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Box Three Shit Here
A thousand times I have watched suns burn out and die. Civilization after civilization I have become integrated into only to see them suffer and perish due to their own will. I know what it was like during the timeless period before the big bang occurred. I was there when it occurred. Some say that my existence is impossible, but to that I ask does a soul have any mass? Some even go so far as to say I made the big bang occur, to that I have no answer. I was not aware of any other presence beside myself, perhaps because I had no eyes to see, nor hands to touch. Not that those are the only means capable of seeing or touching. I had changed myself into creatures the human mind couldn't possibly fathom. For a long stint I was a creature that held very little mass, just enough to hold itself together, really a floating cloud of electrons and energy that formed thoughts and feelings. This was early on, back before whatever consciousness knew how to properly create living creatures.
I digress, this is about my "human" experience, as you creatures so choose to call yourself. I have spent a lot of time in your galaxy, a bit more than i would say pleases me. Most civilizations that grow out of this spiraling mass seem bent on destruction of themselves and evil. Although evil is relative to a creatures idea of suffering. I've lived in places that by "human" standards would be what you Christians call hell. Yet, the creatures there strived on it. It was actually regarded as "evil" when those sought shelter from the pain. You see, what is good and evil is relative to the concept of good and evil created out of the consciousness of one's mind. It is a bit hard to explain in your primitive language, especially when I grasp the knowledge of language one hundred times more capable and efficient than yours.
I have hope for your kind yet. I've seen you all create good things, and have seen you advance much quicker than the other species in this galaxy. Your greatest weakness, I must admit, is your life span. In the larger scale of things, good has triumphed over evil many times over. Yet, you always judge your situation by the current string of events. To no fault of your own, your age limits what you can possibly grasp in a scale of time. If you managed to pull yourself away from the paradox your time spent here limits you to, you would fully understand how your people have vanquished evil time and time again.
This human body I have put myself in is flawed; I must admit. You see, normally I am appeased with just taking a body from childhood, and just living with it through death. I experience all it experiences, see what it sees, goes where it goes, and feels what it feels. It was a bad choice this one. At 19 I fear this body has reached its full potential. Dead-end job, moderate intelligence, and an aversion to other humans has put this one on a very dull-drum and mediocre path in this already dulling stagnant society. There was a time that I used to enjoy this sort of thing. To be in the shoes of someone so underprivileged, now it bores me. So I've decided to remap it's molecular structure, and make it something more than human. I will not interfere anymore, seeking to be entertained, not involved. I guess when you've lived ever since before time you need a bit of entertainment once in awhile to keep you occupied.
In most regards this boy is now more like the superman I remember us watching on television when we...damn it. I find myself falling into such a trap, I connect too deeply with the hosts sometimes, referring to us...I mean, our separate selves as one entity. This host, is more reasonable, seeing as how I've made him more of myself, but like all hosts, powers or not, he will perish, and I mustn't feel for him. Now, as I was saying, this child has taken on a form more similar to the superman he used to watch on television when he was younger, with a few additions to make him even more efficient than that seemingly less-than-superman who was always falling into problems because of his problems. This boy, whose name happens to be Michael, can really do whatever his mind is capable of thinking up. I say he will die eventually, not because he isn't capable of invoking immunity from everything, but because his mind will eventually tire of all of this, and end itself. The human mind hasn't evolved enough to comprehend the concept of eternity, and is always crushed by the idea of it.
I tucked myself away in the furthest reaches of the boys mind, and watched him as he started to go about the business of his day. Waking up early in the morning, I know he must have noticed the lack of fatigue he normally feels as he wakes. Yet, there seemed to be no difference in his daily morning routine. He brushed his teeth, which he could harden into titanium at any moment, he combed his hair, which if he wanted to he could set to blaze forever. Nothing seemed to strike him as different. I tried to probe his mind, read his thoughts, but I found a vast emptiness I never experienced before. I pushed as far as I could into his consciousness, but found nothing.
