Author's Notes: This is my first story so we'll see how it goes. If it sucks, let me know. Comments, good or bad, are very much appreciated. If you're going to give criticism please don't just say "this sucks, you're stupid". That's not helpful. Give me something I can work with.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Flash or any other associated characters.
Seems So Slow
I've been running for so long. A gift they call it. Ha, if they only understood the burden I have been given. They say the life of hero, it's a wonderful thing. Having abilities that ordinary men marvel at. I have speed beyond that of those around me. Barry Allen, fastest man alive. The truth is I hate speed. I detest this life I lead. They say you should never regret what you have done in the past but "they" have never lived my life. I will always regret that one mistake I made that gave me my greatest strength but also my strongest weakness.
Time flies when you're having fun, right? Do I dare disagree? Who am I kidding, I have never disagreed with anything more. Time never flies; it drags along like the familiar toy of a child who is growing too old. Still needed but not loved the same way it was. It is pulled after the child, covered in mud and who knows what else. If time is the toy of a child, I only wish to beg the child to speed up, hurry please. Why must every minute feel like a century? I imagine, sometimes, that I am the child. I once loved time. Adored it even. Nothing was better that having all the time in the world. Now, I drag time behind me, too fast for it to catch up to me. This elated me at first but now repulses me. I thought there was nothing better than being faster than time itself. Wouldn't you agree? If you do, you are as foolish as I was once, when I was younger. Age is a great teacher, I suppose; it is an agent of time itself.
I was not always this wise, as I have mentioned before. Before all this, I was happy. I loved life but I was an ignorant idiot. Ignorance is bliss though. I had a job I loved, friends, interests. Nowadays, I have none of those things. Friends: too slow. I try to keep a conversation but the words seem to drip out of their mouths like thick honey. I have the time to listen (unfortunately) but I cannot stand the extensive wait that comes with hearing what they speak. Some things are just excruciating, and that is one of them.
A job? I have one of those. Do I love it? At one point I think I did but it seems so long ago. Risking, if you can call it that, my life to save others. So noble am I but then, why do I not feel like I am? I am never in true danger. If I am faster than you, then I have no trepidation.
Do you think I'm crazy? I'm sure you do, after all, who doesn't these days? I can't pay attention to anything; my attention span is shorter than the distance between my own eyes. Such futile things. What's the point of seeing things when they approach you in slow motion? I can calculate exactly what will happen next, simply because I can see. Perhaps I would be better off without eyes. I've been told I have nice eyes though. Just because they look nice does not mean they are nice. They torture me. Haul me through every sluggish day. I don't want to see everyone dragging their feet around me, I don't want to see every beat of a humming bird's wings, count them with ease, and see the blink of every eye. "Nice" normal eyes. Eyes that do not torment their owners. No one ever understands. I am one of a kind.
There are others like me. Men who were fast, but not like me. I am the fastest that has ever been, that will ever be. That may sound egocentric but it's not. I could never hope for others to feel the anguish I feel with each transitory minute.
But alas, I have found that I have a grandson, from the future. Confusing? Yes; but circumstances have brought him to my own time. He is fast, like me. He is impatient as well, from what I have heard. He doesn't enjoy sitting around waiting. Yet, he still lives normally. Like an ordinary teenager, if there is such a thing. He has more patience than I do. I have not lived normally for who know how long. I would tell you myself but, I can never determine time properly. Which is accurate: the clock on the wall or the one persistently ticking within my own mind? It never shuts up. This boy, his name is Bart, seems to comprehend my own plight, as it is his own, but, by some means, chooses to close his eyes to it; turn a deaf ear to it. He called me on the phone once; he was so excited to meet me. I am a legend in his time. I put on the cheerful face, the mask of a hero, and listened to him gush about how glad he was to "meet" me. Our conversation was less than five minutes long yet he said so much in that short amount of time. For once in my life I was the slow one. I didn't realize how fast he was talking, how I could bear to pay attention to someone for the first time in what felt like centuries. I only noticed when he broke the sound barrier with his incessant chattering. And, of course, I didn't notice that I had been talking at that identical velocity myself. It may have been mindless talk but I recognize now that it made me truly happy. For once, I was not on my own.
AN: There you go. If you want me to continue, please give me some ideas because I have no idea how to continue it. I might possibly be interested in doing requests. Possibly. Thanks for reading and comment please!