The funny thing about having your face on every newspaper in town, your entire life exposed and your secret revealed is that you realize how futile it is to try to hide. So, when it's all out there, it's a kind of relief. Relief I could have done without - definitely - but relief nonetheless.

It did make me realize just how much of my life I've spent trying to hide from people. It started after the accident when there were moments where I wished I could literally disappear. I was already a total geek, and having to show up at school again with a white cane didn't exactly help. On the other hand, maybe it would have been worse if I'd been one of the cool kids. At least there wasn't anywhere for me to go on the social ladder; I was already at the bottom. It did make me more self-conscious though, at least for a while. Eventually, I decided I couldn't let the fact that people might look at me get to me. You get used to it. It's amazing what you get used to, really.

After a while, I had to start hiding my powers. I didn't get a handle on these senses overnight, didn't wake up one day and discovered I didn't need the cane anymore or that I could recognize things without touching them. Even after I met Stick, the implications of what he was teaching me took a while to really sink in. After months of training, I found myself completely transformed in ways I never could have imagined. It didn't give me my sight back, but it allowed me to do things I shouldn't be able to do. But no one noticed. In a way, I guess it was a good thing that there were still things I couldn't do like a sighted person, still can't. If everything I had to do, every move, tactic or strategy was an act, it would have been harder. Instead, the pretense came naturally. That doesn't mean I'm not aware of it, or that I don't think about it. There's guilt involved. I guess it just gets mixed up in all the other guilt I feel.

When you put a mask on, that's another way of hiding. At the same time, it's more direct, more honest. When your face is hidden, and you go by a name everyone knows is not on your birth certificate, everyone knows it's a game. People know you're hiding, concealing your identity. Most don't even ask why. There are plenty of costumes in this city, people accept it as a a kind of alternative lifestyle.

Now people know who's behind the mask. Well, they think they know. I'm not talking, so the question is still out there with all the doubts and the speculations. I think I've decided to just let them speculate. I do what I have to to keep my people safe, but I've said all that needs to be said. Eventually, people move on.

"What's that smell?" Foggy sniffs the air and comes to a stand still.

"You're going to have to be a little bit more specific." I smile knowingly even though I don't really know what he's talking about. My nose isn't like the next guy's, if you know what I mean, so I can't be sure which of the thousands of molecules bombarding my nose at any one moment is the offending party here.

"It's... wait." He ducks back into the alley we just passed and stops right next to a garbage can. We're not very far away from the main street. I think I get what he's after now.

"I smell a rat," I say jokingly, and Foggy turns to me sporting what I imagine to be a look of exasperation.

"You are so full of it."

"I'm not kidding actually. Look a little harder, and I think you'll probably find a dead rat in there somewhere."

"What? God, you're serious." He takes a step back.

"The really sad part is that this city is so full of decomposing rodents that I didn't even get what you were talking about. Of course, you don't usually find them in garbage cans."

"That is gross!"

I shrug and try to act cool. "It's just the circle of life, my friend."

"Thanks for reminding me of my mother flushing my goldfish down the toilet." Foggy gets moving again and his hand on my back encourages me to do the same.

"I didn't know you had a goldfish."

"I was eight, and I don't like to talk about it." I can hear his smile in his voice in spite of his attempt to play it straight. "In her defense, it was dead already."

"Why don't you tell me more about it over coffee?"

"Nice segue. It's my time to buy, isn't it?" We stop outside or favorite coffee shop.

"Yeah." I inhale deeply. "Smell that?"

"Oh yeah, much better."

When I was locked up, I thought a lot about the dark. I know it sounds like an odd thing to say for someone who hasn't actually seen any light in two decades, but it's really not so strange when you think about it. I've come to associate the feeling of darkness with other things and in prison, it was like a feeling I just couldn't shake. Darkness is thick walls closing in on me, damp cool air that barely moves and a murky smell that belongs in deep caves. It's the feeling of being trapped and lost; bewildered because the rug has been pulled from under your feet. Not unlike how the physical darkness felt the first time around, I guess.

