Taking in a long, deep breath, a warm cloud of steam rose its way through my nose and down my sore throat, providing a miniscule amount of comfort.
I gazed at the refrigerator, my sight unfocused. My eyes didn't linger on the sole red clip magnet that loosely hung, nor on the leather texture of the fridge door. I stared with the world in a blur, trapped by my own thoughts; lightly running my index finger up and down on the surface of the mug cradled in my hands.
After having sat on the floor for a while, I had struggled to climb against the kitchen island and back onto my feet.
Once that was achieved, I dug through the kitchen cabinets, pulled out a tea kettle, ran some water from the kitchen faucet, turned on the stove and heated it up. After about five minutes I grabbed a mug, stumbled my way back around the kitchen island and plopped down onto a stool across from the fridge.
To where I am now.
I couldn't help but to think back on my childhood. Of my father who, although similarly neglectful, was not that hateful. Just... indifferent.
Which brought forth the reminder of loneliness that I, too, felt.
However, what came from that was not a drive to impress, like Ezra, but a numbing sense of existence.
I enveloped myself in a state of indifference that was not so different from my father's.
It was... easier that way. Through that state of existence, I came to understand my father a bit better. Looking at the world through his eyes became a lot easier.
It was hard to feel anything and when something was felt, it was almost nonexistent.
Which, depending on the situation, brought forth a suffocating sense of shame and guilt that subsequently turned into a rage that fizzled into avoidance.
Looking back, when it came to the subtle moments of tenderness that my father gave me, I understood why, immediately after, a cloud of disappointment would overcome his expression. My indifference, caused by his general lack of affection, dissuaded him from doing anything further.
That didn't stop him from trying, however. I still remember how he would read to me every night until I hit the age of eight. Of how, sometimes, he would come home from work, exhausted, and would help me with my homework when I asked. Of his tired smiles he etched onto his face when I cracked a joke and didn't find it funny.
Of that one tender hug before he died...
After his death I was sent to my mother, who, despite expectations, wanted nothing to do with me. If it wasn't something that was socially or legally expected, then she would lock me in my room, buying me random knick knacks and books to occupy my time.
I didn't mind it, really. I was used to the silence, to the long hours of nobody to talk to. Of the warnings of Stranger Danger that kept me from breaking free.
It was during one such uneventful day that my mother had barged into my room without notice, her mousy hair tied up into a messy bun, dressed in nothing but a bra and sweatpants.
"Hey," she began, irritated, "I got you something new. Have fun."
Then, just as quickly as she had entered my room, she threw a comic book at me before slamming the door shut and starting the shower.
At the time, I was unprepared to catch her "gift" because I was preoccupied playing a video game she had bought me two months prior. I was in the middle of capturing a rare monster when a hard book cover smacked me in the face, hard, causing me to misclick a button on my console. After the book had slid down my face and onto the pillow on my bed, I was met with the sight of the text: "Maybe Next Time." displayed on the screen.
The sense of defeat that followed, which turned into frustration, caused me to drop the game without saving and pick up the book mother had chucked at me.
A dark crusader, strapped in dark leather and a billowing cape glared back at me. The title of said comic being: "Everlasting Dark".
I read through the book, initially unimpressed. But as I carried on, I got lost into the dark world it portrayed and the feeling of connection that the characters had amongst themselves.
Before I knew it, I was asking my mother to buy me a second comic, then a third, a fourth, a fifth.
Each time I picked up a new entry to the series I got lost in the world. In the first time in a while I had laughed, cried, pondered about what I read, felt fear for the characters and a sense of belonging that kept me coming back.
Before I knew it, I was parasocially bonded to a comic book character.
If I had to be honest, I felt that that character had raised me. More than my mother or father combined. Him, and the world in which he lived, taught me how to behave in the outside world. He taught me what to expect and how to connect with others.
Although, in retrospect, it wasn't him that taught me these things. It was the dozens of writers, editors, artists behind the scenes that raised me.
I took a sip of warm water, the cut on my lip beginning to burn. I winced in pain.
Although... this new reality I was in now brought that belief into question.
Was it purely writers and editors that raised me, or had the comic book character that I loved as a father actually done so? Somehow?
I tapped my index finger against the mug thoughtfully.
