Love Always, Paige Angel

“Why not?” Karen demanded point-blank, standing resolute in the middle of Ellison’s office, shoulders squared, determined to get an answer this time. “I came from a law office, I have connections, I know how these things work,” she implored, attempting to convince him, yet again.

She’d been at the Bulletin two months – well, nine weeks and two days, to be exact, and all she had been assigned so far were classified formats, engagement announcements, coverage for a health fair, and a filler piece on the NYC storefronts. Not exactly the hard-hitting news she thought she had signed up for.

“This is a beat. A crime beat. You have no experience in journalism; true, you’re great at research and decent at investigating, but you don’t have the training, you haven’t been in it enough. Give it time, you have to work your way into it,” Ellison was stubborn, but his point was a fair one, as per usual.

With “Ask Allison” leaving for the Inquirer, he had decided to move her into writing something she was “naturally suited for”. After relentlessly pleading, she had figured this was finally when she would take up Ben’s mantle, not be the newest gossip girl. To tell the truth, the thought of publishing her opinions for the world to judge looms over her like her own personal raincloud made of newsprint, though she wouldn’t dare admit it.

“Be fortunate you’re not writing obituaries this week,” he added, as if that was supposed to be a consolation to her. “You’ll be great at this, I know you will. You’ve got a strong voice, plenty to say, and 8 inches in the Sunday edition - go tell the world what they need to know,” and with that, before she could even think of protesting, Ellison grabbed a legal pad from his desk, glanced at his watch, and hurried out, leaving her still standing in the middle of his office, with her own insecurities crashing over her like waves at high tide.

***

Stepping out into the bright afternoon sunlight of the city, she racks her brain as to how she’s going to possibly fill an editorial column with something that people care about. What do people really care about, the Kardashians? Politics?

She’s always hearing how inspiration for writing should come from all around you, but if there was one thing that her life has been lately, it’s isolated. Even the last person she really confided in, Frank Castle, is in the wind. Vigilante types – she should’ve expected that they don’t stick around. Not that she’s really anything worth sticking around for.

Walking past the building that housed the former Nelson and Murdock office, her brain kicks into overdrive wondering what Matt was up to, how Foggy was. They were her support system at a time she desperately needed it, and they got close quickly, especially her and Matt. Now that they’re not around, Karen finds herself alone; well, not quite alone – she has damn near constant anxiety, and it feels like the tiniest things send back a swarm of feelings she’d much rather not feel. A Spanish classified ad, a soldier in uniform on the sidewalk, the block between East fourth and sixth streets; it would never quite be the same things that brought it on, but they would always invariably have the same outcome: fear.

Turning her key in the lock, Karen slides into her apartment, kicks off her pumps, and heads straight for the gin, dropping her purse on the floor before settling in on the couch. She looks around her apartment – she had thought of finding another place after everything that’s happened there, but she always manages to talk herself out of it, convincing herself that it’s not so bad and that she can deal with the ghosts that linger inside the walls.

Downing the first, she hesitated slightly before refilling her glass – looks like she’ll be drinking dinner…again. These days, it’s one of the best ways she’s found to curb the terror she feels from being alone, even though she knows that alone is what’s probably best, it still stings. Most nights, the loneliness burns more than the liquor.

With the alcohol overriding most of her thoughts for the moment, she picks up her phone and pulls up an all too familiar face in her contacts – Matthew Murdock, complete with a picture she snapped of him standing in the middle of the office, with a slightly exasperated expression, but still with that stupid charming grin of his on his face. Oh, how she missed that face, his voice, his laugh.

She kept scrolling – she wasn’t nearly drunk enough for that phone call, at least not tonight. Her thumb hesitated over another familiar face – a friendlier one, or at least one she was less pissed at.

Refreshing her drink, she taps the screen and dials Foggy.

*****

Late afternoon, and Foggy Nelson just settled back in his office after a day in court defending people he’s not entirely sure he wants to represent; he sighs heavily and figures that’s just the way life goes. We can’t all be Matthew “creepy heartbeat listener” Murdock. Foggy was sorting through a fresh stack of research, trying to remember a time when work wasn’t actively soul-sucking.

