Helpless Ramblings of a Mentally Ill Hero
Or
Shunned/Translucent hero/The Unknown/Sacred Wishes/Justice Served
If you wish.
If I were to die today, how would I live for tomorrow. – Figmenti
Tired hands gripped pale sheets tightly, sweat drenched the soft skinned body of the no more stranger than you or I female who twitched venomously. Moonlight crept through the open window, dancing around the ashen yellow curtains fluttering in a teetering breeze. Cracked Brandeis blue walls created the seemingly mediocre sized room with its heavy wooden floor glazed with dirty towels, a patchwork blanket with a tattered ‘F’ imprinted into the cloth and a selection of sundry crisp rare comic books lying in a splayed manner. Forgotten. Their heavy pages curling upward slightly, discoloured after an age since printing.
Smell. Musky. Damp. Probably from the used towels scrunched. She would have to clean them up tomorrow. When she awoke that was.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Click. Cla-
Rasping breath heaved heavy through the air. A body tensed as a chest rose as though a weighty weight – I hope you don’t find this in anyway humorous – lay upon it. Grunt.
The female in question, whose room this belonged to and who was laden on the bed spread, whispered in her slumber. Nonsense words they were. Though one shan’t pay attention to which detail of which she spoke moreover the manner in which she spoke them but one could take into small consideration why she spoke them. A dream for a nightmare?
A shift in the room altered what little was there in the first place. A pattern of swirls and time glistened in poor nightlight and churned through the air and a large, Victorian chest appeared in sight, sat so neatly in the corner of the room by the large oval mirror hung precariously from the wall – a gift from father, the mirror that is.
The door to this scene remains closed.Locked.Hidden.
I liked it better when I was slow on the trigger, when doing all this wasn’t so fucking easy. – Agent 355
“If you find me then you clearly don’t know what you’re looking for.”
“Hardly babe.”
“Don’t laugh at me!”
“And don’t call me babe either.” “Then don’t say such shit. You’re just as bad as she is.”
“Who?” “And I’ll call you whatever I want...Babe.”
“Fuck you.”
“Her.”
“Oh that narrows it down. Who the fuck is ‘her’?”
“That broad with the dirty blonde hair and that weird suit. You know the one...what’s her name...er...thinks about saving the world and shit like that.”
“You talk some crap sometimes you know that? I don’t know who you’re on about.”
“That. THAT broad! You know the one we saw ‘bout five minutes ‘go! The one who keeps on altering reali-”
“Shut up.”
“What?”
“I said. Shut. Up.”
“Make me!”
“Do you want themit to hear you?”
“As if.”
silence
“As if they could I mean.”
“Like you know what they could and couldn’t do.”
“I know everything I do. ‘Int that right babe?”
“Get your arm off my shoulders before I snap it off and don’t. Call me. Babe.”
“Prick.”
“Bitch.”
Aww what’s the matter? You’re the one who started this game. Now you’re losing and don’t want to play anymore. – Vegeta
A sweep of wind swept (do you see what I did there?) a page of one of those lonely comics, splayed in such a manner open and across a few chapters. The image of two men, one robotic and the other ridiculously muscular appeared in epic battle. Words wrapped in closed bubbles of speech tightly typed and wound onto the page stuck to the paper like cellophane.
The words almost seemed alive in the dead of the night, the images moving fiercely though no one was about to appreciate the sight and beauty of the piece. Its surface was ruffled and worn nonetheless the images shone brightly through the faded ink. Hard expressions of compassion and fear, love and blind rage and confusion...heroes. Heroines. Was this so make believe?
“Nngh...”
Her body racked with spasms as she played out her little fantasy. How twisted and sick of her. Would anyone believe how many times she saved the Earth- well let’s not go too far she wasn’t that accomplished. Hundreds of lives though all lay out to continue their petty little existence once again on this plain of this planet.
And she was alone.
That mirror reflected sin and secrets. The mirror that father bought. The oval one. In the corner next to the Victorian chest.
The wind picked up slightly and blew a little heavier into the room. The curtains floated higher and fell in an almost graceful fashion and she twitched again. Once. Twice. And again. Her toes crinkled at the feeling of cold encasing them and she rolled onto her side and pulled her body into a foetal position, tucking her head into her chest as she did so.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Click. Cla-
The heroes and villains of her cast away stories continue their battle as she does hers. During the day she followed in their footsteps, she helped the innocent and cast justice against the wicked. Does one feel proud of her?
There goes that Victorian chest.
Shift.
Shhh!
Reality itself glittered with anticipation as millions of particles chopped and changed. Switched and swapped. Transformed. On the wooden desk which sits by the door which, as one looks closer can see is ajar, now lays a thick, leather bound journal. A gust of wind and the heavy journal cover is lifted, although it is placed nowhere near the window, theany guest would assume it were the wind.
The female under the cover shivered and grabbed her head, seemingly in pain. A shadow creeps against the moonlight and casts itself over her slim, malnourished form. The hero and villain in her disregarded comic fight harder. The journal lands on a recently written entry. Oh my oh my, what a predicament we have gotten ourselves into.
An eye flickers open.
Shadows remain cast yet harmless.
Oh my oh my.
I was thinking what it's like to be abandoned and tortured and abused and forgotten? When your life is so worthless that your only degraded value to anyone is when your pain gives them amusement and the person entrusted to care for you sees you as more disposable than a used tissue- But then I thought, 'I wonder what's it's like to fuck a butterfly? – Ragdoll
RATTLE!
CLANK!
BANG!
