one of the railing supports. I've been doing this ever since I can remember.

There never was much of a view out here, not that it matters now. Just the back wall of the building across the alley, pretty much a mirror image of the one we live in, grimy red brick and dirt-streaked windows. The real view is from the roof, where I used to sit at night and watch the lights of the city twinkle on at sunset, and where Dad has an old punching bag hung up under the water tank. When I get a little more used to things, I'm sure I'll spend a lot of time up there pondering the mysteries of the universe. Or at least, trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my life now. So much for being a brain surgeon.

I open my watch and check the time. Almost three, time for the neighborhood to come alive with the sound of kids coming home from school. For a moment, I consider going back inside so I won't have to worry about dealing with some of the smartasses who always made fun of me before, picking on me for being a bookworm, taunting me because I seldom take any chances and won't defend myself in a fight. Nah, I'll just stay out here. What are they gonna do? Call me names like dorkface and dweeb and daredevil? They already do that. They think they're being ironic. I think they're just morons.

Right on cue, I hear the giggles of the little girls as they come out to jump rope, and the boys shoving and slapping each other on their way to the afternoon stickball game in the alley. Moms hang out the windows and yell at them to come in and change out of their good school clothes before they start playing, followed by groans of resignation from the kids. Typical spring day, one I've seen many times from right here. Now it's up to me to fill in the blanks about what's going on around me. Time to use my imagination more.

Across the way, I hear footsteps on the fire escape, several sets bouncing hurriedly down to the next level. Suddenly, the clanking stops. I picture several guys running into each other when the first one stops, just like in the cartoons, which makes me grin. That doesn't last long, because they are talking about me, probably pointing at me.

"Whoa! Look over there. When did Murdock come home?" It's Jason, who's a grade below me in school.

"Should we go talk to him?" That would be Sean, Jason's little brother. He's always sort of looked up to me. I'm not sure why.

"I dunno. Man, that's gotta suck, bein' blind and everything." Trent. He's in some of my classes at Brandeis. We used to study together sometimes. Wonder how that will work out now.

They have no idea I can hear them. I keep sitting and swinging my feet, pretending I don't know they're over there, waiting to see if they'll make the first move or not. I don't have to wait long.

"Yo! Murdock!"

to be continued...