Summary: Villains are just like people. They scream just as loud as heroes. The only difference is no one hears them. No one heard Loki.

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"The heartless people once wore their hearts on their sleeves. The loneliest people once were the kindest. The saddest people once smiled the brightest. The most damaged people once cared the most. Yet no one knew of their suffering because they refused to let their pain show" -Anonymous.

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He didn't ask to be born this way. He didn't ask to be born himself. All he ever wanted was to be loved and appreciated. He never truly wanted the throne, or the kingship that went with it. He just wanted to be… noticed.

Noticed for something other than mischief.

Yes, yes, he was the silver tongue, the trickster, the liar, the God of Mischief, the names went on and on and he heard them all before. But no one ever asked him why he was this way. No one ever asked him why he treated the world the way he did. Of course if someone had, they probably wouldn't have expected an answer from him. No one ever does.

And maybe Loki was wrong for trying to rule Midgard. But maybe Odin was wrong for not telling him what he was. For not telling him he was a frost giant, and adopted, and an actual outcast. For years, for centuries he felt like he didn't belong anywhere. For centuries he felt like he was different, like something was wrong with him. Ever since he was young, he knew when not to speak, because he was perceptive enough to know that if he did, no one would listen or care in any way. But to find out he was one of the beings that the Asgardians outwardly criticized, and defined as monsters… no wonder he was never accepted. But the anger that burned like a bonfire was always better than the tears he drowned his pillows in, than the grief that consumed his damaged heart, than the screaming voices that plagued his tortured mind.

Worthless.

Useless.

Unwanted.

Loki knew he was a disappointment in the eyes of his "family." He knew he always had been. When he was younger, his mother—Frigga would always tell him he was special, that he was talented. And the worst part was, he believed her. He had believed he was talented, that he was born to be something extraordinary, despite the attention everyone gave Thor.

"Your birthright… was to die."

But as he grew older, as the days dragged on, he began to question whether he had any talent at all, whether he was as special as his "mother" had told him. Odin's silence and neglect was worse than his outright hostility. Thor's indifference and his lack of concern about his unfair treatment was worse than his constant strive to always be better than him, to always be the golden child. And one day—he doesn't even remember which day it was—he had realized that he wasn't special at all. He was… nothing.

"Tomorrow's another day," he had told himself every night. But it was hard for him to keep going, to take one day at a time, knowing that the people who were supposed to be his family were the ones hurting him more and more each day.

His mother…Frigga—stars above, he couldn't seem to get out of the habit of calling her mother—had visited him in his wonderful cell not too long ago. The words he spat at her. He would be lying if he said he didn't regret anything that came out of his mouth. But isn't everything that comes out of his mouth a lie according to everyone else?

"He's not my father!" He shouted venomously, the heat in his words almost tearing his voice apart.

Frigga didn't even flinch once.

"Then am I not your mother?" She asked with a calm, serene expression. Loki's breathing became slightly shorter, and it took him a few seconds to respond as he tried to restrain the frighteningly cold and violent rivers building up within his eyes, waiting to be set free.

"You're not," he said, his voice racking with emotion, yet devoid of any sympathy. His heart cracked as soon as the words left his mouth, his throat suddenly dry. Frigga gazed at him with so much intensity, it seemed as if her eyes were piercing right through him.

"Always so perceptive, about everyone but yourself," she said, sadness and regret laced into her words as she held out her hands to him. Loki clenched his jaw to keep himself from breaking down. The tired shake of his head was enough to show the pain and hurt he kept below his sarcastic façade. It was enough to express the words "I didn't mean it."

But he never got the chance to say so, as the illusion of his mother had faded into nothingness as soon as his hands passed through her nonexistent ones. His tense body was frozen in place as he stared at the glass wall separating himself from the place he could no longer call home.

Loki furiously wiped at his eyes and picked up one of the books Frigga had given him. He needed something to take his mind off of… everything. Reading always helped with that. For almost his entire life, he had drowned all his pain and sorrow into the words and pages of the Asgardian books. Opening up and baring his soul to people—even to his so called family—wasn't exactly something he could do without feeling even more weak and vulnerable than he already felt.

His fragile self esteem made sure of that.

Loki released a shaky breath he didn't even realize he had been holding in. He carefully sat down on one of the chairs and faced away from the glass wall, hoping his book would make him forget about where he was.

But hope wasn't necessarily something he possessed a lot of.

—

Time passed quickly while reading. Maybe that was why he loved it so much. He didn't know how long he had sat there buried in his book, but it must have been over an hour.

That...thing was breaking out all the prisoners from their cells, but of course, it decided not to break him out. And of course, the Asgardian forces likewise had to intervene, causing a brawl between them and the prisoners.

