He carries straight on when he should take a left, because he doesn’t know if he can do it anymore. He doesn’t know if he can smile and say, ‘Good afternoon, Margaret,’ when it’s really anything but. Except, that’s not true, he knows he could do it, because he’s done it so many times before. He just doesn’t want to anymore. What he wants is to drown himself in the bay. What he wants is a drink. What he wants is… to know what he wants.
He takes out his top-of-the-line phone and he calls the office number - speed-dial number one, because there’s nothing more important in his life. ‘Good afternoon, Johnson’s Law Offices, how can I help you?’
‘Margaret, it’s me.’
‘Oh. Good afternoon, sir.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Sure. Listen, I’m not going to be in today, reschedule my appointments.’ Because he knows he’ll be back. He always comes back. This is nothing more than another routine. Sure, there’s more incentive behind it this time, but he’s not deluded enough to think he’ll actually change his life.
‘Of course, sir,’ Margaret says. No questions asked. Ever the good PA. He hangs up without another word, because he’s her boss, he doesn’t need to be polite, it’s not expected of him. Only lackey’s know the meaning of the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, and he is not a lackey.
He heads for a bar. It’s a cliché, but at two o’clock on a week day, bartenders in this town effectively function as cheaper psychiatrists. Plus, if no one will listen, there’s always the alcohol.
Lost in thought, he walks straight into someone on his way through the door. ‘Watch where you’re going, you son of a…’ the man stops suddenly and smiles a poisonous smirk of Hollywood teeth. ‘Hey,’ he says, ‘I know you. You’re the lawyer, right? What’s-his-face.’
‘Yes,’ he replies. There’s no point pretending. He takes a step back, because he doesn’t want to deal with this right now. Harsh words or a fist to the face, that’s not what he needs. It’s what he needs to get away from.
To his surprise, the man smiles sympathetically. ‘Sorry to hear about the,’ he waves his hand around vaguely, ‘you know.’ Of course he knows, everyone knows, and with a two inch scar running across his brow, it’s not like he’s going to forget any time soon. ‘Hey,’ the man says, steering him towards the bar with a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let me buy you a drink. Name’s Tom, by the way.’ Tom offers a hand. ‘And I know who you are.’ He shakes Tom’s hand and smiles. He lets Tom buy him a drink, and they sit and talk about sport and the weather and nothing in particular.
It’s so easy to listen to a sympathetic voice. He needs this, needs someone to metaphorically say, ‘hey, it wasn’t your fault,’ because his ribs still hurt every time he moves or breaths. Because he still wakes up screaming, in cold sweats, with the fleeting sensation of fingers wrapped around his throat. Because he can’t so much as pick up groceries without someone shooting him a dirty look. Because he can’t get over feeling like it was his fault; what kind of emotionless asshole do you need to be to defend a known super-human terrorist? He’d let his hard-edged legal ethics override his personal morality and had become a modern day Hitler in the eyes of the people. And after a lengthy stay in hospital, he’s finally acknowledged that ever taking the job had been a massive mistake.
He talks with Tom for half an hour, then excuses himself for the bathroom. When he gets back, Tom is gone. ‘Hey!’ The bartender waves him over and hands him a note. ‘Your buddy left this for you.’
He’s expecting a phone number or an email address, or an apology for leaving so suddenly, but all it says is, I’m not sorry - Tomas, and he has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. With a shake of his head, he screws up the paper, shoves it in a pocket and heads for home.
Less than five minutes later, he’s standing doubled-over in an alleyway puking his guts up, as his vision goes hazy and he’s gripped by a sudden attack of vertigo. He fumbles through his pockets trying to find his phone and call for help. As he sinks to his knees, vision fading, his hand catches the paper. I’m not sorry. Crap. Well, isn’t that just his life in a nutshell, he thinks as he passes out.
He wakes up in the same alley he passed out in. Either no one saw him or no one cared enough to help, he’s not sure he wants to know. He staggers to his feet and leans against the wall for a moment before he realises he doesn’t need to. He feels fine. Great, even. He looks at the paper, still balled up in his fist and he wonders if he’s high. He doesn’t feel high though, just… good. Tom definitely drugged his drink, but whatever it was, it seems to have worked its way out of his system already.
With a heavy sigh, he dusts himself off and makes his way home. He sits alone, and downs a bottle of expensive scotch, because this is his life now. Except he doesn’t get drunk, not even tipsy. He stares at the empty bottle, and he realises, something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.
He gets up to find another bottle when he’s hit by another sudden wave of vertigo. He falls to his knees and punches the ground and his hand goes straight through the floorboards. He laughs, because maybe he is drunk after all. Except he can see the broken wood, and feel the splinters that have worked their way into his knuckles, there’s no way he’s imagining this. He stands up, the vertigo is gone again. He walks over to the wall and he punches it. It’s a stupid thing to do really, because now there’s a fist-sized hole in his living room wall.
He experiments more, for hours, testing this new found strength. It’s not like this can make his life any worse after all. He wonders if this is the drug or the head injury or a little bit of both, but in the end he finds he doesn’t care. What he cares about is finding the men who still haunt his nightmares and making them pay. And this will let him do it. He’s a lawyer, he knows those men would never find justice in a court room. He’ll put on a mask and be the next Daredevil and he’ll get his revenge and the people will learn to love him. This is his life now.
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