Diary of a teenage superhero

10th June 2009

I used to hate episodic stories. No... thats not true, not exactly. I used to hate those stories - TV, comics, books or whatever - that felt disjointed. That broke off at one point and recontinued somewhere completely different. I used to think that the writers of those stories, the authors who wrote in that style, were lazy and unskilled at their craft. But thats not true. I know that now.

Sometimes things have to happen off screen (or off-panel as the case may be.) Sometimes there's so much to fit in that the only way the story can be progressed is through exposition and quick summation. I've been seeing everything in terms of stories recently. My life, things that happen to me, things that happen around me. I see things and I immediately think to myself 'what story is that?' Is it the 'boy meets girl' story? Is it the 'revenge' story? The 'overcoming the monster', 'the hero's journey' or the 'rags to riches' story?

I analyse my life and wonder what story i'm in. And more importantly what role i'm playing. I do this because sometimes its necessary to step outside yourself every once in a while and see your life for what it is.

I've been thinking of how best to detail what has happened in the world of the MIB recently. What has happened to me. Where do I begin?

Bollocks...

"I'll help you this once. Be ready tonight."

I went out that night; in the end I didn't really feel as though I had much of a choice. Stay in or go out, I figured that mentor man would catch up with me eventually. For whatever reason, he'd decided that it suited his interests to help me for the time being; and I was so despondent I didn't really much care that I was being used. Hell, I wanted to be used. I wanted to be pointed in the right direction and wound up and let go. I needed a target. And he was going to give it to me.

Its funny writing that last, knowing what I know now.

I went out on patrol as usual and did a circuit of my usual patrol routes, staying close to the city centre, trying not to dwell on the fact that I was probably being followed and having little success. Every dark street I walked up I imagined footsteps behind me, a sinister shadow just out of sight. I was going through the motions, walking through the part; when suddenly I realised it was 2 in the morning and there was a person standing directly in front of me.

I was on Ormeau Road (and its funny now that I think about it, much of the more interesting developments in my tenure as the MIB have happened in and around this area) just crossing the River Lagan when the person who had been leaning on the railings overlooking the river had stood up and gotten in my way. I'd seen him from a distance and had immediately discounted him as a drunken student on his way home, just stopping for a breather. But now that he was in front of me, blocking my way I was forced to look at him properly. Instinctively, I knew what he wanted, but was compelled by convention to snarl at him, 'What do you want? Where's... he?

The guy in front of me - and he was around the mid twenty mark - replied, 'He... isn't coming. He doesn't know i'm here. But this was the only way I could get in touch with you. Meet up with you.'

I narrowed my eyes at him, thought rapidly of numerous possible outcomes of this interaction and in the end settled for asking simply, 'Why?'

He pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger, as if trying to massage a headache. 'Look, they don't know i'm here. They don't suspect.' He leaned over the railing of the bridge again, stared up the river towards the south of the city and beyond. He inhaled, opened his mouth as though to continue, then closed it again. He turned slowly to look at me. 'I've read your diary. We all have.'

'We?'

'Some of us agree with you, and how you do things. Some don't. But you have to believe me.... there is no great conspiracy against you. At least, not that i'm aware of. Who I work for, who... who Kaia worked for, we want the same thing has you. We've just been going about it in different ways. Or maybe the same ways with a different time frame.'

He started to chuckle, 'You know its funny. It was you who inspired me to take up this... vocation. When I joined, I thought you'd already be a member. I was surprised to see from your file that you were actually considered a threat. Still are I suppose.'

'A threat to what? To whom?'

He carried on without answering, 'I saw these stories in the paper about a man dressed in black who went out and did what most other people only dream about doing. I was reading articles and diatribes and editorials about a person who - only months before - i'd have only expected to see in a comicbook. I suppose you could say I was inspired.'

He looked away briefly then back at me, 'You don't realise the effect you've had, do you? And not just the people you've helped directly. The influence you weild on people who you'll never meet; never even know about. Its amazing. You can't begin to magine what you've started.' He paused for a moment then continued.

'We were required to read your diary before you moved it (smart move by the way) anytime there was an update to see how we could learn from you. I suppose in a way we were being conditioned that we might eschew going the route of 'loner' like yourself. I never understood why you were so down all the time. So depressed.'

