Guess who's back?
I missed you all. This will be taking a bit of a darker turn, but I do believe it's for the best. I'm hoping to keep old subscribers as well as gains some new ones. Though I understand if some of you unfollow this story at one point or another. I will be following essentially the same plot, but more sophisticated, a bigger focus on the difference between human and hero, and with more dark undertones.
Disclaimer: If I owned Marvel there would already be five Deadpool movies. Actually that's probably not true since those rights belong to studios. Oh well, you get what I mean, I don't own Marvel.
PROLOGUE
It had been too long.
All of it and everything.
Like land after drought. At first, you think that maybe the rain will come, then you hope, then the lakes and rivers become muddy and scarce. The dirt once alive and moist becomes dead and crumbly. The sky mocks you, an infinite blue, but not a cloud to be seen. Only the sun, the heat once a soft ray of hope, now a glaring light. A constant reminder to stay happy and positive; like the so many foster parents I had, all of them constantly reminding me that I control the way I feel, to stay positive, to not focus on the negatives because it would only make me more sad and depressed. That all clouds have a silver lining.
Fuck off. I have a chemical imbalance in my brain that makes me this way. Hells yes I'm trying to fight it, but you can't just flip some magic switch on me. "It's all in your head." No shit Sherlock, that's why it's called a fucking mental illness. And weren't you listening to my metaphor earlier? We're in the middle of a drought, there are no clouds. Therefore, no silver lining.
The nagging sun, the mocking sky, the missing clouds. It all leads to hopelessness. You can buy as many bottles of water as you want, look for a natural spring if you wish, pray to whomever and whatever it is you worship, sit and wait, hope and cry, beg and plead, but the water will not come. The drought overcomes you. Like an endless hunger, consuming you, wrapping you in an embrace as strong as love but quite the opposite. Like waves from a typhoon washing over you until you are enveloped in a blue darkness. Water. How ironic.
You begin to drown in the drought. There is no more dirt, it's sand. The sun isn't yellow, it's a bleached white. The sky doesn't just mock you, it watches you with delight. You can see the vibrations of heat radiating from the sun and begin to think that it's the sky shaking with laughter. You're going insane. You walk into the middle of the now desert and pound your fists into the cracked and barren wasteland.
"My water!" You cry. "Where is my water? You've stolen it from me. Give it back! I cannot live like this any longer!" And you can't even cry because now, even you, have become barren and cracked. Inconsolable, and out of reach.
But then it happens.
It begins to rain.
The sky becomes a tormented blue-green-grey color and the whole world as far as you can see is dark. It's relaxing at first, then comes the lightning. Followed quickly by the pounding thunder, shaking a dusty and brown Earth, as if Mother Nature herself was trembling with fear. Or maybe her anxiety makes her tremble with anticipation and excitement. The first few drops of rain sprinkle themselves across your face like freckles. The fall like soft kisses from an adoring loved one. Like rice at a wedding. Like flower petals from cherry blossoms in D.C. during the first blooming of spring. Water. Life. Rebirth. All at once. Too much at once.
The abused land has gone so long with the loving touch of rain that it cannot absorb it. The sand rejects the water, it cannot hold it. So the rain comes down harder, like sheets of steel pounding down, trying to be loving and caring, but instead hurting and scarring. The land recoils from this touch of the water, like an unwanted kiss. Because she has gone so long without love, she cannot take any from him. Because now she's adapted and changed into something that can live without him. She's become the dead sand that does not need the water. The land that doesn't need the rain.
No longer can the land absorb the water.
So she cries and bleeds. When land pushes out the rain, the clay deep underneath levels of sediment is red, and makes the water look like blood. The rain that remains blue drips out. Trickle down, trickle down, slowly. Then the rain stops. Without warning. It leaves and promises to never return. And the sandy, muddy, caked Earth lets the water seep out and evaporate. She cries until her tears dry, and then waits to dry up into nothingness again. But some of the water stays behind. And there is hope in that. Because if the water and sediment mix properly, sand will become dirt. And dirt is alive. So she waits subconsciously, hoping and praying in the back of her mind that by some chance or miracle or by luck, she can be alive again. That vegetation, green and lush will begin to sprout and bring forth more life. That the clouds can calm her and shield from the harmful rays of the sun. That the sun can be controlled in amounts that are helpful and loving. And when the land begs for water, the rain will return and tell her, "I love you. As always."
Unfortunately, this rarely happens.