They called me the Indestructible Hero.
The hero that never took any damage despite bones being broken to what should have been irreversible measures. The hero who could,and did,survive complete decapitation. The hero who was practically a Demi-god.
And that was completely true.
Except from 1 singular hour a year.
The 12th of April,09:00-10:00.
A full hour of all the previous year’s pain compiled into one.
Every broken bone. Every burn and scorch. Every deadly undertaking.
All that pain and more searing my body in a mere hour.
And that’s how I found myself huddled in my soundproofed room,preparing myself for the pain,bracing myself.
I did this every year. Ever since I found this Achilles’ heel of mine,I would lock myself away for this hour.
I could try to avoid anything dangerous,but,being a hero,almost every day I took damage enough to kill a normal man. This year was no different.
I’d been shot through the head.
I’d been thrown into a vat of acid.
I’d been electrocuted with thousands of bolts of electricity.
What made me afraid this year?
Early in the year,I’d been kidnapped for a month. The villain was trying to find the key to my supposed immortality.
She ruthlessly tore me apart.
She tore me limb from limb.
She tore my organs out over and over.
She devoured my body.
Now I face all the pain of that month. I dread the feeling.
He’d been around here before-I’d see him as he often would sit there,like he was waiting for someone,brooding quietly underneath the hood of his black jacket. I would look away for only a few seconds,and he’d be gone.
I never thought much of this man,really. He most likely had an ill family member,so there was no need to report a grieving man such as him.
Until it was my turn to check on the terminal patient,Tomas Thatcher who had been diagnosed with cancer the previous Christmas.
It had been the normal job,make sure he was comfortable,and consoling him,as he often spent did days in bed silently and hollowly thinking about his inevitable death. It was rather...melancholic. But I tried my best without giving him false hope.
What was odd was the same man I had seen before was watching the clock just on the opposing side of the hall to the man’s room none-too-eagerly,a grave look in his sunken eyes. It was barley a second after I exited that he slinked towards that room,but I didn’t remember Mr.Thatcher saying he would have any visitors today. He was always wishing he could see his only son on a Wednesday.
“Sorry,family only.” I said to the man,knowing he was not Tomas’ son,but he stared at me. A nurse walking by gave me an odd look as I continued to watch the man,but I ignored her in favour of what he said next.
“You can see me?” to which I raised an eyebrow and nodded. In his hands,however,appeared the answer to my question. A scythe.
This was Death.
That’s why he was here. Tomas Thatcher was about to have his soul reaped.
The recognition in my eyes was apparently obvious as he shook his head sorrowfully. As if reading my thoughts he said, “Yes,I’m death.” as if he were stating the sky was blue, ”Though that doesn’t explain how you can still see me. That should only be possible of wandering spirits or other reapers. “ he continued.
“Well...I don’t feel close to death.” I said. If he was so chilled with this situation,why should I worry? And his presence was...oddly serene. “And you aren’t. Not by a couple years.” he agreed,nodding firmly,still calm even if he stated she was only a handful of years away from her death date.
There was a silence,before death looked at the clock again,before gesturing to my still outstretched hand. “Can I get on with it then,I’ve got another job in 5 minutes.” He asked,to which I nodded,putting my arm down,still in some sort of daze.
He entered the room.
He never came back out,but I still see him sometimes. I send him discreet smiles and waves,which he acknowledged with a nod but didn’t return.
Weak. That’s what they’d all been. A homeless vagabond freezing in the chill of December,forgotten. A sickly patient left to rot in a hospital bed,isolated. A lonely soul with no one left to turn to for comfort,alone.
All would be willing to kill for a strand of attention.
This man was their saviour.
The one left to the street swept up into his warm embrace,never to be forgotten again.
The one fallen ill healed,never to be isolated again.
The one alone showered with gifts and affection,never to be alone again.
Oh how lovely it had been. Before the cracks appeared.
He proclaimed it in ‘love’ for each,of course.
What else would such care be?
Such time.
Such attention.
Such a fun little game.
It must be love.
It had happened a lot.
The whispers,she meant. The whispers were quiet and calm,almost as much to be considered soothing.
They asked how she was doing,how her day at work had gone and mostly asked mundane questions. It was...nice,but incredibly odd.
And she knew she wasn’t crazy! Her dog often looked at her oddly after the voice sounded out,and it was the look of the dog’s confusion. So she wasn’t insane!
But... she never saw the voice’s owner as it spoke to her at any point. Or well,she hadn’t ever seen it’s face before today.
It was a cool spring afternoon,and she was lounging on her sofa,slipping in and out of sleep constantly. It was after a while that she actually woke up and she yawned,stretching as her bones popped. “Did you sleep well?” She heard the voice,but it sounded odd to her as she nodded,”Yes,I did,thank you.” she responded.
Looking at her dog,she saw how her dog growled at something behind her. Or someone...
Spinning on her heel,she had to look up to see the face of the voice.
Julia had thought she’d been careful in her preparation for the exorcism of Jade. But she was wrong.
So,so very wrong.
The man who knocked on the door wore the stereotypical long,flowing robes and necklace with a cross made of silver,strung with rosemary beads,his expression etched gravely. Upon welcoming him in,Julia led him to the door of Jade’s room,behind which screaming could be heard.
Aiden was always referred to as ‘Bubble Boy’,or ‘The Boy In The Bubble’ by his classmates. The nickname was probably the only way many referred to him,and was slightly deserved.
He was always incredibly reclusive,as he had never been a social butterfly,or even one for small talk
Blazing infernos of rage rose up from the dry wood of the poor villagers’ humble huts,courtesy of the oversized armoured lizard as it soared high above the village. Roars sounded out between it belching fire,shaking the whole area around the tiny village. The only saving grace was the lack of people in the immediate vicinity,as they’d already been evacuated.
Well,that was a slight lie.
There was one person.
It was a person,yes. Though there was no way it was human as it simply trekked through the flames,as if they were mere bushes. This also included the lust for it’s target’s destruction shimmering in it’s shadowed eyes.
It hefted a 7 foot pole,the end of which was attached a thick,sharp piece of silver-like metal material that seemed to be glowing a gentle white pulse.
Stalking up to the raging beast that had in the time they spent in the flame with weapon in hand,they readied a strike to take it down. Thrusting the weapon into the back of the skull of the dragon made quick work of the,before ravenous beast.
The Hunter.
The Hunter. That’s what the man who lived in the cabin,secluded from society,was called. No one knew his real name,no one dared to talk to him,no matter find out his name.
The Hunter specialised in deer hunting. And he very obviously enjoyed it. If you trekked into his land,you would see no blood,that was how precise he was.
Even odder,no matter how many deer he hunted and killed,there were always a large amount of deer around his area.
Well,none of this matters. We follow the story of The Hunter. The Hunter,also known as Alastor Bosco.
