The Secret Life of Murdock
This is what it's like to be Matt Murdock for a day:
The morning begins with an assault on your olfactory senses.
Scents both near and far rush into your nostrils as your gradual ascension into consciousness opens the proverbial flood gates of your sense of smell wider and wider. The two main components of this phenomenon feed each other - the nostrilic invasion plunges you into consciousness which, in turn, starts to unlock your senses. The relatively dimmed scents that come from afar are as pronounced as pungent colognes while the scents that originate closer to you become putrid smelling salts, all of them telling their own unique stories that would be uncovered by mere seconds of mental investigation. Your auditory senses follow along shortly thereafter in a similar fashion, seeping in around your ninety-dollar military grade earmuffs that were designed to make a shotgun blast sound like a pin drop. This, combined with the olfactory phenomenon, works to overstimulate your brain, as if experiencing a dozen orgasms at once: a thoroughly unpleasant sensation that makes it feel like a thousand ants are frantically skittering across its surface. Fire ants. It burns like an acidic reaction. But luckily, familiarity breeds tolerance, and the agonizing sensation of it all that used to elicit a blood-curdling scream in your youth now only results in a brief gasp.
It's over in about two seconds.
It dawns on you today, as it has every day, that you're still not completely used to it. And at this point, it's a guarantee that you never will be.
The flood gates are now wide open. The waters that are your heightened senses cease to rush madly, level out, and now flow calmly. It has reached an equilibrium, and now you are in charge again. Now you can choose which strands to block and which ones to focus on. With a certain mastery that only comes with decades of having to live with this phenomenon, you filter out the useless, the mundane, the downright unpleasant and only focus on the necessities and the potentially significant. Among the necessities: the sour scent of the stucco that lines the walls of your studio apartment, the intoxicating laminate that emanates from the night stand next to your bed, and the three-day-old "scentless" fabric softener that projects from every thread of the sheets that you're lying on. A slight slackening of your jaw parts your lips ever-so-slightly and allows you to utilize your taste buds to determine the depth of these things - somewhat comparable to how a normal person uses two eyes. You swing your legs out to touch the floor and sit up as your hands grab the earmuffs wrapped firmly around your ears. You lift them off of your ears slowly as the many sounds of your apartment complex first grow deafeningly loud, then decrease to an appropriate decibel level as your sense of hearing attains that equilibrium in a fraction of a second.
Your mind still sings with hyperactivity intense enough to drive any ordinary man insane, but that's okay - you're no ordinary man. You're used to it. You let this perpetually excessive stimulation pulse from the top of your brain down to your chest and branch out to course through your arms and legs before arriving at the tips of your fingers and toes. You take this torturous cranial sensation and let it flow through every inch of your nervous system, stimulating every muscle along the way. You are back to your unique status quo. You take every strand of information that your super senses send you and let it fill your brain beyond its capacity. You inhale your apartment building and exhale it out again. No sight, and yet you can see it all. You are seer extraordinaire. You are a freak of nature. You are Matt Murdock.
But something deep in the center of your being stirs and wakes, just as it always has every single morning of these past twenty years. This thing joins your morning as it takes your subtle shadow of a smile and turns it into a glum line.
The Devil rears its head and joins you in the orange glow of sunrise.
The Devil has its own mind and will. It does not thrash or scream or breathe fire down there in the pit of your heart, it sits patiently with icy cold intent and simply waits. It knows it will have its turn at the wheel before the day is done. It brings a certain air of much needed resolve with it and casually radiates hatred and contempt as it whispers terms of its sadistic will to you. It reminds you of what you hate, what you should hate, and it warns you that God have mercy on your pathetic soul should you ever cease to hate it. That one thing that makes you dawn a hell-spawned costume nightly. That one thing you both loathe so much.
Somewhere deep in your brain, the Devil reaches down in the dark recesses of your despair and sings the word to you like spiteful lover: Injustice.
Those three syllables are to you what the word rape is to a human trafficking victim. To you, that word means no less than the smacking sound of blood gushing forth from the two inch tear of flesh in your father's left pectoral. Those three syllables spawn forth the memory of the smell of residual gunpowder emanating from rain-kissed concrete, far too close to Battlin' Jack, your father and only true friend, to be anything other than personal.
You are a Murdock. You have the Devil in you.
You two get along just fine. Like brothers.
You both make your way to the kitchen, analyzing the many strands of data from your apartment complex that might be useful to you, from the forty-three pairs of shuffling feet, to the intoxicating aromas of their ritualistic morning meals, to the many residues of fecal matter that still line the network of leaky pipes - the poor standard of plumbing seems to plague every dwelling in Hell's Kitchen, so more putrid information for you.
If privacy rights advocates knew would you could do, they wouldn't waste time protesting Congress.