One thing the dark does is bring out the ghosts. I had entire conversations with my dad in my head, which is funny since he wasn't that much of a talker when he was alive. At first, I thought I was going nuts, but later, after I thought I'd lost Foggy too, I didn't even care. I knew my dad wasn't really there, but it helped to talk to him. I got to say many of the things I'd left unsaid, tell him about the life I'd hidden from him and the life I'd had after he was gone. Wherever he is, I hope he was really listening and I hope he understands. And I hope he can forgive me for some of the things I've done where I find it hard to forgive myself.

I don't think about prison much anymore. Sometimes, vivid scenes of the more intense moments come to me in my dreams, causing me to wake up gasping for air. But when the dream gives way to consciousness, the smell of fresh coffee and the light brush of a breeze through an open window, it doesn't feel so dark anymore. Even my messed up life has its lighter moments.

When I was growing up, I was the only Catholic kid I knew of who didn't have any brothers or sisters. It's not as if people had entire litters or anything, but two or three kids at least. I was also the only one of my friends who lived with a single father. When I was little, I missed having a mother more than anything, it's only as an adult I've missed having siblings, particularly after my father died. Suddenly, I was the only survivor of our two-person family and the sole carrier of memories that are now mine alone. I wished someone else remembered Dad like I do, that I could talk about him or growing up with him with someone else who was there too.

At the same time, I think a brother or sister would have changed the dynamic we had. The way things were, we had no one but each other to look out for us, something we were both acutely aware of. During the tough times, that responsibility kept us going. When I was struggling, he had to put his own stuff aside, and I did the same for him. Some would probably say that I didn't get the chance to really be a child, but it wasn't like that. I just learned early on never to shy away from responsibility, to deal with things, and to be the maker of my own fortune. My father was a great father, but he was only one man and there was no one else around to pick up the slack.

I don't really think my dad wished he had any more children, but I think he wished there had been another parent around sometimes. I never gave him much trouble, but I know he felt unsure of himself, wondering if he was doing enough. When I was blinded, the stakes were raised even higher. We worked as a family because he knew I could look after myself while he was away. After the accident, he didn't know what I could do or ever be expected to do. I didn't either. But he was good at hiding his doubts from me, and I only knew because I know about these things. Even back then.

But we did it. And it's sad to think that I am the only one to remember the trials, tribulations, and ultimate triumph of the Murdocks. Just as I will be alone to carry the grief of the moment it was all taken away.

I think I get animals better than most people in many ways. Most animals rely on their senses of smell and hearing more than people while the latter are much more visual. So, I guess you could say I get a dog's view of the world a lot of the time. I will often know why animals are acting strangely, why dogs stop at a particular street corner or why they bark at something unseen. I get it. I hear what they hear, and smell what they smell. And I do like animals, I've just never had a pet and don't think I'm the right kind of person to take care of anything that's actually alive right now. I suppose a cat would be low-maintenance enough, but with my luck Bullseye would probably show up and kill it just for fun. Sorry if I'm being a little dramatic here, but my life hasn't been going well lately. So, no pets. At least not now.

Of course, the pet question comes up in conversation from time to time. Or, more specifically, the dog question. Ever since shortly after I was blinded, people I barely know have asked me why I don't have a guide dog, the (mistaken) assumption being that if you're totally blind, you need a dog. Naturally, I don't need a dog. I don't need a cane either, but the latter is at least somewhat useful. Dogs are friendly and love you without even knowing you, but there's not a single thing a dog can do that I can't. They don't hear any better, and I'm pretty sure they don't have a better sense of smell either. Okay, so maybe they see better than I do, but that's irrelevant since they can't actually tell me about it. In fact, the only way I'd get any kind of use out of a dog would be if it could:

1) Read street signs. There are parts of town where that would be useful.

2) Let me know if we're passing a sign announcing some kind of "get ten CDs for the price of one" deal. No, I don't buy a lot of CDs, but that might be because I'm missing a bunch of sweet deals I don't know about.

3) Read and remember license plate numbers. Although, I would have to take it out on patrol with me for that to really start paying off (which reminds me of that time Foggy tried to stick me with a canine partner...). It's kind of awkward trying to describe a suspect's getaway car to the cops when your only ways of doing so is to give its make, model (if you can identify it), point out that it had a broken muffler and smelled of pot and some kind of pine-shaped air freshener. But I suppose a talking dog would be even stranger. Also, I'm not exactly on good terms with the cops anymore.

