A TORTURED HEART - FIVE HARGREEVES.

❝ A TYPEWRITER. A record player. An ink pad and pen. And my mind. That's all I had in my room. Well, I wouldn't necessarily call it a room-it was more like a cell; padded and completely soundproof. Two of the walls were covered in tally marks, drawn with black ink. They counted 1,461 days. The last time I'd see sunshine was the day I stood at the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge, staring down at a 200 foot drop. Moments before Sir Reginald Hargreeves rescued me. I wanted to feel grateful. I *SHOULD* feel grateful. Without him, I wouldn't be apart of something so grand. He assured me that running tests, keeping me hooked up on drugs, and maintaining isolated was all apart of the process. He said I was special, but he never exactly told me how. That somehow brings me to the present. There I was, standing next to the entire Hargreeves family, paying my respects to Sir Reginald. I fiddled with my umbrella, staring awkwardly at the pile of ashes on the ground. The boy standing across from me wouldn't stop sending me strange looks. Everyone else seemed to be fine with my presence, but something about the way he looked at me made me feel uneasy. Like he was trying to figure me out. I wonder what that's about. ❞

- March 24, 2019