Matt’s faith has kept him going for as long as he can remember. He hadn’t had a perfect childhood, but he had always prayed before bed. And then, after the accident and his father’s death, he had only started to pray more. Life had gone on.
Going to church helps with the guilt. He does terrible things, awful things, and even without the mask, he is a bad person. He is a sinner and he has so much to atone for—but he tries. He confesses as often as he can, and he tries to do better.
But the guilt only gets worse. He still lies to Foggy, even with the truth about his secret identity out there. He lies to Karen even more. He hides bruises and scars, and he lies and says I’m fine. He does unspeakable things at night.
Matt didn’t use to believe in the death penalty. He used to think that no one deserved that, but being Daredevil blurred the lines a little. If the villains deserved the pain and suffering, why didn’t they deserve death? He didn’t want them to live, to continue on with their vile existence, so why should he let them? They were at his mercy, he could deliver justice, and—and he’s disgusted with himself.
The first time it happens, he doesn’t even do it on purpose. He hits too hard, pulls back too slow, and the man’s breathing ceases. His heart stops, slowly, so slowly… His skin grows cold alarmingly fast.
The next day, he finds himself at church, but he does not confess.
Forgive me, father, for I have sinned—but there is no forgiving this, he knows that much. There is no going back; there is no penance that could absolve this sin.
It happens again, easier this time.
Then again. And again.
The prayers don’t come quite as easily. Why would God be listening? Why would God care? If anything, God should condemn him, should smite him where he kneels, should unleash his wrath—
Father Lantom worries, especially when Matt’s visits become a little less frequent. Foggy and Karen worry too, but he lies, piling on guilt, and blames his odd behavior on tiredness. Claire asks about all the blood.
God, there is so much blood on his hands.
A month passes, and he does not set foot inside a church. Once, he stands outside, but where it used to feel familiar and comforting, all he feels now is judgment and a waiting sentence. He does not go to confession.
Caffeine keeps him going. The adrenaline that he finds when he lets out his rage, fists pummeling into warm flesh, keeps him going. The blood staining his hands and his soul keeps him going. He subsists on lies and guilt and anger—anger at the world, at himself, at his god for deserting him.
FILL: Matt loses faith
Going to church helps with the guilt. He does terrible things, awful things, and even without the mask, he is a bad person. He is a sinner and he has so much to atone for—but he tries. He confesses as often as he can, and he tries to do better.
But the guilt only gets worse. He still lies to Foggy, even with the truth about his secret identity out there. He lies to Karen even more. He hides bruises and scars, and he lies and says I’m fine. He does unspeakable things at night.
Matt didn’t use to believe in the death penalty. He used to think that no one deserved that, but being Daredevil blurred the lines a little. If the villains deserved the pain and suffering, why didn’t they deserve death? He didn’t want them to live, to continue on with their vile existence, so why should he let them? They were at his mercy, he could deliver justice, and—and he’s disgusted with himself.
The first time it happens, he doesn’t even do it on purpose. He hits too hard, pulls back too slow, and the man’s breathing ceases. His heart stops, slowly, so slowly… His skin grows cold alarmingly fast.
The next day, he finds himself at church, but he does not confess.
Forgive me, father, for I have sinned—but there is no forgiving this, he knows that much. There is no going back; there is no penance that could absolve this sin.
It happens again, easier this time.
Then again. And again.
The prayers don’t come quite as easily. Why would God be listening? Why would God care? If anything, God should condemn him, should smite him where he kneels, should unleash his wrath—
Father Lantom worries, especially when Matt’s visits become a little less frequent. Foggy and Karen worry too, but he lies, piling on guilt, and blames his odd behavior on tiredness. Claire asks about all the blood.
God, there is so much blood on his hands.
A month passes, and he does not set foot inside a church. Once, he stands outside, but where it used to feel familiar and comforting, all he feels now is judgment and a waiting sentence. He does not go to confession.
Caffeine keeps him going. The adrenaline that he finds when he lets out his rage, fists pummeling into warm flesh, keeps him going. The blood staining his hands and his soul keeps him going. He subsists on lies and guilt and anger—anger at the world, at himself, at his god for deserting him.
Matt stops praying.
The world goes on.