I watched through his eyes as his car sped down the road. The same road he could have easily ran in seconds, or flew over. I watched as he pulled into the parking lot at his dead-end job, and walked to the door, the same door he could have just materialized in front of. His day didn't change in anyway. I guess I should've expected this. Just giving someone these powers with no encouragement might lead to a bit of a wait until he thinks about them, to only find out he has them.
His workday ended and he went home, as usual for him. I kept hoping he would just think one thought that pertained to super powers, just to break the monotony of the gray vastness covering all his thoughts. Eventually, I wished for him to think anything. All I got was the gray. I closed myself off. Went into a state of, as you humans call it, sleep. My "eyes" closed for the first time in a long time. Even when he slept, I watched his dreams, now I saw nothing for the first time since the timeless area before the big bang. I sought the black in hopes of getting rid of the gray. I awoke with hopes that the colors of his mind were alive again. But saw only gray.
I saw only gray as he sat inside his car in the garage.
I saw only gray as he looked down at the pistol in his hand.
I saw only gray as the cold metal touched the warm roof of his mouth.
With a bang I was cast out of his head, and thrown back into my own existence, not in an un-similar way to his brains being forced out of his head and spread across the interior of the car he used to adore.
A super-hero with no powers died today. Maybe I will sleep for awhile.
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It was probably a bad idea, getting so deeply involved with someone over the internet, not knowing who he was or how far away he lived. We thrived on first names and life stories; nothing more. I'm still not sure how we managed to get started video chatting—it's not something I usually do with people I don't know. But it happened.
He would be on the other end of the camera, more or less, watching, listening to the screaming in the house, the fighting, the unrest, seeing the unease and the hurt I bore. I wonder if he could feel the oppression the way I could, if it was a palpable presence over the internet as it was in reality to those experiencing it. I wonder how much he knew, and how much he guessed, and all in all, how much he understood.
Probably more than I gave him credit for.
In return he told me all about HIS pain, his hurt, his anguish. He told me how his dad drank, how his mother had left them, how he was struggling to pay for college and how desperately he wanted to escape from where he was. He felt like he was trapped in a dead end, locked in a cage with no way out.
He felt the way I did; he just put it in words better than I.
Somehow we became very, very close through those video chats. As best friends might, or lovers. I doubt there was a single secret between us intentionally kept, besides those of surname and location. When my life became too hard for me to bear, I turned on the camera, grabbed my microphone, and sat with a sharpie, talking to my one confidante and drawing butterflies on my skin.
I suspect he thought it was silly, but The Butterfly Project helped me, somehow. Drawing delicate, lovely butterflies with different colors and patterns was to me what yoga must be to a guru. It was soothing, clearing my mind as my friend soothed and cleared my soul. My scars started to heal under the ink, and the unseen ones healed with his tender care.
I'd like to think I helped him as much, but he never said. I suspect I did; it was a two-way street, that relationship. He was there in desperate straits seeking my comfort as much as I was there for his, and neither of us ever stated it aloud (or in any other way) how deeply we needed and appreciated the other.
I suppose that made what happened that night so much worse for both of us.
By that time, my friend had gotten used to me leaving abruptly, shutting the computer down with such suddenness I'm still surprised I didn't give it one of those odd complexes computers get when you don't go through the five minute long shut-down procedure. This night was no different; I heard the monster coming again, the awful brute that had somehow remained a 'boarder' in our house. I knew he was nothing more than my father's drug buddy, and though everyone else did too, no one cared.
And no one cared what he did to me when he was lucid enough to stand.
I stuttered out a rapid-fire apology and goodbye to my friend, but for once he did not let me go.
“I want to help, please, don't go,” he pleaded.
“You can't help; you don't know where I am, and if I told you you STILL couldn't help. It would make no difference, no matter what you did.” I spoke hurriedly, the pounding feet coming slowly down the stairwell punctuating my sentences.
“Then tell me why you run, tell me what's going on, let me...be there for you somehow!” He was frustrated, anxious, worried.
I didn't answer him, I just turned off the computer screen and the speakers, leaving the rest going. He would see; and he'd regret it.
