There was something about being lost in your own thoughts. The constant nagging, slowly eating at you from the back of your mind. Things that were wanted that wasn't really you. It was something else, something else entirely. A lust for not just blood, but violence. For things that were far from holy and more of an animalistic nature. Begging, pleading for some sort of understanding. That this was a need, a drive. He was a monster and this was the way he was meant to be now. It might as well have been another personality, an image speaking to him. But there was no image, no other voice. Only his, even as his mouth didn't move.
Piles of pages, hand written and otherwise. Files of all shapes and sizes on everything that has happened. On everything that he knew, on everything he had studied and had to endure. On Michael's own physical body. Not just the obvious changes, but those that went down to his DNA. On what changes had taken during that week or those weeks when he was no longer the one in control. At least it wasn't that voice, that one that had another sort of craving that was taking over. How would he live with himself? How would he look himself in the eye? It was difficult enough some days, the ones where he stood there in the bathroom. Staring into a mirror only to find an eerie reflection staring back at him. The picture of a man that wasn't him, yet was. One that was closer to that demon in his memories. Those moments he took staring at himself even then, even there. The different changes that had been apparently undertaken but he didn't recall them. Not him, not yet. There were more than enough memories though. Enough to tell him just who he was turning into. What he was becoming. As if the abilities didn't give that away.
The need for blood. His own body having more than a craving, a yearning for it. It was a necessity. The strength that came with it. The power lying in wait by his own muscles. The more blood he had, the stronger it was. The stronger he was. The agility. To bend, flip, and crouch as he hadn't before. The healing that kept him alive and going. That wasn't going to be stopped by stakes or silver bullets. Not a cross or holy water that would burn him. The mesmerism, hypnosis, to force his will upon others. To have them commit to the words he spoke to them. The simple tone in his voice as he did so. The senses that were alive, practically lighting up and smothering him. All with far more than the scents of the city. But the scent of blood, he could follow it, track it, hunt and take what he wanted. But that wasn't. No, not even the night vision that came with it, the sounds that pierced his ears. Not the way his vision became clearer, where it changed completely to an infra-red.
There was a lull that came through with all of this. The way he was treated, the means in which he was handled. He didn't like it. Not that he wanted people to sit around and hate and fear him. To whatever degree, he felt like it was due. Not because of who he was, but what he was becoming. What he was now. To be told he wasn't human. To have been trying to hide all of this for the sake of not being treated that way. And there he was, judged. Unworthy of being treated as if he were human. Just another monster. All he saw around him were people. People that didn't really care except for their own uses. He was tired of pretending to be one. Of trying to act like there was more to this life. That it hadn't already been turned into something else. To always have to plague others with his presence. It wasn't really wanted. It was just what he wanted. It wasn't going to be what he wanted anymore. Why push for things that weren't? When he wasn't?
Michael didn't need to be enough for anything or anyone. The only worthy aspect of his life that he had ever put his time into was work. To saving others, to saving as much of the world as he could. It didn't matter that they didn't know him or care about him. His name would be in a book, he would be a different sort of hero. That was his life. To be looked up to for his accomplishments, his attempt to help humanity. But it wasn't like that. No, he was now sitting here questioning an urge. One that he wouldn't keep questioning.
Getting his coat and keys, he acted as if he were just going to go out. Nothing abnormal, nothing different, nothing special. No pain to think about, no loneliness to scare away. No one left to push away, given what he could do. No one else to keep at bay in fear of an accident. Finding his way to the rooftop wasn't as easy as he expected. At the same time, that strength did help him get past the last lock. Staring out into the night sky, at every blinking light and noise that met him, he stared at Boston. This was how he spent his nights. Wandering around where people were quiet. Getting lost in it and his own thoughts. The kind he should never allow himself to, believing it would make things easier.
Instead, all it did was leave him with a yearning. A want for things that he apparently couldn't have. Failure after failure, he had nothing left. He couldn't go visit his parents like this. He had no other family. No real friends. No one to be close to. He needed to stop lying to himself and trying to believe that he could. The burden of what happened before, the guilt of everything that he had done before this point. Things that he had no control over, and the ones he did. Inching towards the edge of the building, it hurt. Not a real, physical pain, but it might as well had been.
The cold surrounded him, but it also felt like it was sinking into his pores. Moving deeper, filling him with a worse sort of chill. A blank, vacant stare, as he continued moving. Hands in his pockets, The warmth eluded him.
Everyone was moving about, lives to get to, lives to be had. Laughter, yelling, screaming, crying. Calls for help or asking for help. Everything was different here than it was in his memories. But that part alone, that was the same. It was strange, but it gave him something. Whether it was needed or wanted, that was another story. Eyes staring out into the darkness, in search of something. His own urges barely battled back. Not for blood, but another sort of violence. Questions that needed to be answered.