4) Handle touch screens. In fact, this goes for most things in the screen category. Ninjas are easier to deal with (though doing so is usually more painful than the bruised ego of having to ask an innocent bystander for a favor).

5) Lick the scraps from Foggy's supposedly empty containers of Chinese food from the place around the corner. They stink up the office. Foggy should get better Chinese food, though I'm not sure he'd be able to tell the difference.

6) Keep Foggy entertained while I'm out. The guy is really social and I'm not much to talk to these days. If the dog could actually talk that would work out really well.

There are probably a few other things a reasonably intelligent talking dog with some degree of literacy could be used for but since that kind isn't readily available, I think I'll pass. I guess it would be nice to have someone waiting for you when you get home now that the house is empty all the time, but taking care of an animal takes time I just don't have. Maybe some day in another life or fifteen years from now. Until then, at least I've got Foggy. I don't even need those CD deals as long as he decides to put up with me, he gets me a couple every year for my birthday anyway. Puts a whole new spin on "man's best friend."

I wasn't there when the end came. I never heard the shot. Or I may have, but I hear guns going off all the time so if I did hear something, I wouldn't have known anyway. Especially not that far uptown. Afterward I kept thinking that I should have stayed after the fight. The way dad really wanted me to leave should have roused my suspicions, but it didn't. My old man could play it cool alright. He knew he'd probably never see me again, and he still managed to send me off with a quick hug and a pat on the back. His voice never wavered, and if he was ever afraid, nothing about him gave it away. "You boys take care of each other," he said just as we walked out the back door. That didn't strike me as odd either. He said that all the time.

An hour later, Foggy and I were having burgers at out favorite place. Dad must have already been dead by then, while we were goofing off and eating fries. Maybe I should have noticed he was gone. For some reason I keep thinking that I should have felt it or something, but I didn't. When we got to our place, there was a message on the answering machine. No details, but a somber voice and a number to call. I didn't know then either, but I got that sinking feeling you just can't shake. My heart was beating so hard, It was hard to believe Foggy couldn't hear it too. Foggy was the one who called back. Ten minutes later we were back in his car. I didn't scream or cry or do anything, not then at least. It wasn't real yet. We just sat quietly the whole way down to the morgue.

Man, I hated the smell of that place. As soon as we entered the room he was in, I hated it even more because I could tell right away that he was in there. Foggy signed all the paperwork because they wouldn't accept my testimony, which normally would have pissed me off. I suppose on some level it did, but I was just too empty inside to feel anything at all. But I did get to touch my dad one last time at least. I'm not sure that was standard protocol, but allowances were made. When I felt the blood on him it was like being hit in the stomach with a bowling ball. My knees began to buckle and Foggy finally pulled me out of there and into the nearest bathroom so I could wash my hands off. And then... there was just this pain.

That pain was my companion every second of that first week. when I made the decision to go back to our old place to "regroup," or whatever you'd call it. It changed constantly, from the dull ache of just missing him to that sharp stabbing pain that came every time I realized he was gone for good. There were times I couldn't imagine myself moving past it, times when I believed it really was the end. Of course, it wasn't. It was the beginning of something new. For the second time in my life, something had come along to change everything. To change me.

I don't often remember what I dream. I think I'm just too tired at night. When the alarm goes off in the morning, I go straight from deep sleep to whatever state of semi-consciousness would describe what my brain does in the morning. Yeah, it's a crappy way to start the day, but it's the only one I've got. I guess I could either grow a new head and start living like a normal person or just keep being me. Unfortunately, that means very little sleep.

Of course, I do occasionally remember my dreams. I've dreamed of random clients I've had years earlier, relived some of my most violent encounters and had the chance to meet people long gone. One thing that strikes me as odd is that when I dream about things that happened a very long time ago or people I knew as a kid, I still experience them through my senses as they are now. Every once in a while, I'll dream about something that I can actually see, but it's very rare. It happened more often ten years ago, but the brain forgets after a while. Even when I'm awake, it's very hard to picture certain things. Instead, if I dream about the apartment I grew up in, I dream about what it smelled or sounded like. When I first started having a hard time picturing things the way they used to look, it was really hard. I didn't want to forget. Gradually, I guess I've just come to appreciate other things. When I actually have them, my dreams can be very vivid. The smell of someone can be so real, I still think they're in the room when I wake up, like I can still physically smell them. When you know some of the people I do, that can be pretty jarring.

