A Story Worth Forgetting

Part 2-

An open door, the color of burnt oak. A familiar hallway, the lights turned off except for a single bulb at the very end. It seemed to stretch, never ending even when he stepped inside.

Peeling off his familiar red shoes, every second dragging on for a lifetime. Through his socks he could feel the tile. No warmth, no welcome home like he had received all his life.

A wind blew through the open door, the winter weather brushed the back of his neck. His hair not yet long enough to cover it.

It was so cold, he still remembered the sensation in that moment. Funny how a chill, so cold he felt as if he drowned in the deepest sea, was the final thing he would ever feel. He would never know warmth, joy or sadness. Never see color again, never taste food again.

Everything was bland, numb, a murky scheme of black and whites, mixing together to create a gray world that surrounded him.

That was before the pain, when the strange men had muffled his voice before her corpse and dragged him away. That Man still standing over her body. Wiping clean the blade that had taken her life, her laughter and her warmth. Her wide, lifeless eyes facing the door with a now cold hand outstretched. As if trying to reach him one more time.

She would never hold him again. Never-

Waking up, heading tilted back against the glaringly bright white walls. He stared at the equally and obnoxiously white ceiling. "Right-" He mumbled.

"I got caught-"

He couldn't save others from his own fate no more, how long would he have left to live freely? No vigilante like him would ever be released back into the world. He was a living liability, prone to falling right back into his old life without a second of hesitation.

It's bright in here. He thought absently, he hated bright places. No shadows, nowhere to hide. No place that welcomed him, once again he was isolated and alone with nothing to call his own but the two feet that continued to carry him through every hellish day he lived.

Hearing the creak of a door, previously out of use. The sound so faint, but his wolfish ears barely twitched to acknowledge he had heard the sound.

He closed his eyes. Like clockwork, everyday at the same twelfth hour of the day, that door opened. Food was brought, but never touched. Muffled words exchanged from one mouth to the other. A series of various opinions, angry words, a few crashes and thuds now and again. It sounded just like what happened when he wouldn't co-operate willingly with those people.

However, this time, the people angry at him were supposed to be Heroes. Symbols who protected the innocent, aided the victims, and erased the villains. Was he not a victim? Of both society and villains? Had he not once been innocent when his world came to an end?

Was he truly not worthy of a Heroes help? As Judgment, he knew better than to imagine a life where he had not ended up where he was. Because, that world didn't exist. It was not the fate that had been laid out for him.

What choice did he have other than to make the most of what he was given? You can't make lemonade without killing the lemon first.