/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.3765024]

Hey /lit/
Enjoy this free literature

In my experience when one says the word “Super Hero” people get this image of a man in tights or a masked keeper of justice, but could a person be a super hero without necessarily fighting crime? What if someone has a “super power” but doesn’t hit the streets at night and use it to foil all those cliché muggers? When people ask me what I do, I say I’m a super hero.

[Anonymous No.3765028]

“What do you want from me?” I screamed as the taste of blood filled my mouth and tears stung my eyes

“Aww, look DJ the crybaby’s crying again, cry crybaby cry!”

I knew better than to get up, it was useless. These boys were twice as fast as I was and two years older than me. All I could do was curl into a ball and hope they’d get bored and leave.

“Look crybaby, there’s your little girlfriend” they said as one of the prettiest girls in the school walked past.

“Let’s give her a show”

They pulled off my pants and shirt and threw them into a nearby puddle of mud, leaving me stripped, humiliated and bruised for other boys and girls to laugh at as they walked into school.

“What should we do with him?”

“Let’s put his underwear on the flagpole”

“Nah, let’s leave him, I’m tired of playing with trash”

They collectively kicked me a few more times, spat on me, and rushed inside just as the bell rang.

[Anonymous No.3765030]

I sat there crying for a few more minutes before I finally collected my clothes and got dressed, wiping as much of the mud off as I could.

I saw my reflection in a window of the school as I walked in. My hair was matted down with mud, my brown eyes reddened with tears, I had a black eye and I knew there was a cut on the inside of my cheek. My entire body ached and I was shivering by the time I actually got to class.

I was chubbier kid, not like really fat, but kind of awkward looking, and for a long time I blamed my shortcomings on my appearance. It seemed though, that the other kids thought that if you looked different you should be beat up because of it.

I guess I’m strange because I actually kind of looked forward to getting beat up; it was the only time people talked to me or made any sort of contact with me. It was almost soothing knowing that I at least existed enough to be beaten, but even heroes have a breaking point.

A normal person, I suppose, would probably have some amazing story about the day they stood up to their bully, snapped, overcame their trouble and learned something about fighting their own battles, but it really didn’t happen that way for me. Instead of fighting, I spent the whole year watching people.

[Anonymous No.3765032]

A privilege to being in my position was I could pretty much do whatever I wanted and people would just write it off as me being weird. For example I could stare at a really pretty girl all class and not get called out for it. I could watch people eat their lunch from my own private table. I could say or do really strange things anytime I wanted and no one would think anything of it. I was the one exception to all the rules.

Because of my privilege I spent a lot of time observing people. It wasn’t long before I was able to predict what people were going to do or say in a given situation. Most kids learn this through social interaction but because I didn’t have that, I had to learn through observation. This apparently was a much more powerful way to learn.

Out of boredom I would sometimes make little bets with myself about what someone was going to do. Like how the lunch ladies would react if someone said they looked nice, or what a particular teacher would say if their favorite student was late.

Soon enough even the bets were becoming boring because I always won them. I could guess word for word what people were going to say to each other and sometimes I’d even write little scripts of conversations I could imagine people having. I don’t think it was a healthy obsession but it kept my mind off of the beatings.

[Anonymous No.3765034]

In my first year of middle school it wasn’t so bad. I only ever got beat up when I did something really weird, or if someone was just having a really bad day. But in eighth grade things got a lot worse.

The other boys in my class started turning everything into a competition, which could make me bleed the most, cry the most, whatever, and so it became a daily ritual. I was constantly in the hospital for broken bones or stitches, and after I while I just stopped going for the things I knew how to treat. I found out how to identify broken bones, or if a cut was bad enough to need medical attention, everything else I ignored, but there was one symptom I couldn’t.

I walked through those halls every day plagued by a pain in my heart. I often thought I’d rather die than be me for even one more day. I dismissed these thoughts as often as I could and tried to just keep busy and not think about it.

I had grown tired of observation and I needed something else to occupy my time so I spent the year listening and speaking.

It was amazing to me that with 26 letters I could portray such a huge variety of emotion, like “fuck you” or “I’m so sorry for your loss”. Unfortunately for me I heard more of the former than the latter, but this is no sob story.

[Anonymous No.3765036]

Throughout the year I studied speech extensively. I learned how to speak properly and portray a thought better than the other kids but sadly this was not enough to keep me interested in life.

