I really don't think I did your prompt justice, but something about it just spoke to me and I had to give it a try. Other author anons, feel free to fill it too please!
DD
“No, God, no,” Matt moans when he runs his hands across his face, feeling smooth skin instead of weathered and aged flesh. “No!” he screams, sitting up and feeling for the first thing he can get his hands on. He throws the clock clear across the room, not caring that it’s now scattered into tiny little broken pieces on the floor.
“Oh, Matthew,” a voice suddenly coos, and Matt’s already on his feet, rage racing through his veins. “This is never going to end. You know that.” And it laughs, fucking cackles at him.
Matt’s so angry that there’s tears in his eyes now, and all he can think about is the unbearable emptiness that’s gnawing at his chest. “Why can’t you just let me die?” he shouts, voice hoarse and worn.
“Matthew,” and now the voice is right by his ear, though there’s no breath ghosting across his skin. It’s just..still. “You are a one-of-a-kind. A truly unique specimen. And this city needs you.”
Matt shakes his head, hands tightening into fists at his sides. “No, not anymore. I can’t do this anymore!”
The voice laughs at him again, and he covers his ears, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You mean to tell me, you don’t think this is a fitting life for the Devil of Hell’s kitchen?” It’s silent for a moment, before the voice is loud and clear by his head again, only this time, it speaks in a voice so heartbreakingly familiar to Matt’s ears. “Why, my boy, haven’t you ever heard of purgatory?”
Foggy!
Nonono…this can’t be happening!
No...I can't do this again
Matt falls to his knees, shaking his head violently. “Leave me alone!” he pleads, voice breaking, but the thing keeps talking, this time in Karen’s voice and it burns his ears.
“But I thought you liked hurting people, Matt! You like to give beatings, do you not?”
“I was…I was only h-helping…”
“No, helping is listening to your friends! Using the law, remember, Matty?” And Matt chokes back a sob because it’s using Foggy’s voice again. It’s bad enough that it’s been almost two centuries since he’s actually heard it, and now it feels like there’s a knife being driven through his chest, but it’s a theoretical one, made up of all the guilt and pain he’s used as a crutch all these years.
“But you’re above the law, aren’t you, Matt?” And now it’s taunting him as Claire, and Matt’s ready to find the closest sharpest object because he really can’t take much more of this. “Torturing people is just a game to you, isn’t it?”
“Just let me die…please…” he begs, and suddenly there’s a symphony of laughter beating on his eardrums - Foggy’s, Karen’s, Claire’s…
“Sorry, Matty,” and this time, this time it’s Jack Murdock’s voice speaking. “But that’s not going to happen. I told you not to fight with your hands, but you just couldn’t listen, could you?”
“I-I’m sorry,” Matt sobs, body shaking from the tremors that now wrack it.
“Sorry isn’t good enough,” it sneers, using a tone Father Lantom never would have. “And you’ll find that out again and again and again!”
Matt curls into a ball on the floor, fingers twisting in his hair and pulling as hard as he can.
He needs pain right now.
“See you next time, Matty,” it laughs in Stick’s ancient voice, and then, the room is still.
He lays there for what feels like an eternity, but finally pulls himself up. Using all the energy he can muster, he makes his way into the bathroom, letting his nails scrape against the walls as he comes to stand in front of the mirror. He can’t see what’s staring back at him, but it doesn’t matter anyway.
He’s not there for that.
The punch he throws lands a direct hit to the glass. Shards break off, both small and large into the sink below him. With a shaking hand, he picks up one of the larger pieces and takes a deep breath before digging it into his skin and running it down his left wrist. He somehow manages to repeat the action to his right. Once he’s done, he loosens his grip on the glass, listening as it, along with his blood, clatters to the floor.
It’s raining down hard now, and dizziness hits him like a punch to the jaw. He stumbles back against the wall, sliding further and further down it until he reaches the cold, hard floor.