Off my look, he elaborated, 'Oh yeah Marty (I winced at the use of the name) - you wouldn't believe the amount of psychoanalysts and psychologists who've read your diary, trying to pigeonhole you into some sort of definable and predicatable character. You'll be glad to know you're still quite the mystery.'

'Anyway, I never got why you seemed to despise your life. Why you seemed to force yourself to see problems and negatives where none existed.

'But I understand now. When I go back after patrolling (we use the word too) I get debriefed. I get counselled, therapy and group. You had nothing.'

He looked at me almost pityingly, 'How do you do it? What you've been through, what you've seen, whats happened to you, and still you don't open up to anyone. Why?'

Stunned by the (almost) rant, I was unable to respond. This hadn't been what i'd been expecting when I came out.

Without waiting for a reply, he continued, 'It matters not. I know the effect this life can have now. And I know why you are the way you are.'

He closed his eyes, face turned towards the river again, 'I loved her too.' He said quietly. 'No-one knew. Not even her.'

He turned back to me, eyes downcast 'And thats why i'm going to help you. I said i'd help you just this once, but i've had time to think. I can help you. On a more... regular... basis. I want... I... those kids. Those damn kids.' His jaw clenched furiously, as mine was I suppose. 'There's no great conspiracy against you. But since you came along things have... escalated. And you started to f**king train them! What the hell were you thinking??

I bristled at the admonishment, but only slightly. ' I was trying to help!' I snapped. He recoiled at my tone.

'I know. I know. I don't... I don't blame you. I did. But I don't anymore. ...I can help you. I want those little s**ts just as much as you. We don't know who they are yet, but we'll find them sooner or later. When we know, you'll know. Although from your diary it looks as though you have your own contacts as well. You should think about using them.'

He moved as though to leave, so I grabbed his arm, 'Wait... thats it?' He nodded apologetically.

'Look, i'm sorry I don't have more information, and i'm sorry for the whole cloak and dagger thing, but no-one in my.... who I work for... knows what i'm doing. No-one knows that i've contacted you. If I were to be found out...'

'Wait... its just you? Just one guy?'

He smirked at that, reached out to shake my hand, 'Now we're two.' Guess he knew I'm a film fan as well.

'Wait. Even if I do believe that you wish to help me, what makes you think i'm going to take you on as a... a sidekick if thats what you're proposing?'

He grinned at me openly, 'Its not. I'm just offering to help. You have more control than you think. Over yourself. Over events around you. I'll be in touch, I promise.'

So much for promises. Almost a month and still no word. But it hasn't stopped me going out. I surmised from his description of what he does and who he works for that they have been my copycats. Those reports in the papers of other MIB's running around. It was them all along. So thats one mystery closed - in retrospect, it seems obvious. They've been copying me, my methods and my style, doing my work. I hope to run across one of them and give them a free lesson.

...

I've been seeing things in terms of stories recently. Good guys, bad guys, plot advancement, supporting characters and sub-plots. My life has gotten so complicated and incredible recently that sometimes i'm forced to consider the possibility that it might just be a story. That my life is a fantasy. Backstories and characterisation. First acts and roleplaying. One big story. How will this part of my life resolve itself. He said I have more control over myself and of events than I realised... but I don't see it. I feel as though i'm caught up in a tsunami of events that are not of my making. As though things are happening all around me and its as best I can do to keep my head above water.

Stories. The final act of a story, the denouement. I don't know how this chapter of my life ends, but I don't feel as though I have any control over it. But whatever happens, I'll keep you posted.
 
15th June 2009

The Man In Black...

Its times like these when I feel completely divorced from him. As though he's a completely seperate entity. As though he's not... me. Tonight's the first night i've felt like a... normal human being in a while.

I'm sitting in the flat at the moment, watching Terminator 2 and reading comics. I've spent the night trying to make a costume for a theme party i'm going to next month. Ironically the theme is Action Heroes. I caught myself smiling earlier as I made it, not because of what the costume is, but because I was daydreaming - wondering if anyone was going to dress as the Man In Black. A part of me, a vain, self-centred ego wants to know if my alter ego has permeated the local pop-culture zeitgeist. Another part of me never wants that to happen.

Those mutant kids... Despite my training, despite what i've learned over the years, the knowledge i've accrued, the experiences and events that have shaped me, its still very much about going out and stumbling across trouble. Hoping that i'll come across a clue, a trail, something. Anything. I've long since given up on this agent contacting me. I suspect I will have to try to utilise my own contacts - although i'm loath to do so.

