The Scarred Man

Chapter 1

People are cruel. 

I walk down the street, and every person whose eyes meet my face flinches away. They jeer at me, laugh, scowl, even gag. All I can do is smile back. My face is scarred yes, but it was for them. For all of them. I bore the burden the dog tags forced upon me happily. My men and I sacrificed everything, and in return we got nothing.

The lonely nights we spent away from home, evenings full of loss and fear, cold showers of bullets in the desert heat, blisters upon our feet and hands, everything. Only to be ridiculed and forgotten. I watched my best friends burn to death, heard their screams, felt their searing limbs,a dn carried their charred bodies for the protection and freedom of the American people.

People who stand on our flag, laugh at our backs, kick our broken limbs. We fought for them! Our gravestones are vandalized, we are left with no payments and no homes, centuries of physical, emotional, and mental illnesses. But its still not enough.

Nobody cares of the hardships us soldiers have faced. They don't, honestly. 

They are all so quick to judge, and judge becomes hate. Hate leads to destruction. Destruction to despair, despair to death, death to despair, etc etc. 

Why have people forgotten the important things in life? Why have they forgotten morals? 

And why are our children eating tide-pods?

With my sudden lost of deep and self-pitying thoughts I look at the poster in front of me. Apparently, children have taken to tide-pod eating as a contest to see....who can die the quickest I assume? How is it entertaining to watch another person choke on dish detergent? Really, what has society come to?!

I discard the poster to instead look at the 'Help Wanted' sign the bar holds. I don't quite fancy working with a bunch of drunks and becoming an underpaid therapist for every person with relationship problems that walks through the door, but I'm desperate. 

I walk inside the large city bar, shielding my face in hopes of setting a good impression. The sun shines through the shades at the windows, the morning time doing nothing to damper the mood of the many drunks still standing around. It takes quite the hassle to dance around the staggering men and women, but I finally am able to stand in front of the dark-haired lady at the counter.

"What can I get for ya Mis--uh -ter?" She stutters at the sight of my face, and I wince. I avert my eyes from her own and turn my head so the right side of my face is out of her view.

"I saw the 'Help-Wanted' sign at the front- and-uh, was kind of hoping for an application, please. Ma'am." It's a struggle to form my sentence and I blush under her gaze. 

"Yea sure, I can do that for you. Though I'm sure you'll be getting any counter jobs, no offense. But a face like that is bad for business." Her words hit me like venom, and I stumble backwards as my hands grasp the resume she hands me. Her eyes stay glued to my face, and in a desperate attempt to stop her stares I bring my hands up to hide my scarred ugliness while blindly walking backwards. It proves to be a mistake when my body hits another, and another, and another. 

The drunks decide to help end my suffering my suffering by shoving me out the door. I regain my breath and look down at the resume in my hands. 

All that, for this.

I came out of the military with the promise to education.  To some kind of retirement. I guess that means nothing to the government. I loved serving my country, my people; but it seems they all have a hard time finding any kind of reciprocation. Not even a thank-you. Not from the government, not from the people.

That's not why I joined of course.

I need this job, I need to be able to pay for the bills, and I need to be able to afford my therapy and medication. Physical therapy and check-ups. Mental therapists can't help a veteran. It's not their fault, they just can't understand. Nobody but my brothers and sisters do.

The apartment I walk to is in a run-down, dangerous neighborhood I like to call Bludhaven. Not only because of my hero worship of Nightwing, Red Hood, and Batman (mostly Nightwing), but also because it has a surprising or not-so-surprising likeness to Bludhaven.

Only this city has no hero. Of course, if I happen to wander across someone in trouble I will help them, but I have no time and no material to run around this cold city in spandex.

And, I will under no circumstances allow my junk to freeze to bloody hell. I had enough experience with that in boot camp, never again.

My apartment itself is pretty crappy. One small kitchen, one tiny bathroom, and living room that also happens to be my bedroom. There is one small window, that is boarded up from a break in a couple weeks ago where I was scolded by the police for beating the bloody hell out of some punks who thought just because I was messed up in the head, that I was an easy-target. Who were they to scold me? I pay my taxes, and their pay-checks!

I'm not European, some things just grow on me. 

Now, where was that pen?

**************

"Ple-a-ea-s-s-se S-s-s-ir", a man begs in the darkness of a grimy cell. 

"Please what?" He is questioned. The boss waits, only to hear the gargle of blood traveling up the mans throat. 

"Pathetic! You can't even beg!" He roars while he rips the rest of the skin off the mans leg. The man screams, the skin on his legs completely gone and soon a rough hand grabs his face, forcing his mouth open. 

"You owe me! And what do you have? Nothing!" A hand grips his tongue.

"B-b-b-aggg" He attempts to speak.

"What?" the boss releases his tongue and leans forward.

"B-b-b-ar...m-my b-ar." He squeaks out.

"Very well then. Thank you." He smiles cruelly and grabs the man's tongue again. Bloody fingers grip tight on the chair as a knife slowly slices through his tongue. Blood pools in his mouth and pain rushes through his whole body as tears stream down his face and-

BANG

nothing.

*******************

Name? Miles Morales 

I chuckle and scribble out the last name. In my dreams. Actually, no, that's Robert, Chris, and Sebastian. Spider-man is too awesome to even be in my dreams. Peter Parker is better though.

Name? Miles Hill

Gender? Male

Relationship? Yes please

Phone Number? Date first buddy

I stop and look down at the resume. It's a good thing the girl gave me two.