Author's Note: Hello! Once again, please inform me of any errors you observe and also, drop me a line and let me know what you think!
I'm so sorry for the demon I've become,
You should be sorry for the angel you are not.
I apologize for the cruel things that I did,
But I don't regret one single word I said.
He felt spooked after that night, after the feel of someone watching him. But it couldn't be Karen; it was too dark for her to have seen him. He spent the next night avoiding that area; he tried to go walking, but all of his paths eventually led in that direction. He felt so frustrated with himself that he decided to go to the construction site and keep demolishing walls. He swung the hammer over and over, his screams reverberating off of the vacant structure, but somehow containing them. Without the walls, it looked almost like a cell, he thought as he was standing, doubled over with his bleeding hands on his knees. The blood on the hammer was wet and glistened in the moonlight. He turned and looked out at the sky and considered the color of the moon, thought of how Karen's eyes looked with the computer light reflecting in them. He picked the hammer back up and kept swinging.
Bang. Maria.
Bang. Frank Jr.
Bang. Lisa.
His screams became louder, harsher; his throat ached and his hands were so slippery. Was it the blood or his sweat? Was his face really that sweaty, or were those tears he felt dripping from his beard onto his chest. He kept swinging and another wall had come down. He turned and stalked toward the adjacent wall and pulled the hammer back to swing it, but it slipped from his fingers and he reeled, stumbling with the sudden weight shift. His knee hit the floor, he put his hands out to catch himself and he flinched at the sharp agony of his ripped and bleeding hands landing on the glass and stone fragments that covered the floor. His inclination was to stand up and get back to it, but he just sat there staring at his hands.
They were covered in blood. Wet, sticky blood and he was reminded of having another's blood on them. He leaned back on his knees and looked at his palms, flipping them over to observe the backs of his hands as well. His breathing was heavy and his heartbeat was pumping so hard and fast, he imagined it was him, inside, pounding that hammer, trying to escape the prison. Trying to break free from this cage he had made for himself so long ago when he lost everything. The blood from his hands dripped onto his shirt and pants and he just let it. It was a familiar feeling, blood dripping from his hands. He remembered beating men so badly that he felt the bones in their faces move, give way, and the tissue became malleable. He remembered torturing them to discover others in their organizations; he often used his bare hands, but the use of tools didn't exactly keep one's hands clean.
He remembered when he was in Karen's apartment after he was let out by Kingpin; when he heard that gun cock and tackled her, his hands were on her head to keep it down, keep her safe. Her hair was so soft; he could feel it when it became entwined in his hand. He remembered the blood on his hands after he put down those pricks that came for them at the diner; he couldn't look her in the eyes with that blood on his hands. Just stay away from me, he'd said. And that was for the goddamned best. The blood on his hands would always be there. He's not a good man; she said that once in her article: "Frank Castle is a good man." Bullshit.
Remembering the horrible things he had done while overseas, maybe he never was a good man. Maybe he'd been wearing a mask when he was here; the real him, hiding behind smiles and cheer when he was with his family. He joined the military because he wanted to fight, to hurt people. He learned discipline and eventually that desire disappeared. Or maybe it didn't.
Frank.
He finally stood up and his knee ached from where he'd landed. He took a few seconds to steady himself and then he started the trip back to his apartment. The night was calmer now, he thought; fewer voices, fewer horns honking. His knee gave him hell during the walk but he didn't flinch. It took time to get back but when he walked inside, he caught the reflection of himself in the mirror above the sink. He had blood splattered on his face, neck, and shirt; it must have happened when the hammer flew from his hands.
His hands… he looked down and, in the light, the image was far more striking. In the moonlight, he could ignore the torn skin pieces and the places where the blood oozed from blisters, but not here in the light. Turning the water on stung and the soap burned every bit of his skin; he wetted his face and neck to wash the blood off and wrapped some gauze over the open wounds on his palms. The next day was a workday, but he could wear some gloves this time.
The following days and nights were much the same. His feet tried to lead him but he fought it; turning suddenly and walking briskly in another direction, any other direction.
Just stay away from me.
I'm done, Frank!
I am dead.