Last night, I had one of those dreams that just didn't make any sense. It was something about Foggy coming up with some chili-infused coffee blend that he was going to start marketing under the brand name of Devil's Best and sell out of our office. Like I said, it didn't make sense at all. Until I woke up and realized I could smell the neighbors' coffee through the wall. Little things like that work their way into my dreams sometimes. I guess it's the same for everyone, but I can hear and smell things other people can't. I've had dreams invaded by dialogue from television shows reaching me from across the street or something rotting on the pavement outside. Throw that in with some of the more bizarre elements of my actual life, and the fact that I take frequent blows to the head and things can get pretty messed up.

Does the past stay with us? I suppose it does. I don't live in the past as much as people might think. But I would absolutely say that the past inspires most of what I do and shapes who I am. So, in a way, I do take it with me always. I think about all of the people I've lost every day. Thankfully, it's not all bad. I think we owe it to the people who have passed on to remember their lives more vividly than their deaths. In my case, that's hard sometimes, but I try to think about the good times. And, at the end of the day, there are many good things to remember. I have more than two decades worth of memories of my dad. The day he died shouldn’t be the most memorable day of our life together. The day he died created Daredevil, but I can’t have it take over everything else.

I know Foggy thinks I dwell on things, or over think things. I just know that with everything I could dwell on if I were the type, I’d have little time for anything else. There are people who are trapped in bad memories for as long as they live, and are never able to move forward. I’m not one of those people. I still hope for a happy ending, whatever that might be. Nothing will ever take away everything I’ve faced in my life or make it any easier or less painful, but I can’t give up. I’m never going to stop trying to make sense of things or give my time here some kind of purpose. I’ve learned to live with my past, the good and the bad. There are many things I'd change if I could. Too many to count. But I can't let the past drown me. Living with it and living in it are two different things.

I remember very clearly when the idea hit me that I might be able to teach myself to read again - for the third time. It was the summer when I was sixteen and I had tons of time to kill. School was out, dad had his own list of things to attend to, everything from boxing work-outs and sparring matches to the odd jobs he'd pick up from time to time. Meanwhile, I was bored beyond belief.

Growing up, most of my summers would be spent with my nose in a book, and now even that was a chore. It was almost a year and half after my accident and after sweating it out in Braille class for months, I had become pretty decent at it. I'm sure a heightened sense of touch helped, but it was still really hard to learn. At that stage, I probably should have been proud of the progress I'd made, but it bugged the hell out of me that reading had suddenly become something that had to be planned. I couldn't just run down to the library and pick out what I wanted, and even on the off chance that they actually had something I could read, it was probably something I knew inside and out already. The spontaneity was gone, and it bugged me so badly that people would have to read things to me all the time.

I did discover pretty quickly that my fingertips were sensitive enough to read the headlines in the paper. Nowadays, they're my least favorite part of any news story. Not only because I keep reading my name in all the wrong places, but because each letter has to be traced, which takes quite a bit of extra time. In the early days, however, that was the only print I could read at all.

But as much as necessity is supposedly the mother of all invention, boredom works pretty well too. Or maybe it was just sheer frustration that made me take a closer look at the paper Dad had brought home that particular June morning. I ran my hand over the page and noticed the lines there. It wasn't the first time, and I'm pretty sure most people can feel the lines of print in a newspaper if they try. But this time, I paid more attention to how uneven they were. Each line had a pattern. I couldn't make it out, but a crazy idea had taken hold. Maybe I could teach myself to make sense of it. I quickly became so excited at the thought of it, I thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest.

I immediately came up with a plan. Later that day, I took the bus to the library that was my regular "supplier," and asked to be shown the large print section. Ms. Tanner, the librarian who usually made it her business to at least try and cater to my every need probably thought I was getting my sight back or something, because she was almost as excited as I was. She seemed a little baffled, however, when I told her that I wanted to look around on my own. She had every right, I still can't find my way around a book case that's not my own in under half an hour, but I didn't want any eyewitnesses for this experiment. Besides, I knew I would have to try to find a book with a good layer of print, and who knew how long that would take.

