Chapter 1: Strength Through Wounding
The sky above the city had turned an ominous grey from what could be seen between the swirling of purple tinged storm clouds. With the passing of September the brief reprieve they'd had of the rain had quickly vanished, and come December the temperatures had dropped considerably. It had yet to snow, however. The best they had gotten were freezing rains, which lately had been coming hard and often.
Hank Chogan watched the brewing tempest from the third floor of the psychiatrist office. His attending weekly meetings were a condition of his parole. There was just a few minutes left to the session and if he could keep silent till then he may actually be able to avoid his psychiatrist's well intentioned deductions that every problem in his life linked back to his past where the blame could then be placed on someone else. He wasn't disillusioned to the truth, however. Everything he had done had been of his own accord. On that faithful night back in April, a demonic side of him had been awakened at having witnessed his fiancé being raped and murdered before his very eyes. Held down and unable to stop the horrors, he had sought retribution for his love through the taking of the lives of all that had been involved. Through this series of events he fell into a web, which he currently was still entangled in, along with his three companions.
Sighing, he tried to shift into a more relaxing position. Nothing about the space was comfortable. The office was terribly hot, eliciting a sheen of sweat along the center of his spin, and the air was thick and stifling, but still he tried not to let his displeasure show. The seat was a hybrid between a chair and a sofa, offering the comfort of neither. The cushion was too deep and enveloping, forcing him to sit on the edge, and the legs were so short that his knees were forced to bend awkwardly towards his chest. He envied the leather back chair of the psychiatrist, but hid his thoughts behind an amiable smile.
"We only have a few minutes left, would you like to discuss what you'll be doing over the holidays? After the death of someone close, people tend to fall into depression during this season," Dr. Cliveson commented after a long lag in the conversation.
"I don't have plans," Hank replied clipped and then quickly attempted to cover his bluntness with a smile.
He was becoming frustrated with the constant intrusion on his personal life, as well as figured that the less he spoke the less chance there was of having his words misinterpreted. In truth this was his first holiday without Hannah, his fiancé – his life – but while things were hard he didn't feel he was in danger of another suicidal episode. At the thought he looked down at his wrist, at the two parallel white scars along the flesh, where in a real moment of temporary insanity he had tried to seek a bit of relief in a straight razor. The marks hadn't actually been deep enough to attempt death; he had only wanted to appease the bloodlust that had grown in him since that night. He supposed it was lucky he had found a replacement for the river of red or else he might have actually killed himself long before now.
He had Joe Shayne to thank for that. The stranger who had taken him in and helped him back to life. While the blood red streaks in his hair reminded Hank of the blood he spilt, the words the stranger spoke convinced him that he deserved to live. In a way it was as though he was being forgiven for his sins, something he still had trouble believing was possible even after all this time.
"Would you like to talk about what you and Hannah used to do over the holidays?" Dr. Cliveson asked, breaking Hank from his thoughts.
Shaking his head to clear his mind as much as answer he replied, "No, we didn't do anything special."
That was a lie. As a child he'd never been fond of the company of others, and even as an adult the words still held true, but since moving to the city he'd always had Hannah. Both of them came from similar backgrounds, raised in orphanages where doting elders were more like distant providers and self-reliance was key to survival. As a result they had kept to themselves, living a secluded life and letting no one into their small world – relying only on each other for everything they had previously never found in another human. All that was gone now, snatched from him and never to be replaced. Maybe he was wallowing and selfish in his need to despair, but he didn't care.
The time they had spent together had been so precious although he had thought so many moments trivial and inconsequential at the time. Like spending hours in the freezing cold while Hannah waited for a tree that would call out to her within the pitiful budget they had made it a point to save for. Or watching Hannah spend two days making Christmas pudding that would never quite come out right and preparing the candlelit chicken dinner for the two of them. Turkeys were too big for just the two of them and they didn't have friends to share it with so they always went with chicken breast instead. Hannah would joke that one bird was the same as the next and this way they wouldn't be eating it till the New Year.
"Well it would appear our time is up for the day," the psychiatrist finally announced to Hank's great relief. "We'll pick up again after the holidays. As always you can set the date with my secretary."
"Yes, thank you. Take care," Hank replied shaking the man's hand before stepping from the room and closing the door behind himself.
