Author's note: I haven't written a fic since 2014 and somehow between then and now, I forgot how to make chapters. That's why the story seems divided in arbitrary places. Also, there is a LOT wrong with this story. I'm sorry for that, but I needed to get it out there. I hope it isn't too awful of a read.
Finally, this thing contains violence, and mention of rape. If that is something you find triggering, please proceed with caution.
What is a hero? Are heroes just men with secrets, hidden agendas, that never come to light?
I have asked myself that more times than I can count since meeting Frank Castle. How can one man take blow after blow in defense of a memory, a beautiful, but vanishing memory, and still burden himself to remain within his moral code. He was a troubled, controversial figure. A fallen angel. The city loved him, and they hated him. But he was a man. He had a family. He had a past, a story to tell, and a truth that was his.
I should have stayed away, just like he asked me to. Or really, maybe it was me he should've stayed away from. Unfortunately, we do not always do what is best for ourselves, as you will see. Instead of moving forward, I threw myself into the pursuit of the truth. Like Ben once said, "for every exposé I've had published, there are a dozen that didn't pan out." This was my truth, until it wasn't.
I was given a fluff piece on Juvenile rehabilitation 8 weeks ago today. I was bitter, believing that Ellison had given me this particular piece to keep me out of trouble. So, I went to Millcreek Juvenile detention center with the expectation of interviewing one or two troubled teens who had benefitted from their education and vocational programs, which had been a staple in the news lately. Chasing scraps.
When I arrived at the privately-owned facility, which I fully intended to explore further, I was lead to a room and introduced to two boys, 15 and 17, clearly chosen for their upper middle-class manners. I recorded their fake enthusiasm for the program, which their parents likely made them participate in as a scared straight program, and smiled. When they were done talking, I leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially,
"So how is it in here. Like really? They treat you guys well, feed you?"
The boys laughed, but didn't answer. I smiled again.
"Well, I guess I have everything I need then. I understand that you guys have volunteered to give me a tour? I'd like that."
They led me through the building, pointing and explaining. The place was very antiseptic, considering how many juveniles that it housed. Beds were made, bathrooms clean. The place was neat, tidy, and everything that the city could possibly want. Nothing here to pull at their sensibilities. Nothing to raise any questions or throw any flags, which to me wasn't believable.
I waited until my guides had walked around a corner and stopped to speak with a boy mopping the floors.
"Hi, I'm Karen. Can I talk to you for a second?"
The boy cast his eyes down and kept mopping the floor silently.
"Well, maybe you can just keep working and I'll talk? Would that be okay?" I continued after he failed to respond.
"Sometimes places like this aren't very nice places to be. They have secrets. I wonder if this is the kind of place that has secrets." Nothing. I probed further, "Um, maybe you can just tell me your name?"
His voice was cracked with disuse. His name was Tom Sullivan, and I was struck by how similar this boy was to Frank. His dark hair, determined air. I wondered what Tom had been like on the outside, if he also liked to do impressions of people or played guitar, if he too had lost people that he loved or if he had a family waiting for him to be released.
"Well Tom, it's really nice to meet you, my name is Karen. Karen Page. Is it okay if I maybe come visit you again?"
He looked up at that moment, eyes unreadable, and nodded. When my guides had realized that I defected, they came back around the corner to look for me. This caused Tom to put his head back down quickly and I wondered if maybe these boys had been harassing him.
"That's great Tom, well, I have to go for now, but I'll see you real soon." This time, Tom didn't look up. He continued on his job.
We went through the rest of the tour, but I was no longer able to dedicate my attention to it. We reached the polished sliding doors in the front of the facility. The bottle blonde receptionist waived goodbye. I returned the gesture, and then returned my hands to my sides.
I didn't feel like going back to the office. Before the first stoplight had turned green, I decided to visit the County Clerk's Office. I wanted as much information as I could find on Tom Sullivan's case. Once again, Ben's words pushed me. "Doesn't matter what I think, matters what I can prove."
During the days of Nelson and Murdock, the boys and I had helped a high school library tech who had been accused of selling illicit substances on school property. He had been set up as a fall guy for a school administrator. The administrator and a local cop had a profitable operation going, in which the cop brought in drugs, and the administrator used a few "troubled" kids throughout the school district to help sling the product. Luckily the officer was behind bars. Unluckily, the administrator had enough money to stay out of a cell. I helped the Bulletin publish an exposé that eventually led to his abrupt departure from the city. One of the very few wins that I scored recently.
That library tech was now an employee at the clerk's office, and more than willing to give me access to anything I needed. Robert. Rob patted my shoulder nervously when I walked up, led me to an old computer in the back, handed me a cup of cold coffee and went back to work.