When she was gone, I grabbed the first book my hand landed on, and opened it. I was so nervous my hands were trembling and my mouth was dry. It wasn't as if I had woken up that morning with the expectation of reclaiming the lost world of print, but after allowing myself to hope, I would have been heartbroken if it hadn't worked. And it didn't. Not really. But my hopes weren't completely smashed. I just had to come up with more realistic goals for myself.

For some reason, I had thought that if the letters were big enough and the layer of ink was high enough, I'd be able to somehow trace each letter, just like I had done with the headlines. That wasn't going to work, the letters were still too small. But I also realized that what I wanted wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. It just wasn't going to be as easy as flicking a switch. I was going to have to learn it the hard way. One word at a time.

Being reasonably creative, I decided to go back to the counter to ask Ms.Tanner to get me a large print copy of a book I already had in Braille at home. If I was going to break the code, I was going to need a Rosetta Stone. Clearly puzzled, she quickly obliged me, and I'm guessing she probably had to bite her tongue not to ask me what I was up to. On the bus on the way home, I clutched my newly acquired copy of To Kill a Mockingbird as it it were a stone tablet handed down from God. I had already spent many late nights honing my senses under Stick's guidance and had almost come to believe in miracles. With everything I could do, this particular trick shouldn't be impossible. I had beaten impossible odds before.

"When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow." That is the first sentence of To Kill a Mockingbird, and I know it by heart. I don't think I'll ever forget it. I read it in Braille a couple of times, to have it memorized, and then set out to match the meaning of those words to what I could feel on the printed page, trying to make sense of the shape. You see, an 'a' doesn't feel like you think it should. All those round, squiggly lines were never meant to be read by touch, so knowing what an 'a' looks like isn't enough. You have to learn what it feels like. An 'a' is sort of oval, but bottom-heavy. Just like a 'p' is top-heavy and creates a dip in the line.

The key to figuring all of this was to learn to group the letters by various properties. Did it rise above the mid-line or dip below it? Was it round or thin? Did it open up at the top or on the bottom? The common words, I started memorizing as whole shapes. The less common ones I had to run through this engine in my head that seemed to run on probability and a memory of recurring patterns.

To this day, this trick is performed the same way. After that first long summer surrounded by books I had already read, I had it down. I had conquered the written word once again. In most ways, I had achieved what I wanted, but the experienced was lined with disappointment as well. Because, to tell you the truth, it's still not particularly easy to do. It never became effortless the way it was when I could read it by sight. It's quite the skill to have though, I must admit. Especially since it shouldn't be possible at all.

If my dad ever wondered what I was doing all day, he didn't ask. I guess he could probably tell that I had a secret project of some kind, and at sixteen I was probably deemed old enough to have a few secrets. Then again, he never figured out my much bigger secret either. But I don't think he would have minded my sneaking a peek of the sports section, though that was always the part he never minded reading out loud.

I have to admit that I was sort of a bookworm as a kid. There wasn't much else to do around the house, we only had basic cable, and Dad didn't let me do sports. Add to that the fact that we never really went anywhere. If I wanted to travel, I had to use my imagination and that's when books came in handy. We didn't have very many books either, but there was always the school library.

There was one book, however, that had managed to survive the intellectual black hole that was my father's childhood: a badly worn copy of Robin Hood printed some time in 1950. My dad even used to read from it when I was really little, and he wasn't normally the type of parent who did that kind of thing. Oh, he was devoted to me, without a doubt. He just went about raising me the old-fashioned way without any of those purposely pedagogical books that are supposed to grow children's minds. And he wasn't much of a literature buff.

So, with what I was exposed to, I was a big Robin Hood fan when I was around seven or eight. To an inner city kid, it was about as far away from my daily life as it gets, but I could still relate to it in a way. For me, it was never about being economically disenfranchised; we all were. But there were some kids who seemed to have more power than others, and those who did seemed to have gained it in ways that didn't seem fair.

I have never wanted to be anyone else, whether real or imagined, but when I was a kid I guess I wished I could have whipped out some Robin Hood moves. Or, at least, my own personal posse to help fight the good fight. I had neither. I guess I'm making up for it now.

"I don't understand..." I look at Foggy, completely dumbfounded. Well, I don't technically look at him, I face him, but that's just semantics.

