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Dearest (and definitely most wanted) Tongari,
Sorry, is the endearment too flashy?
I figured if this letters ever made it out to the public eye, to you by any chance, I would most likely have ceased to see its wrath, knowing I was, in anyway, in cahoots with the Humanoid Typhoon? Good God, I'd be a dead man. If He ever granted me the mercy of mortality. I know it has been some time since what happened in JuLai, since you've dropped off the face of the planet (quite literally), but I've had some time to reflect on some things since then. Too much time.
That one short girl, I forget her name, but I'm sure she'll remind me when she smacks me upside my head the next time I see her. She suggested that I write. Write out all the things that become too much to handle. There was only one time that she had caught me at my lowest, and the damn woman wouldn't leave me alone after that. We found solace in one another knowing that there is a part missing from our lives since you've vanished.
Damn, that's really gushy. Ignore that part.
Yeah, she told me that writing is the best medium to relinquish the mind from unwavering thoughts, or some philosophical shit like that. For being a journalist, she sure knows a thing or two. She's somewhat right, for the temporary relief of a man bearing many bruises and sorrows in his conscious, those thoughts can be a sore. However, I can't remember the last time I picked up a pen and paper to write something down other than the price of work or to sign my name on the back of a check.
But alas, here I am, with said pen in hand, writing to whatever eyes may lie upon this forsaken paper. Here lies the unveiled thoughts of Nicholas D. Wolfwood. The Punisher. Nico.
Right now, it's just you. Wondering where you've been. Where you've run to. What you've been up to. I know you prefer to keep your personal life—aside from the Humanoid Typhoon—under wraps, but now would be the best time for you to talk. To tell me all the things I have been waiting for. Two years is enough time to explain your nonexistence.
There's a very, very small part of me that may have doubts that you happened to not make it out of the ash and rubble. A very small part. Numbers wise, it's a 9.9 out of 10 because if it's really true that you've been walking the same planet as me for what's going to be two years without a single hello, I'll be the death you should fear.
But that 0.1 part of me knows, in some sense, a part of you has died. When carrying the weight of what happened, it has chipped a piece of your life off. I want to tell you that I understand. I do. Everytime my reflexes act before me, finger in the trigger like a warm blanket to a child, a shield to the monster under the bed, a little piece to this mortal mind in this immortal body of mine chips away too.
Sister Melanie always told us as kids that the more you hold the doubt closer in your heart, the more God begins to show you the possibility. Thinking back, it could be considered some twisted moral thing to teach a child, but I believed it. So, the number remains a tiny fraction of what I actually believe:
You are still out there.
You are, you have to be.
You are roaming the planet trying to forget the events of JuLai just like the rest of the world is doing, while being reminded by every mirror you pass.
Is that close enough to the truth?
You plague my mind like no other. It almost feels sickening. I start to wonder, do I plague yours too?
It's consumed with the thought of little time we had together, yet how much of an impact your absence has weighed on me. How in all the people I've met and lost, you pain me the most. It's inevitable too. Every time I see something even remotely like you, I'm stupidly caught in place.
Sometimes—
Sometimes you remind me of my brother Livio.
Never mind that.
You remind me of someone I once knew. Always running from something with tears in his eyes. Waving an imaginary white flag and begging for mercy.
He used to run and run and run until his legs gave out and the air in his lungs escaped, and he would end up crying, but nothing would come out. It would always run dry. It seemed he was always running from something. I remember vividly, because I would run after him time and time again as if my legs would make it further. It seemed like I was running from something too, but really, I was chasing after him the entire time.
But you don't remind of his crybaby behavior. You remind me of him though, because no matter what direction the danger was, you were running towards it. Just like before, like kids in a school yard, I ran after you. Thinking it was my job to protect you this entire time. That I was destined to go against law and order and contractual obligations. Placing myself in predicaments to save your ass from death and its taxes, without hesitation.
Maybe, just maybe, if I had done that in JuLai, chased after you without a single thought, you'd be around right now.
Another part of me thinks that my responsibility to protect you roots from more than contractual obligations. One of love, and trust, and sympathy. I wouldn't hesitate to put myself, my whole life, my entire body in the line of fire just to protect you. I'd walk in the fire and let the flames kiss my skin, I'd like the bullets pierce my skeleton, I'd let death embrace me over a millennia before you even felt the breath of harm.
Did I fail you then?
Or did I fail myself?
I try not to think about it too much, or my mind becomes muddy, and overwhelmed. Other than the thoughts of you consuming my mind like a blood sucking, venom dripping parasite, I've thought also, I guess, us. I let my thoughts wander further to the what ifs.
I've always wanted to go back home. To see my brothers and sisters, to walks the safe and quaint halls of the orphanage again. But it's hard doing that when you're running from something. With your track record, it seems we'd have company in every corner. You're quite the attention grabber.
But when life slows down, I can imagine us in the quiet part of town where no one knows us. No one glancing back at us as we leave our home, no snickering or judging glares from across the market. I know, I know. Crazy to think that the Punisher has thoughts of settling down. I do. I always have. But I grew up thinking I didn't get that choice, and my lifestyle modeled that.
When time permits, I'd like you to come home to me.
Come with me.
I'll show you around what home used to look like to me before it become desert plain lands and dingy motels. There's not as much sand, as much yelling beside the children playing, which to me, is like music itself, and there isn't much hate either, besides the veggies being served on the table. It's calm at both day and night, and bedtime is when most of the children gather around and listen to exciting stories and adventures that we very well have lived through.
At least this is all from my memories of the place.
We can help at the orphanage too. I know you'll be good at it. I see the way your face lights up when you see children, sponges of life, soaking in all that they can. Your eyes twinkle a bit more when you're genuinely smiling. A rare sight at times. Sister Melanie also always told us that if you spend all your time worrying about the what ifs, you'll forget to enjoy the what ares. So, I'll write this here as a vow to focus on the what is going to be the what ares.
Come home to me, Vash.
We'll live a life we deserve. It might be tough work to get there, and you might have to drop your good guy act for a bit. Regardless, I'd like to give it a try. Sometimes you remind me to try without even knowing. Optimism like a child who believes they just touch the moon with their own fingertips.
Well, this had become much more of my thoughts than I wanted it too. And if by some chance, you do read this, I suppose that means you've made it home.
Welcome home, Vash.
I've missed you. I have awaited the day of your arrival for far too long, wishing that I was talking to you instead of writing it on this paper.
Savor your freedom though, Stampede, before you become a deadman walking for making me wait like some damned damsel in distress.
Okay, this letter is getting excessive. That's enough sharing my feelings for now.
Until we meet again,
Nicholas D. Wolfwood
P.S. I realized that after writing this letter, I have a much more confident answer to your burning question from when we were on the sand steamer to JuLai. About having something I wanted to protect.
It's you.
It's always been you.
P.P.S. Meryl's right. This writing stuff kind of makes me a bit feel better. But don't tell her I said that.