Chains of heavy, metal handcuffs cut into the skin of young boy. No older than eight, his unkempt brown hair flicked into his face hiding his red, bloody eyes. He shifted position against the hard, concrete floor wincing as he did so as the chains once again cut deep into his already torn wrists.
He really didn’t know why he was here. He had been good. Most of his life, he was only eight after all and acted the way any normal eight year would in all eight years of their life. He wore shredded, blood covered jeans and a tattered Ben 10 t-shirt, the faded image of Heatblast smirking out into the open with the tag line ‘Its Hero Time!’ embellished with a swarm of now chipped, flames. It was one of his favourite tops. He wanted to be just like Ben Tennyson. Just an average kid. Fighting evil, saving the day, going on crazy adventures and exploring the unknown. He was almost living the dream.
“Nathaniel.”
At his name ‘Nathaniel’ looked up through the bars of his cell. He knew that voice too well but it would be punishment not too look the other in the eyes.
“How are you, boy?”
“Fine, a...little sore.” Nathaniel croaked, his eyes watering beneath his shaggy hair. Please. Don’t. His keeper smirked.
“Ready for another round?”
No. Please. No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no.
Nathaniel sobbed.
“Don’t cry kid. You know I hate it when you cry, you ruin the mood.” The cell door clanged open and shut again and the shadow of a bulky figure drowned the young boy already saturated in poor light. His pale skin almost seemed translucent in the current environment and as his assailant smiled down at him Nathaniel sobbed harder. Tears broke through crusted blood and snot on his face and fell swiftly on his torn wrists causing him to hiss as the salty tear stung.
“Please, not today. I...I really don’t feel like it.”
switch
“You...don’t feel like it?”
Nathaniel looked up, his eyes silently begging for once, just for the love of anything for once, to listen.
“Please. Dad plea- AHH!” The child was cut off by a rough, calloused hand grabbing him by the neck and hoisting him into the air, promptly slamming him into the wall. Immediately tears sprung to the boy’s eyes, his face contorted in pain and a wet substance dribbled down the back of his head and neck.
“You. Don’t. Feel like it?”
Dad, a bulky man, with thick arms and legs, a shaven head and piercing brown eyes had a face filled with fury. Spitting as he spoke, he pressed his face into Nathaniel’s.
“Do I look like someone who gives a flying FUCK about what you feel like?!”
“Please...” Nathaniel sobbed harder, his father pulled away.
Disgusted.
He threw the kid on the floor and soon the next few minutes passed without much hesitation to poor Nathaniel’s pleas and cries. Blood stained the ground, mixing in with the dirt and sweat leaving a horrible sight to cast on the cell floor.
Where were the superheroes when he needed them? Where were the Supermans and the Spidermans to come to his rescue?
More importantly...why wasn’t he the Ben Tennyson he dreamed of?
As Nathaniel’s head was brought up and then smacked to the floor again by the weight on top of him, his head leaned back and through bleary eyes he looked up. On top of the window sat a small butterfly with cracked Brandeis blue wings and an ashen yellow body.
If anyone in this shithole city gave two tugs of a dead dogs cock about Truth, this wouldn’t be happening. – Spider Jerusalem
Figmenti. Figmenti. Figmenti. Figmenti. Figmenti. Figmenti. Figmenti. Figmenti. Figmenti. Figmenti.
Super heroine? Or Super bitch?
One might just go with crazy.
In out in out in out in out. Laboured breathes.
A butterfly flew in and landed mindlessly on the leather bound journal, its entry enough to make every mother cry and hold her child tight to their bosom.
She continued to twist and to turn. Legs tangled in the cream sheets which once held her body in an almost comforting hold. Almost.
A fracture in the air drew a frown on her precious face. A frown that deepened the more open the fracture became. It twisted and turned, crunched and squeezed, creating a shape bigger than the leather bound journal with its brown, ornate detailing and clean white pages stained with black ink, which lay open for all to see. Bigger than the Victorian chest, so old and decrepit, kept in such secrecy and locked so tight not even the great Lord himself could enter without permission. It melded with the shadows strewn across the figure on the bed and moved swiftly through them caressing the body through the thick sheets, licking through the wind entering in from the window so rhythmically. It pushed the covers aside and breathed in the scent of a bad night’s sleep. The sweat. The fear. The sin.
How it laughed at its maker.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Click. Cla-
The Victorian chest burst open, its lock snapping as though it were paper. It gave birth to more shadow to slowly seep its way into the room, closing off the little light that had broke through the clouds and presently situated itself above the form like a heavenly aura. The room, now completely encased in dark, shattered down the walls of solidarity and normalcy. She would be sure this was not her and someone else, had she been awake. She would find a sure fire way to prevent this for she wouldn’t be who she were if she did not – had she awoken from her slumber. Though she did not.
Moaning. Groaning. Turning this way and that she lay disturbed. The shadows rubbing and stroking, kissing and biting every part they could until the river of red ran slow beneath the creamy sheets. Once the shadow had had its fill it moved back, but only slightly before it begun its assault again, trailing its way through the fibres of the fabric, leaving a tainted path of crimson in its wake.
She still did not stir.
Though one could wonder if she could anymore?
The journal pages flipped endlessly over and over again and the men in comic fought tirelessly, their yells ever present and the poor, little, butterfly with its cracked Brandeis blue wings and ashen yellow body lay dead by the windowsill.
Through this scene the door is very much wide open.
Something is. Very. Very. Wrong with me. - Madman
It’s the life of a superhero. (hell it’s the life of a super heroine) It’s a short one. (too damn short) For those who seek to do good alwaysnever reap the consequences. (they just get fucked instead)
Did I finally reach the limits of reason?
And find the Devil waiting?
And was that fear in his eyes?
Batman.