The particularly dastardly smell of synthetic meat that somehow seemed to be improved after the digestion process told a tale of how Timothy Young in room 343 had failed to maintain the diet that just yesterday he had so enthusiastically promised his long-distance girlfriend that he would conform to with religious devotion. The scent of rubber and petroleum-based lubrication revealed that Mrs. Phillips, the fifty year old widow across the hall, had once again invited a man to share the bedroom with her, only to, once again, usher the man out before nighttime, a result of her sufferance from an unnecessary sense of guilt that she was not being faithful to her deceased husband. The reverberations on the floor just below you tell...
...A tale that you are hesitant to rediscover, one that clenches your jaw.
A tale that was being broadcast to the majority of the complex - supersonic senses were not a requirement. The sound of fine china shattering against ceramic tiles traveled just as far as the shouts of the severely perturbed asshole that pontificated the particular brand of obscenities unique to genuine psychopaths. You don't focus on the data streams from that room, you don't need to. The tale is the same every time; after a minute or two of fruitlessly attempting to deescalate the senseless rage, Sarah Wilson would find that same corner and wither to low-toned whimpers between sessions of muffled sobbing. Batten down the hatches and wait for the storm to pass. It was the only real defense she had.
You know that you could place your hand on the north wall and feel the reverberations of her contracting diaphragm as she weeps the moment away. It would be intimate, if not intrusive. The thought of taking two minutes out of your day to end the asshole's temper tantrum also skims your brain, but this fantasy isn't really a consideration, since you know that your alter ego identity could be compromised by such action. Watching the complex's blind lawyer turn into an all-seeing ninja could be the perfect inspiration for an impassioned bar room tale, which would catch the attention of a myriad of bad folk, namely the Yakuza or the Nazi Lowriders or the Russian mafia, who would all scramble for the chance to take a knife to the storyteller's balls until he gives up the Devil of Hell's Kitchen's identity. The asshole's balls are low on the list of things that deserved preservation, but your identity is number one. If you get put out of the game, the city's mortality takes a dive and the crime rate skyrockets.
That's why pulverizing his face is only a fantasy.
A half an hour later, with your suit on, your tie straight, your hair manageable, you step towards the front door where your white cane rests lazily against a wall. A grip on your cane, a turn of the doorknob, and you can be on your way to the office worrying about a plethora of other matters.
As your hand clasps around the cane's premium leather grip, you can't help but focus your hearing in on the calamity one last time...
...And now you're not in control. Now, you don't personally decide anything. Because what you hear lights a bonfire under the ass of the Devil in your heart, who hastily flies up to the core of your brain to shove you into the passenger's seat and effortlessly pin you there with one arm. What you both heard was her praying. Pleading. To the God of the Bible, the same God that you speak to. Which might not have had as much of an impact on you if you hadn't heard her profess her devout atheism nights prior.
So you're not a walking man anymore, you're a floating demon, propelled by sadistic intent and fueled by the prayers of the oppressed. She's asking for an angel and getting the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. She's getting you. As you stomp to the door of her apartment, huffing and puffing with inflated nostrils, you decide that you are going to have to be enough.
You don't even break stride.
As you stomp towards the door, the Devil that's pulling the strings of your mind points at your right foot, and that foot takes all but a tenth of a second to rise to waist level, cock, and spring forward to obliterate the deadbolt and thrust the door wide open like the entire contraption was made of cardboard. You hear the shuffling of feet and soft crackling of vertebrae that means all eyes are on you now, which isn't that big of a deal since you've had the good sense to ditch your jacket and tie your sports shirt around your head to conceal your face like the world's shittiest gas station mugger. The asshole now stutters in confusion as he's faced with what must look like an asylum escapee who strides impatiently toward his person with no signs of slowing down. If anything, you're gaining speed. Finally the shock in him winds down as he begins to get in an amateur boxing stance. The sound of his right foot's sneaker sliding back across the dirty polypropylene rug is as soothing to you as a bow pulled across the bass string of a Windsor Violin; it sings the prophetic tune of intent that's the stock and trade of undisciplined bad guys everywhere.
A right cross to your face. The push-off from his back foot can be heard from the next county.
If you were in your right mind, you might have gracefully dropped your weight under the punch and simultaneously shovel-hooked his solar plexus, but that display of mercy isn't the Devil's style. Rather, the Devil, with lava coursing through his veins from his pulsating inferno heart, meets this brute with brutality. A slight shift of your weight to the left puts your head out of the line of attack, but it isn't a dodge, it's early, so that your own right cross can meet his dead on like an auto collision between a freight train and a Prius. He apparently hasn't spent as many hours punching rice bowls and wooden dummies as you have, and in slow motion, you feel the knuckles of his ring and middle fingers crack, splinter, then shatter like a frozen lake being hit with a wrecking ball. As the millisecond impact stretches on for about three minutes in your mind, you focus intensively on the information sent to you by the microscopic nerve endings in your striking hand, and as the impact of the blow reverberates first through his wrist, then his arm, and finally ripples through the entirety of his body, that's the first time you've actually had a genuine look at him. Virtually, in that moment, you are a banshee that has drifted out of your own skin and into his. You don't feel everything, not quite, but you do feel the majority of him, from the scarred muscle tissue of the bridge of his nose that would suggest minor surgery from a spat he couldn't handle, to the uniquely brittle jaw that indicated lifelong structural issues likely caused by the habitual grinding of teeth, to the disgusting blob of a liver engorged from nightly visits to dive bars, a theory supported by the scent of Budweiser that polluted the room's atmosphere.
