Author: PirateAba

Griefman (Pt. 3) - The Wandering Inn

Ordinary man Roy Mackendal stood on top of one of Stellaris’ skyscrapers next to the space elevator and reminded himself he was afraid of heights.

To his left, a woman in a spacesuit, one of the most powerful beings on the planet, Aerthe, sat with her legs dangling off the edge of the building. She was more machine than Human, now; literally. She was fused with elements of her spacesuit.

She could fly, throw around automobiles like they were toy cars, drone strike any target in the world…oh yes. Despite the best efforts of nations, Aerthe could hack into almost any system she wanted. Roy had heard it described as less ‘hacking’, more her remotely accessing the hardware of devices. You could try to isolate and code-proof all you wanted; Aerthe would just reach out and tell a device to move how she wanted it to.

Forget drone strikes; she could use orbital satellites to fire on any target she wanted. She didn’t advertise that power, but he knew she could do it.

You see, Roy Mackendal knew everything and everyone in the caped world. He knew all the little dirty secrets, all the gossip, all the petty intrigues and grudges and sins.

He loved them with their silly capes and costumes and their amazing powers, their flaws and foibles altogether.

—But it wasn’t enough. He had been…not quite unhappy, but not happy either for a long time. Roy had been operating under the umbrella of ‘this is fine’ and ‘I can’t really complain’ and ‘someday I’ll fix this or that’ for over a decade now. And it really had been okay—until he’d realized what he’d lost with Jorrey, that there was no going back to fix things, that he had had only one chance and squandered it.

Regrets were like teeth. You never got to go back and redo them. Nothing grew back, and you didn’t realize that until someone told you that every cavity, chip, and missing tooth would never return.

Roy knew this, now. He knew people were laughing at Griefman. He didn’t care.

“Is Towertoppler going to be alright? Can they put his hand back on?”

It had been blown off by Nighwish’s bullet. Roy sort of felt like medical science would struggle with that, but he was no expert. Aerthe didn’t reply; her legs swung aimlessly as she sat, enmeshed in her own world of glowing screens, isolated from the semi-polluted air blowing across Vancouver’s skyline by her suit filters. When she looked at him, she really did seem like an all-powerful alien.

A literal woman from space. But Roy knew her. Aerthe had returned to Earth from the disastrous spacewalk that had given her powers in the middle of an alien invasion. She had burned through Earth’s atmosphere, riding on top of an alien battleship, and demanded a ceasefire. If not, she had promised to send every single spaceship into the sun. That had been a bluff, but she’d made it straight to the alien high command’s gaseous faces.

She had stared down armies and monsters—and she was afraid to meet his eyes. Aerthe turned back to the city.

“It’ll be rain for the next three days. Bad storm blowing in.”

She was talking about the weather. Roy almost smiled. Aerthe would talk about the weather with you. She’d discuss cumulonimbus cloud cover, the effects of new chemicals made with SALA (salto-axomitizine-lacrentia-aretiomenahydrazine), which were messing up the atmosphere and whether regulations were catching up fast enough, the latest stock prices—she’d discuss ants with you.

Once, Roy had brought an ant in on his shoes, and Aerthe had sat down and watched it wander around this unknown space station. She had speculated that away from the hive-mind effect that all ants had, from different colonies, and they infested every part of the world—this was the first worker ant that was experiencing true freedom. She’d kept it as a pet for eight months until it had died, and then she’d launched it into the sun.

She was different than Aldorius, Nightwish, Embodiment, or the others. More than anything…Roy thought she really was a lonely alien from space. She’d vanish on spacewalks, communicating from long-range with mission control, but she didn’t know many people on Earth.

She knew Roy almost better than anyone else. And like every single superhero, she’d learned that everything you told someone might come back to bite you. That there was no one you could trust to keep a secret.

There was a recording of Aerthe in a private moment showing part of her skin where it had fused with her spacesuit along her shoulder. Roy had never seen the whole thing, despite it being one of the most viewed videos of all time. News stations, tabloids, internet—who wouldn’t look? Nevermind it being an intimate, personal clip meant for only her and another superperson…

These days, any version of the recording had a virus attached that would mess up whatever device you’d downloaded it on. Uploaders to video hosting sites found their accounts and computers nuked themselves, and even media giants had decided that was one video they shouldn’t bring up—ever—unless they wanted all their personal tax files emailed to the IRS. So you could call that a victory for Aerthe.

The damage was done. And people wondered why she didn’t attend more social events or sign autographs for anyone but children.

Roy stood there, refusing to take the bait about the weather. He continued looking across the city; from this high up, he couldn’t even tell where the warehouse he’d been held hostage in was. A second cloud layer of pollution formed when you were on top of a mega skyscraper; Aerthe was backing several projects to remove the pollution, but the city generated it faster than the scrubbers could work at the moment.

“Aerthe, is Towertoppler going to make it?”

“He is. I’ve seen worse. They might even reattach his hand. I’m not sure about the ethics of that; he’s a monster. Did he really kill Masterclass?”

Roy hung his head.

“Yes. I think it was my fault. He didn’t realize the League of Anti-Capitalists was a front for insurance scams.”

“You did—this is why you wear your ring, Roy. And you’re wearing the mask again. Embodiment told us you’d vanished. Someone let me know you were at Silant Tower—I was about to teleport down when the League issued the bomb threat. I knew they kidnapped you before they showed your face.”

“Good old Roy. They were reasonable about it.”

“Reasonable. Towertoppler? Floridaman? What happened to your face, Roy?”

It was partly healed, but Roy knew he had a lot of blood on it. He felt at it gingerly.

“I provoked Towertoppler.”

“Why? You’ve been through hostage training.”

“Griefman needed to speak to him. I think I got somewhere—maybe, maybe not. He said Dubai was an accident.”

Aerthe’s helmet glowed as she opened a file and scrolled through it rapidly. Behind her suit, he saw eyes flickering so fast they looked like they were in REM sleep. But a slow shrug was his only reply.

“Does it actually matter? He’s killed superpeople besides that, Roy.”

“Shineforce. Queen of Cards—I know. He has reasons.”

“For killing some of the most celebrated heroes in the world?”

Roy turned, and he was surprised to realize the all-knowing astronaut…had no knowledge of what he and Towertoppler did.

“Do you know what Shineforce did?”

“Did? What are y—hm. Ah. That’s not proven.”

“It never went to court because he was dead.”

“That’s not…okay, there is a pattern. So Towertoppler styled himself to you as an anti-hero? And you bought it after he blew Masterclass to bits?”