"I mean it, Matt. Take off the tie." His voice has that sound that says he's dead serious. But then I hear a smile too. It's weird.

"Foggy, what are you...? What's wrong with this tie?" This is the first time I've worn it, but as far as I know it's a classic burgundy tie with a paisley pattern. There's no reason it shouldn't go with what I'm wearing.

"Well, we're due in court in an hour and Judge Baker is a little on the conservative side." He's definitely smiling now.

"I know that. You still haven't said what's wrong with it." He's just about to answer when Dakota walks in.

"Wow, Matt. That's... a great tie." If she were the type, she'd giggle, but instead there's this dry sarcasm. I always did like her sense of humor, but now I'm starting to feel like the butt of a joke.

"Okay, will you guys give me a break here? You gave me this for Christmas, Foggy. What gives?" They're both clearly enjoying themselves, and I have no idea why. It's a little annoying.

"You know, I never would have guessed you were the Mickey Mouse type." Dakota walks up to us, and I can tell that she and Foggy are giving each other some kind of look. I know I've been had.

"Sorry, Matt. I just couldn't resist." Foggy isn't holding back now, and that trademark chuckle of his makes it really hard to be angry at him.

"Okay, so I'm wearing a Mickey Mouse tie, is that it?" I try to be a good sport. This isn't the first time Foggy's played a trick on me, and some part of me appreciates that he's never really held back.

"Oh, but it's not just Mickey," Dakota says fingering the silky piece of fabric hanging from my neck, "Pluto is on it too. And a Christmas tree!"

"It's a Christmas tie?" For some reason that bugs me more than the Disney theme, since it's March.

"Well, it was a Christmas present." Foggy's loving this. "Are you mad?"

"Uh, no. That was... a cute joke. Real cute." I have to admit it, it's kind of funny, and a little embarrassing. I smile and I can feel myself blushing. "How did you pull this off?"

"I wasn't there when you opened it, remember? I knew that would give me away. But you can't pick up a written lie, can you?" Foggy sounds downright diabolical as he tells me his big master plan. I remember him describing the pattern in a note that came with the gift. Sneaky bastard.

"Okay, well, I think I have another one around here somewhere unless that one has naked women on it I don't know about."

"Nope, I've never seen you in one of those." Foggy laughs and gives me a pat on the back before he and Dakota turn to walk out of my office.

"You know I'm going to get you for this," I yell at his back.

"Yeah, I'm looking forward to it."

With him out of the room, I start loosening the knot and dump Mickey and Pluto in my desk drawer. Foggy is going down. I just need a plan.

When I was growing up, the other kids had a name for me. I didn't choose it, and I was never given the chance to find one that suited me better. So I took it. I pried it out of their mouths and claimed if for my own. Today I wear it like a badge. Because, at the end of the day, the words we use are just tokens, it's the meaning we give them with that matters. Or, sometimes, the manner in which they're spoken.

But, there are a few words I could do without, even though I realize that removing them from our collective vocabulary wouldn't really change anything. I wish it were that easy, but it's not. However, if I were given free reins and could actually make it happen, I'd get rid of all the ones that people use to negatively label people who belong to whatever group they're not in. You know which ones I'm talking about.

Secondly, I'd make about half the words in common legal jargon disappear. Sure, there are really good uses for quite a few of them, but I've never been a big fan of legalese. A lot of it seems to be specifically aimed at making non-lawyers feel like idiots, and puts the average person at a disadvantage when dealing with the legal system. Some lawyers I know of even seem to get some kind of power trip out of making their clients feel stupid. Of course, this practice isn't restricted to lawyers, but I'm not in a position to ask my dentist to stop numbering my teeth.

Then there's the language of political correctness. I never noticed this until after my eyes got fried, but there is apparently an unlimited number of ways of addressing a touchy subject without being direct. This is most likely done out of respect, but gets really silly really fast. Anyone who's ever been called "differently abled" will know what I'm talking about. And that's not a joke, it actually happens. Especially in the school system, which is really quite disturbing when you think about it.

Maybe what I'd like most is for people to actually think before they speak. Heck, I should give that a try myself. It's not as if I'm even close to perfect when it comes to letting the occasional four-letter word cross my lips. But I try to save them for the times they when seem to be just what the situation calls for. If you're on the heels of a drug dealer and then have to watch him slip through your fingers, a "shit" is definitely in order. And when your life is screwed up for the umpteenth time and you're so frustrated you could scream? Well, that might just call for something stronger.

