"It's not good enough!"
"It's not finished!"
"It's a stupid story!"
"The language is so crap!"
So if you're reading this, I know. I know its not amazing. But I need to write something. I need to get some thoughts out. Some ideas. I promised whoever still reads this corpse of a blog that I'd have stories. And so they shall have stories.
Inanis
Freak.
Loser.
Monster.
I used to hear those words more often than anything. Thanks, mom. Love you too.
I used to be called Breasal, before being given those lovely nicknames by mother dearest. She is quite fond of "waste of space" now though.
I live in a world full of superhuman beings, metahumans as they are called. Evolution has chosen them to be the next level in the human gene pool. Most of them turn into heroes straight out of a comic strip. Headed by the Lordship Five, our age has flourished.
Well, most of our age. Metahumans that discover their powers are sent to the Academy to be trained, they are to become the next Guardians, the "vanguards of tomorrow, the heralds of our future" as those stupid news stands called them. Me? I'm a freak.
When I was about fifteen, things went downhill for me. I got bullied a lot, I never really fit in with anyone. I had a knack for things like writing, so I used to sit alone in the library and write stories rather than, say, play football or something. But the jocks never were the kind to pass up the opportunity to toss me in a trash can or dumpster or somewhere equally disgusting.
I had no one to rely on, I was pretty much on my own and this was the time I saw what depression felt like. Not that "Oh my god I failed a test, I'm so depressed." No, shut the fuck up. That's upset. You are upset. You do not feel depressed. You do not feel anything when you're depressed. When I wasn't being picked on by someone or rather, I was alone writing things like "Someone save me from this place" on my notebook hoping someone would read it. And someone did. Too bad it was the jocks that emptied out my backpack into a puddle, effectively destroying my precious stories and most of my belongings. That day changed my life.
I sat in a corner of my room, tears streaming down my face as I fought to salvage what I could from my notebook. Most of my stories were nothing but ink splatters on the page now though.
Now you may think I'm overreacting, but bear in mind I had no friends. I ate lunch alone in a secluded stairwell that no one ever used. The lighting was absolute shit, it was stuffy and there was dead. It felt like a tomb. Fitting, isn't it? You'll get that in a bit. Anyways, I had no one. I went weeks without saying a word to another human being. People actually thought I was a mute or something. All I had were my stories. I explored vast worlds, went on adventures, did amazing things, met amazing people. It was a world where I mattered. But now it was gone. The one thing that kept me sane.
I was numb, I couldn't cry any more tears after a while. I just sat there, all feeling faded. My world had lost all colour.
"You deserve this, you loser."
"Go home and cry you goddamn pussy."
"Do us all a favour and kill yourself."
For a world filled with superheroes, it was a pretty shitty existence. The numbness was too much. I couldn't take it. So I cut. I cut till I had shredded my entire arm up. Each time the blade cut into my skin, pain seared through my arm. It was glorious. I felt things. For that brief moment, I could feel. The blood was enthralling, the first drops of colour in my grey scale world were scarlet red. Each cut was a reminder that I deserved this. I had to stop only because I ran out of space. Not bad for a first session, I thought.
I began carrying blades to school, rather than write stories I would relieve myself of the numbness, lift the cloud of grey and bring life back to my veins for a bit. Long sleeves and some bandages do wonders, no one suspected a thing.
But, strange things happened. In the beginning they stayed a while and scarred. Over time, they healed faster and faster. No need to worry about running out of space, I used to think. But the scars remained.They always stayed. I began doing more so I could feel again, the cuts just weren't enough anymore. Heating up the blades cauterized the open wound, and it hurt like hell. But in a matter of hours, they were scars.
Great, I managed to fuck up self harming too. Was I...? No, it couldn't be. Look at me, I'm a teenager going nowhere in life. People like me don't become metahumans. You expect me to save people? I can't save myself, how on earth am I to be a hero?!
This is a story in progress, I don't think this origin story is amazing so suggestions are welcome. But as you can predict, it's the beginning to the long awaited story about my depressed superhero. I have more planned for him when he is already established. I was more or less venting here, so it may not even make much sense.
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