“I’m not debating his morality, Aerthe. I just had a conversation with him. Tried to change his mind. He would have killed me in a heartbeat if he thought it was worth it. He wasn’t my target, anyways. It was Nightwish. He was about to shoot Towertoppler’s other hand off. If I hadn’t tried to stop him, I don’t know how far he would have gone.”

The astronaut was tellingly silent. Roy nodded.

“I know you think it wouldn’t be a problem in Towertoppler’s case. How many of the Socialist Supporters—the henchpeople—would he have crippled? They’re kids. He’s got to stop, Aerthe.”

“And you think you can do that, Roy? You? Griefman? Nightwish is a trained expert. He could beat me in hand-to-hand combat. Roy—he once ran a simulation against three squads of US marines, and he shot all of them dead before they could fire a single round. No one can find him; even if you do…”

Roy had a backup mask in his pocket. He unfolded it with a crackle of dying paper. Aerthe stared at it as Roy tried to unfold the tape with his fingers.

“I have to do it. No one else is looking for him. Who’s on the anti-Nightwish team?”

“Felicia Fortune, Heradonus…they’re the big hitters. Mister Olympics signed up, I think. Why?”

Roy laughed at that. A genuine laugh, not his polite chuckle. Aerthe was staring at him; scanning him he could tell by the tingle in under his left armpit. But he was just Roy—without the polite filters.

“Those three? Mister Olympics can’t track anyone. Heradonus knows he’ll look good and never find Nightwish with all his technology. As for Felicia Fortune…she’s lucky.”

“Yes, the one thing Nightwish can’t deal with.”

“So? She’s lucky, Aerthe. She’ll never find him.”

Aerthe knew that. Everyone in the superpeople community did. Roy continued absently.

“What’s the real plan? Let himself tire himself out or get so sloppy someone actually takes him down? How many people won’t ever walk again? I have to do it. I am Griefman.”

“He will break every bone in your body, Roy.”

“Then he’ll feel bad when he does it.”

The mask rose. Griefman turned, and Aerthe saw the wide eyes, the grin, the way his posture changed. He stood tall and proud.

“You really do wear it like you’re a real superhero. Roy. What if this is all…a breakdown? I’ve talked to over forty professionals. Most think you’re having a break with reality. They want me to get you help.”

“I’ll go to a psychiatrist the moment Aldorius does, Aerthe. Or you.”

She paused, tapping her wrist.

“—I’ve been to—”

“They don’t understand you.”

“Doctor Remedius is a fellow superperson—”

“He never passed his EPPP. He’s a physician’s assistant, Aerthe. He’s as good at his job as I am at accounting. You could replace him with one of your programs, just like me. Superpeople appear on his podcast, and he has two real psychiatrists in his earpiece.”

Another pause.

“You really do know everything about the caped community.”

Griefman shrugged.

“Ask me what a nimbocumulous cloud is and I can’t help you.”

She laughed at that, faintly. Then hugged her knees to her chest. It looked silly on Earth, like a child, but he imagined her floating through space like that, in a ball. She’d spent seventy-six days floating in the void before she gained control of her suit.

“—I thought about trying, Roy. Aldorius did. Embodiment too. We all had a talk. We can’t. No one in the world can find Nightwish. We can try, but if we make him an enemy—remember what he did to Interpol? The first one, before…?”

“I remember.”

Aerthe took a deep breath, rasping through her speakers.

“—My identity’s public, but he can still reveal things I don’t want, Roy. Aldorius’ dad—Embodiment’s still got her identity. Herodonus, Seithe, none of us are safe. We take him out, he takes us out.”

“I know. I don’t blame you. It’s why it has to be me, Aerthe. Don’t stop me.”

She stood up and hopped over to him, her suit’s microthrusters firing to slow her fall and augment the motion. Leaping like she was on the moon to land like a feather.

“I could put you in a forcefield. Or just carry you to Stellaris HQ. It would be easy.”

“Yes. It would.”

He didn’t move. Aerthe held up a gloved hand, and the fingers shone with bright light. Griefman turned his head.

“I’ll need a lift down to a skyscraper; this one’s too high. I get altitude-sick. And a favor or two.”

“I haven’t made up my mind whether or not I’m going to—wait, you get altitude sickness?”

“I’m scared of heights.”

Aerthe half lowered her hand.

“I took you flying over half of Africa with Seithe and Endora that one time. You never said a thing.”

“Medication. You were having so much fun, and you’d just had the video leaked. I didn’t want to bring you down.”

She faltered, and Griefman smiled at her.

“You see? You can put me behind a bubble, Aerthe. All your technobabble and science-sorcery cannot stop the might of Griefman.”

He flexed his arms and winced. Then checked the sky. It was dawn, he realized; he must have been talking to Towertoppler through the night. Good. It gave him time to sleep, which he honestly needed; Nightwish would begin hunting at dusk.

Aerthe stood there.

“I can give you some real gear. A Stellaris fighting suit, maybe. It might give you a chance if you can get Nightwish to reveal himself. If…”

“I don’t need that. Thank you, Aerthe, but I just need your help. Not a gift; not you swooping in to save the day. I should have asked for your help a long time ago. Have I told you about my father?”

“Jorrey? Of course. You’ve brought him up.”

She’d changed the opacity of her visor, so he didn’t see the screens popping up. Griefman smiled anyways.

“Liar. I was afraid to even mention his name. He wanted an autograph from you. I always told him no.”

A faint sound in her helmet. Guilty.

“Because of my policy? I would have made an exception, Roy…”

“I know. It was my fault. I didn’t want to lose your respect.”

“You wouldn’t have—maybe when I was sensitive after the—but you’re different, Roy. I know you.”

She was hesitating. Trying to be honest, and Griefman just shook his head and closed his eyes. He tilted his head back, but the tears didn’t come. Just the words.

“I was trying to be different. One of the people you could trust. I’ve been Roy, the friendly accountant, and it worked. I rubbed shoulders with World Pact. I get to be part of important events. But somewhere in there, I also stopped doing anything that would upset you all. Good old Roy. Roy, who never says a bad word about anyone. Never pushes you—never asks for a signature for his father.”

He clenched one hand, but he barely had the strength to close it. He felt weak—and unafraid of the drop through the clouds. Nothing mattered. And this mattered. He was spiraling down…but Nightwish was waiting.

“I’m sorry, Roy. If you ever felt like we were taking you for granted—we convene at World Pact because we like you. Seriously. Everyone values your opinion. If we take you for granted, it’s because you’re always there for us. I want you to know that, and if you need to talk, I want you to reach out.”