A loud bang that filled his own ears. Memories of a double barreled shotgun within inches of his chest going off. Choking on his own blood, as he felt the skin burn, forced away by the blast, as if it were all in slow motion. Landing back on the ground, it was the last thing on his mind. It needed to stop, it all needed to stop. Why had he tried to do anything when this is where it led him? This wasn't his place, he shouldn't have been trying to help? But then there it was. Him helping. Him trying. Him being told that he could do better, more, because people were counting on him. People looked up to him. He owed them that much for all that he had changed there. The fight left him falling, backwards. Energy surging through every part of his body, muscles spasming on their own as he fell. The metal wrapped around his body. Warping, bending, whining under his weight. The pain that followed, the darkness that threatened to come.
I've made a terrible mistake. But that's my role, isn't it? To be the unrelenting failure. To be the one who scorches the Earth. To be the one who makes his stand...and falls. The thoughts that had rang through his head as he fell. The shrill cry of "Michael!" that melted into the crushing sound of metal and shattered glass. The quiet, barely there, soft, "..No..." It was all there. Remembered in the worst way. But he would live. He would live from that moment and destroy everyone. Take from them what they took from him and then some. He would follow that man, find him, and it wasn't even difficult. Coming out of the water as he did, slaughtering the whole lot of them. For all they did, for all the innocents they hurt, for the way that they tried to manipulate him, they deserved it. Painful deaths pouring from his own anger, his own blood lust satiated by the tearing of skin, breaking of bones, blood dripping across splattered walls.
"I still don't know what I want to do. I still haven't figured out the future I want, just that my past and present isn't it. I do know that I want it to be by my terms, going forward. No more bending to what someone else desires. My world should be my own. And mine alone." There weren't truer words. This was what he wanted, what he needed even now. Staring at the alley below, he lifted his feet, to step right there onto the ledge. His own balance perfect, not being pushed or pulled against the wind. Just staring at what was below, with the urge to move forward. That urge to see what happens when he fell from here
He would claim that he wasn't insane. That this was an experiment for his own choosing, but in truth, he didn't care about the outcome. If he was wrong, it would be fatal. Would it matter if it were? To end this nightmare or to wake up from it? A blip on a screen snuffed out. One that no one would think twice about. That guy that bumped into you getting coffee and apologized. The one that lived down the hall getting the random packages. That stranger that just stood there on the outside of the glass pane staring in, unable to find or comprehend this life, as if it were some great mystery. Would it be so wrong to not get back up this time?
At the same time, he remembered being able to fly. To glide. Something about the air currents, the weightlessness of it all. One that started with a fall. Maybe this would bring that back, maybe this would turn in that direction? It was dark enough, and it was into an alleyway. It wasn't as if he was too worried about people catching sight of him. And if they had, it wasn't as if they would probably believe what they did see. He could do this, he could see in whichever direction it would go. If he would fly or heal. If he would find his end in such a miserable fate.
Michael felt strange, as if he knew he should feel fear in this but found none. Not an ounce nor a drop. Just annoyance over the smell that wafted up towards the top of the building to his nose. Sure footing stepped out, as if there would be ground to walk on from it all. He didn't want to overstep it. To use his own strength and push himself too far out and miss the target. Ground would break his fall, if something didn't happen.
Air rushing against him, pushing him, but not up, no. His entire body was falling straight down like a sake of potatoes tossed over the side. Closing his eyes, he tried not to make some wrong movement. As if that would help whatever pain that was about to shoot through him. The fall hadn't knocked him out, but it didn't leave him the most lucid. There he was, choking on his own blood. limbs moving and twitching on their own. Broken parts in need of being reset and righting themselves. Red eyes stared up into the night, only to come to realize that it wasn't the night. He had closed his eyes. That's why everything was so black. "Michael?" He didn't have the words. He didn't have anything. Why was his face moving now? "Michael! Michael! Open your eyes!"
He didn't want to, he wanted to go back to sleep. To ask his mother for five more minutes.It wasn't so much to ask for.It was still dark out. Why did everything have to hurt so much? All of those nerve endings felt on fire. Lighting up,mending, while he was stuck feeling that cold still. One that he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried. Groaning, he wanted to mutter something about not working out so much. No more running this week. No more something. The wind had been knocked out of him, to say the least here. Breathing wasn't completely there,as death felt to be creeping in. But just as it all felt like it was coming to a final curtain call, there it was. His whole body spasmed forward. A deep breath inhaled, as his lungs finally felt right.
It was more like a scene out of a bad horror movie. Some new version of Frankenstein being awoken and set forth with bolts of lightening helping to breathe life into him. Or a zombie finding its own fresh life. Reaching out to air, brain still connecting the dots as his body continued to stitch itself back together. He was going to need to feed. It was one of those feelings that came through with all of the other pain. Not just food, but that too. It was apparently a good, safe call not to have eaten beforehand. Just for the fact that he didn't need to hurl his cookies right there in the alley. It was a thought, a feeling, as his stomach not only handled the fall, but his own senses having to deal with everything around him now. Too strong. Right down to his own blood. If he had been more lucid, he would have actually realized who was there next to him.
Why did his chest still have to hurt too? Shouldn't this be faster? Was there a timing to it? Coughing, he ended up groaning before speaking. "What are you doing here?" It was better to get a question out instead of waiting for the inevitable. He had lived. But there were only so many ways to answer why one might jump off of their own apartment building. None of which he was really wanting to discuss here or anywhere else. Guess it was life.