He may have been able to keep his movements from looking rushed, but he couldn't help closing his eyes for a moment and letting out a relieved sigh. Just as quickly, however, the smile was once more plastered to his lips as he approached the young secretary who smiled sweetly in return.
"Another appointment?" She asked.
"Five more months worth I'm afraid."
"We'll make it on January fifth then. That'll give you some time to recuperate from all the junk he must be pulling up. Have a happy Christmas Mr. Chogan."
"Thank you…you too." It felt awkward giving a greeting when he felt no better than a humbug.
It was an even greater relief to step from the building where cold air instantly cooled his over-heated skin and he was free from the judging eyes of Dr. Cliveson. He began to relax the further the distance between him and the building, making his way down the sidewalk to the bus stop. Even though he owned his own jeep he was never sure what his mood would be after a session and so he preferred to leave the driving to someone else. Drudging up the past for his own convenience was one thing, but to do it for the scrutiny of another was something else entirely. Even Joe, whom he had been living with since the accident, didn't know a fraction of what he was forced to share with that stranger, and he considered Joe his best friend. He didn't mind so much talking about the orphanage, but discussions of Hannah had a way of inciting the nightmares.
For a long while after the incident he had suffered the same, reliving the horror of his murderous wrath on a constant morbid loop. Every time he tried to bring up the memory of holding her all he could recall was the feel of her blood soaking his skin. Since then the habit had diminished till the point of relative extinction. Happier memories were now beginning to creep through those of that night and he relished the times when they did, but in its place a bitter hole in his heart had formed. His hatred didn't stop with the Dark Crows or the Centipede, the venomous criminals responsible for his current state, but had morphed into a distain of anyone and anything that contributed to the illegal. Hypocritical though it was, for he was no better than a criminal himself – a murderer of villains perhaps, but a murderer just the same – he still couldn't stomach any dregs of society.
He was lucky that he was able to distract himself from both his thoughts and his problems by taking care of Cody. He had once again resumed his tutoring with the teen and while it wasn't as consuming as daily bedside care it was none the less enough of a distraction that Hank was able to get through the days without focusing on the past. It was ironic that he viewed tutoring as a haven while Joe thought he was desperate for the money. Admittedly, if it wasn't for the job he would be in quite the desperate state, but Sam Genet was more than generous. Still it had taken Hank almost two months to convince Joe that he was making enough with tutoring to help pay the rent. The latter had been hard to convince, but had eventually relented to allowing Hank help him with the bills. Still Hank had felt he wasn't being given equal responsibility and had tried to make up for the fact by taking care of the housework and meals.
Well cooking was more for my own safety…
Hank had discovered very quickly that Joe's idea of cooking was either opening a can or throwing together every ingredient in the fridge with little regard to whether the toxic concoction was edible or not. The man's stomach must have been made of steel. Hank, on the other hand, could barely stand the sight let alone stomach the content. He had never minded cooking, though; in fact he enjoyed the task. A bittersweet smile touched his lips when he recalled how he had always laughed at Hannah's complete lack of any culinary skills and so, from the beginning, he had cooked for the two of them. Although, lately it just seemed like such a waste to put in the effort if it was only for himself.
Lately Joe had been spending most of his time outside the house, hanging out at the bar after work until the early hours of morning. It felt distinctly as though he were being shut out. Of what Hank wasn't sure, but the feeling of being an outsider was prevalent in him as of late. It was something he recognised easily, having spent the majority of his life in just that circumstance, but it felt strange coming from his rescuer. He supposed that it was possible that Joe had been distant with him from the beginning and he simply hadn't noticed before, having spent most of his time at Sam's place taking care of Cody, but he didn't think so. The changes in Joe seemed more recent. It was almost as if the more he tried to help and make himself feel useful, the further Joe drew into his strange seclusion.
Still he was sure that when Joe did finally drag his drunken self back home he would appreciate a home cooked meal and so when the bus pulled up to the stop by the market he had made habit of going to, he got off. The place was nothing more than a converted worn down factory in the inner city run by an elderly couple, but while the appearance was nothing to boast about its convenience was unmatched. Even in the dead of winter it still sold the best produce, and at the cheapest prices, as well as housed both a bakery and butcher stand. He was usual able to get all he needed for meals at the one stop.
