ByMarilyn Jones, writer at

I am a lover of superheroes and villains, but none truly suited me. So, I made my own. See if you can find my sources of inspiration. This is just the begining of a story I wrote. If you like it, let me know.

It had been over twenty years since I escaped hell. Escaped? You can’t escape hell! It is like chains weighing you down. You drag them with you in a trail of your own blood.

“Why am I even thinking of going back? Dear God! Why?

I don’t talk to anyone about this.”

When I was possibly beaten in those bathrooms as a child I learned never to trust again! Never trust again! Never let people in. All they will do is hurt you. Was it my own blood I remember seeing in the bathrooms? I don’t want to remember! I don’t want to know! I don’t want to talk about it! Why didn’t God kill me? Kill me! Kill me!

“You’ll never understand until you’re laying bleeding and broken in a corner praying for death!”

Did it happen? I don’t know. That is the hell! I have to live with the self doubt.

All of these thoughts go through my mind as I begin to pack. I made sure to pack my coat. It seemed like it was almost always raining in Orofino. It reflected my mood and the pain I felt relating to it. When it rained there as a little boy I often thought that it was God crying. Tears rolled down my face unchecked. No one can see me cry here. No one can make fun of me here. No one can beat me here. Here only God sees my tears.

“Wonder if anyone really even wants me at my reunion? Might be nice to see Rhett” I thought.

“What about the pain, the nightmares, how in some ways you might like to kill all the motherfuckers in that town!” was my next thought. I tried to pull myself together as I bought airline tickets to Spokane, Washington, the nearest large airport. I also rented a car. It was about one hundred fifty miles from Spokane to Orofino, Idaho. I was glad you couldn’t fly with weapons, otherwise I would tempted to pack guns, knives and who knows what else. Having no weapons made me nervous in a way though. It made me feel naked.

“A warrior without his weapons; what is a warrior without his weapons? I’m no warrior. Prepare for death” My mind is racing with thoughts like this.

“Emotions make you weak” Where did I hear that from? Yet, I believe it heart and soul. I have emotion; therefore I am weak and I deserve to die.

This is why I don’t talk to people about my emotions. I don’t understand my emotions. How do I expect you to? I picture a little boy in corner. The little boy is me. I’m crying into a pool of my own blood. I doubt even that mental image would help people try and understand the pain I feel.

“Back to reality: no one gives a shit about you,” I think.

I got a ride to the Detroit airport with my ex wife. I took my Dramamine before the flight so I wouldn’t throw up. I hated being motion sick. I found my seat, started listening to music on my iPhone and feel asleep.

In my dream there was Scar’s grave, that blank piece of concrete. It was raining and he didn’t want me coming back. “Leave and never come back!” I heard the words again as I had years ago and again I wondered why my friend wouldn’t want to see me.

The dreams always felt very real. My heart was racing. I was covered in a cold sweat. It felt like a knife had torn into me and left me bleeding. The dream seemed so real. It was like I was back on the playground with the rain, with Scar bleeding and dying, and I was powerless to stop it. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry.

“ Cry, scream and shout. No one will hear you. No one will care.” Were those the words I really heard in the bathroom? Was it real or a dream?

I changed planes and took Dramamine again. It was going to be a long trip about two thousand miles or so with a few layovers and changing planes to get where I wanted to be.

The trip was not enjoyable. Nightmares of home or hell waking up from dreams that I thought I had forgotten as a child. The nightmares always ended in Scar being disemboweled and the girl being raped and murdered. Her wrists cut bleeding to death. The dreams were only like pieces of a bloody puzzle. There was Scar disemboweled. Intestines hanging out like some twisted form of spaghetti. I was kneeling on the pavement next to them wanting to cry and scream. Yet, I couldn’t do any of it. Because next to me were their killers. Laughing, smiling, saying what a whore the girl was. Somewhere around this point I would wake up in a cold sweat feeling like I was there on the playground still.


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