Burden of Proof

“We, The Jury, find The Defendant, Not Guilty.”

There’s sounds all around you, some gasp in disbelief, others simply tut in grim acceptance at the constant proof that the justice system didn’t care about people like you.

But you don’t hear that.

You’re too busy looking at his shoes, midnight black dolce & gabbana oxfords with the little tassel in front. You watch the tassel sway from left to right as he makes his way out of the courtroom, a free man. 

You should have known that the man who attacked you would walk free when he walked into court in the same shoes, no doubt to replace the ones you bled on. 

“This isn’t over,  it can’t be.”  Karen said, squeezing your hand kindly, at least it would be kind if you could actually feel anything.

“All the evidence was laid out, there’s no reason for this to go the way it did.  I...  I don’t know what we did wrong.” Foggy shuffled and reshuffled his papers, anything to not look you in the eye. 

“Come on, let’s get you out of here.” Matt speaks for the first time and you can all but taste the guilt in his voice.  On auto-pilot, you let him wrap his hand around above your elbow, his finger softly stroking your arm before his grip tightens as you start to put one foot in front of the other.

The mid afternoon sun, the verdict, and  the fact that you picked at your breakfast this morning were the tipping points into disaster as you were swallowed into a sea of reporters, ripping you from Matt’s grasp.

“Will you pursue additional legal action?”

“Did you make it all up for attention?”

“How does it feel to lose?”

How does it feel to lose?

You ponder that question as your knees buckle and you start to fall.   Cameras flash in every direction, you can hear Karen screaming your name, and before your head meets the courthouse steps you ask yourself one final question.

Would Matt still love you if you destroyed the man who destroyed you?

“Can I hold you?” 

You look up from the couch where you were supposed to be resting but your eyes are glued to your phone, watching yourself faint on national television and scrolling through tweets, reading news commentators and trolls alike react to the case. 

They all had something to call you. 

Hero.

Liar.

Whore.

Brave.

There was a time when you would have run into Matt’s arms before he even asked, tackled him to the floor with what you thought was a sneak attack of kisses and cuddles but he caught you in his arms every time. 

But touch was different now, in the moments that used to make your heart soar you could feel another man’s fingers on your body, another man’s breathing on your neck. It  had taken nearly 10 months of therapy for the night terrors to stop, for you to get to where you are right now, a careful balancing act of comfort and safety that Matt could walk with you, but not for you.

“Yes.” You said, the touch starved part of your brain winning over the anxiety this time around.  He slipped behind you on the couch, turning your phone off with one hand, settling you on his chest with the other. 

The same hands that held you had beaten Wilson Fisk half to death, made a vow that Fisk wouldn’t change who he was, and in the bloody chaos of it all, managed not to kill the man who had taken so much from him. 

But you weren’t him.

Beating the shit out of your attacker and leaving him on the police’s doorstep would not absolve Matt of his guilt, and your loving boyfriend wasn’t some sort of vigilante doberman that you could sic on anyone that hurt you.  

He didn’t know the reason you begged him not to go after your attacker wasn’t because you didn’t want him to lose himself in vengeance.

 It was because you had your attacker’s schedule memorized and as strong as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was, your attacker had more bodyguards than ever after your public accusation and there were few windows of time when he was actually alone.

You shared a bed with an avenging angel of a man and he didn’t know that since that night, you had been plotting the most perfect murder in history. 

“Sweetheart?”

“Yeah, Matty?”

“I know you don’t want to talk about today or that night but I just wanted to tell you that I love you and that I’m here for you, sweetheart. We can still fight this-

“ I think I’m ready to stop Matt. No more depositions, no more trials, nothing.  You said it yourself that the fact that this even reached a prosecutor was a miracle in itself. I don’t want to do this anymore, I can’t-”  You cut off, trying to stave off an oncoming panic attack.

Birch Street.

Gardenia Avenue.

44 Alexander Lane.

“Just breathe baby, I’m right here.  You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, I promise.“ He holds you a little tighter to him as you go through your grounding exercises, listening to your racing heart slowly taper off to its regular rhythm, the fifth or sixth crisis of the day averted. 

He kissed the top of your head and you found yourself slowly drifting off to a dreamless sleep for the first time in weeks. Only when your heartbeat and breathing were steady in sleep did Matt let his face crumble with the remains of the day, ugly tears soaking his face and shirt. 

Everything always came back to that night.

Today the world has called you a hero, a whore, a liar and brave.

But very soon they would have another word for you.