The place seemed quiet when he walked in. Only two other customers were there with a third following in close after him. Hank didn't think it would matter much; the vendor seemed to like him and always made it a point to say hello no matter how many others were around and today proved to be no exception. The sprit elderly man stopped his dusting to call out a greeting and approached him with a sincere smile.
"Mr. Chogan!"
"Good afternoon," he replied with a polite smile of his own.
"You've come at a good time," the man informed. "We have a fresh stock of potatoes. How does that sound?"
"Good, I'll take some."
The vendor didn't wait for him to choose his own, but instead bagged the vegetables while Hank took his time perusing the other carts. The task was so mundane it had the effect of numbing his earlier inner turmoil. By the time he was ready to make his way to the cash he was once more able to fake cheerfulness.
"Mr. Chogan, how are you today?" the seller's wife asked with a smile, ringing up his total. "Are you all prepared for the holidays?"
"Not just yet, but I still have a few weeks."
Their small talk was cut short when a ruckus broke out outside. The smashing of windows was heard from down the street followed by the hoots and hollers of the street gang responsible and indignant cries from pedestrians. The elderly seller ran for the door, brandishing a broom as though it would be enough to deter the delinquents. Hank followed along with the seller's wife and two other patrons to see what was going on outside. He reached the door just as a dark car sped by, further calls following as one of the members hung from the back window and shot off a paint ball gun at the store fronts.
The seller's wife quickly crossed herself, tears filling her eyes. "Oh God help us."
Hank placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Now that the holidays are here I suppose people have more times on their hands."
And just like that reality painfully hit back down. Before her death Hannah had been trying to increase funds for after school activities to prevent kids for just this type of fate. Couples like the ones who owned this store worked hard to carve out a living for themselves and teens with too much time on their hands and no where to turn to except street gangs made them fear for their safety. It was a cruel fact of life in the inner city.
As no damage had been done to the grocers, Hank politely thanked the couple and made his way down the sidewalk. He decided to forgo talking the bus and simply walked the few blocks home. The apartment he now shared with Joe had been converted into such from a motel and on top of having been equipped with the basic kitchen, bathroom and living room like the other units, their apartment actually had two rooms as well. Living alone, Joe hadn't used the other room and so, with having given Hank the bed, he had spent a good few months on the couch. Joe had never complained about it, but Hank had always felt guilty so he had put aside money for a few months and purchased a bed from the Salvation Army store a few blocks over.
He remembered the afternoon the two of them had spent trying to maneuver the wooden mass through the doorway. No easy task. It had been worth it, though, because it had been kind of emasculating depending so fully on another after attempting his entire life never to need anyone for anything. He realized now that, that wasn't entirely possible. He needed others, but in the same sense he was needed too. Still he was at least able to put himself at ease from feeling like a house guest.
As he approached the desolate court he noticed Joe making his way down the street in his direction, head tilted down against the wind. Since the time they had first met Joe hadn't changed at all – physically at least. He was the same tall figure with a naturally tanned complexion, now rosy from exposure to the cold. He stubbornly refused to cut his hair and it now hung outgrown, curling around his collar; a deep charcoal with highlighted streaks of crimson.
"Joe," Hank called in greeting when they were only a few steps from each other. Once he noted that he had caught the other's attention he continued, "I got some groceries. What would you like for supper?"
As had lately been the case, a dark aura seemed to settle over Joe. His face shuttered and muscles tensed, he pulled the cigarette from his between his lips to reply in a clipped tone, "I'm going out tonight; I don't know when I'll be back."
"Oh," Hank replied shifting the weight of the grocery bags. "I understand."
Without another word they both continued on in separate directions.
Oh Hannah…how did this happen? We were happy once weren't we?
Across the street a dark figure hunched against the backdrop of an alley, stalking out its prey through a cloak of darkness. Tedious hours were spent on the watch, not deterred in the slightest by the long driving rains or the increasingly frigid winds. While only a small fraction of the time may have been spent with the target actually in site, it mattered little as not one minute of observation could be sacrificed. It was imperative that every detail be mapped out, every aspect of character be made known, with reactions carefully analysed. Success depended on having no surprises. Retribution had been escaped once already and that could not be allowed to happen a second time.
The door to the apartment across the way opened engulfing the blemish on society. The sinner tried to hide who he was, locking away the memories of what he'd done, but no longer. No, he would be made to remember…made to relive…made to suffer! There would be no end till Hank Chogan was cut down!