Loki had paid them no mind whatsoever. Throughout his entire life, he had always pretended that nothing bothered him. But with reading, he didn't have to pretend. Nothing bothered him when he was reading a good book. Hence why he was still in his chair, relishing in the temporary peace and quiet while it lasted.

He was probably on his fourth book when he heard a tap on the glass barrier. He turned his head questioningly at his visitor, a small part of him hoping it was Frigga, or even Thor.

It wasn't.

Of course it's not them, he scolded himself mentally. You're insufferable. Why would you think they want anything more to do with you? He was so lost in his thoughts and self criticism that he almost didn't hear what the guard had said.

"Your mother is dead."

Four words.

Loki kept the stoic and neutral expression on his face as he nodded to the guard, indicating dismissal. His breathing spiked dangerously and his heart rate started to increase rapidly. His mind wasn't even letting him process the information. He put down his book. He couldn't read anymore.

Four words.

His mind was spiraling. Unraveling. Four words he had wished he would never hear in a sentence. Loki stood up from his chair. He couldn't—he needed—

Too much. It was all too much. He couldn't breathe. It felt as if the walls were closing in on him. They were—he couldn't—

He clenched both of his fists and with nothing but a green mist, all the furniture, all the books, everything in his cell flew back and away from him, crashing menacingly into the barriers. He didn't unclench his fists—he couldn't—but he didn't wince or even acknowledge the sting of blood on his hands as his fingernails bit into his palms. Tears streamed down his face and he was trembling uncontrollably. He couldn't breathe. Why couldn't he breathe?!

"You're not." The last words he said to her. The last words he said to her were that she was not his mother.

Loki ripped off almost all the legs of the tables, snapped them in half, and threw them at the barriers with his hands. He couldn't use his magic anymore. His mother was the one who taught him, and now she was gone.

Idiot! A booming voice in his head shouted. She was the only one who cared for you, the only one who loved you, and what did you do? You pushed her away! It just made his rage spark and seethe even more. All the pain and anger lodged inside of him needed to be released. He threw what was left of a chair at a mirror, and watched as the glass shattered, watched as it broke into hundreds of pieces, much like how his heart did.

He continued wrecking the room until there was nothing left to destroy. He looked around frantically, his heart pounding inside of his ears. He flexed and unflexed his fingers, itching for something to demolish. His anger eventually simmered down, and there was nothing left but the empty, self-loathing feeling that consumed his entire body, as if grief were swallowing him whole.

Loki slammed his back against the wall opposite to the glass barrier and slid down until he was sitting on the floor of his cell. Now, he wanted to be reminded of where he was, he wanted to feel miserable, because he deserved it.

He deserved it all.

—

Loki sat there for hours. Everything was torn apart. Including himself. He couldn't seem to stop scratching the floor with his worn down, almost ragged fingernails. His hair was a mess. The voices in his head were becoming too loud, so he tried pulling it out, but he eventually stopped.

His mother always loved his hair.

His eyes were red, and not because he was a frost giant. But he couldn't cry anymore. He had no tears left to cry. His voice was hoarse and broken from screaming. He figured the louder he screamed, the more likely his mother would hear him, and hear how sorry he was. But he knew that wasn't the case.

Some time ago he casted an illusion. In the chance that someone did decide to see him, they didn't need to see the real him. Even without illusions, no one ever saw the real him. Only his mother did.

Idiot.

Meaningless.

Despicable.

Loki couldn't move. All his thoughts and feelings were hammering inside his head.

Pitiful.

Unworthy.

Undeserving.

He wanted to cover his ears. He wanted to bury his head in his hands. He wanted to cry until he couldn't even think anymore. But he deserved the pain. So he let the voices have their fun.

Suddenly, loud footsteps started echoing down the hall of the prison chambers, and he already knew who they belonged to. Thor's face came into view, and even though he was putting up a normal, stoic expression, Loki saw the lingering hurt and sadness in his "brother's" blue eyes.

He could relate.

"Thor," the illusioned version of himself said, venom laced deeply into his words. "After all this time now you come to visit me." Thor's expression remained unchanged. "Why?" His illusion hissed. "Have you come to gloat? To mock?"

"Loki, enough. No more illusions."

His breath caught in his throat for probably the tenth time that day. Thor knew this was an illusion. Maybe he knew him more than Loki thought. Or maybe it was obvious and Thor didn't know him at all. His pessimism always found a way.

Loki released his magic from his grasp, allowing his brother to see him for what he truly was. A broken soul.

"Now you see me, brother."

He saw a brief flicker of pain cross Thor's normally unbothered face, and for once, it didn't bring him any satisfaction.

—

A/N: Loki deserves the world, and it killed me watching him die the first five minutes of Infinity War. He's been through hell and back and still managed to die for his brother and his people. Marvel, bring him back to us!

P.S: R.I.P. Stan Lee - thank you for everything ;(