Only The Good Die Young
Nov 3, 2015 18:01:29 GMT -7
Post by Matt Murdock on Nov 3, 2015 18:01:29 GMT -7
[googlefont="Pathway Gothic One"]
Date: November 15, 2015
Location: Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, Hell's Kitchen, NYC
Summary: Matt sticks around the church for a while after morning Mass has concluded.
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Despite the fact that the church had emptied a few minutes ago, it wasn't quiet. The creak of the pew under him, the distant footsteps of Father Lantom, probably in his office or one of the other side rooms, the tree branches scraping the window in the late fall wind. He could still hear the hiss of the wicks of the alter candles, though they'd been extinguished.
No. The church wasn't entirely quiet. Matt liked it better this way, if he was honest. He'd trained himself to sit through Mass without letting himself be overloaded by the heartbeats around him, the voices, the people shifting in their seats. Mostly, he kept focus on himself and his own participation, or on Father Lantom's voice when the congregation was meant to be silent.
But now that Mass had ended, the parishoners had filed out and Father Lantom had left him to his thoughts, he could relax his concentration a little. The little sounds he let in distracted him a little from the pain in his side, the cut on his lip and the scrape by his right eye, irritated by the arm of his glasses with every breath he took, every turn of his head. All fresh injuries sustained the night before. It hurt a little to breath, to sing, to answer with the rest of the congregation.
With services concluded, breathing was all he had to worry about. It was part of the reason he was still sitting in the back of the chapel, head bowed, cane folded up and resting next to him on the pew. The cold had done little to ease that pain on the walk to church, and he wasn't entirely certain he was ready to brave the wind on the way back to his apartment. He didn't like taking cabs, as the smells left by every person before him didn't agree with his sensitive nose.
The way his head was pounding this morning, it was a miracle he'd even managed to drag himself into church in the first place. It had been a short fight, but a brutal one. Some small-time criminal, but brawny. Probably would have succeeded in his assault if Matt hadn't intervened.
Maybe that was part of why he'd forced himself out of bed on a Sunday morning when he'd rather be sleeping off the fight. Between the muggers and the continuing quiet, Matt wasn't sure he'd have been able to make it to evening Mass. He certainly hadn't attended the Saturday evening liturgy. Easier on his soul to make the morning service.
God knew he needed it. Every night, his soul ached a little more. Every night, he ran the risk of moving a little closer to that line he'd almost crossed only once before. It still haunted him, his vicious desire to kill and the events that had resulted from his inablity (unwillingness?) to do so when it came down to the wire.
Mercifully, he'd managed to steer quite clear of that line last night, but the mere act of participating in vigilante justice, especially since it had been over a year now since he'd first put on the mask, had left him feeling frayed. Damaged. Like his soul was on the brink of damnation, no matter how many mornings he came to Mass, no matter how often he came to confession.
He was tired.
ISHY of THQ & ADOXOGRAPHY
I ain't no angel I still got a few more dances with the devil
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Date: November 15, 2015
Location: Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, Hell's Kitchen, NYC
Summary: Matt sticks around the church for a while after morning Mass has concluded.
--------------------------------------
Despite the fact that the church had emptied a few minutes ago, it wasn't quiet. The creak of the pew under him, the distant footsteps of Father Lantom, probably in his office or one of the other side rooms, the tree branches scraping the window in the late fall wind. He could still hear the hiss of the wicks of the alter candles, though they'd been extinguished.
No. The church wasn't entirely quiet. Matt liked it better this way, if he was honest. He'd trained himself to sit through Mass without letting himself be overloaded by the heartbeats around him, the voices, the people shifting in their seats. Mostly, he kept focus on himself and his own participation, or on Father Lantom's voice when the congregation was meant to be silent.
But now that Mass had ended, the parishoners had filed out and Father Lantom had left him to his thoughts, he could relax his concentration a little. The little sounds he let in distracted him a little from the pain in his side, the cut on his lip and the scrape by his right eye, irritated by the arm of his glasses with every breath he took, every turn of his head. All fresh injuries sustained the night before. It hurt a little to breath, to sing, to answer with the rest of the congregation.
With services concluded, breathing was all he had to worry about. It was part of the reason he was still sitting in the back of the chapel, head bowed, cane folded up and resting next to him on the pew. The cold had done little to ease that pain on the walk to church, and he wasn't entirely certain he was ready to brave the wind on the way back to his apartment. He didn't like taking cabs, as the smells left by every person before him didn't agree with his sensitive nose.
The way his head was pounding this morning, it was a miracle he'd even managed to drag himself into church in the first place. It had been a short fight, but a brutal one. Some small-time criminal, but brawny. Probably would have succeeded in his assault if Matt hadn't intervened.
Maybe that was part of why he'd forced himself out of bed on a Sunday morning when he'd rather be sleeping off the fight. Between the muggers and the continuing quiet, Matt wasn't sure he'd have been able to make it to evening Mass. He certainly hadn't attended the Saturday evening liturgy. Easier on his soul to make the morning service.
God knew he needed it. Every night, his soul ached a little more. Every night, he ran the risk of moving a little closer to that line he'd almost crossed only once before. It still haunted him, his vicious desire to kill and the events that had resulted from his inablity (unwillingness?) to do so when it came down to the wire.
Mercifully, he'd managed to steer quite clear of that line last night, but the mere act of participating in vigilante justice, especially since it had been over a year now since he'd first put on the mask, had left him feeling frayed. Damaged. Like his soul was on the brink of damnation, no matter how many mornings he came to Mass, no matter how often he came to confession.
He was tired.