Aerthe spoke slowly, and Griefman turned a smile like the blazing sun rising over his city.

“You don’t read from the teleprompter well, Aerthe.”

“Sorry—”

“I know you mean it. If I could go back, I think Roy would have done most of the same things. Asked for a few more autographs. One of Aldorius’ baseballs. But he would have also said things. Had a fight—told you when you were wrong. In the end, Aerthe, I think he would have put on this mask. Give me one chance to stop Nightwish.”

“He might kill you. And I like you too much to risk that, Roy.”

Griefman turned. He adjusted his mangled tie, and gave Aerthe a pleasant smile. A storm was coming; the thunder of it was in his tone, far distant. But rising.

“Then you need to make a choice, Aerthe. Because you’ll either get good old Roy, your pet friend—or someone you respect. I’m asking you for help. Trust me.”

She wavered, and Griefman spread his arms.

“I can’t fly like you. Nor punch through a brick wall like Aldorius. I can’t shapeshift into metal, or swing a magical sword. But I can do something you can’t. Now—give me a hand, would you, Aerthe?”

He turned, put his foot on the edge of the skyscraper’s roof, and waited. The city swam around him, dizzyingly vast, terrifying. Griefman waited for the forcefield, or her to fire her jetboosters and carry him off—but he heard nothing.

A minute passed. Then two…Griefman kept staring down and then decided the dramatic pose wasn’t for him. He wobbled, about to faint—

A hand caught him before he stumbled forwards. He looked over his shoulder, and the woman from Mars, the helmeted figure gave him a smile. With her real face, as her helmet turned transparent.

“I’ll be watching from above. If it goes bad, I’ll teleport you out of there. One try. What do you need?”

She was surprised by the glistening of his eyes. For Roy didn’t cry around Aerthe. He went for a hug; she patted him awkwardly on the back. Then gave him an awkward, one-armed hug. Then two.

Never stronger. Never weaker. Griefman turned, and his finest hour was coming. Out there, in the shadows of the city, Nightwish skulked, lost in his madness and sadness and pain.

Just you wait, you caped castellan of shadows, you intrigant interloper. I will crack that mask of yours. Griefman is coming. He knows you.

We will finish this, Nightwish. I’ll stop you, my friend.

Nightfall. The city of Vancouver slept.

Okay—it got arguably brighter than it did by day with all the neon lights and highrises in the center of the city. Millions of people lived by night, taking over the third shift.

—But away from the heart of the city, you’d get some darkness. On a regular high rise building, a mere fourteen stories, like a chick resting next to the distant mountains of the megaskyscrapers, stood a man.

It was raining. He was wet. His cheap suit was already torn and bloody, despite work with wet tissues trying to get the blood off, and a tear in his sleeve was letting water run down his leg. He was shivering, sneezing.

—But he had never felt more alive. Never felt stronger. He waited in the darkness, lit by the glow of the far-distant lights of the city.

Oh yes, it could be dark in Vancouver. Especially if you asked Aerthe to turn off the power for two city blocks and cordon the area off for you. The only light was from the nearby beacon—and the occasional spotlight of a helicopter.

They kept trying to fly close to him and get a better view. But Aerthe would just override their controls and force them to fly away. Camera drones dropped out of the sky; Roy doubted even the spy satellites were working in this area right now.

He truly was unseen. Again, except for the giant beacon he was standing next to.

That one was courtesy of Heradonus. How he’d gotten it while Roy slept was anyone’s guess. Custom-printing the glass onto a giant skylight and getting it here? Well, Aldorius had done the transport.

He’d appeared twice. Once with a cup of coffee, the second time with a burger. Roy had been standing here for three hours. Well, sitting at times. His legs hurt.

Embodiment kept calling. Griefman had turned off his phone. World Pact was watching. But he was only focused on one person.

Nightwish had not yet answered Griefman’s challenge. But he would. He could ignore Griefman, claim it was ‘just Roy’, go back to beating people into paste—but this?

Griefman gazed up, and the stormy night sky and clouds were perfect. The rain distorted the beam of light somewhat, but it was still shining from the skylight behind him. A single beam projecting onto the clouds—a single word. A calling card, a symbol, a way to let the entire city know who was here and to call Nightwish out.

The word flickered slightly as the rainfall increased. For a moment, the rain became blinding and deafening as the world vanished in a hail of water, coming down like bullets, and Griefman cursed. He adjusted his mask, which was already beginning to disintegrate—but he’d brought four backups in his pockets.

He was wiping water from behind his eyes when he stopped. Griefman adjusted the mask on his face, straightened, and exhaled.

A figure in black was standing across the roof from Griefman. He was silent, tall—he’d swapped the monstrous effigy of a mask for a simple, black helm of copyright-free intimidation. He might have even cleaned his armor, or the rain was doing that for him.

“Nightwish. So you answered my challenge.”

The masked avenger said nothing; when his head rose, his eyes were blank, his gaze like a laser sight boring into Griefman’s face. He radiated violence—and anger. Griefman walked forwards, spreading his arms.

“The chase has been long, but I’ll give you one last chance. Surrender, Nightwish, and I won’t have to hurt y—”

He really just could not see punches coming. To be fair, this time it was a kick. To his groin.

Griefman folded up as the pain of ten thousand exploding suns hit him—he curled up on the ground, and Nightwish spoke.

“Enough, Roy. Enough games. Go home. Take off that mask. If you bother me again—I will hurt you.”

He bent down and ripped the mask off Griefman’s face. Tossed it to the side. Nightwish walked over to the skylight, pulled out a gun, and shot it. The light stopped at once; the circuits within sparked and died. Nightwish turned back. Stopped.

Griefman rose, still clutching at his groin with one hand, a second mask on his face.

“A…good…hero…always keeps a spare mask. You got in a lucky shot there, foul villain. Looks like I’ll have to get serious. This will be our final showdown.”

“Roy!”

Nightwish was so fast. He lunged forwards and held Roy up by his suit. Off the ground; Roy’s feet kicked as the superhero held him. Spit flew from Nightwish’s mouth; his eyes were bloodshot. He looked…so tired.

“This is not a game, Roy! I am making the world a better place one person at a time. You are going to get yourself killed. I don’t know what’s wrong with you. But I will break your legs if I have to to wake you up.”

Griefman gave Nightwish a brilliant smile as he dangled. The wind blew around him as Nightwish carried him over to the edge of the skyscraper. He didn’t look down.

“Me? What’s wrong with me? I’m as sane as you. And it’s Griefman, Nightwish.”

