Written from the perspective of the villain in a world of supes, this story describes an average psycho's journey from a powerless tool to the greatest adversary that Haven City has ever known.
////AUTHOR's NoTE////
All names, concepts and places, a...
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Why would I do that?
That's what I asked myself as I lifted the tray of food from the chef's counter to a random seat in the canteen.
Why would I willingly let myself get caught?
I'm going to languish here, possibly for the rest of my life.
So why?
I was lost to the thought, and fortunately for the others in the room of normally-abled inmates, no one bothered me.
Why, why, why-why-why, ...
Ah. It was because of my massive ego.
I thought that I could get classed as a supervillain with no powers.
I thought that when they did the test, they would find out.
I sat as far from the guards as possible, at the end of one of the long multi-seated tables, as far from the other inmates as I could. The guards ruined my appetite. I feared being noticed, realistically, most times, as I was one of the smallest there. Usually, the inmates were too lost in their own delusions to notice.
One of these guys thought he could speak to aliens that beamed thoughts into his brain from space, who were also mind-controlling human society at large and were the truth behind super-beings.
Another thought he was a god, a big-g g-o-d, with godly powers and some magical glowing balls in his fists which were invisible to everyone else.
And one of them thought he was a hero. Or had been. I didn't know any difference. He didn't have powers.
Somehow I found my way there despite being put on so many medications that my mind was fog and I could barely hear myself think, even walking and keeping my eyes up was all misty and hard. This is what they did to me. They've been removing my mind, gradually, because I let myself get caught, because the only thing that I had was my mind. That's where I got my powers from. Duh.
If I thought about that test result, I'd feel disgust well up making my entire body feel like it was being deflated and decomposed like filth, and only my pride at my continued existence in spite of the prison guards could eat it away, but even that was wearing thin.
I didn't know where I went wrong, and I feared I'd made a mistake. Yet again, my self-hatred stemming from a backlog of incarceration starting from this old year, or whatever I did before this, began to well up in the form of repetitive internalised critiques where everything I did from past to present was wrong and therefore my future would be, if I ever got one.
Why did I let myself get caught?
What made me do it?
And here it started, those same, repetitive ruminating thoughts. Perhaps the medicine was making me mentally weaker. Confining me to these limited walls of a limited mind that was too fogged up to outthink misery, and punitive isolation. I was never this wrong.
