I know I told you that I'd update you more often, life just . . . got in the way. Not in a bad way or anything. Hell’s kitchen has more opportunities than I thought it would. I’ve been keeping out of trouble—
Though the pain radiating from her left abdomen begged to differ. She remembered the night all too well. The bitter chill of the wind outside that begged to steal her hands away from the fresh wound. Blood could only melt away so much of the ache stemming from her blue, numb fingers. She remembered how the start of her new life seemed to come from being covered in blood, it was almost funny that the blood was her own this time around; Or maybe the punchline to cruel jokes weren’t supposed to laugh along. She couldn’t exactly remember if she was shivering from the cold or shaking from shock looking back on it. It didn’t matter much anyways, she accepted her demise as soon as she stupidly dug around to pull out the bullet. Common sense seemed to leave her mind as soon as she heard the gunshot coming from the side of the gun she wasn’t used to being on.
Guns were something she was all too familiar with, and yet her mind wouldn’t accept a faithful companion had been on the other end for once. Then she thought that just maybe she could make it to the nearest emergency room—well, before the black spots started popping up in her vision at least. She’d heard the sound of people crumpling to the floor before, too, just never her own. Maybe it was the universe paying her back for all of the shots she took, the lives she had held in her hands when she had no right to.
The universe was finally telling Karen Page to go fuck herself. Maybe she deserved it, and maybe that’s why she never called 911.
Hell, that definitely wasn’t the reason she hesitated to get any help for herself. Her own curiosity had led her to digging too far into Wilson Fisk’s business, and Karen knew it would probably kill her some day. The “lead” in the warehouse owned by Fisk himself? It was stupid of her to not expect a trap. She had too much against him to live, too much against her old career, too much to run from in her old life.
People always told Karen that she couldn’t run from all of her problems. Even after moving her old ghosts would follow her there anyways. So of course when she decided to face her problems, she’d turn into a ghost instead. Dead and hated. Dead and an idiot who couldn’t even tell Matt or Foggy where her place of death would be.
Karen almost hoped The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen himself might come save her again. It was a selfish wish, sure, an avoidance of the consequences yet again.
She wouldn’t go out as a hero, she was sure of that.
Karen blinked harshly with the sudden appearance of tears. She gripped her desk for dear life as her mind jumped suddenly to the glow of the blue screen in front of her.
What was she doing? A letter. . . who was she writing to? Who was even left from her old life that cared? She couldn’t even write a letter without flashbacks anymore, it’s pathetic. She’s pathetic. It was a miracle that a stranger found her lifeless body slumped against that iron door, much less thought she was even worth saving. Maybe it would have been better if they just left her to--
No, it was much too early for this. Okay, 5 things you see. Computer, trash can, the sun rising, 4:00 AM on the alarm clock, gun. What’s next? Hearing, no, maybe feeling? That had to be it. 4 things you feel; heart beat, tightening chest, moisture rolling down her cheeks, the pain that felt like a thousand hot needles stabbing her at once. Hearing, right, that has to be next. 3 things, car engine, tires moving forward, echoing steps coming towards her.
Steps? Why steps? That didn’t make sense, it sounded like they were walking on pavement. She was back at work, she had to be. No no no no no, Karen choked back sobs. She couldn’t just die alone. Her strength draining out of her wound was unmistakable, though.
2 smells. Exhaust fumes, Wilson Fisk’s cologne.
1 taste. . . blood.
One blink. Darkness again. The cold pavement. Whispers. Blood pooling around her.
She hadn’t held her wound in a while, had she? Karen could barely resist the darkness enveloping her. She didn’t want to resist anymore; breathing was more painful than her memories flooding back anyways. One last breath, a rough voice commanding to “Get rid of her.” Being reported missing on the news was not the way Karen Page planned to make her mark on Hell’s Kitchen.