Chapter Text
When your father died a little over two years ago, you didn’t mourn him, but rather you mourned the father he could have been. First came the denial and the refusal to believe his death was anything but a blessing. Then came anger; at the suffering he put you through, at the alcohol he frequented, at his lack of empathy and care for you. Very vaguely, guilt tended to linger throughout all the seven stages of grief. It came mostly in your dreams, during your most vulnerable state; a lullful sleep. Quickly came bargaining — commonly with yourself, sometimes even your mother. She refused to play into your grief, she believed his passing was nothing but euphoria. She regularly avoided any heavier emotions, not to mention how quickly she moved on. She and your father divorced a year before he passed, and she leaped into a serious relationship within two months of him dropping the divorce papers on the step of your childhood home. The relationship with this said man, Kingston, lasted ten long, torturous months. He was an alcoholic like your father, but that was hardly his worst quality, with him being twenty years older than your mother and on the brink of dementia. It was disgusting, really, listening to your mother and him through the thin walls of your childhood home in the very room your parents used to lie. However, your disgust was nothing compared to the burden of listening to your mother cry herself to sleep on the nights he wasn’t around for her emotionally or physically — which was most nights. The following men only lasted mere seconds in your eyes as she flew through them like a bad driver flitting through traffic cones. It was easy not to get attached, you loathed them all. That was until you’d reached the final stage of grief: Acceptance, and Frank Castle slipped into your life.
You despised Frank for many reasons. He was the head of a special forces instructors unit in the middle west side of Manhattan, where you and your mother now resided. He was a troubled man, and that was the last thing you wanted in your life: your mother dating another troubled man. When you’d heard she was dating a new man, you thought nothing of it; you’d hardly moved into your current apartment in New York City when she’d jumped onto another date. At least now you’d moved closer to your mom’s family, and where your brother went to college, so you’d have some support system because let's face it: you did not have the most friends. But months went by, and she was yet to drop him or worse, shittalk him. You tried picking apart his habits and tendencies when she described their dates to you in a desperate attempt to get her to see something ugly in him and move on, but to no avail. Six months went by; you’d settled nicely into a new public school (still, no friends), and you made a habit of meeting your brother near his college for lunch every Saturday. He listened to you complain when you needed to, but weirdly enough, he didn’t make an effort to insult the new boyfriend as he would have three years ago. Things were going well, you liked the rain and the beat of Manhattan. That was until one night your world shattered.
You lay on the couch (where you often inhabited), watching what was probably your two hundredth film of the year, writing notes onto your computer of things to include in your Letterboxd review in between scrolling on Pinterest when your mom sat next to you on the couch, paint still in her hair from the canvas she spent the day bringing about into a bright abstract piece.
“Sweetheart...” She murmured soothingly as she reached for the remote and paused the movie. “I have something I want to tell you, just—..” She sighed. “Please be open-minded?”
You stared at her hesitantly,
“What is it, mama?” You exhaled the words after holding your breath, almost weary, as if you were waiting for her to cough it up.
“Francy is moving in with us.” She offered quietly with a soft smile, using her nickname for him as if that would soften the blow.
Your face twisted in horror as you swallowed curse words,
“When?” You barely choked out
“…In a few weeks.” She slowly sat up, pulling you against her and into her lap despite being seventeen. “I know it’s hard, but I’ve been very lonely, far before your father and I’s divorce, many times through our marriage. I deserve the domesticity of living with a man I love. I think you’ll learn to love him as well.” She cooed as she stroked your hair.
“…Okay, mama. I’ll make room.” You mumbled back through your teeth, barely containing your anger for her.