“You have no powers, Roy.”

“Neither do you, Andrew West.”

The grip tightened, and Nightwish shouted.

“I have punched out gods and destroyed tyrannies! I am justice! I can find anyone in this world and hold them to justice! We. Are. Not. The. Same!”

He was shaking Roy, but the super-accountant’s voice was calm.

“I help the world’s strongest man write his speeches. I sample a demigod’s coffee. I feed the world’s scariest predator sandwiches. Nightwish, you’re hurting people.”

“They deserve to suffer.”

“You’re hurting yourself.”

“I am doing my job, Roy. Do yours.”

The grip was weakening—Nightwish pivoted and hurled Roy to the side. Roy landed hard on his shoulder, leapt to his feet. But he was right—Nightwish was weaker.

“This is my job.”

“You’re an accountant.”

“No. I’m a paid friend. A bad one. Roy Mackendal was too afraid to stop you. He made you sandwiches. Griefman is here to put you down.”

A finger jabbed at Nightwish, and a gloved hand went up. Nightwish pulled at his jaw, frustrated, confused. Uncertain.

“I don’t have time for this.”

This time, he threw a punch. Just strode forwards and threw a punch, translating all the momentum in his body into a perfect knockout blow headed straight for Griefman’s jaw.

Griefman blocked it. He saw Nightwish’s eyes widen, even as the super-accountant went stumbling backwards. His arm felt like it had been hit with a metal bat. Griefman caught himself, then raised his fists.

“You’re getting slow, Nightwish. Sloppy. Towertoppler saw you before you even took out all the security. A few months ago you’d have taken out the entire League of Anti-Capitalists without being seen.”

“You can’t block my punch. You’re using something.”

Nightwish’s eyes narrowed. Griefman slapped his chest.

“Stellaris Fightmaster Serum 2.7TM. Courtesy of Aerthe. That’s all I need to take you down.”

In truth, he had a small cocktail running through his bloodstream. It wasn’t nearly as good as a Stellaris combat suit, and his arm still hurt from blocking that one punch. But it meant that when Nightwish stepped left, Roy could actually track his movements.

The two squared off, Nightwish pivoting, Roy keeping his guard up in a basic boxing form, jerking every time Nightwish moved. The superhero seemed to realize Roy wasn’t kidding—but he just whirled.

“I don’t have time for this.”

His cape swirled around him, blacker than the night, and he vanished from right in front of Griefman; the cape folded up, and he was gone. How he did that, Griefman had no idea. But the masked accountant called out.

“I told you, your parents sent me, Andrew. I won’t stop until you do. You asked me what to put on Rosalin’s grave. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have said flowers or something she wanted. I should have told you to take a week, a month off. I should have been there for you.”

He was swiveling, looking around desperately, wondering if Nightwish had gone, when a hand grabbed him. Enhanced reflexes or not, Nightwish grabbed Roy and slammed him onto the slick rooftop, grinding his face into the rough concrete.

“Never mention them again. Do you understand? You have no right. You lost your father to age. Mine were murdered. They took my father, and he died after they found him. Weeks. Of. Suffering. We are not the same. Do you understand? Do you understand, Roy—”

Nightwish shook the limp figure and didn’t realize why the masked head lolled for a second until he saw the blood. Nightwish realized his gloves were bloody. He’d begun punching at some point, as if Roy were another criminal—

He let go, and Griefman lay on his back. Nightwish began to back away; the suited accountant lay like a corpse, staring up at the rain washing the blood across the rooftop. He didn’t move, but he did speak.

“I am your dark reflection, Nightwish. I am the fear who haunts your dreams. I am the rainy midmorning afternoon.”

“Stop it. Stop—mocking me.”

A break in that voice. Uncertainty. Nightwish should have vanished. Just left—but he saw Griefman sit up slowly. His face was bloody; he might have had a concussion, but he stood. Stimulants or not, something else was getting him up.

“Mocking you? Never. Hit me again. Come on.”

He came at Nightwish for the first time in a footballer’s tackle—ate a knee to the chin. Nightwish followed it with a one-two punch. Griefman reeled. This time, Nightwish knew he’d cracked Roy’s teeth—he saw blood. A crazy grin.

“Doesn’t hurt.”

Impossible. Nightwish hit him in a nerve—grabbed one arm and pressed into the nerve along the shoulder until Griefman screamed. Shrieked in agony—and started laughing as he convulsed until Nightwish let go. Griefman took a wild swipe; Nightwish had backed away. Watching him, unsettled. Griefman panted at him.

“You think you can hurt me? You couldn’t even begin to hurt me. Come on. Is that your best? Hit me!”

Nightwish did. His fist blurred into a cross pattern, sending Griefman’s head left, right, up—a boot to the stomach. He punched down, and Griefman went down—and tried to get back up. Nightwish stomped on his ribs, and he heard a cry of pain—and up Griefman came.

He has to be on painkillers. Nightwish’s mind wrestled with the contradictions. Griefman felt the nerve strikes. If he were hopped up on something, he’d act differently. He was in pain—but he rose.

Nightwish knew what that was like. He knew…and hesitated. Left an opening, and Griefman hit him back.

“I never met your parents. You told me they were good people. They wouldn’t have wanted this for you.”

Nightwish kicked Griefman. Griefman rolled over and pushed himself up. Blood and water ran around him. The storm was getting worse.

“Now do you see? You can’t stop my powers. All you can do is hit me. But I? I am the shadow in your mind, Nightwish. I am the unwelcome truth around every corner. I am the nightmare in the dark that light cannot banish. I am your tears under sun. I am…GRIEFMAN.”

“You’re insane.”

The masked man spat back. The other man was crying, tears running around his mask.

“No. I’m just sad. There’s nothing wrong with that. You have to stop, Nightwish. Before you tear yourself apart. Your parents—”

“Enough!”

Punch, punch again—Griefman stumbled backwards, then caught a punch in his fist. Nightwist twisted away—threw an elbow. They connected, solid, heavy blows. Griefman could barely stand.

He should have been down already, serums or not. What did Aerthe give him?

“You’re the one who’ll die, Gri—Roy. Don’t…push me.”

Again, Nightwish turned to go, but Griefman had some kind of magnetic hold on him. His parents…Nightwish wanted to beat Griefman to death. He could neither run, nor hold back. Griefman invoked his parent’s names. Weighing Nightwish down like an anchor made of hatred.

Madness. He was going to kill Roy—but Griefman was laughing.