Before he realized where he was, he looked up to see headstones and high, wrought iron fencing. His hands were shaking, but not from the cold. He had the strongest desire to leave, to walk back to Karen's and sit on the roof and watch her; hell, he'd even walk to her door and bang until she let him in. But he didn't do that; he wouldn't. He walked to the gate and looked around; he wondered if kids were in there, vandalizing or hooking up and he got angry. He shouted in his gruff, growling voice "If any damn kids are here fucking with these graves, they had better run the fuck off now!" At first, there was no sound but within a few seconds, he heard voices and loud footsteps running off, throwing back curses aimed at him.
He glared after them and imagined running after them, telling them who he was and promising he'd find them if they came back…but he stayed put and waited. The sounds disappeared quickly and he picked his foot up to begin walking inside, but stopped. He closed his eyes and breathed; then his feet started moving. He'd visited his family before but it had been a while. He didn't really feel that they were here, anyway. Maybe their headstones were here, stating their names and years of life but they weren't here. They were gone.
His feet carried him along the path for what felt like forever before he saw the spot to turn right and make his way deeper into the rows. He hadn't been there more than half a dozen times since he woke up from his coma, but he knew where to go. He knew. The stones were there: two small stones and one larger one that was shaped like the Virgin Mary, he thought, with her hands outstretched toward the two smaller stones and her head turned down in sorrow. He imagined that she was truly crying for the loss of his family while she stood over their stones. He imagined that she was also crying for him; not for his loss but for who he'd become.
Frank.
He shut his eyes and focused on breathing, on the sounds around him, on anything real and ignored that voice. He shook his head and looked again at the stones in front of him: Lisa Castle, beloved daughter; Frank Castle Jr., beloved son; Maria Castle, beloved wife and mother. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists and his breathing picked up with the tide of his anger and pain.
It's okay, Frank.
"Stop," he said, softly, feeling the anger subside. But not the pain. He felt the prickle of tears in his eyes, that sensation of fullness and his vision became blurry as the tears came on. Since he'd finished his business, it seemed like all he did was cry, cry, cry. Even before that, when he was with Karen; he cried in the hospital, he cried in the prison; he cried in the damn diner. Sure, his tears didn't always fall but he felt them burn his eyes as he held them in.
You deserve more than this.
"Stop," he said again, then followed with "please." The word itself was arbitrary because he knew that the voice did not belong to Maria. He could hardly beg her to stop doing something she would never do. She would want him to be faithful. He still saw himself as a married man and the idea of seeking out another woman filled him with so many strange emotions, he chose not to think of it. Truly, he had not considered it much; when he woke from the coma, all he had was his vengeance. He'd seen beautiful women all over the place but it was like looking at a plain wall – they elicited no feeling in him.
But something had begun to bloom inside him while he laid in his bed at the hospital, listening to Karen Page tell him what his goddamn house looked like. He knew that she didn't judge him when he couldn't remember what state the place had been in. She recalled the images for him, describing the state of his life before it ended with them. His family.
When she came to him in the hospital and even in the prison, she was not afraid of him. She stared him right in the face and smacked him down when he gave her shit; she didn't let him get away with his wallowing. She reached into his busted chest and pumped just enough life and hope in there that he could keep going. If it hadn't been for her insistence, her perseverance, he couldn't honestly say that he would have ever found out about Schoonover.
He put the pieces together after that night on the boat, but she was right when she decided that looking that shit over with her would help. She was so smart; she saw things he didn't. She believed in him and he told her Just stay away from me.
It's okay.
When he opened his eyes again, he realized that he was kneeling down on the grass and his eyes ached from all of the tears. He ached from the sobs that had rocketed through his whole body. He coughed and choked back the rest of the tears, wiping at his face and stumbling away. He trekked back to his apartment and caught sight of himself in the mirror again, but this time it wasn't blood he saw. His eyes were puffy and red but he looked away quickly and walked to his bed. He threw his clothes off and lay down, falling into a heavy sleep.
That night, he dreamt of Maria. She was kissing him awake, talking to him, sweetly, about how tired he must have been to sleep for so long. She smelled wonderful and he could tell that she had been cooking. She was so beautiful; her smile was infectious. She got up and began to leave the room. Then, a masked man entered and shot her. He felt the blood and brain matter hit his skin and he screamed. He jerked up in bed and looked around; it felt so real.
He left the apartment and went to the construction site; he was screaming as he swung the hammer, over and over, bringing the walls down around him. He was there for less than an hour when that ugly red Charger squealed into the parking lot. His breathing was heavy as he watched the scene unfold.
He gripped the hammer tighter and began walking down the stairs.
