"to burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves."
- Federico García Lorca
Staying out of trouble is not Frank Castle's strong suit. But is Jenavieve Howlett more trouble than The Punisher can handle...
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"come through the dark, into your heart." - Through the Dark, Vanbur
╳
My eyes adjust to the daylight filling the trailer as I sit up. Mouth and throat dry as a bone, I reach for the water Frank left me- Frank!
I drop the glass, spilling the water onto the floor as I leap from the bed and stumble out into the kitchenette. My chest heaves while my eyes and ears search the empty space for him.
"I'm gonna be here when you wake up." he told me..
But here I am, awake, and alone.
He isn't here..
I look down at my arm, and gone are the stitches from the bullet wound on my bicep. I hastily unwrap the bandage from my thigh and the bullet that was in my leg hits the floor.
Finally.
I pull the adhesive bandage from my ribs. The surgical staples chime as they sprinkle onto the floor, and I smile, breathing a laugh. Lastly, I pull the bandaging from my knuckles to reveal the same results, the staples fall to the floor and my skin, perfectly healed.
I rush back into the bedroom to grab my jacket.
I told him. I asked him. I begged him not go.. But did he listen? No. The asshole just fucking sedated me so I couldn't help.
It's smart, I must admit. Taking advantage of my weakened state like that. I know he just wanted to keep me out of it, keep me safe, but the asshole didn't have to kiss me to do it!
I let out an angry huff, pissed that he knew exactly how to distract me. And as I shove my arms into the sleeves of my jacket, I notice something on the pillow that I didn't notice when I woke.
Slowly stepping over, I pick it up and stare at the little paper crane now sitting on the palm of my hand. My heart swells at Frank's little token, until Curtis's tyres hitting the gravel of the junkyard gains my full attention.
Dropping the origami bird back onto the pillow, I rush out of the room and fly out the door as Curtis hops out of the drivers seat.
He looks despondent and shell-shocked, as he shuffles his way to the trailer. It's impossible to miss his blood soaked hands. And even more impossible to miss that he's alone.
"Where's Frank?" I ask. Curtis remains silent, and doesn't bother to meet my eyes before or after he shuffles past me. "..Curtis." I turn and follow him into the trailer, my ears and nose searching for what I cannot see.
Curtis's slow and steady heartbeat indicates he has no life threatening injury. And one sniff tells me that it's not his blood on his hands. Or Frank's. He sinks into the chair at the little kitchen table, and I squat down in front of him, trying to catch his eye.