“Me? You just hit me with everything you had, Nightwish. I’m still standing. You’re losing your edge. You’re cracking up. You should have knocked me out with the first punch. How long has it been since you slept in a bed? Since you saw the sun?”

“I see it before I sleep. I’m doing work that matters more than anything. My parents would have been proud.”

Nightwish came at Griefman again, but he was slower—and this time, Griefman was blocking, deflecting one punch in ten. He ate three punches to his gut, dodged a kick—the followup leg sweep took him down. Nightwish slammed Griefman against the ground, holding his suit.

“Say it! Say they would have been proud. Don’t you dare lie about them. You never met them—”

He never saw the headbutt coming. Griefman sat up as Nightwish recoiled; he thought his head was going to split. Nightwish had an armored cowl. But the superhero sprang away, wary. Griefman roared back.

“Of course they would have been proud! They would have been proud of what you do.”

“Then—”

“Do you think they want to see you like this? Do you think…they would have wanted this for you? Look at you, Nightwish. Look at yourself!”

He reeked. He was filthy, his armor damaged. He fought like a rabid animal—and he was faltering. Griefman got to his feet again.

“Admit that. Admit it and just stop for a second. A day. Just—”

He reached out, and Nightwish struck his hand down. The masked figure shook his head like he was trying to throw off Griefman’s powers.

“Stop—stop putting words in their mouth. You don’t know.”

“Did they love you? Because if they did, I have every right. My father is dead, Andrew. I buried my mother as well. Do you think it didn’t hurt?”

Nightwish’s head jerked as if Griefman had struck him a counterblow—he retaliated.

“Don’t compare yourself to me. We are not the same!”

He seized Roy, all fighting prowess forgotten—and Roy grabbed his arm, took a step back, and threw Nightwish. The simplest wrestling move he knew from high school. Nightwish hit the ground and rolled to his feet. Griefman slapped his chest.

“My mother died in a car crash. I was eighteen. My father slipped in the shower. He should have lived a decade longer.”

“Mine were murdered. We are not the same—”

“Who are you to lecture me on how much it hurts? Do I not bleed, brother?”

Nightwish hesitated. He was panting, breathing as if he’d run a marathon, scaled this building with his bare hands, fought for hours—Griefman was gasping for air. The damage was adding up. He looked down at his chest. His body was screaming, and part of him, still, didn’t care. He touched his chest, and there was a void in him.

Do anything you want. Kill me. I don’t fear it. I don’t want it. There’s nothing here. The rest of him was screaming for a man named Jorrey Mackendal. For his mother, Jennifer. Roy rubbed at his face.

“It hurts. I forgot how much it hurts. It’s been so long since my mother died. But it does stop—”

He waited for the blow. The enraged tackle, Nightwish finally losing it—but none came. The avenging angel wrapped in kevlar, the vigilante of the night, didn’t raise his fists this time. He spoke in a low, pained voice, as if Roy had cut him open.

“Yes. It ceases hurting as bad. Someday, you’ll forget the color of their hair. The way they laughed. How they spoke. First in pieces. Then it will stop hurting each time you think of them. If you don’t cling to it, you’ll lose it forever. You have to keep cutting yourself open to remember how it felt.”

His eyes were wide in that mask. Voice guilty. Admitting his greatest weakness.

“I can’t stop, Roy. Nightwish can’t stop and rest. Or stand too long under the sun. He’ll forget them forever.”

“That’s a child’s fear. You’ll never lose them.”

Griefman hesitated. He lied. For Nightwish’s greatest weakness was his own. The despair and rage and self-hatred that Roy had felt was not as strong as the first time he put on the mask. And Nightwish knew it. He gave Roy a twisted, mocking, sympathetic smile.

“You don’t have much time, do you, Griefman? It hurts less each week. It doesn’t hurt at all, sometimes. That’s how it feels. That’s why I don’t let up. I don’t take breaks. I don’t rest like Aldorius and have fun drinking. I can’t. Stop? I’m not working hard enough.”

He passed a hand over his face, and Griefman, Roy, whispered.

“You don’t eat, Andrew. I feed you sandwiches. Are you alive? Or are you the mask? They would have wanted you to have a life.”

“I am Nightwish. The world’s most feared superhero. I am part of World Pact. I am rich. Look at me.”

Griefman looked at him.

“Do you think you’re Batman? You’re standing on a rooftop in a smelly costume fighting an accountant. He fights a lump of clay, a scarecrow, and a woman named ‘Poison Ivy’ and ‘Mister Freeze’. His worst enemy is a clown. Do you think he’s happy? Do you think he has a life?”

The rain thundered down around them as they shouted at each other. Exhaustedly, Griefman raised a fist and, for the hell of it, threw a punch. Nightwish shoved it to one side. Threw a half-hearted counter. It was as if their limbs were suddenly weighted with lead.

“I…have a life. I make this world better. I stopped the League of Anti-Capitalists. You saw me take down Towertoppler. I could have stopped him for good.”

“There will always be another Towertoppler. We live in an age of heroes, Nightwish. There will always be another Nightwish.”

The infiltrator flinched. He tried to shove Griefman away and almost tripped on his cape.

“I have a life. Friends. World Pact.”

“Tell me what Aerthe likes to eat. Tell me Heradonus’ favorite drink.”

“Ambrosia.”

Griefman hissed at Nightwish, who flinched back, fending off Griefman’s hands.

“He hates ambrosia. He lies in his interviews. Ambrosia tastes like sweet kombucha. Your friends, Nightwish. Who do you know?”

He seized Nightwish for another throw and was instantly reversed into a headlock—for a second, he was immobilized, then he heard a whisper in his ear.

“You. I know you.”

Nightwish let go. Roy stumbled back, and his mask fell to the ground. He pulled another one from his belt; it was falling apart already. Nightwish just studied the accountant’s face. He was tired now. Hunched over, cloak puddled around him.

“I can’t go with you. Leave me, Roy. Don’t do this. Let me be Nightwish. Don’t stop me. You’ll kill me.”

“Kill Nightwish? Or Andrew West?”

“Both of us. I can’t stop. I’ll lose my edge. That’s how I’ll die. I don’t…I look at pictures, Roy. I don’t remember their voices anymore. Every year, it gets harder to remember them. In twenty years, I’ll slow down. In thirty—I don’t know how he did it. Batman.”

Griefman adjusted his mask, speaking quietly.

“He’s a comic book character, Nightwish. Every decade, they reboot him.”

Nightwish didn’t hear him. He was flexing his hands, as if feeling that crippling weakness that made you feel like you couldn’t even clench a fist. Terror was on his face now.

