How I died.

My reflection in the mirror is a stranger with a fragmented soul. Once a proud Marine, now just another wounded soldier

My legs, the pillars of strength that carried me into battle, are now lifeless stumps. They're a constant reminder of the price I paid.

The war took more than just my legs; it shattered my spirit.

It took everything from me and tore away the camaraderie.

Now, I'm left alone, a solitary figure in a crowd of people who can't understand the weight of my experiences.

Craving understanding Which is not often received.

The scars on my face, like grotesque symbols of my trauma, repel potential friends.

They only help push away others rather than sympathies one may think they would draw.

I've become an outcast in a world I hoped to protect.

Fire. The flickering flames that engulfed my comrades, searing their bodies and scarring my soul.

It was in that inferno, in the jaws of death, that I glimpsed the void. The near-death experience etched itself into my psyche, fueling nightmares that haunt my every waking moment.

My now-pyrophobia It's more than just a fear of fire; it's a reminder of my vulnerability and helplessness.

But in my lonely existence, I find solace in the pages of comic books and the adventures of extraordinary heroes who face adversity with unwavering courage.

Superman, Captain America, and Batman, the Avengers—they become my companions, my confidants. I live vicariously through their triumphs and draw strength from their resilience.

They're the only ones who truly understand what it means to battle against insurmountable odds.

but still, I found no hero within me. I am incapable of transformation. I'm a burned tree stump, forever deprived of my former glory.

Beneath the surface of my quiet resignation lies a seething bitterness. It festers within me, fueled by the injustices I perceive.

The higher-ups who sent us into the abyss without a second thought, the politicians who treat our sacrifices as mere statistics

If given the chance, I fantasize about turning the tables and engulfing them in the flames of their own indifference.

burning them to cinders.

and now In the confines of my dimly lit room, surrounded by my fortress of collectibles, I lived a life of self-loathing, wishing things would've played out differently.

My room was a haven, my sanctuary from the harsh realities of the outside world.

Purple LED lights illuminated the background, casting a soft, ethereal glow that brought life to the countless comics, posters, and action figures adorning the walls. Stickers of my favorite heroes covered every available surface, forming a mosaic of the characters I grew obsessed with.

Countless dream catchers dangled from the ceiling, their delicate threads and feathers swaying gently in the breeze as if capturing the essence of the dreams and fantasies that fueled my imagination.

They've been with me for as long as I can remember. Each delicate web woven by my mother's hands carried the whispers of our ancestors and the wisdom of her Ojibwe heritage.

She believed in the mystical energy that coursed through these sacred hoops, guiding us on the path of our dreams. As an Ojibwe descendant.

My mother was our family's shaman. She carried with her the profound understanding that within each of us resides a divine essence, a spark of the gods.

She would tell me stories of the dream catchers' power to harness that energy and manifest our deepest desires and aspirations.

I remember as a child, she would sit by my bedside, her voice gentle as she explained the purpose of these beautiful creations. She'd hold them up, their intricate designs alive with vibrant colors, like windows to the realm of dreams.

"You see, my child," she'd say, "these dream catchers are vessels of hope and intention. They capture the dreams that visit us in the night and release them into the universe, where they take shape and become our reality."

While "Man of Steel" was playing in the background, exhaustion took hold of me. My eyelids grew heavy, and I succumbed to the weariness.

The movie played on, but my consciousness drifted into sleep.

Feeling hot, I opened my eyes, and low and behold, my greatest fears manifested in my room.

Fire raged all around me, consuming everything it touched with voracious hunger.

Fear clutched at my heart as I found myself trapped within the burning chaos.

"No, not again," I thought to myself as an intense heat pressed against my skin, searing it with agonizing pain.

Every breath I took filled my lungs with the acrid scent of smoke, choking and suffocating me.

In the midst of this inferno, a different kind of torment gripped me. It was a sensation I can only describe as my soul being turned fiber by fiber and smashed with a thousand hammers.

The pain was beyond the physical realm; it was a deep, spiritual agony that echoed through the core of my being. It felt as if the very essence of who I was was being ripped from my body.

Time stretched forever, agony unending, and then nothing.

Minutes later, I, my valuables, and my home were nothing but a pile of ash.

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as the pyre blazed with an enigmatic fervor, devouring a curated assemblage of his collectible fictional idols and vibrant comic tomes, whose pages transformed into kindling for the growing inferno.

Ascending embers danced in the silent air, releasing fragrant tendrils of memories, histories, and narratives that had once breathed life into the palpable world of ink and parchment.

Unbeknownst to him, a marvel unfolded amidst the flames, like a secret performance hidden from mortal eyes.

Within this conflagration, the dream catchers imbued with mystical energies woven through their ethereal strands, began to awaken.

Gossamer webs of dreams unfurled, their delicate threads shimmering with potent enchantments.

These talismans, protectors of the realm between wakefulness and slumber, hold within their celestial embrace the power to transcend boundaries and harness the collective power of reverie.

Yet the one who had brought this grand spectacle to fruition remained oblivious to the profound forces he had set in motion.

The bearer of dreams and harbinger of his own destiny slept innocently and unaware. As the flames consumed the artifacts, a bridge between the realms of reality and fiction began to form, a conduit between the tangible and the intangible.

And so, an inexorable sequence of events unfolded, orchestrated by the enigmatic whims of an unseen orchestrator.

The act of merging the flames with the comic books was a catalyst, propelling him into a realm hitherto known only in the realms of his most cherished tales.

A chimerical fusion of fantasy and actuality, his dream was about to be unshackled and given breath, a rhapsody of his deepest desires manifested in the tapestry of existence.

As if a portal had been unlocked, he will find himself teetering upon the precipice of his favorite fictional world, beckoned by the cosmic dance of dreams made real.

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