Post by Drake on Aug 9, 2022 1:00:11 GMT
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Monster. Alien. Bobby-Hide-Body. Not even your parents wanted you. Don't play with Bob, he is creepy. He smells funny. He can't speak, it's weird. He keeps watching us play and drawing on his notebook, who does that?
Creepy Bobby does.
Kids are not the quiet little saints every piece of media tries to sell them as. They never have been, those in direct contact with these developing rascals learn just how innocence, lack of awareness and no concept of social decency can be brutally destructive. It is up to adults, arguably the 'functioning' members of a community, to guide these pure minds, mold them into accepting and understanding people. It is no easy task, there are bound to have disagreements between one small runt and another, no guardian has eyes everywhere, yet they try their best. Try their best to teach them differences are supposed to be embraced, celebrated even. Disabilities, respected. Mutations, hopefully welcome.
What happens, however, when not even the guardians believe in that which they teach?
Robert Williams knew it all too well. He could see it in their eyes, the same as he had seen on his parents's eyes as they left. That contempt disguised as pity. "His eyes!" The mother would cry. "His eyes show no emotion! They frighten me to no end!" Had he had a voice back then, he could have yelled, cried out in desperation, fought against these assumptions they all made in his silence. "No! Mom, it's me! It's Bobby! It hurt before, but it doesn't hurt anymore. Please, believe me, mommy! Please, don't leave me, daddy! It's me, it's your son, I like to read comics, I usually sit by the backyard with our dog Bolt and we play fetch, sometimes I come home full of mud and mom scolds me, then she takes me to the tub and we laugh while she scrubs the dirt off. Can't you hear me? It's me! It is me! Why won't you listen? Why won't you trust me? Why do you flinch when I hug you? Why mom? Why dad?"
Sometimes he dreamed about it. If whatever lived curled up in his back didn't steal his voice. If it didn't change his eyes. If it didn't make everyone hate him.
Would Susie want to play catch again?
Would he still be in his old place? Bolt sitting by the couch as he joyfully pressed the buttons of his favorite hero fighting game. His dad let him win sometimes, he could tell, but he was getting better! Maybe... just maybe he could surpass dad.
Mark would come over sometimes by the weekend too, they would sit on his room and read the same issues of Stellar-Man they always did. After lunch, they would tie blankets around their necks, run around.
He would have grown up so happy, so loved, so warm.
But Susie frowned when she saw him now, she had done that for years. Mark pretended he barely existed, like a ghost from a distant past, an old friend who left and never returned. His old place, last he had heard of it, had been sold, Bolt left with his parents, moved somewhere south, the goverment lady said she couldn't divulge more information.
Initially he had tried, you know? Tried to make it work. An orphanage, if it was like the movies, he could have had a new mom, plenty of cool new friends. Perhaps even feel like a family for a while. Robert came with an open mind, a hopeful glint in his green eyes, a fresh new start for him. Childish foolishness, ignoring just how quick rumors spread, how they bloat with every venomous whisper carrying his name, how susceptible to these minor whims of complete strangers to gossip and craft a narrative to impress one another. A family? Friends? A new beginning?
He might as well have been sentenced to the gallows.
The first years were harsh, when all those spiteful words rested in impressionable ears, planting their seeds deep within his consciousness. He begun to hate himself, if everyone else looked at him and saw a monster then it clearly meant he had been one, no? It was but a logical conclusion a child's mind, so bereft of nuance and understanding, would have reached. However, as he grew Robert's wrath slowly deattached itself from himself, shifting focus to the creature on his body, this parasite draining everything from his life, this obnoxious horror which stole everything from him. Friends, family, voice, self-esteem. Happiness.
It couldn't stop there, though. Oh no, the sickening presence rooting itself deep within his body could never leave him alone. Instead, the hallucinations began.
Simplistic at first, colorful mist appeared dancing around each and every person, then he blinked and they were no more. An enthralling sight, yes, until the gas began to take form. Bizarre, egregious shapes, dazzling before his eyes in a spectacle of the damned. Creatures of unspoken mystery, intriguing him, distancing an already outlandish individual even farther from his peers, alienating his thoughts. They started infrequent, gradually revealing themselves more and more, until he could no longer tell fiction from reality for minutes at a time. His gaze, obviously, not unnoticed by bystanders, ignorant of the picturesque image painted on the canvas of their souls. They never understood him, why would they now?
Thus many a time violence ensued, except Robert no longer stood by it.
Or, rather, some part of Robert did not.