“I can’t stop. If I do—what will happen? I’m made of fury and vengeance, Griefman. If I run out, if I stop for even a second, I’ll never begin again. The fire won’t come back. If I stop, I’ll die.”

He was backing away from Griefman now. Like Superman faced with his kryptonite. Now he feared Griefman—but the soggy masked man kept coming.

“You have to, Andrew. You’re in need of help. I…I’ve known you for a decade. I’ve watched this each and every year. You torturing yourself, beating yourself down until you stop—and they have to put you together in the hospital. Last time, you fell off a rooftop. Broke every bone in your legs. I can’t let it happen again. I should have been a friend.”

Roy was reaching out, and Nightwish looked him in the eyes. Roy removed his mask for a second.

“I’ve been a bad friend. I never asked for the things I needed. And I never helped you, Andrew.”

“You made me sandwiches. I know you better than anyone else in the world.”

“If we were friends, I should have leaned on you just once. And you should have known I’d be here. Come on, Nightwish. Take my hand.”

The man behind the cape was flinching away from Roy. Griefman held his hand out, but Nightwish was retreating in a straight line across the high rise building. The rain kept thrumming down—Griefman’s pace slowed, because Nightwish wasn’t looking over his shoulder.

“Nightwish, there’s a drop—”

He was six feet away from the ledge. Nightwish backed up another pace as Griefman stopped. His heart rate had slowed; it picked up as Nightwish gazed at him.

“I didn’t fall, Roy.”

“What?”

“I didn’t fall. I jumped. To remind myself how much it’s supposed to hurt.”

He took a step back onto the ledge, and Griefman’s heart thundered. He looked up—around—but no one from World Pact appeared. Were they watching from afar? Could they hear?

They’d think Nightwish would just swing away on a rope. Even if he was a second from the ground, Aldorius would think—

“Andrew. Nightwish. Stop.”

A figure spread his arms, his cape billowing behind him as he glanced down. Fourteen stories. He wore reinforced armor—but he was just a man. He smiled at Roy, all that rage gone and replaced by something more terrifying.

“You’re a good man, Roy Mackendal. Too good. I have to keep going. Don’t worry. I’ll see you at World Pact again.”

“Don’t you dare move. Don’t take another step, Nightwish. I came here to help you. You’re in a crisis. You’re grieving.”

Nightwish’s arms spread wider, and his head turned up to the storm clouds above.

“No. I feel nothing. It’s fine, Roy. All I’m having is a dark day. A long shift…I know it well. When I’m weeping, when it hurts, and when I remember my parents’ faces, things are well. Because then I feel, don’t you understand? Right now, I feel nothing. You know what that’s like.”

Roy did. Days of waking up just tired, without an appetite for anything. Brief flashes of hunger and enjoyment…then listlessness. Boredom. He had lived those months. Griefman was a relief.

Roy Mackendal was Griefman. Griefman was the moment Roy had escaped that madness and hell. Nightwish nodded.

“You do understand. So don’t worry, Roy. You see, even Nightwish sees the sun. The closing shift is long and dark and empty. But it always ends. I remember colors, Roy. Some days, I see the sun. I’ll wake up and then I’ll remember the sky is blue, the way my mother laughed, the way my father showed me how to write. You just have to wait. You’re right. Everything else until those brighter days doesn’t hurt.”

“Nightwish. Don’t—don’t jump.”

Griefman took a step forwards, then another. Nightwish was watching him; he took a half step back until his heels were suspended over the void.

“This is on purpose, Roy. I’ll make it. Don’t worry. I’m used to all of this. Sinking. The further you sink, the harder it is to climb. And you have to climb. I know. I see it now. You’re right. This is my way of stopping.”

He was perfectly balanced; if the wind ceased blowing, if he tilted even a centimeter more—Roy reached out as he took another step. Now they were here, and he realized he didn’t have any punches left to throw. He’d thought it was going to be a fight. Now he saw it—Griefman spoke, for he had only one chance. With all that was in him.

“You’re wrong about one thing: you’re not sinking, Nightwish.”

The superhero hesitated. He was watching Roy take small steps closer, waiting for his moment. But once again, he hesitated with curiosity. As if he were hoping, a small part of him, that Roy would swoop down and save the day.

“I’m not?”

Griefman smiled with that toothy smile, baring his lips. Tears were running from his chin, but his eyes were clear. A smile with all his tombstones—not because that was how he smiled, but so there was no chance you’d miss it.

Trust me. Believe in me. His voice was run ragged, exhausted, but certain. Like the voice from above that you hoped for in your darkest dreams.

“No. You’re not sinking. You’re falling, Nightwish. Let me catch you.”

Nightwish glanced over his shoulder and then back at Griefman, confused.

“Me? What are you then?”

One more step. Griefman was almost in range of a grab. Nightwish tensed, but he was listening to Griefman’s soft voice. The mask was slipping from his face; Roy’s voice was trembling as he held his hand out.

“I fell. I was alone. You’ve been falling for a long time, Andrew. So have I. Don’t keep falling. Don’t do this. There’s no bottom to the pit. There’s only up. So—”

Nightwish leapt. Griefman jumped and grabbed for his arm. The super-accountant caught it as Nightwish tried to twist away; his hand skidded over the slick costume—

Griefman hit the edge of the roof. He overbalanced, stared down the dizzying drop to the dark ground below—and whirled.

Nightwish had hopped away on the roof’s ledge. He stood far out of reach. Roy steadied himself along the ledge.

“Don’t make me go over the edge after you. Aldorius will have to catch us both.”

The masked vigilante hesitated. Nightwish stared at the trembling hand reaching out. Griefman’s voice was ragged.

“If I have to, I’ll keep reaching for you. Until the very end, Nightwish. But it will be an end if you don’t take my hand. I need you to help me.”

Nightwish stepped back along the ledge. He stumbled; his arms windmilled, and he caught himself. His body was collapsing. Like it was losing all its energy, giving into the abuse it had subjected itself to for months. But he still wavered.

“What happens if I vanish, Roy? What then? They need me. I don’t—I don’t have anything other than this.”

He touched the mask with his hands. Roy Mackendal locked eyes with him and offered Nightwish a final smile. Trembling lips, exhausted body. A single hand drenched with rain and blood.

“The world won’t run out of grief nor anger, Nightwish. It won’t stop making heroes or villains. There will always be another Nightwish, another Batman, another hero and monster and avenging angel.”

He swallowed.

“—But I have so few friends.”

