Badges

Each chapter will contain flags to indicate what (if any) content will be included in that chapter. If you do not care for that content, you can skip that chapter (though some chapters will be connected, so skipping one may lead to confusion later on).

+++Badges+++

Vision of Despair
Flags: Angst

The sun barely began to peek above the horizon and I was already up and getting dressed. A white dress shirt, a black suit, red skirt, and black tie are all part of my "costume". As I sat on the edge of my bed, pulling tight, knee-high, black leather high-heeled boots, onto my legs, hiding dead-white flesh, I wondered about that. Whatever a Super Hero wears is considered to be their "costume". As I traced a finger along the red celtic patterns on the shiny black leather of my boots, I wondered if it was still a costume if the individual was dressed the same as any other person. A costume is meant to distinguish oneself from normal folk. To elevate one above the level of a simple civilian, and make one "special". But is the costume really a costume if you make an effort to look normal? Is it the Hero who makes the costume what it is, and thus simply by wearing it, it becomes a uniform representing what Heroes stand for? Or is it the costume that makes one a Hero? Is it the unique design, or flashy insignia, or outlandish look of one's garments that puts one on some pedestal that normal people cannot reach?

I shook my head to clear away such philosophical thinking. I recognized that I was just putting off the inevitable. And by doing that I was cutting the time I had available to be out there on the street, putting away the scum of the world where they won't be able to hurt anyone. Hurt anyone like I had hurt so many. I stood up, and picked up a sleek black helmet with a red "V"-crest on the forehead, from off of a table in the bedroom of my small apartment. I walked towards the bathroom, trying to calm my nerves, and steel myself for the horror I knew was waiting for me in there. Despite all the times I had done it, I was still scared. More than scared -- terrified, of what I was about to do. I had to force myself to step out of the doorway and into the bathroom itself. To walk forward, and turn to face Hell itself.

Even as I faced the mirror, I didn't focus on it right away. I kept my eyes roaming along the edges of my face, slowly picking out the details of my features. Short, loose red hair, brushed back from my forehead, crowned my head. Dead-white skin, like that on my legs, and all over my entire body, gave shape to my face. Black lips. I had black lips, oddly enough. It wasn't lipstick, they had simply changed color, along with the rest of my skin, after the accident. Finally, I knew I couldn't put it off any longer, and looked directly into the reflection of my eyes. They looked normal at first. Normal, black-colored eyes, like anyone else's. But as I stared into my own eyes, I was drawn into that blackness, and I felt my fear rising, turning into panic. I wanted more than anything to look elsewhere, to break my gaze, to NOT lock onto my own eyes in the mirror.

But I kept staring anyway. I stared until I was immersed in darkness. No longer was I standing in my bathroom, I was now hurtling through a Hellish void. There was nothing to see but darkness, but it wasn't what I could see, but what I FELT that made it so terrible. I could feel furious anger, loathing, unbearable sadness, and burning hatred. All of it directed at me. I could feel the people behind those emotions. The ones I had spent most of my adult life hurting with my own greed and callousness. And I knew I deserved all of it. I had been a successful business woman once, by the name of Melissa Gale. I owned the corporation called Gale International, and ran it like a ruthless dictator. I crushed anyone who got in my way, took whatever I wanted, and ruined dozens of businesses just because we were competing in the same market.

I made old couples running small businesses go homeless by having my best lawyers sue them for imagined copyright infringements, or bought out their shops for a fraction of their true worth. I caused respected businessmen to have nervous breakdowns as I pressured them to sign mergers that wouldn't benefit their companies in a thousand years. I bribed city officials to bulldoze schools, churches, and homes, so that I could put up shiny new office buildings. I did all of that and far far worse. And I didn't care about the harm I was causing. Not until the dimensional portal project I was funding was supposed to be inspected.

I went in person, to see how far the scientists and researchers had advanced. They had made a lot of progress, but the portal was still unstable. Just as I was threatening to cut off their funding if they didn't work harder and faster, the portal malfunctioned. A bolt of energy straight from the Netherworld, a dimension of negative energy and darkness, blasted from the portal, and struck me. I was changed instantly. My skin turning white was just the outside change. I had powers now. Powers over darkness. And the curse of my own reflection. Anytime I look into my own eyes in the mirror, I see every wrong I have ever perpetrated, every lie I have ever told, and every hurt I have ever caused in anyone. Worse, I FEEL what they felt when I ruined their lives. I feel what they feel towards me now. All of their anger, and sadness, and hatred. I can feel it. And I have no way of telling myself that anything I did was justified. I have no way of shielding myself from the truth. That I am a terrible person.

Finally, I managed to break my gaze away from my reflection, and was sent hurtling out of the darkness and back into my apartment. I was choking and sobbing as my numbed mind took half an hour to recover from the horror of what I had just seen. The horror of the truth. I was getting stronger. It used to leave me wasted for a full day to look in the mirror. I was getting stronger, but it wasn't getting any easier. One might wonder why I do this every morning if I know what would happen. The answer is that it's a reminder. A reminder, for when the people I rescue call me a Hero. A reminder that I am nothing of the sort. That I have so many wrongs to attone for that I cannot afford to start thinking of myself as anything other than a monster.

Yes, I fight on the side of good now. But that doesn't change what I've done. I slipped the helmet onto my head, the blank surface of the helmet the only face I could present to the world without feeling ashamed. After all, if I felt this when I looked into my own eyes, what might be revealed to someone else if they looked into mine? While I do not believe myself to be a Hero, if others knew what I truly was, I wouldn't be able to help them. They would flee in terror, or attack me, or simply hate me and not accept my help. So I have to remain hidden. Hide my eyes from the world... The windows into my soul.

Clicking the latches on the back of my helmet, I walked to the window of my bedroom, and flew out into the morning air. The sun brought light to the world. Light and promise for a better world. I may wield darkness, but I must bring light to the world as well. And hope that someday... Someday I can make up for what I've done.