He could feel his bones cracking, his muscular tissue crushed beneath the unstoppable onslaught of the darkness within, that gelid sizzling shooting from his spine to his limbs. An acute pain exponentially increased as skin bulged far beyond it's limits, folding in and out of itself. It were only the arms retaliating a few times, others had his legs take the amorphous appearance of an unwanted guest. The pain burnt into his memory from days he loathed. It never got any better, the blood oozing from his throat just as crimson then as it was now. No oxygen on his lungs, almost like he had been placed under a rock, taciturnly wheezing as air returned to his body.
Robert could remember their faces. God, he could remember them so vividly. Those terrified eyes, once filled with contempt. Their fragile little bodies, so easy to snap if he so desired, so easy to break like they broke him. It should be an amazing sentiment, revenge for all those laughs, for all those petty insults, those 'self-defense' punches. Why, then, did gazing into those eyes show him the exact opposite? Why seeing the beastly reflection of himself within them had him woeful of all things?!
He knew the answer.
It proved them right.
Who would mourn a harbinger of death? Who would tell their story? Who would ever explain their views, their struggles, their pain? Who would share the weight of those choices, lay to rest the doubts in a shattered heart?
Who but themselves?
If there was nothing in his world but the wolf wearing ship's cloth, then he may as well accept reality as such once and for all. Begin anew, forge a story with all he had learned, all everyone throughout his miserable existence had so wholeheartedly endeavored to get through to him.
Those who stand against the monster are the true heroes.
Robert remembered his childhood once more. The trees by the neighborhood his father - much to his mother's dismay - had taught him how to climb. He had always attributed this as the sole reason he was indifferent to heights, that the sturdy branches of a young tree showed him safety rather than fear. It wasn't always like that. In fact, when the wind blowed against his face and the raindrops trickled down his cheek, if he squinted hard enough he could still see his father, holding out his arms so far below. "C'mon now, Bobby. You have nothing to be afraid of. Daddy will always be here to pick you up." He smiled. And he jumped.
...
......drip
....drip......
The pitch-black darkness was broken by the familiar leak of his room. How long had he been unawake for? Or was this whatever waited for him on the other side? If so, what a cruel joke it was. Surrounded by his room on an orphanage he belonged only in name, barely kept by those in charge, away from the others, poorly lit and with those damned freaking leaks dripping atop his head on rainy nights. Could he speak, he would have let out a long, defeated laugh. There was no escape, was there? He was bound to be the villain of the story, alive or not.
It took him too long to gather the energy to even move, his entire body paralyzed by that all-too-common sore of this cursed brand he carried. Lucidity returning in waves to a sorrow-riddled brain, pieces of blurred memories covering gaps of a conspicuous puzzle. The window hanging from it's hinges, the scattered remains of hobbies and belongings distributed by a curious cyclone inside the room, the terrible aching on his chest and dried blood trails from nose and mouth. It was evident and yet he did not accept it. Could not accept it.
It was then, sluggishly gathering himself on a sitting position, that a single beam of light shone from the heavens themselves, and the bright reflection irritated bloodshot emerald eyes hiding behind fingers. A single knife punctured the wood across from him, holding with it the picture of his literature teacher who taught him so much during school. A few centimeters from it, hanging from a makeshift portrait was the photo of Maria, the girl whom he spent an entire month's allowance to win the prize she wanted from the claw machine during her birthday and, even adopted by such a loving family, still wrote back every now and then. Then there was a photo of General Whiskers, the street cat he nursed back to health who ocasionally visited, gingerly purring and rubbing his torso on Bobby's legs. All these memories flooded his mind, but it was the one in the very center that ultimately broke him.
It was by his collection of comics where he saw it. Issues browsed through in chaotic fashion, spread across the wooden boards. A single page called out to him, an old issue of Stellar-Man when he had to choose an impossible choice. Be egotistical and save his loved one or let het go to save even more lives? How far would he go to prove what he held on his own heart? What did it truly mean to be a hero? In the end, he chose to go beyond, and managed to save both, refusing to let go of hope to his very last. The page open was that of when he carried his beloved Summer to safety, the innocents he had rescued before applauding from the street as they flew away. The composition was classic, the charismatic symbol of heroism in the middle, a relieved smile across his visage as she embraced him dearly, the background speaking volumes due to it's simplicity, what mattered was the man in the center, the hero who hoped and freed them all. A single speech bubble appeared on this panel, the words of which he did not even have to recite.
They were written. Poorly, yes, and gramatically incorrect, a mimicry of what a child's first attempts at writing would have been. Yet written nonetheless, broad and wide across the wall.
