Midnight In the Marvel Universe

The Family Man

War Journal, Day 364

Woke up in another alley earlier tonight, the moon shining on my face, smoke and the dead filling my nostrils. Sitting up, I could see the sea of bodies before me.

 Looking around at the chaos and destruction, I couldn't remember for the life of me how I got there.

Only thing I do remember is hearing about the Irish setting up operations somewhere in midtown. Figured I'd go do some recon, nothing too serious.

 Grabbed my M16, couple grenades, hunting knife, and hollow points for the trusty bretta and walked right out the door. Next thing I know, I wake up in midtown covered in thick Irish blood.

My blood was apart of the mess too, mingling with that of the dead. Took a couple rounds to the chest. Vest caught most of them but two managed to sneak past and pass through. One went in and out. Other didn't.

It wasn't the pain that made me stagger down the street like I'd drunk an entire bottle of scotch and topped it off with half a bottle of whiskey.

I've taken worse over the years–bullets, grenade shrapnel, knives, poison from so many needles, even a pencil once. Still don't really know how that one happened.

No, the reason why I staggered into my apartment, blood pushing out of my sides, was because of how damned tired I was.

It's been happening for the past few weeks now. Seems like every minute of every day, I find myself suffering from extreme exhaustion, like I was in bootcamp all over again and was running five miles at four in the morning. Regular, everyday routines, from getting out of bed to cleaning my guns, seems to take five times the normal amount of time.

I know for a fact that I'm getting older but that's no excuse. I've been old for a while now and have still managed to take down the scum that this city keeps spitting out.

The Yakuza made the obituaries five months ago.

The Cartels were buried and cried for eight weeks ago.

The Russians ran away with their tails between their legs four weeks ago.

And now, four hours ago, the Irish became yet another crime scene.

Every major crime lord or villain whose tried to take control of New York's underworld has either fallen by my hand or escaped with heavy casualties. The city's become a safer place. A better place. A place I had hoped for a long time ago.
And yet, as I dig the bullet out and clean the wound with barley a grimace, I feel that somethings missing. It's a feeling I buried every since that day in the park. A feeling of regret. Of longing.

I've been pushing it aside for the longest time now, ignoring it. Part of me thinks that if I keep it subdued, think about it as little as possible, that it'll go away.

Problem is, an emotion left unattended can become like an untreated wound.

The wound will fester and ravage your body. Tear it shreds, leave you weak and in need of help, defenseless.

Pretty soon, the wound becomes so bad that there's only one way out: give in to the infection. Quit fighting and let it all end.

Wounds are patched up. Bit of a rough job though. Part of me thinks it's because I was so tired.

The other part knows that it was on purpose.

For the past three years, New York has been the city with the highest crime level in all of the United States.

Now, nearly a year into my war, we're barely even in the top twenties.

Looking out my small apartments stamp sized window, the city looks clean. Void of any violence or death. Safe. I should feel proud of myself.

Instead I only feel disappointed.

If crimes dropping, it means that my crusade maybe coming to an end. I spent all this time killing one criminal after another that I never considered that it might eventually come to a close.

And when it finally comes to a close, that wound would finally force me to the brink.

I didn't even notice that I'd picked the beretta up from the wall of guns until the cold steel presses against the underside of my chin.

I don't pull it away. I don't even blink. All I do is sit there. And think.

I think about a little girl, who was the most gorgeous little angel I've ever seen.

I remember the boy, whose imagination knew no bounds and would one day take him places.

I hear a laugh that made my heart skip a beat and make me smile every time.
I see a family picnic, brother and sister poking and prodding each other, mother trying to pull them apart.

I hear the sound of gunfire and screams cut short in a matter of seconds.

I feel the families sticky blood on my hands, the wounds pulsing with each passing second.

I watch the life leave their eyes, watch as they disappear from this world and into a better one.

I see myself sitting in the void left behind. Alone.

And I ask myself: Do I still need to sit in this void? Or can I finally join my family?

It feels like an eternity, me sitting there with the gun against my mouth, but it's probably no more than a minute. To a lot of people, a minute doesn't seem like a lot.

And yet, sometimes, a minute is all that's needed to make a decision.

"I come home after the day I had to you doing nothing and an empty table?!"

The yells and pleas leak through the thin walls between my apartment and the one next door, making the gun lower ever so slightly.

"I-I didn't know when you were going to be back. You didn't text or call or–"

"I said I'd be back late didn't I? And, wow!! Would you look at that?! I'm back late!!"

Caleb Ennis got home from work late again. Or rather, he just got back from the bar after a long grueling day of work and of course, Gloria Ennis didn't leave behind any of the dinner she had made five hours ago.

"Caleb, please, I didn't know."

"You never know!! Nobody ever knows!!"

It's the kind of music that I'm used to, the same tune coming through the walls every night.

"Caleb, breathe. Take a minute and–"

"JUST SHUT UP!!!"

SMASH

The scream of pain that seemed to shake the walls was different.

Unlike in the alley, I remember everything that happened next.

The gun fell from my hands, dropping to the ground with a clatter, forgotten.

My apartment door nearly flew off it's hinges as I burst out it.

Everyone in the building probably heard the Ennis's door being pounded on.

"What the hell do you–"

CRACK

Everyone probably heard the nose crack and the drunken body hit the ground with a groan.

Staring into the apartment that was somehow smaller than my own, I locked eyes with Gloria. The cuts from the broken beer bottle lying on the ground were seeping blood from beneath her hands. She looked up at me with a look that was a mix of three different emotions.

Terror.

Hatred.

And gratitude.

Without a word, my hand wraps around Calebs arm. I drag him right by my apartment and down the stairs. I shove him to his feet as we walk out the door into another alley that's just as dirty as the one where the Irish were probably still lying.

Caleb lurched around, sobering up fast as he clutched at his broken nose.

"What the hell?" He yelled. The vile and hatred in his voice made the words almost visible in the cool night air.

"You always do that to your wife, asshole?" My question is asked in a calm yet firm voice. The anger is just below the surface, ready to be unleashed at any moment.

Caleb snorts, blood spewing from his nose.

"What happens with me and my wife is between me and her." From his back pocket, Mr.Ennis pulls out a large knife. It gleams, catching the moon in blades tip. "But if you insist on being so damned nosey, then by all means. Let's talk about it, Castiglione."

Ennis rushes me, moving at a speed he probably thinks is fast. It's not.

I grab his hand without even moving. I stare right into his face, my reflection visible in their iris's.

"My names Castle."

And with that I bend the hand back as far as it can go.

The snap echoes off the alley's walls, followed closely by a blood curdling scream that downtown probably heard.

Caleb falls to his knees, hand bent at an angle that is not natural for the living.

He looks up at me, the drunken rage gone. All that's left is the fear. The fear of what's to come.

I don't let the fear fade from his eyes. I get to work, pummeling him with fists, feet, cracking ribs, breaking bones, ignoring the tears and screams.

And as I beat that wife beating piece of crap into the ground, I realize that I can't leave the void yet.

The city I thought was clean is still filthy as ever. The promise I made all those years ago, that they would all pay, that they would suffer for what they did.

And no matter how many times I bleed, no matter how many wounds I stitch together, I will not die.

I cannot die. Not until I fulfill my promise.

Over the years, it's evolved, forming into many different names.

My Redemption.

My Closure.

My Burden.

My Guilt.

And as my stitches pop and blood seeps through my shirt, mingling with that of Caleb Ennis, I see the one name of my promise that will be with me forever.

My Punishment.