[ Her tone had flattened in fits and spurts while she had been nursing an open wound; the desperate need to make a good impression on her unlikely surgeon had buoyed her back up. Now, she remains precisely, impeccably in control of her voice: quiet, careful. She creeps around the idea of Frank like he's a spider in her shower.
This isn't new to her. Lingering, frantic, restless dead are in every room, every home, every building. It's why she doesn't go to museums or old theatres or bars built before 1980. In her third year of university, she rented a house with some friends. The first floor bathroom's tub had housed a young boy, maybe six or seven, his head caved in and his right eye gouged out. The second floor had contained the boy's abusive father, or uncle, or mom's tweaker boyfriend, whatever — bellowing, mindless, bloated with rage and desperate for a rematch with the child. More than once, she had woken up with him breathing right in her face. One time, the smell of his breath had been so unimaginably foul that she had vomited right in her sheets.
All that time, it had never been about her. Her whole life, she tip-toed through a minefield of the dead due to some fucked up gene disorder, some cosmic joke at her expense. But not because of anything she did. She's never killed, never harmed anything bigger than a millipede.
And then she knocked on Frank Castle's door after the previous two doors she knocked on had remained dark, remained closed to her.
Gathering up her things, Nashua is careful not to twist her side or bend too quickly. It still hurts when she moves, although not as bad as before. The old TV set is shiny, its casing thick and its screen curved. If she tilts her gaze just so, she almost thinks she can see Movie Star Handsome Guy reflected in the glass.
She won't forget about it. Maybe one day she'll ask. For now, though — ]
Take it easy, Frank. Get some sleep, okay?
[ Hovering at the door, her voice is soft. One arm is curled defensively around her stomach, fingers gentle over her wound.
And then the door is open, closed, and she's gone. ]
no subject
[ Her tone had flattened in fits and spurts while she had been nursing an open wound; the desperate need to make a good impression on her unlikely surgeon had buoyed her back up. Now, she remains precisely, impeccably in control of her voice: quiet, careful. She creeps around the idea of Frank like he's a spider in her shower.
This isn't new to her. Lingering, frantic, restless dead are in every room, every home, every building. It's why she doesn't go to museums or old theatres or bars built before 1980. In her third year of university, she rented a house with some friends. The first floor bathroom's tub had housed a young boy, maybe six or seven, his head caved in and his right eye gouged out. The second floor had contained the boy's abusive father, or uncle, or mom's tweaker boyfriend, whatever — bellowing, mindless, bloated with rage and desperate for a rematch with the child. More than once, she had woken up with him breathing right in her face. One time, the smell of his breath had been so unimaginably foul that she had vomited right in her sheets.
All that time, it had never been about her. Her whole life, she tip-toed through a minefield of the dead due to some fucked up gene disorder, some cosmic joke at her expense. But not because of anything she did. She's never killed, never harmed anything bigger than a millipede.
And then she knocked on Frank Castle's door after the previous two doors she knocked on had remained dark, remained closed to her.
Gathering up her things, Nashua is careful not to twist her side or bend too quickly. It still hurts when she moves, although not as bad as before. The old TV set is shiny, its casing thick and its screen curved. If she tilts her gaze just so, she almost thinks she can see Movie Star Handsome Guy reflected in the glass.
She won't forget about it. Maybe one day she'll ask. For now, though — ]
Take it easy, Frank. Get some sleep, okay?
[ Hovering at the door, her voice is soft. One arm is curled defensively around her stomach, fingers gentle over her wound.
And then the door is open, closed, and she's gone. ]