I know I regretted it. I still do. I wish I'd never let him see what came next.
Sokko threw my door open, catching me as I stood from the computer chair and moved over towards my bed. I knew what was coming; and I knew I'd never be able to stop him. But still I fought. He was taller than me, a hard user of some drug that I couldn't remember, but somehow his thick body was still built like a foot-ball player's. I wonder if he took steroids or something too.
And that night, he was drunk.
I'd never seen him intoxicated, and I was fast finding out how bad it could be. I tried to escape him, but he grabbed me, his grip like iron. He swung me around, pulling me against him, so I could smell his sweat and the liquor on his breath. He stank like filthy male, and I could almost taste his dirt on my tongue. I gagged as he grabbed my hair to hold me still and pressed his rough, slimy lips on my mouth, trying to drive his tongue inside it. I would have bitten him, could I do it with my mouth closed.
His other hand made itself busy undoing my clothes, warring with my hands as I fought him urgently. Finally he let go of my hair and grabbed my wrists in his hands, pinning them behind my back with one of his big, beefy paws and groping me with the other, working my pants off. When his fingers found their way inside my underwear I ripped one of my hands free, slapping at him. He grabbed me and slammed my head into the wall, once, twice, again...again...again. I lost track of how many times I impacted; but when it stopped I was limp and listless, aware of what was happening to me but helpless to fight it.
Sokko's fascination with the wall didn't end there. Having ripped away my shirt while flinging me around by it, he shoved me against the wall roughly and yanked at my bra, unbending the hooks in back so that came undone and slipped off my arms. The hooks had been so badly bent from repeated abuse that they scarcely worked anymore. He squeezed my exposed breast as he dropped his pants. He never undressed fully, but he always wanted me stripped down to bare nothing.
Over his shoulder I could see the webcam atop my monitor, and as I stared into the lens I realized what a mistake I'd made letting my heart's friend watch this. I hope he'd turned it off, looked away. Hidden. I felt so ashamed at what was happening to me. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I turned my gaze to the ceiling, not seeing anything, hardly aware of the man pressed against me, inside me, tearing me apart in more ways than one. He had my arms pinned above my head, his hand roaming me as he invaded my body.
When finally he was done, he released me abruptly, standing aside as I collapsed down the wall to curl in on myself brokenly. I felt shattered, so much worse than ever before. Sokko discarded me like a used banana peel, yanking his pants up and buttoning them, but not zipping his fly, sauntering out of my room and leaving the door wide open.
It felt like ages that I sat there, semi-conscious, feeling warm blood dripping down my neck and thighs, aching in so many insurmountable ways that I knew it would always be with me. The hot tears still rolled from my cheeks, but I didn't care. I could taste their saltiness on my open lips as I rasped in air slowly, harshly, like an old woman with lung cancer. I felt like I was dead.
Somehow I managed to crawl the foot or so to the door, swing it closed, and pull a blanket from the bed to cover me. I wasn't aware enough to clean up the blood. With a motion I didn't even have to think about, I turned the monitor back on. On the screen was my friend's face, ghastly white and horror-struck. He'd obviously watched the whole thing. The anguish in his hazel eyes pierced me through, wounding me on a level I could never describe, with a pain no words can ever give voice to.
Dimly my mind registered a sound coming from my headset. In my haste I'd forgotten that turning off the speakers does no good when the headset is active. Numbly I put it over my ears; it sat awkwardly, but I was too drained to realize how to fix it.
“I am so, so sorry...” I blinked, tried to focus on his face. His shaggy, dirty-blonde hair was sweat soaked and plastered to his face, and his eyes flitted back and forth as though looking for a way to jump through the computer to my side.
“Don't...be...not your...fault...” I could hardly speak; I wonder what empowered me to form words.
On the monitor, my friend cried.
And I hung my head, staring at the floor. The blanket slid off my shoulders, but I couldn't care. I just sat there, hearing his soft, heartbroken sobs of helplessness in my ear as I sat there, numb.