It's a strange thing, hope. You need it so desperately, but every time you let yourself see any of the things you're hoping for too clearly, it scares the hell out of you. It makes you vulnerable. Hope works best when it's in the back of your mind, a vague feeling of there being something better just around the corner. But yeah, there are things I hope for.

I hope that my wife comes back to me as the person she once was, even though I know I shouldn't let myself go there. Am I better off hoping no matter what or just letting go? I don't know yet, and I'm not ready to think about it. Hoping for it gives me this knot in my throat that gets so big I can barely swallow. So, I try not to think about it. It's not denial, it's survival.

I hope that I'm making a difference. This one is a little easier to think about because if I didn't have some kind of idea that all of this is worth it more days than not, I really shouldn't be doing it. Okay, so maybe I shouldn't be doing it anyway, but that's not an option. Let's face it, I'm too far gone. This isn't something you back away from.

I hope that Dad is out there somewhere, and that he's looking out for me. And I really hope he's not too disappointed. But I know he'd be happy about the things I can do, these gifts. They don't fix everything, but they do make things easier. Well, except for that part of my life that's screwed up because I have them, and because I've decided to use them. Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I didn't have my heightened senses. Some things would be harder, for sure, but there are too many people out there who have been hurt because of what I do. But I'm not going to go there either. I just can't.

I hope that Foggy finds someone. He's such a great guy, and he spends way too much time worrying about me. I almost feel like I'm holding him back. More than anyone I know, he deserves to be happy. He'd be a great dad, a great husband. Someone who could just be where he's needed. Not like me, trying to be too many things at the same time.

I hope for little things too. I want my friends to be happy, I hope I win the cases I'm arguing in court this week, and I hope the sun shines tomorrow when I go to work. And I hope that when I go out tonight, it will be a good night. That I won't be needed or, if I am, that I will get there in time. So there, I said it all out loud. Now I just hope it won't come back to haunt me.

I’m impatient. I’m a lot of other things too that aren’t all good, but I think that one sort of feeds into some of my other weaknesses. I rush into things sometimes. Or, I don’t think things through. Impatience leads to frustration and when I’m frustrated it makes me cranky. It makes me stupid.

When I’m on someone’s trail, or tracking down a lead, it’s like I can’t get there soon enough. It grates me to have to wait, to know that something is just out of my reach. It annoys me when these simple thugs don’t see what’s in their best interest and just start talking. We all know where it’s going to end, why play games?

Don’t even get me started on some of the bigger players. Well, the ones who are and many of the ones who think they are. Most supervillains are divas and drama queens. They always need a shtick, a routine… A costume. Of course, I don’t really know what most of them look like, but if you go by a name like the Jester, that doesn’t exactly leave much to the imagination.

And I know I shouldn’t be the one to talk. Heck, I’ve got a costume too, but it’s the grandstanding that really gets to me. It’s bad enough that these guys get a kick out of messing with the lives of innocent people, but do they really have to put on a show too? It’s a waste of time. My time. Meanwhile, the clock is ticking and the people whose lives hang in the balance are waiting for me or some other guy in yet another costume to get a move on. Me? I’m just frustrated. Impatient.

As if the superheroing wasn’t frustrating enough, there’s my other job. I’m sure people who watch a lot of law shows on TV have this idea that it’s all very glamorous, like LA Law meets Law and Order with a sprinkle of Matlock. I don’t spend nearly as much time in court as I’d like to. Most lawyers spend most of their time doing paperwork and most cases are settled out of court. It’s not very glamorous, and it’s too darn time consuming.

Don’t get me wrong, I really do like my job, but I don’t like every aspect of it. Most of it is the same for everyone, and some of it takes me a little longer. When I was younger, I would have stuck it out anyway, back when my pride would get the better of my impatience. Now, I’m at least smart enough to try to use my time wisely. If Dakota can track down a stray nugget of information in some obscure database in the fraction of the time it takes me to do it, then I’m just not going to bother. I have nothing to prove, it’s a job that needs to get done. I’m needed elsewhere.