I found myself at the end of my eighth grade year, and seemingly at the end of my life. I dreaded the thought of going to high school and I had so many negative labels; nerd, virgin, loser, fat. I was sitting on my bed with my dad’s gun in hand thinking all I had to do was pull the trigger and it would all be over. I’d never have to live another day in this disgusting, vomit covered world. I thought about why I would kill myself, and the only thing I could come up with was that I was afraid I’d never change.

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results and that’s exactly what I was doing. I contemplated for a long time before I made a decision. To die, to live, it all seemed irrelevant to me, I was completely blinded to the events around me and was only living for right then, at that particular time.

I let my fingers glide across the cold metal of the gun. I felt the studded grip bite into my hand as I squeezed tighter. My thumb struggled to pull back the cold metal hammer of the pistol as I pressed the barrel against the bottom of my chin.

I killed myself that night.

[Anonymous No.3765039]

I put the gun back in the drawer and shot myself.

The next day I woke up dead inside, without a personality and ready to do something different. I walked into school whistling, saying hello and good morning to everyone I passed. People seemed genuinely afraid. I never had the gumption before now to say more than a few words outside of the classroom, today; I was turning heads.

After gym one kid that used to beat me up, DJ, tried to pick a fight.

“Kill him” I thought.

Why not?

I was much bigger than DJ and so I fought. I told myself not to stop hitting until DJ stopped moving. The unfortunate part about this is that DJ had a seizure in the middle of the fight so he never stopped moving, but was unconscious for the majority of it.

DJ had a trip to the hospital and the police charged me with aggravated assault (a class one felony in Pennsylvania.) My parents were pretty conflicted but I think they ultimately decided that I did the right thing.

Luckily for me, the judge only ordered community service and I had to take some anger management courses in the city.

[Anonymous No.3765041]

“Listen here boy” he said with a stern, deep voice “if I ever see you in my court room again I will not hesitate to have you locked up. Understand?”

Summer went by like a breeze and the community service gave me something to do. I walked into high school on my first day as a freshman with the confidence of a senior. That day at lunch while sitting alone, a handsome, older boy with the beginnings of a mustache approached me and said with a nervous voice

“Hey you’re that Tim kid right”

“If you’re looking for an autograph, I must admit I don’t carry a pen with me” I replied

He gave a nervous laugh and said

“Well I’m Mike Hall, and some of the guys and I heard about what you did last year, if you want to come sit with us or something sometime you can. We think you’re kind of a hero.”

[Anonymous No.3765042]

I always look forward to your criticism /lit/ let me know if you'd like more.

[Anonymous No.3765051]

>A normal person, I suppose, would probably have some amazing story about the day they stood up to their bully, snapped, overcame their trouble and learned something about fighting their own battles, but it really didn’t happen that way for me.
>I was much bigger than DJ and so I fought.
Uhuh.

[Anonymous No.3765055]

>>3765051
Good point.

[Anonymous No.3765847]

>>3765039
>I was much bigger than DJ and so I fought. I told myself not to stop hitting until DJ stopped moving. The unfortunate part about this is that DJ had a seizure in the middle of the fight so he never stopped moving, but was unconscious for the majority of it.

I was about to tell you... well rather your writing is shit, BUT this was the funniest fucking thing I've ever read right here.

Let me tell you though, in detail. The language by which you write seems obnoxiously limited to a high school- I'd even say a middle school level. I don't think you could describe anything efficiently or with any drive.

There is no motivation for your character outside of what he feels so I can't understand who the fuck he is (as in, he is just as informed as the writer ((you,)) and is treated special and given all the shrug offs). Group that with your poor skills in description and you've got yourself a Mary "the Self Insert" Sue form of characterization.

In short,
>why should I fucking care if your characters feelings were hurt, he becomes a super hero, and fucks up a guy?

There is no growth, no character, not context, absolutely and undeniably zero creativity or original content. OP I hope you choke, but overall keep writing if you like it. Eventually; hopefully, you'll stop sounding like a God damn retard.

[Anonymous No.3765924]

>They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results and that’s exactly what I was doing.
Oh god, get out of here.

[Anonymous No.3765952]

you ever seen someone post their shit stories on Facebook and all their friends and family praise the work. that always makes me cringe.