Christ... I knew I shouldn't have started writing in this tonight. I was actually quite chilled out, enjoying being just Marty for a change, a boring evening in. But the second I started writing in this... I knew i'd have to start thinking about things again. And just like that I feel so... so overwhelmed by things. By life.

What do I do if and when I find these kids? Kill them? Send them to jail? Break them? No matter what, Kaia will still be dead.

Heh... although I never wrote about our relationship in this, now I regret that, because all I have now are skewed memories. Although I do remember with crystal clarity one afternoon we spent together. I remember something she told me on that afternoon, before she left for Norway. She told me that she'd figured out why I did what I did. Why I became the Man in Black. She was sitting beside me on a bench in Botanic Park. We'd taken ourselves there during the afternoon to eat lunch and enjoy the good weather. After we'd eaten our sandwiches, we sat there with eyes closed, faces tilted towards the sun to the south. She'd been force feeding me crisps, sometimes pushing them into my mouth, sometimes teasing me, snatching them from my lips and eating them herself. In this way, in between fits of laughter, we finished the bag. She leaned against me and started talking. She told me that it wasn't a response to Gerard or indeed anything else - social malaise or whatever - but the core reason. The one true reason that made any sense. The reason I go out every night and actively look for trouble, looking to get hurt.

"You get off on it." Although I tensed slightly, I said nothing, so she continued. "It scews up your life Marty. You're a walking cliche - the drunken idiot routine? What's that about? As ****** an effect it has on your life, on your friendships, on your relationships...;" And here she turned her head to look at me, to see what effect the words were having on me, "...You get off on the misery it causes. Your 'double life'. You wallow in it. All your existential crises; the anger, the doubt... the self loathing? You love it. You need it. Its like you have this hole inside you that needs filled. You think that no-one in your life cares about you, you think that you're alone in this world - despite all the evidence to the contrary."

Her voice became shrill and angry, "Just who the hell do you think you are? You think no-one else thinks like you? Feels like you? You think you're the only real person in the world and we're all just facsimiles of people? Is that it?

Your family? Friends?... Me? You try and fill this hole... this... this void, by saving others and feeding off the gratitude and projected love that they impart to you. But its not enough is it? It'll never be enough. And you'll die looking for the hole to be filled. And you know this! Its a bloody fools errand and yet still you continue, looking to be 'completed'. The final piece of the puzzle, but no-one else has it. No-one else can give you..."

She broke off sobbing, her clenched hand smacking my chest weakly. She looked at me imploringly. "We all feel like that. Don't you understand? All your training, your education and self help, and you still don't see that, do you? We get through it by helping each other out. By talking. By being there for each other.

Who are you there for, huh? Anyone?"

She sighed heavily. Pushed herself off me and stood up. In that moment I knew she was right. And I hated her for it. Well... thats not true. Not exactly. The more I considered what she said, the more I realised that I hated the fact that despite all my training, and despite what I'd gone through... despite everything, I was still completely predictable and readable. And I still had a long way to go before I'd even come close to matching her intellect.

"So what do I do then?" I asked her. "Do you want me to stop? Is that it?"

She lowered her haed and looked back at me, "No... I just... I just wanted you to know that thats what I thought. What I think." She diverted her face from me, looked sideways, "I've just killed the craic, haven't I?"

I smiled slightly. "Just a bit..." I walked over and hugged her. "I'm there for you, you know that, right?" She smiled but didn't say anything.

Its funny. I hadn't thought of that afternoon together til now, but on reflection, that aftrenoon was one of the best i'd ever had.

In fits and starts I made half-hearted attempts to change myself from that point onwards. Tried to be the Man in Black for the right reasons - for others, as opposed to just doing it for myself. And I was making headway too, but now.... now with Kaia gone I ask myself constantly... What am I doing this for? And more importantly... 'who' am I doing this for? Who am I there for?

To be continued later - I gotta go to work now.
 
15th June 2009

The Man In Black...

Its times like these when I feel completely divorced from him. As though he's a completely seperate entity. As though he's not... me. Tonight's the first night i've felt like a... normal human being in a while.

