Picture this:
There is a boy, lying on the ground. There are chemicals spilled on the harsh gravel, and an old man looking in bewilderment at the child who saved his life.
Matt Murdock was nine when he was blinded, and he was nine when he saw for the first time.
It took a while to get use to the constant noise; always hearing every tiny little thing, from the breaths of a child across the street to his father's groans after a rough night in the ring. Getting used to feeling the roughness of the floor and bed and tasting all the disgusting things put in processed foods took even longer.
The Murdock boys have the Devil in 'em, people said.
Sometimes, people were right.
So Matt adapted. He grabbed the cane he didn't need, acted like he couldn't hear other conversations. He patched up his father after every match; after every loss.
"Ahh, I'm sorry you have to do this, Matty," Jack said.
"It's fine," he'd reply, still focused on the stitches.
"I'm sorry, my boy," Jack would say, when he thought Matt wasn't listening, "you deserve so much better."
Now, imagine this:
There is a boy. He has no mother, no father. He has no sight. He's in constant pain, lying in a bed with cotton sheets. He only has himself, and his…..abilities.
Most people would say, "That's not enough." Humans have treasured sight throughout the years, thinking that as long as your two eyes were working, you'd be fine.
In this universe, there is no Stick. No mentor teaching him how to control his "Gifts," how to fight, how to survive.
So Matt teaches himself. He soon learns to hone his senses, and to get by with no sight. There is no teacher, so he must teach himself.
For Matthew Murdock, what he had was enough. It had to be.