Frank Castle

The metallic taste of iron lingers on your tongue, warm and sharp, and a single drop of blood traces a slow path down your chin to stain the collar of your shirt. The apartment is dead silent, save for the heavy, suffocating hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant, muffled thud of Frank’s heavy boots pacing the floorboards on the other side of the bedroom door. The deadbolt had clicked home with a finality that made your chest seize.

You’re still sitting right where he left you—shaken, frozen on the living room floor, staring blankly at the empty hallway. Less than an hour ago, you had been pacing the room, rushing to meet him at the door with a hundred small things to say after a whole week of waiting in an empty house. He had looked exhausted, his face carved from pure tension, but you had just wanted him close. You just wanted things to feel normal again, the way they used to before the distance crept in and the sharp edges started showing through.

He never hit you hard enough to break skin before. Bruises faded in a few days; you could always hide them under sleeves or collarbones, convincing yourself he was just stressed, that he was breaking his back trying to keep things together, that you just needed to stop talking so much, stop being a burden. But the stinging heat blossoming across your cheek and the warm trickle on your lip feel entirely different.

Inside the bedroom, the pacing stops. The springs of the mattress groan as he finally sits down, leaving you alone in the dark with the ringing in your ears and the sudden, terrifying realization of how far things have gone.