Monster. Alien. Bobby-Hide-Body. Not even your parents wanted you. Don't play with Bob, he is creepy. He smells funny. He can't speak, it's weird. He keeps watching us play and drawing on his notebook, who does that?
Creepy Bobby does.
Kids are not the quiet little saints every piece of media tries to sell them as. They never have been, those in direct contact with these developing rascals learn just how innocence, lack of awareness and no concept of social decency can be brutally destructive. It is up to adults, arguably the 'functioning' members of a community, to guide these pure minds, mold them into accepting and understanding people. It is no easy task, there are bound to have disagreements between one small runt and another, no guardian has eyes everywhere, yet they try their best. Try their best to teach them differences are supposed to be embraced, celebrated even. Disabilities, respected. Mutations, hopefully welcome.
What happens, however, when not even the guardians believe in that which they teach?
Robert Williams knew it all too well. He could see it in their eyes, the same as he had seen on his parents's eyes as they left. That contempt disguised as pity. "His eyes!" The mother would cry. "His eyes show no emotion! They frighten me to no end!" Had he had a voice back then, he could have yelled, cried out in desperation, fought against these assumptions they all made in his silence. "No! Mom, it's me! It's Bobby! It hurt before, but it doesn't hurt anymore. Please, believe me, mommy! Please, don't leave me, daddy! It's me, it's your son, I like to read comics, I usually sit by the backyard with our dog Bolt and we play fetch, sometimes I come home full of mud and mom scolds me, then she takes me to the tub and we laugh while she scrubs the dirt off. Can't you hear me? It's me! It is me! Why won't you listen? Why won't you trust me? Why do you flinch when I hug you? Why mom? Why dad?"
Sometimes he dreamed about it. If whatever lived curled up in his back didn't steal his voice. If it didn't change his eyes. If it didn't make everyone hate him.
Would Susie want to play catch again?
Would he still be in his old place? Bolt sitting by the couch as he joyfully pressed the buttons of his favorite hero fighting game. His dad let him win sometimes, he could tell, but he was getting better! Maybe... just maybe he could surpass dad.
Mark would come over sometimes by the weekend too, they would sit on his room and read the same issues of Stellar-Man they always did. After lunch, they would tie blankets around their necks, run around.
He would have grown up so happy, so loved, so warm.
But Susie frowned when she saw him now, she had done that for years. Mark pretended he barely existed, like a ghost from a distant past, an old friend who left and never returned. His old place, last he had heard of it, had been sold, Bolt left with his parents, moved somewhere south, the goverment lady said she couldn't divulge more information.
Initially he had tried, you know? Tried to make it work. An orphanage, if it was like the movies, he could have had a new mom, plenty of cool new friends. Perhaps even feel like a family for a while. Robert came with an open mind, a hopeful glint in his green eyes, a fresh new start for him. Childish foolishness, ignoring just how quick rumors spread, how they bloat with every venomous whisper carrying his name, how susceptible to these minor whims of complete strangers to gossip and craft a narrative to impress one another. A family? Friends? A new beginning?
He might as well have been sentenced to the gallows.
The first years were harsh, when all those spiteful words rested in impressionable ears, planting their seeds deep within his consciousness. He begun to hate himself, if everyone else looked at him and saw a monster then it clearly meant he had been one, no? It was but a logical conclusion a child's mind, so bereft of nuance and understanding, would have reached. However, as he grew Robert's wrath slowly deattached itself from himself, shifting focus to the creature on his body, this parasite draining everything from his life, this obnoxious horror which stole everything from him. Friends, family, voice, self-esteem. Happiness.
It couldn't stop there, though. Oh no, the sickening presence rooting itself deep within his body could never leave him alone. Instead, the hallucinations began.
Simplistic at first, colorful mist appeared dancing around each and every person, then he blinked and they were no more. An enthralling sight, yes, until the gas began to take form. Bizarre, egregious shapes, dazzling before his eyes in a spectacle of the damned. Creatures of unspoken mystery, intriguing him, distancing an already outlandish individual even farther from his peers, alienating his thoughts. They started infrequent, gradually revealing themselves more and more, until he could no longer tell fiction from reality for minutes at a time. His gaze, obviously, not unnoticed by bystanders, ignorant of the picturesque image painted on the canvas of their souls. They never understood him, why would they now?
Thus many a time violence ensued, except Robert no longer stood by it.
Or, rather, some part of Robert did not.
