The Ghosts of the Past Who: Frank Castle and Helena Bertinelli Where: Helena's residence. When: Thursday, November 29, 2012, Night What: Frank's war against the mob leads him to an old gangland massacre: the Bertinellis. Rating: PG-13? Status: In Progress
The place wasn't the tidiest, but it wasn't messy, either. Some parts were spotless, others were not. A sign of a focused mind without patience for all of the little things. The woman was apparently a teacher of some sort, that much he had learned. When it was clear no-one was home, Frank had busted a window on the side and moved in, rifling through paperwork, old boxes, anything that might give him more info about the hit. Part of him hoped she'd be driven and upset by her loss, but how these things affected a young child were not always certain. Helena Bertinelli could have avoided confronting it.
Which was why he tried to watch her first, covertly from the shaded windows of his recent car 'purchase'. She had fire in her eyes. This was not a person who chose to hide, or was cowed easily. And the fire, the fire reminded him of himself. Best that she had not chosen his life.
He'd heard of the murders. They'd happened even before his own family had been slaughtered, but the death of a mob family was one that stuck in his mind. More so when he discovered the only one that had survived was a girl named Helena.
Frank laughed as his son pushed the merry-go-round faster, little Helena at first laughing gleefully. As it moved faster, however, she started to show fear. Still smiling, Frank watched her carefully, and as her grip tightened, he moved across the still-damp wood chips of the playground and swept her up from her crouch, pulling her into his arms. She knew her father would always protect her. She smiled, having no fear in his arms. Not knowing that soon he'd fail her, her brother, her mother. That they'd be taken away.
Frank stared at the photo too long. It was a family he didn't recognize as his own, larger, but full of as many smiles as memory permitted. Face grim, he set it down on top of the box.
His eyes glanced to the side, to a muddy reflection in the glass of the painting on the wall. Not alone.
Turning on his heel, he raised his gun toward the body.