Of course, as with everything else, impatience isn’t all bad. It pushes me, joins forces with my stubborn streak and gets me out onto the streets almost every night so I can fight this war I’m not sure I can ever win. But I keep thinking that I’m at least doing something. I’m trying to make the world a little better, one interrupted robbery at a time. I can’t just sit around and wait for it. I’m just too impatient.

Seriously? I scare people on a daily basis, and not just on Halloween. Part of it’s deliberate, and part of it isn’t. I guess it all depends on what part of my life you’re looking at, because whatever guise I’m in, I’m bound to scare someone.

I dress up almost every night in a devil costume, and I don’t even want to get into what that says about me, so I’ll leave that for now. It’s not only a vain attempt to hide my civilian identity, the purpose of which is becoming less and less clear at this point, I do it to strike fear into people. I do it so that maybe, I won’t have to resort to violence. It may sound strange coming from me, but I don’t enjoy violence. I don’t enjoy smacking that club into someone’s jaw and tasting blood in the air. I don’t like hearing someone scream or the sound of broken bones. I’m not going to say I’ve never crossed the line, or that I haven’t taken some amount of pleasure in seeing justice served, even when delivered with brute force. But, that’s not why I do it. I’m doing it to make it stop.

This image I’ve created has saved a lot of people over the years. For every beaten man I’ve left in my wake, there is another who’s been scared straight. People are afraid of me. It’s not so bad really. Fear works. Fear makes people reevaluate their lives, shakes them to the core, and forces them to deal with the consequences of their actions. In my neighborhood, you don’t commit a violent crime and expect to get away with it. I won’t let you. I don’t want to resort to violence, and on a good day, I don’t have to. Fear is my ally.

But fear isn’t just that simple primal emotion I can smell in cold damp alleys, set to the tune of the deep, fast thump of a beating heart. There’s a more insidious kind of fear that I meet every single day, in my other life. I met it just this morning when I went out for breakfast, in the form of a waitress barely out of her teens. I heard it in the faint sigh of relief when I left. I don’t need to put on a devil costume to scare people, I just need to walk out the door. I’m a reminder of one of people’s worst fears. And I’m not just saying that; it’s been statistically proven. Blindness is right up there with cancer, AIDS and, well, death.

The sad part is that it’s not the kind of fear that makes people better, it’s the kind of fear that breeds ignorance. It fuels the kinds of ideas that let us think that there is more that separates us than there is that unites us. It’s the same fear that has kept us at each other’s throats for centuries, quarreling over differences of religion, oppressing those who look different from ourselves and denying people the right to be just that. People.

I don’t bite just because I can’t look you in the eye. But I might if you bring violence my way. Except it won’t be a bite, but a blow. Unless it’s a good day, and a mere visit from the devil is just enough to make you see the light.

I’ve had a few days in my life that seemed like they would never end. Usually, they come after one of those events that cuts your life into different chapters.

The first chapter of my life ended when I was fifteen. To say that the event that ended it was life-altering would be the understatement of the year. So much of who I am and what I do are the results of a split second decision made by a much younger version of me who, quite frankly, didn’t know what he was thinking. I wasn’t trying to be a hero, get my name in the paper or even make my dad proud. I just acted without thinking.

Well, I did end up with my name in the paper. And, I did make my dad proud. I also found out that, because of this heroically thoughtless act, I would never see anything ever again. Let’s just say that the first couple of days that followed were pretty darn long. But you decide early on that you can’t think in terms of ‘never’ or ‘forever’. It’s too much to wrap your head around. Instead, you think about the present, and how to survive into the next day. And, you hold on to some kind of hope that the unthinkable is somehow survivable. That there is some kind of destination at the end of it all that just might be okay.

A few months before I graduated law school, my life was brutally chopped in half once again. My father, the one constant thing in my life, the person who had always been there, was taken from me. No, he didn’t “pass away” or simply cease to exist. He was taken. An order came from someone more powerful than he was to end his life. This was one tragedy that I was fully awake for. This time, there wasn’t any morphine around to soften the blow of harsh reality.

You can learn to live with the loss of physical integrity. I did. Many people have. But how do you learn to live with the pain of losing someone you love? That first day after he died, when I woke up to a nightmare that just wouldn’t go away, that was the longest day of my life.