I suppose that's wishful thinking, isn't it?
I sighed.
Ezra, just like me, was also neglected in his youth. However, unlike my father, Darron--that's his name--completely ignored his son without a second thought.
In an effort to gain his attention and affection, Ezra tried his hardest to succeed in school believing that, if he wasn't "useless" maybe his father would want to hang out with him.
I still remember the bitter tears he fought back after attempting to show Darron a cheap plastic badge he had gotten from his teacher for showing exemplary work at school.
I remember it as if it was my tears that streamed down my face after hiding in my room.
I shivered involuntarily, glancing back at the man on the couch.
It frightened me, honestly, how much love and longing that lingered whenever I looked at Darron. I craved for his attention. Prayed that he would finally acknowledge my existence through his drunken haze.
I knew these feelings weren't truly mine. These were Ezra's. But, seeing as I now occupied his body, I suppose it is mine now...
These feelings, these suffocating, heart-wrenching feelings were never portrayed in the comic. These thoughts and memories were organic. Something I had never seen before. Something that added more depth to Ezra's character other than some dead kid that got murdered by his drunk, gambling-addict father.
I took another sip of water.
Usually, one would take this moment to leave. To run out the door, sprint down the street and wave down the cop car just outside the window, screeching for help. But these feelings of hopelessness, accompanied by this strong sense of yearning kept me rooted in place, gazing at the refrigerator.
I wanted Darron to wake up.
I wanted Darron to look at me.
I wanted Darron to get up, soothe my fear, acknowledge my anxieties, and to tenderly dress my wounds like that one father in that one episode of "Witch It".
I blinked. "Witch It"?
Ah, the TV show Ezra was watching before he got murdered...
My heart skipped a beat, a yelp stuck in my throat as that memory came flooding back.
The memory of Ezra's last few moments alive...
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Don't think about it.
Just don't think about it.
Think about that time mother gave you a monster plushie and made you attend some snot-nosed kid's birthday party to impress their mother.
Think about that time father tried to play catch with you and fell on his ass.
Think about that time you found a stray cat and fed it a part of your chicken sandwich before father dragged you back into the car.
Think about anything other than that.
Wait...
Catch?
I never played catch with my father...
I pinched the bridge of my nose, my head throbbing harder than usual.
This mix of memories was making it hard to distinguish the two realities within my head.
On the one hand, there was my memories, the thirty four year old memories. They were concise and followed a specific timeline.
On the other, there was Ezra's. His was chaotic, coming in unpredictable fragments that followed no particular timeline.
It was as if Ezra's memories were trying to overwrite mine, but mine was surviving just by the sheer volume in comparison.
I dreaded to think what would happen if, one day, my memories failed to survive and was successfully replaced with Ezra's.
Would I ever be able to get them back? Would I still be me or some abomination that came into existence out of nowhere?
Following that line of thought, a critical question came to mind.
Is there a way to go home?
Surely, right?
After all, this is a fantasy world of super heroes where anything is possible. There's already a couple of busted characters within this world. It would just be a matter of finding them and receiving their help.
If there's a way in, there's got to be a way out, right?
I mean, that makes sense. Everything has an opposite.
Feeling somewhat relieved by this thought, I tugged on the belt wrapped around my neck.
I should probably take this off now, huh?
Running my fingers against the worn leather, I found the belt buckle and unclipped it from the strap, sliding the material carefully off my neck.
Once the belt was safely off my neck, I gazed at it.
Having read the comic, and after experiencing it first hand, I knew that this is the murder weapon that ultimately led to my demise...
I shuddered, tossing the belt onto the floor.
What did I say?
Don't think about it.
I glanced back at Darron on the couch. He was still asleep after all this time. After all the noise I had made clanging around the kitchen, and the thwack of the belt dropping onto the floor. Nothing seemed to draw him from his sleep.
I was almost impressed by it, honestly, if a shroud of envy didn't cloud my judgement.
This time, the feeling was purely mine.
I'm assuming that I had died. That the thirty four year old me is long gone. If that was the case, I would've preferred a long, dreamless slumber than whatever the hell this is.
Especially since I know what comes next.
Sure, I "survived" for now, but compared to what was coming up, my death was an act of mercy.