He could feel his bones cracking, his muscular tissue crushed beneath the unstoppable onslaught of the darkness within, that gelid sizzling shooting from his spine to his limbs. An acute pain exponentially increased as skin bulged far beyond it's limits, folding in and out of itself. It were only the arms retaliating a few times, others had his legs take the amorphous appearance of an unwanted guest. The pain burnt into his memory from days he loathed. It never got any better, the blood oozing from his throat just as crimson then as it was now. No oxygen on his lungs, almost like he had been placed under a rock, taciturnly wheezing as air returned to his body.
Robert could remember their faces. God, he could remember them so vividly. Those terrified eyes, once filled with contempt. Their fragile little bodies, so easy to snap if he so desired, so easy to break like they broke him. It should be an amazing sentiment, revenge for all those laughs, for all those petty insults, those 'self-defense' punches. Why, then, did gazing into those eyes show him the exact opposite? Why seeing the beastly reflection of himself within them had him woeful of all things?!
He knew the answer.
It proved them right.
Who would mourn a harbinger of death? Who would tell their story? Who would ever explain their views, their struggles, their pain? Who would share the weight of those choices, lay to rest the doubts in a shattered heart?
Who but themselves?
If there was nothing in his world but the wolf wearing ship's cloth, then he may as well accept reality as such once and for all. Begin anew, forge a story with all he had learned, all everyone throughout his miserable existence had so wholeheartedly endeavored to get through to him.
Those who stand against the monster are the true heroes.
Robert remembered his childhood once more. The trees by the neighborhood his father - much to his mother's dismay - had taught him how to climb. He had always attributed this as the sole reason he was indifferent to heights, that the sturdy branches of a young tree showed him safety rather than fear. It wasn't always like that. In fact, when the wind blowed against his face and the raindrops trickled down his cheek, if he squinted hard enough he could still see his father, holding out his arms so far below. "C'mon now, Bobby. You have nothing to be afraid of. Daddy will always be here to pick you up." He smiled. And he jumped.
...
......drip
....drip......
The pitch-black darkness was broken by the familiar leak of his room. How long had he been unawake for? Or was this whatever waited for him on the other side? If so, what a cruel joke it was. Surrounded by his room on an orphanage he belonged only in name, barely kept by those in charge, away from the others, poorly lit and with those damned freaking leaks dripping atop his head on rainy nights. Could he speak, he would have let out a long, defeated laugh. There was no escape, was there? He was bound to be the villain of the story, alive or not.
It took him too long to gather the energy to even move, his entire body paralyzed by that all-too-common sore of this cursed brand he carried. Lucidity returning in waves to a sorrow-riddled brain, pieces of blurred memories covering gaps of a conspicuous puzzle. The window hanging from it's hinges, the scattered remains of hobbies and belongings distributed by a curious cyclone inside the room, the terrible aching on his chest and dried blood trails from nose and mouth. It was evident and yet he did not accept it. Could not accept it.
It was then, sluggishly gathering himself on a sitting position, that a single beam of light shone from the heavens themselves, and the bright reflection irritated bloodshot emerald eyes hiding behind fingers. A single knife punctured the wood across from him, holding with it the picture of his literature teacher who taught him so much during school. A few centimeters from it, hanging from a makeshift portrait was the photo of Maria, the girl whom he spent an entire month's allowance to win the prize she wanted from the claw machine during her birthday and, even adopted by such a loving family, still wrote back every now and then. Then there was a photo of General Whiskers, the street cat he nursed back to health who ocasionally visited, gingerly purring and rubbing his torso on Bobby's legs. All these memories flooded his mind, but it was the one in the very center that ultimately broke him.
It was by his collection of comics where he saw it. Issues browsed through in chaotic fashion, spread across the wooden boards. A single page called out to him, an old issue of Stellar-Man when he had to choose an impossible choice. Be egotistical and save his loved one or let het go to save even more lives? How far would he go to prove what he held on his own heart? What did it truly mean to be a hero? In the end, he chose to go beyond, and managed to save both, refusing to let go of hope to his very last. The page open was that of when he carried his beloved Summer to safety, the innocents he had rescued before applauding from the street as they flew away. The composition was classic, the charismatic symbol of heroism in the middle, a relieved smile across his visage as she embraced him dearly, the background speaking volumes due to it's simplicity, what mattered was the man in the center, the hero who hoped and freed them all. A single speech bubble appeared on this panel, the words of which he did not even have to recite.
They were written. Poorly, yes, and gramatically incorrect, a mimicry of what a child's first attempts at writing would have been. Yet written nonetheless, broad and wide across the wall.
You Are My Hero