I'm sitting in the flat at the moment, watching Terminator 2 and reading comics. I've spent the night trying to make a costume for a theme party i'm going to next month. Ironically the theme is Action Heroes. I caught myself smiling earlier as I made it, not because of what the costume is, but because I was daydreaming - wondering if anyone was going to dress as the Man In Black. A part of me, a vain, self-centred ego wants to know if my alter ego has permeated the local pop-culture zeitgeist. Another part of me never wants that to happen.

Those mutant kids... Despite my training, despite what i've learned over the years, the knowledge i've accrued, the experiences and events that have shaped me, its still very much about going out and stumbling across trouble. Hoping that i'll come across a clue, a trail, something. Anything. I've long since given up on this agent contacting me. I suspect I will have to try to utilise my own contacts - although i'm loath to do so.

Christ... I knew I shouldn't have started writing in this tonight. I was actually quite chilled out, enjoying being just Marty for a change, a boring evening in. But the second I started writing in this... I knew i'd have to start thinking about things again. And just like that I feel so... so overwhelmed by things. By life.

What do I do if and when I find these kids? Kill them? Send them to jail? Break them? No matter what, Kaia will still be dead.

Heh... although I never wrote about our relationship in this, now I regret that, because all I have now are skewed memories. Although I do remember with crystal clarity one afternoon we spent together. I remember something she told me on that afternoon, before she left for Norway. She told me that she'd figured out why I did what I did. Why I became the Man in Black. She was sitting beside me on a bench in Botanic Park. We'd taken ourselves there during the afternoon to eat lunch and enjoy the good weather. After we'd eaten our sandwiches, we sat there with eyes closed, faces tilted towards the sun to the south. She'd been force feeding me crisps, sometimes pushing them into my mouth, sometimes teasing me, snatching them from my lips and eating them herself. In this way, in between fits of laughter, we finished the bag. She leaned against me and started talking. She told me that it wasn't a response to Gerard or indeed anything else - social malaise or whatever - but the core reason. The one true reason that made any sense. The reason I go out every night and actively look for trouble, looking to get hurt.

"You get off on it." Although I tensed slightly, I said nothing, so she continued. "It scews up your life Marty. You're a walking cliche - the drunken idiot routine? What's that about? As ****** an effect it has on your life, on your friendships, on your relationships...;" And here she turned her head to look at me, to see what effect the words were having on me, "...You get off on the misery it causes. Your 'double life'. You wallow in it. All your existential crises; the anger, the doubt... the self loathing? You love it. You need it. Its like you have this hole inside you that needs filled. You think that no-one in your life cares about you, you think that you're alone in this world - despite all the evidence to the contrary."

Her voice became shrill and angry, "Just who the hell do you think you are? You think no-one else thinks like you? Feels like you? You think you're the only real person in the world and we're all just facsimiles of people? Is that it?

Your family? Friends?... Me? You try and fill this hole... this... this void, by saving others and feeding off the gratitude and projected love that they impart to you. But its not enough is it? It'll never be enough. And you'll die looking for the hole to be filled. And you know this! Its a bloody fools errand and yet still you continue, looking to be 'completed'. The final piece of the puzzle, but no-one else has it. No-one else can give you..."

She broke off sobbing, her clenched hand smacking my chest weakly. She looked at me imploringly. "We all feel like that. Don't you understand? All your training, your education and self help, and you still don't see that, do you? We get through it by helping each other out. By talking. By being there for each other.

Who are you there for, huh? Anyone?"

She sighed heavily. Pushed herself off me and stood up. In that moment I knew she was right. And I hated her for it. Well... thats not true. Not exactly. The more I considered what she said, the more I realised that I hated the fact that despite all my training, and despite what I'd gone through... despite everything, I was still completely predictable and readable. And I still had a long way to go before I'd even come close to matching her intellect.

"So what do I do then?" I asked her. "Do you want me to stop? Is that it?"

She lowered her haed and looked back at me, "No... I just... I just wanted you to know that thats what I thought. What I think." She diverted her face from me, looked sideways, "I've just killed the craic, haven't I?"

I smiled slightly. "Just a bit..." I walked over and hugged her. "I'm there for you, you know that, right?" She smiled but didn't say anything.

Its funny. I hadn't thought of that afternoon together til now, but on reflection, that aftrenoon was one of the best i'd ever had.

