Not a Hero

(2) T is for Trama

Warning: This chapter contains hints of anxiety and depression as well as self-harming. Please leave now if this triggers you

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Struggle. The first thing I remember was struggling. Struggling, and the darkness. It was so dark. Dark and warm and painful. My eyes felt as if they were glued shut. I bring a hand to my eyes, trying to clean away the crust built up around them. I regret opening them when they are blinded by the harsh sunlight. I close my eyes quickly, opening them slower the second time. I look around, seeing nothing but what was once an Oscorp building, now singed and falling apart. My head feels as if it was hit with a crowbar repeatedly.

The second thing I remember was being confused. My breaths felt as if I had been underwater for far too long, only just coming up for air. What-What happened? Was there a fire? Yes, I think there was a fire. But that wasn't the whole thing, was it? No, no, there was more. What was it? There was a bang. No, it was more of a boom. Yes, there was a boom. A powerful boom. I attempted to get up from my sitting position, pushing off my knee. I stumbled and fought to stand straight. I use a destroyed desk as support. I look down at my legs, my eyes wide. A blood curling wail escaped my dry hoarse throat.

Replacing my once only lightly used jeans, were a blacked and burned pair, singed past recognition. They covered so little skin, it allowed me to see my legs, which were discolored a sickly green and yellow hue. They were covered in burns, snaking their way around my legs like twin snakes. The burns looked a nauseating degree of fresh, clearly still trying to heal from the explosion, glossy from puss buildup. Wait. Explosion? The boom? How did I survive?

I glanced around frantically, looking for some sort of crutch, seeing as how my legs were beat up. I catch sight of a stray metal pole. Limping, I make my way over and pick it up to use as a walking stick. I was on the first floor of the building, the floor having fallen through. I hobbled out of the broken glass doors, gazing sadly at the reception desk. I had no way of knowing who lives or died, though I still hung onto hope.

Outside, the sun was shining harshly down on my back. In the brighter light, I looked myself over, every muscle sore and weak. Like the ones on my legs, my whole body was covered in burns, which will most definitely scar. Fantastic. My back felt raw, the warm air only fleshed out more suffrage. Pain followed every movement, as the remains of my clothing kept rubbing my injuries past raw. I surveyed my surroundings, worried as to why I found nobody, not even a body. Where was everyone? Where had they gone? Had I been forgotten?

My breathing hitched. What was I supposed to do? They don't exactly tell you what to do in case of an explosion. Where was I supposed to go? Would I have to find my way home? Was I even welcome home? Did anyone know I was alive?

That final thought was what sent me into hysterics. Which I think is justified, you know all things considered. I lost my grip on the pole as well as my footing. Hyperventilating, I stumbled to the ground with my eyes unfocused but jumping around loosely. My arms wrapped around my chest, holding myself. I rock back and forth, attempting to calm down. I scratch my arms, striving to focus on the pain rather than the thoughts.

Excruciating pain is the only thing I feel as I start to slow my breaths. I pull my arms away from my body, staring down at them. My breathing hitches again, unfortunately, as I look down at my mutated hands. Replacing my usual hands, were large clawed paws covered in inky blood. I stare down at them, flexing the claws in and out, in fascination. I mean other than the fact they seriously tore up my arms, it's kinda cool. Now how do I get rid of it? I take deep breaths and focus on what my hands used to look like, praying it works because I have no idea what I will do if it doesn't.