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Alone in the basement of the church, Matthew Murdock prays. Blind, half deaf, sinuses clogged with blood, he was alone. Perhaps he could say he was not actually alone, considering the crucifix looming over his bed. Sometimes he couldn’t tell if he’s awake or sleeping. With his senses dulled, it was hard to tell which way was up. The only way he kept time was feeling the vibrations of church bells every hour.
Once and a while, Sister Maggie would come in, slide him some food on a metal tray. He wouldn’t touch it no matter how much she chided him. He could make out the sharp tsk of her tongue as she walked away.
The nights were the loneliest. Certainly, there were no civilians in the church, only those who devoted themselves to faith, who became part of the church walls in the evening.
Nevertheless, he felt an overwhelming presence of something, someone, nearby.
At first, he thought it was an illusion. After all, being alone in a church that was more than a century old did a number on the psyche. And Matthew had never been one to reject the divine. He believed in God, and although it may have seemed He never listened, Matthew was a man of faith. (This perhaps was his downfall when you took everything away) So when he heard his name being whispered in an angel’s voice, the divine was not out of the question.
But this was not an angel. No, it was familiar, yet enchantingly foreign. He recognized the pace of her breath, the rhythm of her voice. The way his name fell on her lips.
“Matthew.”
Lying on the scratchy cotton bed, he reached his hands up, straining the torn muscles to embrace the voice. He did not expect a hand to meet his and interlace his fingers. He did not expect soft lips to press against his skin. He inhaled sharply, with apprehension, very aware that this might be his welcome into death.
“You stupid man,” she whispers. Her head pressed against their laced fingers. “Why did you stay down there?” He could feel her eyelashes on the back of his hand.
This was not a dream.
He squeezed her fingers, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. He had been waiting for her.
“Yes, I’m here,” she touches him a little more desperately this time. “I’m sorry.”
She might have loved him more than he loved himself.
His eyes were open and he strained to see something. He wanted to see her. Why wasn’t anything working? A heavy gasp slipped from his mouth as he tried to sit up. His broken ribs ground against each other.
“Shh, Matthew.” She pushes him back down, gently. Nothing like the way she touched him under Midland Circle.
Under Midland Circle, they grasped onto each other for dear life. In those last moments, she clutched his suit, pulled him to her not to hurt, but to keep. He had his arm wrapped around her waist. (she was amazingly petite for someone so strong, he always thought) His life depended on it. But his lips were gentle against hers.
He once asked Foggy to describe her to him.
“I don’t know, man. That’s kind of creepy. She’s your girlfriend.” Foggy noted. They lounged in their room, beers cracked open and books strewn across the floor.
“Humor me. I’m blind.”
“The blind card is only to be used on very special occasions, you know.”
Matt laughed, but Foggy gave in.
“Well, she’s like amazingly pretty. I guess it only makes sense since you’re…you. Um…she’s got black hair?”
“Come on, Foggy. Details.”
“God, okay… you know it’s not like I gape on her every move like you do, right? She just randomly appears and disappears here like she’s got a private jet or something. Does she have a private jet?”
“No. Back to the details.”
“She’s got these deep eyes. Like kind of scary if I look at her too long. Like she’s going to steal my soul. But I guess it’s different when she’s looking at you. When she’s looking at you, she looks…nice? When she smiles at you, it looks like the way a puppy looks at another puppy.”
They both chuckled, but now Foggy was getting into it.
“And she’s got this foreign charm that’s super intimidating but it’s the kind of stuff you see in Bond films. I’ve got to admit, the accent is pretty cool.”
“She was adopted.”
“Yeah? Well that’s not the worst thing if your adoptive parents are super rich Greek royalty, I guess. You know, I noticed this yesterday when she dropped you off. She kind of does this little head tilt thing when she says bye to you. It’s kind of cute really. In a weird way.”
The next time he saw Elektra, he summarized Foggy’s analysis. Elektra laughed and told him they were exactly correct.
“You know, I only do that before I leave so I can breathe one last bit of you before I leave.”
I would trade it all in for a lifetime of smelling your skin.
It was stupid to say she did not love him. The manipulation, the lies, the violence. It was a part of it. He knew that deep down.
The next night, he felt her again.
“Elektra.”
“I’m here.”
“You’re here.”
“Yes.” Her breath was warm against his cheek.
“We died.”
“No, we didn’t. You’re alive.”
He could imagine her figure next to her in the darkness. He saw her through blurry senses. He wanted to feel her heart, so she placed his hand against her chest. Yes, the vibrations were clear. The slow rhythm of her life.
“It’s me.”
He almost laughed if it weren’t for the broken bones and punctured lungs. So long he had waited for her. He stayed to the end of the earth for her. He had quite a hero complex, though he would never admit it to anyone. There he was, dying rather than leaving anyone behind. If she had known, she would have slapped him and dragged him out of the building.
This is what living feels like.
“I thought you died,” he said, voice raspy.
“I did.”
“You came back.”
“For you.” She placed a soft kiss to his forehead. He sighed, relishing in her presence. “Now live, Matthew.”
Stick once told him that Elektra was something else, a soul not meant for him. She was another one of his projects, shaped from youth to become something he wanted. He realized that Elektra had been a part of a game for her entire life. Everyone always controlling the pieces without her knowing. The one time she disobeyed orders, the one time she failed her masters, was when she was sent to enlist him into the Chaste. How tragic she was to succumb to the pitfalls of love. Everything tried to her away from him but she always came back.
This was not a dream.
His world is fire. His body is burning. His heart is dust. But he pulls himself from the ashes and shakes the blanket of death off his broken soul.
The darkness had become him, but that was okay because she was the darkness as well.