Midnight In the Marvel Universe

The Lost One

"God is coming."

The words echo around your head, pounding against your skull, wanting to be said, needing to be heard. But you hold back the urge to let loose a scream.

It's all you can do at this point. Resist the temptation to give in even as you feel yourself starting to slip.

The truth is, you've already been sliding. Ever since the words started a few weeks ago, you've barely been able to control yourself. It's like the voice is slowly taking over your body, turning you into something else. And maybe it is.

You've been more irritable, prone to anger. Last week, you even lashed out at your coworker when he asked if he could borrow your phone.

You've become an insomniac. Every night, you lie in bed, eyes wide open, sleep never coming, the voice roaring inside your head like a waterfall, never stopping. Only getting louder.

And you've started seeing things. Nightmares that appear while your eyes are open. Strange images.

A dark God in a cage made of bodies, restlessly sleeping.

A creature made of black ooze, lunging towards you, trying to pull you away from something.

A spiral of white and red, descending further and further into the depths of hell, taking you with it.

And the devil himself laughing as he covers you in thick red blood, chocking you. Forcing you to join him. Making you want to–

You smack yourself across the face. Your cheek burns from the pain but you barley notice it. Nowadays, pain is the best medicine. The pain makes the voice quiet down, if only for a moment.

It's the only thing keeping you going. The only thing keeping you sane.

The only question is... for how long?

You shake your head as you stand up, sending that question spinning into the back of your chaotic mind.

"Can't think like that." You mutter under your breathe. "Have stay positive."

You cross the rathole that the landlord called an apartment–a one room with a creaky, smelly bed and rotten floorboards–to the dirt stained window.

Wiping at the what must be centuries old dust in vain, you stare out into the rain soaked night. If you were here under normal circumstances, you'd be staying in a hotel with a view of either Central Park or Times Square, not some dirt and trash filled alley.

But these aren't normal circumstances. And you didn't want to come here.

It was the voices idea. It dragged you here, kicking and screaming out of your nice, quiet life and back into a hell hole that you'd tried to leave behind.

A hole of memories you've tried so hard to forget.

There's no air conditioning in the apartment but you shiver, goosebumps covering your arms despite the stifling heat.

It's a familiar kind of fear, one that you've felt only one time before.

The time when the devil came to New York.

The memories flood into your chaotic mind, temporarily silencing the voice. It provides with only a fleeting sense of happiness.

Years ago, you'd come to New York. You'd been hoping for a chance to see the great city, climb the Empire State Building, walk through central park.

And more importantly, see some heroes.

For some reason, New York had always been the hub for super heroes. From the mighty Avengers to Fantastic Four, one could almost always walk into New York and see a hero flying over head.