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When Karen finally regained a rational sense of thought, when the buzzing in her head and the white film of disillusionment in her eyes were not as prevalent, two days had passed. She had been lying on her beaten-up sofa with her fingers folded over her stomach, no stimulation except for the passing sirens and context-less blips of chatter from the occasional pedestrian. She had left herself completely alone with only her racing thoughts, her open windows, and a pulsing red rage that dripped through to her fingertips.
It was mostly flashing now, mostly images on repeat playing over and over and over, until this moment, when Karen had realized she'd lost track of time. She opened her eyes. Her living room was cast in early evening colors, some parts painted a dusky blue, others in the florescent street light, others in black shadow. Karen blinked a few times, each time seeing pictures of her dead father, her burning house, Frank, hearing his screams. She felt a deep lurching in her gut when she thought of Frank and the sounds he made, felt them echoing within her, almost as if she was screaming with him now. With the same thought she felt him on her skin again, the muscles in his abdomen pressed against hers and his hot breath brushing against her lips and neck. She stretched her chest, letting one chuckle slip. Karen traced her fingers up her arms, feeling again the way he touched her. In other life, she thought as she chuckled once more.
She began to move the rest of her body, stretching her legs and torso and wringing her arms out. Karen pushed herself up into a sitting position with her feet pressed primly against the dry, dusty wood. The answering machine was blinking on the coffee table by the door. Karen recalled the messages without giving them much other thought.
From Foggy, “Karen, where are you?! Are you okay? Jesus, what the hell happened to you? The police are asking a lot of questions, Brett’s been around asking about everything that happened in the hospital. I don’t know what to tell him. I didn’t mention you were there, just… Ugh, Jesus, Karen. Please pick up. Or, or… just call me back, so I know you’re not hurt, or… or… Ugh, please.”
From Ellison, “Page… checking in… Hoping… hoping everything is going… going alright. Richard is covering a piece about a Metro General shooting… tell me you weren’t there. Call me back.”
From the Fagan Corners Sheriff’s Department, “Uh, good afternoon, this message is for Karen. Karen, this is Sheriff Brown, from back home? Karen… dear, I’m sorry to inform you, but there was an accident on your parent’s property. Fire. The uh… the basement level and first floor were completely destroyed. The house started caving in. We… we believe your parents were both inside. I’m very sorry, Karen. I… I’m just calling to let you to let you know, for arrangements and such. Please call if you need anything.”
Karen couldn’t help but smirk at the memory of the last one. Dear ole’ Sheriff Brown and Fagan Corners, never asking questions. At least this time it helped her. She stood up finally, feeling a stiff wooden ache from lack of movement in her back. Forcing her shoulders back stiffly, she cracked it loudly. She paced slowly over to the dinette table where she’d thrown her travel bag and purse, both of which had straws of hay all over them still. Digging into her bag, she grabbed her cell phone, which had ever more missed calls, voicemails, and text messages from people asking where she was. She ignored them again, putting the phone down after noting the time; 6:52 in the evening, just about sundown.
A strong breeze blew into her apartment from the window ajar in the living room. It swept through, kissing Karen lightly on the neck, and from the other side of the room, she heard a long arduous creaking sound. Karen whipped her head around to see that the wind has forced the door to her bedroom more open than it had been. Jesus, Karen thought. She hadn't taken a step in there since she'd been home, or even before that, since she'd... since that bastard...
Her thoughts were interrupted by her home phone ringing loudly once again. Karen let it go as she intently stared at her bedroom door. Her answering machine picked up, "Hi, this is Karen..." began a voice she barely recognized as her own. "Please leave me a message and I'll call you back!". After the beep, a deep, whispering voice began.
"Karen," Matt spoke softly into the receiver. "Karen, it's me."
"What do you want..." Karen whispered to herself mindlessly.
"I haven't heard from you, or... or Frank...", he continued. Karen snorted air heatedly out of her nose.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"No," she responded, eyes transfixed on the door. It swayed open, back and forth and the breeze picked up.
"There's... there's been no trace of Bullseye... or Fisk." Karen grunted, working herself up with the memory of her home being broken into by Fisk's scumbag ball boy.
"I don't know what you're doing," he asked. "...I... I don't know what you want to do.”
