It was an awful yet inevitable sight to see Frank Castle in an ICU bed intubated and hooked up to monitors and tubes. The periodical bleep of machines blended into the muted background noises of the ward. The muffled voices of staff and subdued visitors ebbed and flowed through the department as the day pressed on.
They had a degree of anonymity at least, thanks to the contrived story of Pete Castiglione suffering his injuries at the hands of a gang still at large. No police guard at the door or hand cuffs this time, thankfully. Not that Frank would be moving anywhere in a hurry. The beating he took while facing The Pilgrim had taken its toll. His injuries were extensive including numerous fractured ribs on either side with what doctors called a large flail segment on his left, whatever that actually meant. He also suffered significant bruising to his lungs and a small rupture in his diaphragm as well as bruising to his right kidney. Then there were the fractures. His left shoulder blade had a long crack which apparently would heal without surgery whereas his hand and right cheek bone needed plates. Most significant was the fracture at the back right of his skull directly over a slow, contained bleed that had been silently putting pressure on his brain. Frank was alive though, which was a start. The doctors even said he had a decent chance of making a good recovery given sufficient time and rest. Despite this an oppressive low mood had settled on Amy.
The sense of guilt that she was responsible for his current condition was unshakeable. So was an awful sense of futility that even if she saw him through this he would likely continue on his self-destructive path of violence and vigilantism until he wound up as a John Doe in a morgue somewhere. It was a thought at such odds with what should have been a sense of relief now that there was no longer someone willing to pay a price for their heads. It was a thought that felt even more gut-wrenching in the solemn quiet of the ICU ward.
Sitting there, seeing Frank so still and peaceful Amy could almost imagine a future for Frank that didn't involve him continuing to be The Punisher. She decided that seeing his features without their shroud of grief was what drove that thought home, even with the bruising. She shrugged and looked away trying to shake the feeling that she was intruding on his privacy to see his face so peaceful. It was as though she could see something deeply personal. Something that Frank denied to himself – the man hidden underneath the grief. A man who would stand up for what he believed in but without the seething anger or sense of injustice. A man who could have loved and laughed freely. It was enough to make her cry.
"It is difficult to see the ones we love so vulnerable" said the ICU nurse as she looked over Franks vitals. Amy tried to avoid speaking with them much. She didn't know how long Frank was going to be here and it was easier to keep up a façade by limiting the number of lies. "He is improving a little every day" the nurse continued, she was looking directly at Amy now "…and the doctors have said we will try to see if we can bring him round again today." Amy sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve and looked away from the nurse. "Well we know that went down well the other day don't we" she retorted sarcastically and immediately felt sorry for lashing out. It wasn't the nurse's fault. They were oblivious to Franks history.
"I know that was difficult for you but it should be easier today. We will have a few more hands on deck. Besides he is stronger than he was two days ago. We have been weening the ventilator support down and if all goes well, we should be able to extubate your dad tomorrow". Amy felt a little thrill of hope that Frank might at least be out of the ICU soon but it warred with anxiety of the task ahead as the events two days earlier played out in her mind…
