Matt Murdock is (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} sightless) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} rooms, |
Picking himself up was Matthew's ace in the hole.
Matthew's parents spoke far better Gaelic than he did, a fisherman's tongue. Mostly he was good at swearing and the like, which was its primary use. Like most children swearing in their parents' language, he always got a very slight little thrill from it, which took his mind off the pain. It was getting worse, he noticed, and the word "jail" had a very visible effect. In Matthew's mind, 'jail' was not the luxury spa with plumbing and clean sheets most people imagined. Jail was a place you were left to die.
Matthew cocked his head for a moment, listening for breath behind him. "The man yet lives. A cracked skull only, and that small enough." He was lucky the dumpster was there to break his fall, in Matthew's opinion. He was annoyed they managed to find out what apartment he'd been in, an implication that they'd identified Clementine being the one he was most concerned about. In an incredible expenditure of effort, he stood on his own.
"Nay, she is... at work." Matthew had just spent three solid days listening to the neighbors, soap operas on television, and he was picking up whole phrases. He sometimes put them in the wrong places, but it helped him sound more native, in his opinion. A little breath of soundless laughter huffed forth at the soldier's answer to his question. He didn't pursue the line of inquiry.
He forgot the effort necessary to sound native promptly, because he as holding his ribs together again. "Whither were you a-going?"