Karen closed her eyes, allowing even more blips to flash by. She saw her father, her mother, Frank, Bullseye. She felt the shot in her shoulder once again, rolling them as her full back echoed with the memory. She felt Bullseye's tongue in her ear, heard his voice taunting her. The events at home had made her completely forget why she ran in the first place. She began to step towards her bedroom. Fisk wanted her dead, huh? She inched closer. He wants me dead, she thought. Karen swung open her bedroom door as Matt continued on her answering machine, but she began to tune him out. The room was exactly as she remembered it. Her clothes were still all over the floor, her mattress still flipped up over her window. She walked towards it, strongly gripping at one end and throwing it on the ground. She saw the shattered window it was hiding, the way Bullseye had entered her apartment in the first place. Karen gritted her teeth and the shards jingled beneath her as Matt's message went on.
"Ugh... Karen, where are you?" he asked frustrated. Karen turned towards the back wall of her room, where Bullseye had crudely drawn his namesake in black. Her whole body swung to face it, her fists clenching tightly.
“Please call me,” he pled finally. “I need to know what to do. I need to know what you want to do.” The line clicked.
Karen gaped at the painted target. If she could do it to her own father…
The thought seemingly came out of nowhere, and Karen flinched away from the bulls eye after it crossed her mind. Then, warmly, splendidly, it came back and spread through her again. If she could do it to her own father, couldn’t she try for the two in men in Hell’s Kitchen who wanted her head the most?
“What am I gonna do,” she answered aloud. “What am I gonna do.” She smiled as the right idea flooded into her.
Karen ran for the shower, washing herself quickly as the mantra revolved around inside her head. If I could do it, if I could do it, she thought. Slowly it transformed to, I can do it, I can do it. She rinsed everything, bolting out of the bathroom and into the bedroom to dress. She picked clothes off the ground, no time to plan, she thought. No time to plan. How can I do this, she thought. I need things, I need supplies, I need….
Karen froze for but a moment in tingling relief. She had places to go tonight, and she knew where would be first. She continued to dress, bounding out of her room and towards her purse. She picked it up off the table, swinging it around, examining it. Too small, she thought. Too small for what she needed. She ran to the front coat closet, digging through the top shelf for something bigger, satisfied only when she pulled a large empty tote bag out. She threw her keys in the bag and began humming as she flung the front door open and raced out into the oncoming night.
* * *
She was surprised to see another person exiting Frank’s building, as she’d never heard even whispers of anyone else there before, but no matter now, she thought. They held the door open for her and she quickly ascended the stairs. The hallway lights flickered as she approached. She had been mulling the ideas over in her head. How can I pull this off, she thought, what do I say? She closed her eyes to blink, and in the flash of darkness she again heard Frank’s cries and then the sweet whispers of her name. She halted quickly as they almost made her feel guilt. No, Karen, she thought, no more of that. Her eyes opened and she pressed onward. She waited in front of the door, listening with her ear up to the peephole, though she couldn’t hear anything. Who knew where Frank had been these two days. Still, set in her plan now, she knocked.
“Frank?” she called softly. There was nothing. She knocked three more times.
“Frank… are you there?”
* * *
Frank sat, elbows to knees, firm fists over his mouth, on the edge of his mattress. There were torn bits of newspaper scuttled all over the floor, broken dishes littered everywhere. He wasn’t ready to hear her voice again. Yet, here she was back at his apartment and it cut through him like hot iron. He wasn’t ready to see her, but he stood up mechanically like he had no control. She knocked and called for him, and he paced forward. His breath was heavy, his body tingled for him not to continue, but he couldn’t help himself but to go to her. His nostril’s flared and his hand shook as he reached for the doorknob and yanked the door open.
* * *
The wild, unbridled eyes of Frank Castle could never not be a sight Karen longed to behold. He looked at her furiously, and for a moment as she looked up at him, she thought about dropping the plan, about forgetting what she came to do. Would it hurt him even more? No, Karen, said the dark voice in her head. It’s time.
“What do you want,” Frank said, deep and quickly.
Karen fluttered her eyes, looking down to avoid eye contact. She needed to be believable.
She stuttered, “A, uh… a cup of coffee would be nice?”
Frank reached his hand out and grabbed the sleeve of Karen’s sweatshirt, tugging her aggressively inside.
* * *
As he slammed the door behind her, he searched for her feverishly, studying her the nape of her porcelain neck. Is this her, he asked himself. This really her? This… this my Karen? She looked too muddled in the darkness of his apartment.
“Came all this way and that’s all you gotta say?” he choked out.
* * *
Karen gulped, keeping her composure.