It’s not the first time he’s died, but he’s praying it’ll be the last.
Fill/mini-fill - Life's But a Dream
DD
“No, God, no,” Matt moans when he runs his hands across his face, feeling smooth skin instead of weathered and aged flesh. “No!” he screams, sitting up and feeling for the first thing he can get his hands on. He throws the clock clear across the room, not caring that it’s now scattered into tiny little broken pieces on the floor.
“Oh, Matthew,” a voice suddenly coos, and Matt’s already on his feet, rage racing through his veins. “This is never going to end. You know that.” And it laughs, fucking cackles at him.
Matt’s so angry that there’s tears in his eyes now, and all he can think about is the unbearable emptiness that’s gnawing at his chest. “Why can’t you just let me die?” he shouts, voice hoarse and worn.
“Matthew,” and now the voice is right by his ear, though there’s no breath ghosting across his skin. It’s just..still. “You are a one-of-a-kind. A truly unique specimen. And this city needs you.”
Matt shakes his head, hands tightening into fists at his sides. “No, not anymore. I can’t do this anymore!”
The voice laughs at him again, and he covers his ears, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You mean to tell me, you don’t think this is a fitting life for the Devil of Hell’s kitchen?” It’s silent for a moment, before the voice is loud and clear by his head again, only this time, it speaks in a voice so heartbreakingly familiar to Matt’s ears. “Why, my boy, haven’t you ever heard of purgatory?”
Foggy!
Nonono…this can’t be happening!
No...I can't do this again
Matt falls to his knees, shaking his head violently. “Leave me alone!” he pleads, voice breaking, but the thing keeps talking, this time in Karen’s voice and it burns his ears.
“But I thought you liked hurting people, Matt! You like to give beatings, do you not?”
“I was…I was only h-helping…”
“No, helping is listening to your friends! Using the law, remember, Matty?” And Matt chokes back a sob because it’s using Foggy’s voice again. It’s bad enough that it’s been almost two centuries since he’s actually heard it, and now it feels like there’s a knife being driven through his chest, but it’s a theoretical one, made up of all the guilt and pain he’s used as a crutch all these years.
“But you’re above the law, aren’t you, Matt?” And now it’s taunting him as Claire, and Matt’s ready to find the closest sharpest object because he really can’t take much more of this. “Torturing people is just a game to you, isn’t it?”
“Just let me die…please…” he begs, and suddenly there’s a symphony of laughter beating on his eardrums - Foggy’s, Karen’s, Claire’s…
“Sorry, Matty,” and this time, this time it’s Jack Murdock’s voice speaking. “But that’s not going to happen. I told you not to fight with your hands, but you just couldn’t listen, could you?”
“I-I’m sorry,” Matt sobs, body shaking from the tremors that now wrack it.
“Sorry isn’t good enough,” it sneers, using a tone Father Lantom never would have. “And you’ll find that out again and again and again!”
Matt curls into a ball on the floor, fingers twisting in his hair and pulling as hard as he can.
He needs pain right now.
“See you next time, Matty,” it laughs in Stick’s ancient voice, and then, the room is still.
He lays there for what feels like an eternity, but finally pulls himself up. Using all the energy he can muster, he makes his way into the bathroom, letting his nails scrape against the walls as he comes to stand in front of the mirror. He can’t see what’s staring back at him, but it doesn’t matter anyway.
He’s not there for that.
The punch he throws lands a direct hit to the glass. Shards break off, both small and large into the sink below him. With a shaking hand, he picks up one of the larger pieces and takes a deep breath before digging it into his skin and running it down his left wrist. He somehow manages to repeat the action to his right. Once he’s done, he loosens his grip on the glass, listening as it, along with his blood, clatters to the floor.
It’s raining down hard now, and dizziness hits him like a punch to the jaw. He stumbles back against the wall, sliding further and further down it until he reaches the cold, hard floor.
It’s not the first time he’s died, but he’s praying it’ll be the last.