I couldn't sleep on the plane, so this came out.
Kastle Musings
He hadn't slept for more than 2 hours in months, he thought he had slept enough when he was in the coma. The sun setting used to mean bath time, wrangling two kids into their pajamas. Smiling as his baby girl squealed as he tickled her and tucked her in.
One Batch, Two Batch, Penny and Dime Now when the sun set, there were just echoes of their voices and the sounds of shells hitting the ground. It was time to go to work when night fell. Time to shoot his way out of the painful memories.
He had been rotating between the gangs in Hell's Kitchen. They should feel hunted. Not knowing which day was going to be judgement day. He almost smiled at the thought of those pieces of shit squirming in their skin. No guarded warehouse, no grimy bar fortress, no back alley drug house was going to keep him away.
He would find them and knock them down, one by one, and watch them burn. Ever since he killed The Blacksmith and helped Red out, he had been laying low during the day in a crummy apartment complex. He still had to pop out every so often to walk the dog.
He grimaced remembering what the Irish were prepared to do to the pup. He glanced over at the dog who lay peacefully sleeping next to his chair. He almost smiled again. He's always loved dogs. He had promised them a dog when he got back. When he settled in. "Not now, sweetheart, when Daddy isn't so tired. When Daddy gets back in sync with things here. But soon. I promise." Promises he could no longer keep.
He got up and walked over to the dog. He ran his hand down the dog's back, who then looked up with sleepy eyes and admiration, jumping up to lick his face. He patted the dog's head and then brought his attention to the night's plan. "Time to go to work."
Every night was a blur, he became automated. A robot that shot first and never, ever asked questions. He was The Punisher.
The scum of Hell's Kitchen fell at his feet with a bullet in their skull. The Dog's of Hell were 12 men short now. His mouth almost pulled into a smile-but he caught himself. After walking the pup, he settled in to plan his next attack.
He stared at his intel and overlapping map of all of Hell's Kitchen's shittiest. It always grew. "It's never going to end," he thought. His coffee wasn't strong enough. His eyelids began to droop. He struggled to stay awake. Sleep was inevitable at this point-he started to feel nauseous, knowing what dream was prepared to taunt him. All he saw was blood, and their insides. He couldn't cover it all with his hands.
He couldn't reach his whole family. His arms outstretched and all he could touch was death. He could feel his sweat. He could smell his desperation. "Come back to me." Suddenly, there was a figure walking toward him. Past the carousel who's melody haunts him. Her golden hair shone in the sun. She approached, kneeled down, and helped him hold his family.
Her porcelain skin had gotten blood on it, but she wasn't frightened or disgusted. She looked up at his tear-stained face with piercing blue eyes. She was calm. She reached over and held his shaking hand with her steady ones. He felt a calmness rush over him.
He was confused. In an instant, they were all gone. He sat in front of the spinning carousel, blood soaked, and alone. His eyes snapped open. He had been asleep 15 minutes. He was exhausted and stunned. "What was that?" His thoughts buzzed.
He found his feet moving toward the door. Adjusting a baseball cap over his eyes and patting the sleeping dog on the head once more, he walked out the door. He walked for blocks, his feet knowing exactly where to go although his mind almost felt guilty for knowing the way so well. He climbed the fire escape up to the familiar window that he was used to watching from the roof next door. She was sleeping.
The same golden hair in his dream fanned out over the pillow. She tossed and turned. He was sure she was having the same nightmares he was used to having. She jolted up. Her lips pursed and her eyebrows knitted.
Her blue eyes struck with fear, racing across her apartment. Her eyes found his. She jumped and her hand instinctively went to her dresser drawer where her .380 lay in wait. Her eyes adjusted quickly, and her hand stopped. Everything stopped. She tentatively made her way to the window and cranked it open.
"Frank," she breathed.
"Ma'am," he responded.
He slid into her apartment and realized he had no excuse to be there. But she didn't seem to require one, as she made her way back to her bed.
Slipping in between the covers and putting her head back down on the pillow. Eyes staying locked on him the whole time.
He sat in a chair in the corner.
Rigid. Starting to question why he had made the trip. Why he made the trip to stand guard almost every night as the morning began to creep, ever so slowly, on to Hell's Kitchen. "You can call me Karen," she croaked into the heavy silence. "
Ma'am?" He questioned. "
You can call me Karen," she repeated. "
Karen," he tried it out, just to feel it.
It sounded foreign coming from his lips, but not bad, just different.
He got up and went to her. Sitting on the edge of the bed. "
Karen," he tried again. Her eyes smiled.
She yawned and laid back down on her pillow. Began to close her eyes. He moved closer and she didn't move. His hand moved toward her hair, he had no idea what he was doing, he just knew he had to. His body wouldn't listen to his guilt any longer.
His mind raced.
His heart hurt. He stroked strands of her hair and then jerked his hand away. She, again, didn't move. He tentatively laid down next to her. Close enough to breathe her in.
She smelled like sunshine. She smelled like redemption and hope. He didn't even know what those things smelled like, but he knew now that they smelled like Karen Page. "Karen," he whispered.
She slowly turned, resting her head on her hands as her eyes met his in the dark. "
Frank," she smiled. He took her in and again his hand jerked out to find its home on her cheek. The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. "
Karen."