“I… I just wanted to talk…” she cooed. “I wanted to… to apologize… please, can we just have some coffee? Talk through this?”
“Talk through what,” he yelled angrily, though he motioned towards the coffee pot in his kitchen. “Apologize for what? Not like you shot me in the head. Set my fucking house on fire.”
“That’s right,” Karen said, more sternly. “And quiet frankly I don’t see why I’d need to apologize in the first place…”
“Then why’d you come?!” he yelled harshly, banging the coffee pot around.
“Same reason you’re still making the coffee,” Karen yelled back knowingly. Frank’s posture loosened, and he shook his neck back and forth, cracking it. He nodded, his back still turned away from her. They sat in a moment of silence as he coffee dripped down, and Frank finally poured her a cup, black, and handed it to her.
“Look, Frank…” Karen began again. “I…. I know I upset you… and I know…” Karen felt some raw emotion, trying successfully to keep it down deep. “I understand your concern. Believe me, Frank, I do…”
“You think it was fun, huh?” he interrupted, his lip quivering wildly. “You think it felt good? Killin’ all those people? Pickin’ ‘em off like that?” He swallowed hard. His eyes were boring into her as he paced closer and closer to her.
“You think it was easy for me?” he continued, his voice deeper. “Bein’… bein’ with you like that, and then watchin’ you… watchin’ you do that? Fall apart like that? Like me?”
Karen paced closer to him as well. There was a part of her that would feel undeniably, terribly disgusted with herself for what she was about to do, as there was a part of her that deeply cared for him, and would’ve been wooed off of her feet at the sight of Frank with this much tenderness in his voice for her. That part was out-weighed by determined purpose now.
“It’s a dark, twisted fucking hole you fall into, Karen,” Frank continued. “I… you can’t go down like that, Karen. You gotta promise me, okay?” They were only a foot away from each other. Karen was steadily preparing.
“I know Frank… I… I’m sorry…” she was inches away, the coffee sweltering in her hands. She took a last step forward before she languidly let it slip, and the cup came crashing down backwards onto the abdomen of her sweatshirt. It burnt, definitely, but it was for the best.
“Shit,” Frank hissed, stepping forwards to take the cup from her hands.
“I’m… I…” Karen began. The white film in her eye cam back; she could no longer commit to extraneous details like talking. She was close now.
Frank unzipped the sweatshirt, pulling it off her and taking the now empty cup from her hands. Karen saw it has stained her undershirt too. He tossed the cup on the counter and headed into the bathroom. Karen waited for the affirmative before continuing. Her blood was rushing; she could get used to this feeling. Then she heard it, the sharp sound of water spouting in the bathroom sink; Frank was cleaning her sweatshirt, just as she’d hoped. As the water fell loudly, she made her move. Karen glided quietly first over towards Frank’s gun corner, grabbing a sawed-off shotgun. As she ducked down, she noticed the newspaper, in pieces. The little blurbs on the scarps yelled up to her, “Look in the mirror, and…” She stuffed the gun quickly into her large purse, the edges of it fitting perfectly inside. Karen then ran quickly over to the table, where Frank’s jacket lied rested over the lone chair. She’d memorized the positions he’d kept four handguns; she’d seen them so many times now, every time he tried to pull one out from a different position. She’d even seen them all at once, in the barn. He’d thrown off his jacket with its belly up, exposing them all. She snuck the four of them out seamlessly, burying them all in her purse. When she finished, Frank was still in the bathroom cleaning the sweatshirt and muttering to himself. Karen closed her eyes, backing away. She was sorry, but the visions in her head helped her be less so.
“I’m sorry, Frank,” she called, no emotion on her face. “I don’t know if I could do this right now… I… I think I should go.” She had the door already opened as she said that, turning and rushing outside before she heard his reply. She didn’t know if he ever came after her, as her head began to buzz mercilessly again and she ran down the stairs and out into the night again. Karen had to bring these guns home, before her last stop.
* * *
Fisk was enjoying a night as he usually would. He held a glass of wine on his cot as he read, listening to the screaming of his fellow prisoners over his radio. He had never forgotten his mission, to kill Karen Page, make her blood rain down from the highest point in this city, but with Lester on the mend, he had been forced to keep that on the back burner, though his frequent fond memories of Wesley never let him forget his anguish. He sipped peacefully, before he was interrupted by Office Schmidt.
