-1Five Months Later
Frank didn't know how or why he survived. All he remembers were the flames consuming his body with torturous lethargy before he passed out. The next thing he knew, he was under the care of the same homeless man that he saved back in the docks.
He wished he was dead. He had nothing to live for now. After all, in Frank's shattered remains of a mind, he believed he deserved to die for breaking the promise he made to his family.
Frank Jr. would never get the opportunity to become a high school student. Frank Jr. was deprived of a chance to enjoy the tumultuous high school times. Lisa Castle would never kiss boys, she would never go to middle school sleepovers. More importantly, both of them would never find the happy ending to their lives.
Worst of all, Frank had to live with the fact that Maria Castle, née Castiglione, his guardian of sanity, his beautiful and patient redeemer, ceased to exist in the real world. Frank would never again touch her beautiful face, caress her warm lips.
Frank's recovery from his "death" painfully finished off itself. With his possessions all razed to the ground with the Castle family home, Frank barricaded himself in a motel room, drinking himself to oblivion with hard liquor. Each night, Frank watched the news, hoping to see the murderers find themselves isolated in the bitter, hopeless, and painful surroundings of prison bars.
It never happened.
None of the men responsible for their crimes ever spent a second in prison. In fact, the media seemed to ignore the Castle family massacre. There were more important things going on; terrorism, soaring gas prices, the odds of the Paragon Lions winning the World Series, these were more important than the deaths of three innocent people.
Frank was a ghost. He was condemned to spend his "afterlife" in an earth that didn't even acknowledge his weakening presence, his overwhelming rage, his demonic pain, his iniquitous suffering.
A commercial sponsored by Fisk Industries suddenly spat out company nonsense while Frank fought his demons. The vociferously bright colors and flawlessly cheesy music displayed an inadvertent but stinging slap of mockery to Frank's internal torment. In severe infuriation, Frank smashed his lone bottle of whiskey against his motel door, the colorless contents speeding down the door, racing against the tear streaks down Frank's face.
Something had to be done.
With a temporary purpose in his life, Frank walked inconspicuously into a weapons store, a small bit of crisp, dead presidents in his pockets. The gruff-looking owner of the store quickly eyed Castle with suspicion but eventually let the situation go.
Frank took what he could afford; a Kevlar vest, the same Glock handgun he used in the DEA, two Beretta handguns, and ammunition for all three guns. Together, this arsenal could pack a punch in a controlled situation. Frank wasn't diving into the kiddie pool though, he was jumping down Niagara Falls.
Through some undercover "research," Frank noticed that two of his targets frequented the rambunctious, blinding, and crazed night club known as 74. It was time to start the suicide by running in like Rambo and sending all the goonies in there to give Satan fellatio.
Suiting up the Kevlar vest, Frank prepped all of his tools of massacre and attached them to the vest. There was no need for concealment, stealth was not a luxury that Frank could use for his mission.
He was now ready.