When he woke up a few hours later, the sky had become a rosy pink. With extreme effort, he got out of bed and got into the shower, feeling the sting of first the freezing cold water, then the blistering heat of the hot water. He got out of the shower with a sigh and looked over at the razor he used to shave and brought it to his upper arm, which was typically covered with the sleeve of his costume, was covered with cuts. Some were old and faded, others were newer and fresh. He drew the blade across the skin and drew thin blood. The sight made him smile. for just a second, he was numb. There was no emotional pain. There was only release and relief. He exhaled quietly and went right on with his morning routine. He always put the mask on last. The mask made the differentiation between the lonely, suicidal, cutter he saw in the mirror, and the vigilante who wanted nothing more than justice. It almost made him laugh- a thin piece of fabric was the only thing that acted as a barrier between the two of them. He looked in the mirror one last time, wishing the mirror would shatter and break every time he looked into it. With a sigh, he went off to begin his day.
Every day with depression was a struggle. He could testify to that. Days weren't really days to him- they were obstacles that kept him from peaceful sleep. They always told him exercise was good for depression, but he knew it wasn't for him. He trained for hours on end, and it never helped him. It was only simple distraction.
Today's "villain" was Plasmus, who had apparently woken up again. But he knew true villainy. He'd seen better villains, fought better villains, and had been a better villain. And now he was a villain. A villain to himself. He was about to steal the most valuable thing of all- his own life.
As the days began to merge together, he began to feel anxious. He felt his day of death was never going to come. He began reflecting on his life, every flaw and tragedy in his life standing out crystal clear. The day his parents died would always be the one that stood out to him the most. When they fell from the trapeze, he'd watched in shock and horror. He'd seen their broken bodies hit the floor with a sickening smack and watched a small dust cloud form when they made impact. He'd slid down, going to their bodies, and shrieking at them in Romanian (his native tongue) to "get up." The more he thought about it, the more he wanted his death to be poetic. There was an abandoned circus tent nearby, and the trapeze was calling his name like a siren song.