It was times like these that he actually missed the late night research-fests with Matt and Karen – the research and work had seemed less tedious with them around. Pushing up his sleeves, Foggy starts to dig into the pile of papers in front of him, when the chirping of his phone pulls him out of it.

“Franklin Nelson,” Foggy answers out of reflex, not even glancing at the screen first.

“Foggy, hey, it’s Karen.”

His heart skips a beat. Was she in trouble? It had seemed like a lifetime since he had heard her voice – “Karen! Hey! Everything alright?”

“Yeah, oh yeah, just figured it’d been awhile and thought maybe it’d be nice to catch up,” Karen quickly responded - a little too quickly to be totally okay, in Foggy’s opinion.

He leaned back in his chair, his legs stretching, pushing himself away from the desk; the back of his chair made a solid thud as it bumped into the wall.
“It has been too long. How have you been?” Foggy suspected that he wouldn’t get an honest answer to this right now.

“Not too bad, just life, you know? Anyway, how are you, at your big fancy law firm?” Karen deflected.

Nice redirection, Foggy thought, she would have made a good lawyer.

“Life’s good, got a fancy office, lots of work … nobody’s paid me in pie lately though, which I have to admit, I kind of miss,” Foggy quipped.

Karen chuckled, “Foggy, you know that baked goods aren’t an actual currency for legal services, right?”

“Hey, a guy can dream, right?” he joked. Though he thoroughly enjoyed getting compensated in real paychecks, there was something about the genuine gratitude of clients giving what they had and from their hearts that he missed.

He waits a beat. “But seriously, how are you doing?”

Karen hesitates – the silence on the other end of the line starts to grow, alarming Foggy with each passing moment, and telling him far more than her words had. Just as he starts to open his mouth to fill the silence, she finally responds:

“I, uh, I’m…” She stumbled over her words, trying to find where to start. “I’m terrified, Foggy, I thought it would get better once I wasn’t in the fray of it with the vigilantes and bad guys, hearing about how awful everything is, but it’s not. I close my eyes and panic when the memories come flooding back. And it's not getting better, and it’s not going away.”

Everything he had been working on before instantly vanished from his mind – Karen needed help, and he didn’t know how, but he wanted so badly to help, to make it all go away for her.

“Oh Karen, I’m sorry…” Foggy started.

“It’s okay, I just, I’m really sick of this feeling I can’t shake, being a nervous trembling mess all the time,” she cut in. She sounded exhausted – not that he could blame her.

Listening to her, he knew she had seen some crazy shit, hell, they all had. But the thought of it affecting Karen to this point made Foggy’s heart drop. This wasn’t the Karen he knew – she was different, there was something in her voice, her pattern of conversation – she wasn’t the same as he remembered.

“I try to sleep, and I can get to sleep alright, but what’s the point when I know I’ll just be up in an hour, terrified of the ghosts trapped in my memory, and wake up in way worse shape than I was before attempting sleep. This, it’s not me, and I…I don’t know how to fix it, how to get back, before…” She trailed off, an audible catch in her voice.

“Karen, It’s going to take time, maybe talking to someone? Keeping busy, taking your mind off things in the mean time?” he suggested, wondering how people actually cope with being shot and kidnapped, dealing with vigilantes, practically in their own backyard.

“I think the booze is doing a pretty good job of that one,” she responded.

So she had been drinking. He guessed that that answered his question of her coping methods, though this didn’t do a thing to help Foggy’s growing worry. Was he witnessing the self-destruction of Karen Page? Well, it wouldn’t exactly be something she would have had to deal with if it weren’t for Daredevil and Punisher and all these vigilantes who take the law into their own hands and wrap her up in their mess. He made a mental note to add Karen to the list of reasons why he’s angry at Matt.

Maybe if he’d tried harder, actively kept Karen away from Frank’s case, if Matt hadn’t abandoned them for his bullshit heroics, maybe Karen wouldn’t be like this. She’d probably be better off without having gotten involved with Matt Murdock, though now that she had, he can’t exactly tell if she really is better off without him.