“Mr. Fisk,” Schmidt called nervously. Fisk looked up from his book and the man.
“Can I help you, Officer? Fisk asked with a cold smile.
“You… you have a visitor…” Schmidt replied.
Fisk giggled and returned to his reading. “Visiting hours end at five P.M., Mr. Schimdt. Perhaps you’ve been a little stressed lately, you’ve been forgetting the ins and outs of this prison quite frequently lately.”
“Mr. Fisk…” said Schmidt. “Mr. Fisk, she says this is important. Her name is Vanessa. I know I’ve heard you say…”
Before Schmidt could finish, Fisk was up and in a bum rush towards the visiting room.
“Vanessa?” he asked Schimdt hurriedly. “Are you sure?”
“That’s what she said, sir, like I said…”
Fisk cut him off once more. “I told her stay hidden!” he began to yell, at Schmidt, though he gave no clear answers. “I told her it wasn’t safe for her here! Why would she come?” Schimdt was running to keep up with Fisk as he charged through the hallways. Fisk grabbed the door handle to the visiting telephone cubicles.
“It’s… it’s the last one down there!” Schmidt yelled, panting from the running. Fisk slammed the door on him, racing to the cubicle. He turned quickly to look down at the lovely silhouette of his beloved Vanessa; he hadn’t seen her in so long, only in dreams. Yet, what waited for him across was anything but that. The feeling of nervous warmth growing in his stomach quickly dissipated and was replaced a heavy hatred. Fisk approached his seat, pulling it out and very, very slowly, controlled, inched himself downwards to sit. He grimaced, fighting every sensation he had to claw through the glass and strangle the blonde woman holding the receiver on the other side. He calculatedly grabbed his own phone, putting it up to his ear.
“In another lifetime,” he began, his voice tense and hoarse. “I would perhaps commend you, for your audacity, Miss Page. I usually admire that trait in people. But given the circumstances,” he began to yell. “You better thank every metaphorical god there is… that this barricade is between us.”
Karen smiled back at him, tangling the phone cord between her fingers.
“Funny,” she answered. “You never struck me as the type to get your hands dirty. Seems like you always had people for that.” Her pursed smile became wider, knowing what she was implying. Fisk threw himself out of his chair, breathing as a bull would, ready to charge straight through her.
“You disgusting, murderous BITCH!” he screamed at her.
“Do you know,” she continued, “That there’s a part of me that wishes I could tell you that I wasn’t afraid of Wesley, or you, or what you would do with me, whether or not he was really going to shoot me…” Karen looked down on the small desk in front of her with a forced nervousness. “And then… there’s a part of me, that wishes I could tell you that you Wesley begged for his life, that he was afraid too, that he didn’t want to die…” Karen’s eyes shot straight back up at Fisk, twisted her face into a devious smile again. “But I never gave him the chance.”
Fisk dropped his phone and he began to ferociously banging against the glass with his fists. The panel, every other panel, along with the walls that connected them began to tremble from the force he exerted in front of Karen.
“I WILL RIP THE SKIN OFF OF YOUR FACE FOR WHAT YOU’VE DONE!” he cried. “THE DEVIL HIMSELF WILL COWER IN FEAR, AT THE MUTILATED SIGHT OF YOUR BODY WHEN I AM DONE WITH YOU! YOU WILL PAY TENFOLD! I WILL KILL YOU IF IT IS THAT LAST THING ON THIS EARTH I EVER SEE TO.”
Karen in return dropped her receiver, the same twisted grin on her face. When Fisk had stopped screaming, she began to shout back.
“I came here to give you a message Fisk,” she started. “That every one of your cretin’s you’ve sent after me has been a completely and total failure! You wanna kill me so bad? I’m just one woman, and you can’t finish me off. You know where I live. You’ve got everything in front of you. If you want me, you damn well where to find me now.”
Karen leaned into the glass, looking Fisk right in his bulging eyes, hungry for her blood. She yelled one last thing to him.
“You wanna come get me? Come and get me now, mother fucker.”
She headed back down the hallway as the sounds of Fisk’s engraged bashing of the glass echoed in both rooms.
* * *
Frank sat on his only chair, fuming a he held Karen’s wet sweatshirt in his hands, up to his face. He had known better, he kept repeating. He knew better than this…
He stood up angrily and knocked the chair down forcefully as he did. It landed lightly on the wooden floor behind him. Frank immediately dropped Karen’s sweatshirt from his hands, knowing something was wrong.