Kastle Musings
He hadn't slept for more than 2 hours in months, he thought he had slept enough when he was in the coma. The sun setting used to mean bath time, wrangling two kids into their pajamas. Smiling as his baby girl squealed as he tickled her and tucked her in.
One Batch, Two Batch, Penny and Dime Now when the sun set, there were just echoes of their voices and the sounds of shells hitting the ground. It was time to go to work when night fell. Time to shoot his way out of the painful memories.
He had been rotating between the gangs in Hell's Kitchen. They should feel hunted. Not knowing which day was going to be judgement day. He almost smiled at the thought of those pieces of shit squirming in their skin. No guarded warehouse, no grimy bar fortress, no back alley drug house was going to keep him away.
He would find them and knock them down, one by one, and watch them burn. Ever since he killed The Blacksmith and helped Red out, he had been laying low during the day in a crummy apartment complex. He still had to pop out every so often to walk the dog.
He grimaced remembering what the Irish were prepared to do to the pup. He glanced over at the dog who lay peacefully sleeping next to his chair. He almost smiled again. He's always loved dogs. He had promised them a dog when he got back. When he settled in. "Not now, sweetheart, when Daddy isn't so tired. When Daddy gets back in sync with things here. But soon. I promise." Promises he could no longer keep.
He got up and walked over to the dog. He ran his hand down the dog's back, who then looked up with sleepy eyes and admiration, jumping up to lick his face. He patted the dog's head and then brought his attention to the night's plan. "Time to go to work."
Every night was a blur, he became automated. A robot that shot first and never, ever asked questions. He was The Punisher.
The scum of Hell's Kitchen fell at his feet with a bullet in their skull. The Dog's of Hell were 12 men short now. His mouth almost pulled into a smile-but he caught himself. After walking the pup, he settled in to plan his next attack.
He stared at his intel and overlapping map of all of Hell's Kitchen's shittiest. It always grew. "It's never going to end," he thought. His coffee wasn't strong enough. His eyelids began to droop. He struggled to stay awake. Sleep was inevitable at this point-he started to feel nauseous, knowing what dream was prepared to taunt him. All he saw was blood, and their insides. He couldn't cover it all with his hands.
He couldn't reach his whole family. His arms outstretched and all he could touch was death. He could feel his sweat. He could smell his desperation. "Come back to me." Suddenly, there was a figure walking toward him. Past the carousel who's melody haunts him. Her golden hair shone in the sun. She approached, kneeled down, and helped him hold his family.
Her porcelain skin had gotten blood on it, but she wasn't frightened or disgusted. She looked up at his tear-stained face with piercing blue eyes. She was calm. She reached over and held his shaking hand with her steady ones. He felt a calmness rush over him.
He was confused. In an instant, they were all gone. He sat in front of the spinning carousel, blood soaked, and alone. His eyes snapped open. He had been asleep 15 minutes. He was exhausted and stunned. "What was that?" His thoughts buzzed.
He found his feet moving toward the door. Adjusting a baseball cap over his eyes and patting the sleeping dog on the head once more, he walked out the door. He walked for blocks, his feet knowing exactly where to go although his mind almost felt guilty for knowing the way so well. He climbed the fire escape up to the familiar window that he was used to watching from the roof next door. She was sleeping.
The same golden hair in his dream fanned out over the pillow. She tossed and turned. He was sure she was having the same nightmares he was used to having. She jolted up. Her lips pursed and her eyebrows knitted.
Her blue eyes struck with fear, racing across her apartment. Her eyes found his. She jumped and her hand instinctively went to her dresser drawer where her .380 lay in wait. Her eyes adjusted quickly, and her hand stopped. Everything stopped. She tentatively made her way to the window and cranked it open.
"Frank," she breathed.
"Ma'am," he responded.
He slid into her apartment and realized he had no excuse to be there. But she didn't seem to require one, as she made her way back to her bed.
Slipping in between the covers and putting her head back down on the pillow. Eyes staying locked on him the whole time.
He sat in a chair in the corner.
Rigid. Starting to question why he had made the trip. Why he made the trip to stand guard almost every night as the morning began to creep, ever so slowly, on to Hell's Kitchen. "You can call me Karen," she croaked into the heavy silence. "
Ma'am?" He questioned. "
You can call me Karen," she repeated. "
Karen," he tried it out, just to feel it.
It sounded foreign coming from his lips, but not bad, just different.
He got up and went to her. Sitting on the edge of the bed. "
Karen," he tried again. Her eyes smiled.
She yawned and laid back down on her pillow. Began to close her eyes. He moved closer and she didn't move. His hand moved toward her hair, he had no idea what he was doing, he just knew he had to. His body wouldn't listen to his guilt any longer.
His mind raced.
His heart hurt. He stroked strands of her hair and then jerked his hand away. She, again, didn't move. He tentatively laid down next to her. Close enough to breathe her in.
She smelled like sunshine. She smelled like redemption and hope. He didn't even know what those things smelled like, but he knew now that they smelled like Karen Page. "Karen," he whispered.
She slowly turned, resting her head on her hands as her eyes met his in the dark. "
Frank," she smiled. He took her in and again his hand jerked out to find its home on her cheek. The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. "
Karen."