Karen was starting to remind him of the headstrong PI who freelances at the firm – Jessica something or other. Though, Jessica is a lot more gruff and has about all the same sweetness as a surly Russian circus bear that’s been provoked, but there was still that strong, stubborn, don’t-take-shit-from-anyone quality they both shared. He admired that, in a strange way. His assistant had told him about her story – functioning alcoholic would be putting it way too mildly, though he honestly couldn’t say he’d blame her.

“You know, there’s a girl here at the firm, the new one, who went through some shit. I don’t know what exactly, but she’s been this way for awhile, and she tries to drink whatever memories away too,” Foggy started, it not even occurring to him that he was digging his own grave in this conversation.

Silence. “…Uh, you’re comparing me to your new alcoholic secretary?”

Shit. Wrong thing to say. May as well at least find where I was going with it, Foggy thought. “No, I mean, she’s not my secretary,” Oops. “I mean, she’s gotten strong, and angry, and mean, and scary. She pushes everyone away and spends, from what I can tell, most of her time drinking alone. Karen, you’re strong, but sweet, and not like that – I could tell from the first time we stepped into that interrogation room. Even Matt could see it.” Shit. Wrong thing again – why did he have to bring Murdock into this?

“You really think so, Foggy?” Karen’s voice came through the receiver meekly and quietly.

“Yeah, I do,” Foggy replied with all the raw honesty he had. “And I care about you Karen, you’re my friend, and I can’t just stand by and watch this city destroy you. It kills me watching it define your life, dictate your moves. I don’t know when, or how, or if things will ever be okay again, but I don’t want to lose you too.” Foggy was not expecting any of that to come tumbling out of his mouth, much less with any sense of coherency. But he was honest. And that’s all you can be, in life, especially with your friends.

As the thought popped into his head, he hastily added, “and from the sound of it, you don’t want to lose yourself either. You’re still in control, Karen, not the fear, not the city, not anyone else. You.”

Was it too much? Did he lecture her? Foggy started doubting his little speech, fearing that it would set her off, or send her into a flurry of emotions. She seemed rational, but he never could quite figure her out. Apparently she couldn’t either, right now.

Her voice finally came after a several moments, wavering slightly, but sounding steadier than it had all conversation: “Thank you, Foggy.”

***

After nearly a week consisting of writer’s block, panic attacks, more booze than food, and feeling woefully inadequate, it really was down to the wire for Karen. She’d been at the Bulletin office all day – she came in early that morning thinking that maybe the bustle of a full deadline day would help motivate and inspire her, but, no such luck.

Ellison had given her a couple ideas – mostly writing about what she knows; he suggested she could write about the Punisher, do an op-ed on the legal state of Hell’s Kitchen, or even write an editorial on a social issue – however, each time she would think of an idea, she couldn’t seem to actually write anything. And now she was in trouble. The column wasn’t exactly her choice, but it was an opportunity for her to get her voice out there – maybe make a difference, change some minds. The more she came to terms with getting her own column, the better she felt about it…well, until it came to actually writing it. That part still worried her, especially now that she could count the hours she had left to do it on one hand.

With the all too familiar feeling of anxious uneasiness creeping into her chest once again, she walks across the mostly empty office to the kitchenette and pours herself a cup of coffee, mostly out of habit by this point, not because she actually needed the caffeine to stay awake. As the clock ticked closer to Sunday deadline, the more the anxiety twisted up her insides and settled in. Ellison had picked the wrong person; she had picked the wrong career – Why did she think she could do this? She knew how to answer phones and reconcile accounting ledgers, and research public records; what made her think that she was qualified to share her thoughts with the world?

She glances around – aside from the intern playing solitaire at the breaking news desk in the corner and shadows moving around in the lit-up layout office, everyone was gone. They had finished their assignments, proofread everything, and long since left. They had other places to be and other things to worry about, unlike her.

Back at her desk cradling a mug of coffee that’s more aromatic than flavorful, she lets out an arduous sighs as she tries to think through how to start. There’s so much to say, and yet she stares blankly at the old, beat-up keyboard that the return button sticks on and the space bar clacks noisily on – stuck, at an impasse of words.