I flipped through the arresting officer's account, which had been entered into records as evidence. The arresting officer, against the testimony of a second eyewitness, stated that the kid had been violent, detached and trying to attack him. I couldn't reconcile that with the quiet, mild mannered boy that I saw mopping floors.
By what I could put together, Tom had been living with his mother and working for a butcher's shop. His mother had some sort of mental deficiency that may or may not be shared by Tom. However, on the day he was arrested, he had been trying to help his mom get to a doctor's appointment when he was jumped by a couple of street thugs. One of them lost and eye, but the other one was not as lucky, self-defense through and through; however, Tom had been convicted anyway. Due to his age, he was placed in Millcreek.
The judge, James Garonne, had shown no leniency, and despite the recommendations of the boy's attorney's and even pressure from the state, Garonne had not relented. This had left a very sour taste in my mouth. After thanking Rob for his help, I left to try to interview Tom's mom. I had scribbled the directions from one of the papers in Tom's file.
The door leading into the hall was broken, and small dirty children were running around, unsupervised. Their laughter was infectious and I couldn't help but smile at them. Unfortunately, that small spark of contentment soon disappeared as I knocked on Tom's mother's door, Tawny, and received no answer. After a few more attempts, I turned to leave, but saw a head peeking from a door across the hall. I walked over and smiled. My acknowledgement startled the occupant and caused her to shuffle inside and slam her door. Undeterred, I knocked softly and introduced myself.
"Do you mind if I ask you some questions please? I'm not with the cops or anything."
The head peeked back outside. The woman was older, late forties. Her face had soft wrinkles, but the skin had not yet creased at the depth you associate with advanced age.
"Does Tawny Sullivan still live around here?"
"She's dead." The voice croaked back at me.
"Could you please tell me what happened to her?" The woman didn't invite me inside her home. She kept me at arm's length through the entire, brief, interview. I didn't dare open my notepad for fear of startling her back inside. She explained that Tawny's health had declined after her son had gone away and that she eventually had been taken away to live in a nursing home. She lasted only two months before dying.
I could feel my eyes welling with tears, and wondered if anyone had bothered to tell Tom about his mother. I suspected that they hadn't.
During my conversation with the dark headed woman, whose name I never was given, I felt this crawling sensation on the back of my neck. It felt like I was being watched. Despite surveying the hall several times, I could find no indication that this was the case. Shaking the weird feeling aside, I left. The children were no longer playing in the hall. With the depleting sun, more unwholesome figures had moved into the hallways. I put my head down and clenched my purse tightly to my side.
I arrived home with no incident, wrote up my adventures, and fell asleep quickly.
I was in a hotel room, interviewing Senator Ori. He had just made his point about it being the city's obligation to protect me. I smiled and glanced to the private police currently guarding his door. The irony wasn't lost on him apparently.
I was flying through the air, hot smoke burning my lungs and eyes. It smelled and tasted acrid. The breath had been knocked out of my lungs and I lay still for a brief moment. Suddenly I'm up, and there is Lewis. I'm on my knees in front of him, begging, and then there's Frank. Lewis fires and Frank jumps in front of the bullet. It catches him in the temple and his blood and brain matter cover my face.
I'm holding his body in my arms, wiping the blood and my tears off of his face when Lewis steps closer. The senator is gone and it's just us, Frank's lifeless body, Lewis and me. He lifts his weapon.
"You did this." He says.
His finger twitches.
I'm thrown into consciousness so fast that it hurt. Pulling at my clothes disgustedly, I stripped them off while sitting on the bed. I had sweated through them and the sheets. I stood and pulled the sheets from the bed with a frustrated grunt. Sitting back on the naked mattress, I put my face in my hands, using my fingers to push away the tears that threatened to fall. I pushed against my eyes so hard that I could see spots dancing in front of my vision. I had been dreaming of Frank for months. In each dream, he dies. It's always my fault.
I often wonder to myself if this is why he disappeared, after everything. If maybe he knew that I'd be the one that got him killed. Officially Frank was dead. It wasn't true, but it felt true.
I dressed myself, dry swallowed some aspirin, and opened the door to my apartment. My door stuck on something, causing it to stop abruptly. I leaned down and un-wedged a small bouquet of little white flowers. Fake. It caused my heart to thump hard in my chest, bringing me back to my nightmare. I walked into the hall, still clutching at the flowers. No one was there. "Frank" I whispered. The violence in which my heart dropped to the floor was unsettling. I took the flowers inside the apartment.
In the window, I kept an identical bouquet. Frank gave me this one too, when he needed my help. I put the second group of flowers in next to them, and absently fluffed them. I thought about that day for a moment. About bringing him to my apartment, about the relief I felt that he had come back to me. I sighed and left the apartment.