He waited, and the man balanced on the edge of the roof said and did nothing. Roy took one step forwards, another, as his soggy mask fell from his face. Nightwish was breathing hard, chest rising and lowering, and he stood with all the weight of his world on his shoulders. He flinched when Roy reached out. Then—Roy tugged him away from the drop and caught Nightwish as the superhero toppled over.

In his arms. Roy’s legs buckled. He sat down. In armor, Nightwish had to weigh at least three hundred pounds—

Nightwish lay there, pale and unmoving, as Roy collapsed, chest heaving. His face was white as a sheet, but color began to return to it. He gazed up at the rainclouds in the sky, and maybe the storm was passing for a second or they had reached the eye of it. Or maybe Aldorius or Aerthe decided to redirect weather currents—or maybe it really was just fate.

But for a second, the sky opened, and Roy glanced up and saw the night sky overhead. A clear divide in the endless downpour, like a window to the future, shining lights amidst the stellar constellations promising better days ahead. He and Nightwish stared up—

Then cloudbreak closed, and the rain pelted both three times as hard.

Griefman wasn’t sure when he began laughing. He heard a strange nyeheheheh sound and stopped chuckling, then realized it was coming from Nightwish. Far higher pitched and less ominous than you thought.

Nightwish put an armored hand to his face. Then—water was running down his stubbled, strong chin, and his chest was shaking. He lay there, and a sob emerged from his lungs. He gazed at Roy, at the sky—and then he spoke, not in that familiar rasp, but in a quiet, tired voice.

“I think…I need therapy, Roy.”

He said it, then splayed out, as if all his strings had been cut. Roy Mackendal just rolled over. He felt around at his pocket and pulled something out.

The final mask was almost completely destroyed, but the yellow paper plate with blue tears still went over his face. He stared up at the sky.

“I’m fine.”

Nightwish half sat up and heard the laughter. He punched Roy in the side, then started laughing too. Two men, or boys, lying together in the rain after a fight.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I know, brother. I’m sorry too.”

Once again, the day was saved by the powers not of Griefman, but Roy Mackendal. He just liked pretending to be a superhero.

A man stood in the rain a few hours later. There was an audience; civilians gathered to point and stare. There always were.

They feared what they did not understand. And they feared this, because it made no sense.

There was no body. Nobody being led away in handcuffs. Nothing had exploded; the skyscraper hadn’t even come down.

But Griefman said it was a great victory. Nightwish wasn’t here; he’d vanished. He would not be seen for a bit, according to Griefman.

Griefman refused questions. He stood with his eyes fixed on the camera, nose bandaged up, beat to hell and back, suit ragged and messed up, and maskless—the last one had fallen to bits way before the news crews had been allowed to come to him.

The mask didn’t matter. The mask wasn’t who you were. Superheroes didn’t stop being themselves if they pretended to be normal civilians.

He was Griefman.

He was Roy Mackendal. He gave an address to the cameras.

“I am Griefman. Someday, you will know what it is like to be me. It will break each and every one of you if you have a heart, even if your skin is made of steel and you can break meteors with your bare fists. Even if you have a magic ring or you can fly into the sky—you cannot escape Griefman. You cannot beat my powers. I am the greatest superhero there is and ever will be.”

He looked into the lens of the cameras, the disbelieving stares.

“When you need me, I will appear. I promise.”

Then his head rose to the sky. Roy Mackendal raised a fist, just once.

“Up, up and…”

Rather to his surprise, he shot into the sky, scattering rain and debris as people cried out. A man flying skywards at the speed of a rushing locomotive. Flying into the great beyond until the next time he was needed. Up, higher—until the world was shrinking around him.

Griefman soared skywards through the clouds, into the atmosphere, breathing shallowly as a forcefield surrounded him, until he was in space. Flying towards a small floating base in space where a door opened. He landed in an airlock, stumbling in the low-gravity environment of the base, and the doors pressurized behind him. His ears popped.

When the doors opened, he walked into the base of World Pact and heard the applause. Masked figures on their feet, applauding and cheering and whistling for him as he walked forwards. Griefman stopped, a look of surprise and gratification and delight on his face. Then he stepped forwards and took a slow bow.

When his head rose, he was among colleagues and friends. Mild-mannered Roy Mackendal, accountant, superhero, glanced around. He took a deep breath, thought of his father, and his chest hurt.

But then he tried smiling, and it worked.

Roy Mackendal adjusted his shirt and wished it were a suit, or at least a button-up. He didn’t do ‘casual’, but he’d tried to get into the spirit of it. He had to get out of his work-mentality. At least he’d made an effort.

Then again, Nightwish’s costume didn’t smell at all, it was newly repaired, and he’d chosen the least-terrifying mask he had in his collection: a snarling wolf’s head in black. It made him seem like an armored werewolf.

He was doing his best. But he was fidgeting in front of the office in the Grand Rapids suburb where one Emerry Lane, Limited Licensed Psychologist, MA, LLP, operated her small practice.

She only knew that she had a client in five minutes and that Roy would be there as a supportive presence. She was very understanding and had offered to do virtual counseling if it made things easier. It was certainly a thought, but Roy had assured her that an in-person meeting wasn’t hard and would be best.

“I don’t like this. What happens if she talks to the press? She’s not even a real psychologist.”

“I’ve heard it’s like dating, Nightwish. If she doesn’t work or you can’t trust her, we try again. Just try not to stalk her every movement. Be honest.”

“I can’t lose the outfit. That’s not…me.”

“No one’s asking you to. If you went to a therapist, how would they understand you? When you say you beat criminals down with your bare hands, you actually do that.”

Nightwish fidgeted.

“What if…she can’t help me?”

“Then we try again. It’s one therapist in one country, Nightwish. There are other groups to ask. Let’s be honest—open—and then we’ll get a sandwich. There’s some promising restaurants here. I’ll schedule a pickup. Unless you want to be adventurous? Sushi?”

Nightwish bent over his phone like a picky owl, which he sort of was.

“I’ve…never had it.”

“Really? Not once?”

A defensive shrug.

“My parents never—”

He waited for a laugh or a remark, but Roy just pressed a button, and a bunch of options began appearing. He hit a bunch of promising items on the menu.

“Some people don’t eat sushi. Let’s give it a shot. We can always go for a burger or sandwich after. Aldorius got hooked on the stuff, but he took ages to come round to it.”

“Huh. He always eats out.”

“He can’t cook. He wants to get a beer at a bar tonight. Well, I say ‘beer’. He’s drinking something close to 100% proof. Aerthe synthesized it, and she says it might get you drunk from the fumes. She might show up too.”