She sat and thought, trying to let her mind wander in a productive way, reflecting on the people she knew and considered the strongest, in spite of whatever life threw at them: her parents, Ben, Frank, Matt… Matt, “Daredevil, the man without fear.” Karen rolled her eyes at the thought – Matt Murdock, the same man who pushes people away in fear of making a mess of everything, the same man who is terrified of losing everyone he cares about, has been given the honestly laughable moniker.

Struck with a rapidly growing idea, she set down her coffee and tugged her keyboard closer:

“Fear. It effects everyone in a multitude of different ways; it’s what twists up your insides and puts that knot in your throat; like an elephant curled up on your chest causing shallow breaths that come in gasps, causing you to wonder if it will ever go away, if it ever gets better. Why are we afraid? The worry of losing someone, being alone, dying, failing, trauma, past events, future events – point is, it doesn’t really matter what we’re afraid of, we all have our anxieties, what really matters is how we deal with it, how we use that fear.

Some people are desperate to rid themselves of it by any means necessary: alcohol, denial, meaningless companionship – anything to silence the demons and find even a brief sense of safe haven. Others embrace the fear, using it to fuel their passion, insecurities, and even hate. But there is no getting rid of it, not really. It never really goes away – it’s always with you; an ever present predator, always lurking, just waiting for an opportunity to sink its claws in, crippling you in an instant.

But some people, when fear takes hold of them, they take action. They see the things that terrify them and take it upon themselves to make it stop, to do something – anything. The ones who see the world for what it can be and offer themselves up as the catalyst for the betterment of society – they are the heroes we need.

Some feel that the way to conquer their fears is to punish those who do wrong; others feel that a more compassionate approach leads to a more productive path. Which is right? Should those who inflict pain and instill fear be stopped, or forgiven? Will either make the constant nightmare stop?

At the end of the day, we all just have to do what we believe in, and hope it actually makes a difference. We can’t always make the whole world a better place, but if we all don’t at least try to take action and better our little corner of it, then we let fear win.

There is no action more worth it than spreading the hope that things will get better; maybe if we all keep believing it, one day they will be better. We can’t give up, can’t let fear beat us – fight the fear, and never lose hope that you can make things better.”

Karen read carefully over her work, pausing to occasionally move a comma. Swirling the last dregs of coffee left in her mug, she downed it, pausing briefly before adding her name to the bottom.

The thought of becoming Karen Page, the Bulletin’s new gossip gal, suddenly overwhelmed her; all of New York knowing her by name, enemies, everyone knowing exactly where to find her – all previous anonymity lost. She quickly obliterated all mention of her name, pummeled the save button, and sent it off.

Panicking, she sprints weaves through the desks and storms into the layout office. Looking over the shoulder of a designer hunched over the computer screen, Ellison stares up at her as Karen bursts in the room.

“Problems, Miss Page?” he asks, in response to her harried demeanor.

“Can I be ‘Ask Allison’?” she begged, forgetting all decorum in a moment of sheer manic frenzy.

Ellison furrowed his brow, sensing where she was going with this. “You can’t be ‘Ask Allison’, because nobody’s asked you anything and last time I checked, you're not Allison. Is your piece done?”

“Yeah, it’s just waiting on the last line,” she replied, leaning against the door.

“And you want a signature, that’s what this is about?” Ellison surmised. She nodded.
“I don’t care if you write it as ‘Sprinkles the Wonder Clown’. But you have three minutes to come up with a pen name and submit. Yours is the last puzzle piece we’re waiting on, Miss Page.”

He meant it. Deadlines were absolutely absolute, and if you think he didn’t have a puff piece about puppies to drop in her place all ready to go if she missed it, you’d be dead wrong.

Racing back to her computer, heels wildly clacking on the tile, she dove into her chair and stared at her keyboard. Frantically racking her brain for ideas, she remembered something Mrs. Cardenas had said to her once. She had called her an Angel.

Resting her elbows on the edge of the desk, Karen ran her hands through her hair. Sure it was cheesy, but it was the best she had, and she was beyond out of time. Not putting a second more of thought into it, her fingers moved swiftly across the noisy keys. Save. Send. Done.

“Got it, Page. Looks good,” Ellison called from the other end of the office.

As she went to close her work, her eyes lingered on the last line:

“Love Always, Paige Angel”