“No…” he said out loud. He bent down, scrambling through all of his pockets.
“No, no, no!” he yelled until he was dead sure he couldn’t find any of his guns. He looked up at his arsenal, and although he had so many, it was obvious to him what was missing.
“Goddamit, KAREN!” he screamed. He kicked in the chair, his set now ruined. He heaved his chest, somewhere between a boarish pant and a wheezing cry, desperately grabbing at guns to reload his holsters with.
“Karen, Karen,” he cried, until he eventually cried indeed. He knew it had already begun. Fully loaded, he flung open his window and hurried out into the night.
* * *
Matt could hear him from the moment he entered the building; his heart sounded like a Fourth of July fireshow bee lining up the stairs to see him. He smelt the sweat the pooled off Frank’s body, all over him, in his palms. He opened the door before Frank even got a change to pound on it.
“She’s gone…” he said. He was sobbing. Matt never imagined he’d see Frank Castle like this, a mess, now so overcome with emotion that he was falling into his front hallway.
“Frank, Frank,” Matt cooed as he tried to push Frank upright. “Frank, what happened?”
“She’s gone, Red, she…”
Matt couldn’t understand anything. “Who, Frank?!” he asked, his voice more commanding. “Is it Karen? Did something happen to Karen?!”
Frank planted himself along the hallway wall, burying his face into his armed hands. Without further question, knowing that everything in Frank’s body screamed danger, Matt ran to get his suit, dressing in the middle of the living room. Frank cries echoed everywhere.
“It… this is my fault, Red,” Frank cried. “ I told you! What did I tell you? She shoulda’ never been with me, Red. I… I ruined her… I didn’t want to…”
Matt, suited up save for the mask in his hand, ran back over to Frank. With all his might, he pulled Frank up from his crouched position and planted a hard right hook into Frank’s face.
“Snap out of it, Frank!” Matt yelled, now shaking with worry. “What happened to Karen!?”
The blow had calmed Frank’s cries, but still he skirted away from the answer.
“I shoulda’ known better, Red…” he panted. “I shoulda’ just stayed away. She woulda’ she woulda’ never…” Frank stopped talking as Matt let go of him, knowing he wasn’t getting anything out of Frank.
He paced over to his window, focusing as hard as he could on a trace of Karen in Hell’s Kitchen. He concentrated, listening, smelling, anything he could find, until it hit him. The sound of Karen’s voice, he could hear her. She was humming. He focused harder. She was outside, high up. From the direction, he could tell she was at her apartment building. Next, he heard the distinct cock of a gun next to her.
“Frank,” Matt yelled back, forcing his window open. “Frank come one, I know where she is. Let’s go!” Frank didn’t budge. Matt ran back to him, pushing him towards the window.
“She needs us!” Matt yelled to Frank. Swallowing his pride, “she needs you Frank! We have to move!” This seemed to work, as he could hear Frank’s heartbeat slow slightly, hear the congestion in his lungs begin to dissipate.
“Where is she now?” Frank asked, more clearly.
* * *
Fisk marched through the hallways of the prison, pushing everyone in his way to the side as he charged towards the end cell.
“LESTER!” he screamed. He walked right into Bullseye’s cell, where he was lounged out reading a Playboy, an icepack still on his healing face.
“What’s the emergency?” Bullseye asked. He picked up the magazine. “I’m a little busy.”
“Get up, NOW!” Fisk yelled. He charged right up to Bullseye and picked him up by the collar, throwing him out of the cell.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Bullseye yelled.
“IT’S TIME!” Fisked yelled. “YOU WANT YOUR MONEY, YOU WANT YOUR PRIZE, YOU GO OUT AND GET THEM RIGHT NOW. YOU!” Fisk yelled, pointing to two armed guards holding assault rifles at the end of the hallway.
“GIVE HIM YOUR GUNS NOW!” The two officers hesitated.
“NOW!” Fisk repeated, now heading straight for them. The guards dropped their guns into Fisk’s hands as they backed away, and Fisk turned them over to Bullseye.
“You don’t stop until her body in unrecognizable as a human being, do you hear me?” he panted. “Her, and anyone else who gets in your way. ANYBODY. EVERYBODY.” Fisked bolted down the hallway, ordering the guards to open the back doors and let Bullseye out. Bullseye held one assault rifle in each hand, ogling them and he cackles in the hallway.
“Come to papa!” he yelled as he followed Fisk outside.