I was 17 when I first started to develop my "super powers." It was a long and tedious journey trying to define the line of showboating and being poked and prodded.
I had to keep quiet about this. I could be the best football player in the world, soccer or American. I could dunk from the free throw line with ease and make threes with the precision of a machine. I could swing a baseball bat so fast it would snap at the handle.
But I'm depressed. I'm functional. I have a job. A really good job actually. I work for a small contractor who outfits stock trucks with toolboxes, and generators, and custom rigs on the back. I'm the company's sole salesman, so I get a cut of the business we do. Some months it's great, and some it's really bad.
So I'm in counciling the other day with my therapist, and he's telling me how my abilities have made me so egocentric. It's true. I can't deny it. It was so easy for me to be "the man". At parties I would do stunts and feats that no one else could ever do, I would perform better than anyone else at any pick up games of basketball while never working out. It was easy.
I fell in love. That's why I'm here. She died 8 months ago in a car crash. If only I had been there to shield her, she would have been okay. I just had to stay home and binge watch A Dance of Wind and Earth, and let her go to the store by herself. She died for fucking paper towels man. God damnit.
Sorry. But yeah, that's why I'm here. So he says, the therapist, that I'm too egocentric. It's always been about me, and now that my wife has died I'm dwelling on it too much and that I need to let go. I want to be angry and tell him I deserve to be angry. I deserve to 6 inch craters into galvanized steel warehouse walls. I deserve to drink 50 or 60 beers, until I pass out. But I'm so desperate I'll try anything.
"Do something selfless" he says.
So I do.
It's the first night of my new mission. I ran a few hundred miles this week to get ready for it. I took a few days off from work just in case something goes wrong.
I'm standing outside the apartment complex. I have a fucking luchador mask on, some gym shorts with a pair of cycling tights on underneath, and a skin tight warm up shirt, with motorcycle gloves and a pair of motorcycle boots on. All black.
I walk up to the door. I'm nervous. It's not my first time kicking ass... hell, definitely not my first time doing that. I'm nervous because I've never not been mad before. I hype myself up and do a little bounce outside the door to get my blood flowing. I calm down. Take a few breaths, and nod my head a few times. I got this. I. GOT. THIS.
I swing around and am facing the door. I lean back and launch my right foot into the door. It flys back into the kitchen and makes a loud crack as it hits the refrigerator. I enter the apartment and do what I came to do.
Those dope dealers are alright. I mean. They have no more money or product, and no guns, and they look like hell... and the probably feel hell... but they'll probably die when I when I storm their suppliers place. Someone will let it slip that they told, and that will be it for them.
I'd be mostly alright except for a slash wound that I took to the arm and some glass to the face. I heal much, much quicker than you, but still, I have to get stitches. I'm hesitant to go to the ER. I don't have insurance. I've never really needed it. That knife went deep. Shit.
So I chill on it for a few months. My job is running dry though. I'm almost broke. I'm not so much depressed anymore as just numb. I decide to go out finally storm that trap house. I wish I could go out and stop thieves from stealing purses, but I don't where to go, and I sure can't stop the assholes on Wall Street. I'll have to settle for the assholes pushin' dope. My mother died of a heroine overdose. She was always so weak.
I'm hurt. Badly. I stormed the house and was fired upon immediately. Took a bullet to the leg before I took out the first three. They were to easy. Two punches and kick. They went down. I knocked the fourth out with a pistol. I threw it from about 40 feet. The fifth came up behind me and stabbed me in the shoulder. I back handed him and I broke his neck. Fuck. Shit was getting to real.
I started to back out. I had bitten off way more than I could chew. I was running to the door when I heard some voices. I stopped and saw three more come around the corner. These ones had assault rifles and opened fire immediately. I dove and slid on the ground grabbing the second of three pistols. I wouldn't need the third. I shot three shots, and three bodies fell to the floor.
I got up and and limped/ran to the door, when I heard the sirens. I managed to make it out in time, but I was fairly immobile. I was still running around 20 mph, but I would only be able to sustain that for about 5 or 6 miles. I pushed myself hard and got my car in about 20 minutes. I parked far enough away to not have to worry about it being seen at the scene of the crime.
I drove to the hospital. about 60 minutes away on the other side of the city. In the bad part of town. I drug myself into that emergency room. The last thing I remember before I blacked out was the nurse looking at me, covered in blood, and her wide eyed.
I woke up the next day. Turns out I had been hit in the stomach as well, but they were able to save me. The doctors told me how incredible it was that I managed to survive. I laid there for a few days, doped up out of my mind before I was discharged. I got a taxi to my apartment.
I got out of the taxi and began to walk up the stairs to my door. When I arrived at the door, I saw it. The eviction notice. Shit.
I have no friends. No family. No more money. A car that's covered in blood, and ache in my stomach.
Fuck. I sat on the stairs outside my apartment for a few hours. One of my old neighbors saw me and let me take a nap of her couch. She was a sweet lady, but her damn cats made that place smell like shit. I could hardly breathe.
My boss had sent me a text while I was out saying that the company had closed it's doors, so I couldn't even look forward to the tiny paycheck I was expecting. Fuck. I know what I have to do.
I was so scared. Not by the act, but by the desperation behind it. I bought a cheap baseball bat and some pantyhose from Walmart. I used up $7 of my last $14 dollars. I went to Subway and bought a 6 inch sandwich with the rest. I was still hungry afterwards. Sandwiches are expensive as hell these days I guess.
So I took the bus till started to loop back around and got off. I found the closest bank and pulled the panty hose over my head. I mourned what I was about to do. But.. I was desperate. I felt so hollow. So scared. So tired. So demoralized. I just wanted a place to put my head. I walked inside and started swinging.
Submitted August 20, 2015 at 06:44AM by Valveguy101 http://ift.tt/1PnbQft nosleep
No comments:
Post a Comment