Murdock, Matt

[matt murdock]

MATTHEW MURDOCK.
DAREDEVIL. SIXTEEN. 11/01/1995. SUPERHERO. RASMUS LEDIN.
DECIMUS. EIGHTEEN. UTAH. PM, CHATANGO [Demimus].

'Murdock. Murdock. Murdock.'
The voice used to swell in the boxing arenas. So loud, I used to whisper in unison with them, never forgetting that the man with the devil cape was my father. Every time he was hit, I would forget to breath. And even though I knew Jack Murdock better than the screaming fans, though I knew him and his flaws as more than just the devil, he was my hero.

"My dad's going to be champ!" I told the kids who constantly toyed with me. They'd hit me just moments before I spoke. I was bleeding, my lip burning with pain. I still needed them to know that my father was a contender, whether it made them swing at me again or not. They laughed. I knew one day they'd see. They were nothing but liars. There was no way my dad was a criminal, no way he was terrorizing the citizens of our neighborhood, Hell's Kitchen. I believed in him too much to ever trust the neighbor kid's warnings. And I loved him too much not to run from the boys. He didn't approve of me fighting. I already had to explain away the blood clinging to my split lip.

'You don't hit nothin' but books, got me? You be a doctor or a lawyer, not like me.' My greatest hero sometimes didn't seem to believe in himself. The way he passed out in front of the television while watching boxing, leaving me to help him to his room, sometimes left me wondering if he was ever going to realize I still believed. His biggest fan wasn't ready for him to call it quits. That night, I stood atop the roof of our apartment building and stared out at the moon, wishing I could make my dad promise me that he could do anything, too, the way I'd just promised him.

'Matt. You can do it. You can do anything if you're not afraid. Now you promise me.' Several months after my promise, I rode my skateboard straight from school clutching my latest report card. Dad would be so proud! I went to the docks to show off the straight A's. The din of the construction workers filled my ears and the sparks of the wielders settled into my line of vision until the foreman grabbed my attention. After a brief exchange, he told me my father hadn't worked there in months. The idea that my father could lie to me hurt. He was all I had. Trusting him was my link to the world, my safety. I dropped my report card into a puddle, feeling betrayed and angry.

As I made my way through the neighborhood, I heard a man's begging. I went to investigate, only to find my father pinning the shop owner against the wall. The only thing that I could get past my lips was the simple questioning 'dad', as tears welled into my eyes and disbelief settled. I ran as he yelled for me. Ran as far as I could, back through the docks. That was when my life changed forever. One burning moment as hazardous liquid splashed against my face, scaring my eyes and leaving me blind.

After that, everything seemed different. When I woke up the room was alive with sounds. Things came across as outlines, without color, but with motion. I fell to the floor and felt the smoothness of the cold surface with such precision that it lent itself to comparison rather than generalization. I heard the rush of traffic from the street below. And I knew I was alone. Without time. Without color. Without context.

My father came into the room to tell me I was blind. I'd heard the same conversation he had, but I'd heard the sorrow in his voice when he replied to the doctor bearing the news. I heard him standing outside the door to my hospital room, summing up his courage. I heard him trying not to cry as he told me sorry. So I hugged him and felt his tears against my shoulder.

I learned braille and spent my time reading. For a long time, making my way across the neighborhood was dangerous. And then I realized something remarkable. I realized I wasn't afraid. With my new sense of sight I trusted that I could do anything.

I couldn't save my father. I could see it, I could see them hitting him, and I could hear the anguish in his voice. His final gasp, the thud of the rose against his chest. With such clarity I perceived it. I clutched the rose from his chest and drew blood, crying over his dead body. I was twelve years old.

Things weren't easy for an orphan in Hell's Kitchen. I relied on the kindness of others and the fact that I could be independent to survive. By forgoing my cane during some social interactions, they could be fooled into thinking I was normal. Normalcy was the secret to my success. I kept my skills and my weaknesses a secret as much as possible. My blindness became something of a convenience at other times, earning me the basic means of survival like meals and shelter when life got tough.

The older I got, the more I realized just how acute my senses were. The adrenaline coursing through my veins only added to my sense of accomplishment. Other times my senses were a curse. So much suffering went on around me. I often felt like I heard it all. I wanted to save them. Thinking of how this desire ate at me inspired me to practice my skills.

At sixteen things finally felt normal. I lived in a old apartment that's greatest attribute was the fact that there was running water. I had a bedroom, small kitchen with a sink, and a television that distorted the colors dramatically. I was paying for it with what little savings I had inherited from my father, and from the jobs people deemed me 'capable' of throughout the years. Meanwhile, I studied, proving to my father that I could succeed in school no matter the obstacle.

'Matty, hold the camera here.' Her hand was against mine, adjusting the silver digital camera in my grasp. She was leaning over my shoulder, her black hair brushing against my cheek as she gazed into the view finder of the camera to make sure I was perfectly positioned in the shot. The girl, Kierra, seemed to be the only person to appreciate my need to act normal. She was helping me now to take a photo specifically that didn't make me look blind.

Kierra's light touch tilted my chin up. In front of me was the mirror reflecting a picture for the camera to capture. A few digital edits made by her on Photoshop, and there it was, I officially had a Facebook page. The absurdity of this development was not lost on the residents of Hell's Kitchen that ran across the page. I felt like a normal teenager anyway, and Kierra kept the negative comments from me.

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