Most people that aren't as experienced with this line of work would think that a crushed hand would elicit a yell or a yelp. It doesn't. He's in fight mode and he's in the moment. His pain receptors haven't fully registered the searing pain that will be apparent in a few seconds, so rather than a yell of agony, it's more like a barely-audible gasp of shock. A certain involuntary expulsion of breath from his mouth and nostrils that you have learned to interpret as the body's natural response to unpleasant stimulus.
Immediately after the strike, your right hand cocks back and swings forward again for that oh-so-tender jaw. The version of yourself that lacks the ability to ooze contempt from every pore of your skin might have buckled his knees with a roundhouse, or grabbed his lingering right hand and tossed him to the ground. But the Devil wants more pain, so it's the jaw He goes for. The asshole is still in too much shock to adequately turn his head to soften the blow, so he takes it full force right where the cheekbone meets the lower jaw. Your knocker knuckles separate his mandible from his temporal bone while your lower metacarpals bruise his cheekbone. You hear the telltale wet thwack sound of brain matter smacking against cortical bone - the result of the sudden movement of his head forcing his brain to make contact with his skull - and know that he's unconscious before he hits the ground. His body goes limp and crashes to the floor with a chaotic symphony of clashing innards that only you have the pleasure of hearing.
Your attention shifts to the terrified woman curled up in the corner. The Devil secedes from the driver's seat and allows you to spread your angel wings.
"It's okay" The angel in you - of you - says. Your voice is a paradox of comfort; warm and cool at the same time. Soft and firm.
Her breathing is still labored, though, and you realize that the content of your speech is going to have to improve if you are to put her mind at ease. You decide to stick to the basics first.
"I'm here to help. I promise." The angelic voice declares from on high.
Her heart starts beating faster. It isn't working.
Perhaps the reason it isn't working is that she might recognize you. You've tried to keep your distance from your neighbors as best as you could, to protect them and you from the truth of your midnight trysts, should the shit ever hit the fan, but Sarah is just to sweet to not ask a passing neighbor how their day is going. She did so with you, and you couldn't help but get caught up in casual chitchat with her a couple times. Your face is covered and your voice is changed, but that doesn't conceal your entire identity, which is rather determined by additional factors, such as your distinct body structure and the way you carry yourself. Your physical excellence is certainly immutable; you've conditioned it for combat your entire life. Your behavioral identity, the aspect that deals with your distinct way of moving about as well as your cadence, choice of words, and verbal pacing has been something of a challenge to cover up. True performers can alter their posture in their civilian alter ego, but you were never much for those kinds of theatrics. It is a weakness that you plan to remedy some day, with the right instructor. Aside from your lovely and unretractable personality giveaways, the fact that you're still wearing slacks and dress shoes also narrows it down, considering there are only fifteen people in the entire apartment complex that have early morning desk jobs.
Hence, why there is a significant chance that she knows who you are.
You need feedback, so it's time to switch up your tactics a little.
"Listen," you say sagely as you squat down "I know things are crazy right now, I know this is a..." You search for more kindergarten terms. "... A little odd, but he was hurting you. And now you don't have to worry about that anymore. I couldn't just let it happen."
You heard her pulse spike for a fraction of a second on the words "hurting you," and then felt the muscles in her shoulder start to subtly uncoil on "don't have to worry." She's still on the verge of an emotional breakdown, but it's progress.
"He's not going to touch you ever again. I'll make sure of that."
Thankfully, her heart rate is still sinking. Her commitment to her fifth amendment rights is still a little troubling, however.
You're dying for feedback, "I need you to nod your head if you understand me, okay?"
A moment of silence passes as you hear Danny Aranfar from three doors down the hall firmly insist to his wife that he's going to investigate the commotion. You wait for her cervical vertebrae in her neck to start clacking in just the right way, but it doesn't happen. You can't wait for a nod; time to make your escape.
"Neighbors are on their way." You say with a subtle yet growing alarm in your voice, "Tell them what you saw, but be fuzzy on the details when you tell them about me. Please."
And on that note, you manage to slip out before Danny can quash his spouse's protest, and miss being seen by seconds.
You try unsuccessfully to push the event out of your head for the rest of your work day, but you can't quite shake the feeling that you've made a careless mistake. Or rather, he made a careless mistake. He is going to be the death of you someday.
Or worse, He's going to be the death of someone else.