The door opened. A woman who was distressingly younger than Roy opened the door with a big smile.

“Roy and Thomas. I’m r—”

She stared at Nightwing, frozen with that expression of horror, astonishment, disbelief that came over people who saw him suddenly in front of them. There was a sound like a laugh from her mouth. She stared at Roy. He waved at her.

The juxtaposition of ordinary Roy and Nightwish made her start. Then she spoke a word.

“Griefman? I—o-one moment, please!”

She shut the door. There was the sound of a faint panic behind the door, and Nightwish and Roy exchanged glances. It was still strange to hear people calling him ‘Griefman’.

He honestly didn’t know if he had made a mistake taking the alias. He’d meant it for World Pact and maybe a few heroes he knew. He didn’t have superpowers. But…Roy glanced down at his phone.

He knew them. Embodiment was scheduling him into her busy life, but she had something to talk to him about she refused to commit to words. Seithe kept reposting Griefman, along with Heradonus. Endora kept glancing his way at the weekly meetings—

For now, it was Aldorius asking questions about things he’d missed as Roy either searched it up on the web, recalled his own lessons on the subject, or called someone he knew for expertise advice. Nightwish eating sandwiches at 4 PM, the sun was still out.

Aerthe trying to get Roy to spacewalk without hurling his lunch immediately. He wasn’t doing much accounting; you didn’t need that.

But he felt a lot better. After the bar and this therapy session—which might run long, Roy suspected—he was going to order sushi for everyone—he’d take a teleporter down to visit a gravesite.

Say a few words.

Shed a few tears.

There was still a numb part of him. A guilty part that he’d have to talk to his own therapist about.

His father was still dead. Roy would probably regret how he and Jorrey had parted ways for the rest of his life. He’d probably feel sad and angry and—lost.

And he hoped that never faded. He hoped there would be days when he inhaled the autumn air and felt alive. So long as he stood there with Nightwish, awkwardly explaining why avocado was in sushi all the time and what an avocado was…

He could smile.

The Roy Board was still nailed to Roy’s apartment walls, but he was thinking of upgrading to a new spot. More money, maybe, or less, if he moved further from the city. He could ask for a flying ring, buy a car, or just teleport to work.

Somewhere more…well, bigger. With sofas you could sit on. A place where he could invite someone to sit and talk after work hours. A kitchen that held more than takeout. Cooking—he might as well take classes with Aldorius.

He had things to do. Places to be. Roy Mackendal was a busy man, and there was no call from Jorrey…there never would be. That nursing home would never see an old man walk out with a newspaper clipping and add it to a cork board.

—But now and then, a man might appear, a superhero without a mask. He’d stride down the halls, greeting people who’d known his father, and approach a cork board on the hallway. It hung there with neatly stapled pictures all arranged, and he’d add a new item.

A cardboard card. A little note scrawled on a piece of paper. A signature almost every time, except for Felicia Fortune, who’d just kissed the paper with lipstick.

To Jorrey Mackendal. The Jorrey Board wasn’t that big yet; barely three dozen names, but they were good ones. Roy was taking it slow. He wasn’t looking to break any records for someone with the most autographs. It didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

It mattered to Roy.

Griefman looked up as the door opened, and a querulous voice asked if he was ready. He rose as Nightwish hesitated and almost ran. Roy almost did himself.

But the superhero’s chin rose. He took a breath, and with the courage that had let him fight against the world’s greatest infiltrator, the strength of a wild housecat, he took a hold of the doorknob.

“Hello, Doctor Lane? Is it doctor…? I’m—this is Nightwish. I think you can see why we asked for an anonymous first visit. I’m Roy. Roy Mackendal. The luckiest man in the world. You may know me as…Griefman.”

Author’s Note

We will all be Griefman some day. This is a certainty I hold in my heart. We will all, inevitably, become Roy Mackendal, and I can only hope to be Griefman a hundredth as gracefully as he did.

It will never be fun or pleasant or cool, and no one will go gracefully into those painful hours. I imagine we all would like to believe we can walk past death with a wink and a nod, or greet the executioner with a smile. We tell stories about ourselves, but I don’t believe them. The stories exist to make people feel brave or give hope, but the truth is that it is hard.

Many people, myself included, don’t think of death often. Culturally, in some places, it’s seen as something to get over, to prepare for, to move past. How do you move past someone turning off gravity or pulling a piece out of the world?

I don’t like the idea of ‘getting over it’, or even trying to avoid sadness by celebrating life in the face of death. Sometimes, I want to sit and weep, and the saddest thing of all is when I’m just tired and empty.

Griefman is a personal story. This version you’re reading is a 1st Draft; I already see parts to improve, but I promised to show you this, and I want to know whether it’s workable. Because like all stories I tell, I would rather burn this entire document and all the hard work than tell Roy’s story poorly.

Like Nightwish, I can no longer remember that flash of light in the darkness that hit the chemical cabinet in my mind and created Griefman. It’s all an apocryphal story in my head; I can remember some of the emotions, remember the certainty from which he arose, but I am chasing that flash of lightning that created Griefman, and the job of the author is to capture something brilliant with mere words.

I remember believing in Griefman being an excellent tale, and I’ll try to make sure the finished product has that feeling in it. But for now, I’ll rest and get back to writing or just rest. I think my break is next week so I can attend a wedding, so forgive me for the month of disrupted writing. I’ll try to get back to it, and as ever, tired as I get, or with all the things in life, I will always be searching for that magical moment in all the sludge.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m steering a grand ship on a wild adventure. Sometimes, it’s the sludge. But I am glad I can write honestly, no matter where I am. A good story should be like that. Thanks for reading,

—pirateaba

Again, by pirateaba

Depression knows my name. It is a pale dog that follows me around, with massive jaws that bite deep.

A wolf would be kinder, but the dog holds on and I only know how deep and painful the bite is after it lets go, and I feel the pressure and weight release. Depression feels empty, a boring void where nothing matters and I tire of everything.

Grief is infinitely preferable, let alone anything else but all that leaks through is rage and boredom. Depression is apathy and grey or black, and it is a bog you’re drowning in, sinking down until even the best and brightest things in your life feel like tangling weeds, annoying and in your way.

However—

The dog will always let go. There is always a point even as you’re drowning when a bubble of air will remind you there was a sun. One day you will sit up and breathe in, and remember you like air. You cannot swim out of that place, or make the dog let go. You cannot scare it, or rip your shoulder free.

But you can tell it you have been there before.

“Next time, once more, however far down you drag me—I’ll still win.”