In fits and starts I made half-hearted attempts to change myself from that point onwards. Tried to be the Man in Black for the right reasons - for others, as opposed to just doing it for myself. And I was making headway too, but now.... now with Kaia gone I ask myself constantly... What am I doing this for? And more importantly... 'who' am I doing this for? Who am I there for?

To be continued later - I gotta go to work now.
 
19th June 2009

Racism...

I ****ing hate racism. Someone on the news the other day referred to racism in Northern Ireland as the new sectarianism and, watching the news, I'm forced to agree with them.

Thing is... I thought we were doing so well too. As a country, as a city. In my more egotistical moments, I liked to think that I had some small part in that. But watching the news the past couple of days - Romanian immigrants forced out of their homes, intimidated, threatened, and harassed - I come to the conclusion that we're not as far along as we thought we were as a race or as a society. Families - husbands, wives and children bullied and traeted as though they were slime. And all because they chose to seek a better life.

Its funny, everyone knows that the troubles are a thing of the past - that violence and conflict are behind us. Its a quiet, unspoken acceptance. Yet the folks who chose to make life difficult for those immigrants haven't seemed to have gotten with the program so to speak. Through my contacts I was able to ascertain that neither the IRA or UVF were involved. There was no greater plan to extort money or to boost the profiles of either organisation. Rather, the attacks were simply the culmination of something that i've tried to tackle head on in my city. The uneducated. The bigoted. And you know what, once again i'm wracked with the guilt - and the knowledge that this may be my fault.

Because its the mutant kids that are behind this. And thats all it is. Kids. Kids who haven't been taught properly. Kids who's parents disavowed any responsibility towards very early in life. Kids who get bored easily, who have no direction, no prospects, and no leadership. I tried to give that to them, but I failed, and failed miserably. Kaia is dead, and i've been at my lowest ebb - lower than i've been for a long time.

Right now I have two options open to me. Or two courses of action that make sense at this time. There was a protest at the racism yesterday. At the protest - the protest against racism and sectarianism - the crowd were attacked themselves by the mutant kids. In broad daylight. The police did nothing at the time.

Today however, they arrested a 'man' in his late teens for incitement and racist behaviour. Who he is hasn't been made public knowledge yet, but through my contacts I was able to find out who it was.

I have two options open to me. I go out tonight and carry on with the Man In Black - despite the fact that it seems i'm not having any effect. I can do that - go out and try and fight the rest of these mutant kids one at a time.

Or I can go out to Woodburn police station, break in, and confront the 'man' they've arrested.

Because he killed Kaia.
 
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I just got finished reading this from start to finish and it is AWESOME! :eek: You're a very talented writer. Keep it up. :up:
 
28th June 2009

I... I avoid writing in this at times. If something tumultuous or big happens, I will steer clear of writing about it, because writing means i'll have to think about it, and deal with it. And most times, I just don't want to, even though I know its the only response that's healthy.

But sometimes... sometimes I want to write in this stright away after something happens in my life. Sometimes I need to get it down straight away for fear i'll forget. Sometimes I just want to write. And its always times like that when things get in the way and prevent me from writing, hence the delay on this.

He killed Kaia.

He killed Kaia, and I finally, finally got my revenge. My life for the past few months has been one of bitterness, anger and fear. Thinking about it now, it seems that its all i've been able to focus on, or write about. When I write in this, I have an idea of how the entry will go. I have an idea of what i'm going to write about, and I know if its going to be a big or small entry. I suspect this one is going to be big.

There's so much to talk about, and i'm not even sure where i'm going to start. It feels as though I don't have the time or vocabulary to tell the story the way it happened. I guess, as with most stories, it has to start with a beginning.

My name is Marty, and I'm a (no longer) teenage superhero who goes by the name 'Man In Black'. I started this gig years ago, and I have no superpowers, no enhanced strength, no definable uniform or symbol. For a few years, things were good; despite the (admittedly anticipated) negative effect the lifestyle would have on my social life and my overall psyche; I enjoyed what I did. Because things weren't serious. No matter how bad things got - the injuries, the damage to relationships, the wearing down of my life - there was never anything I couldn't recover from, bounce back from.

But then... then things changed. Things started to get serious. A villain set himself up as an antithesis to me. He killed innocent strangers in cold blood as a way of taunting me, of cementing himself as a nemesis. After a while, I confronted him, fought him, and beat him. But at great cost to myself. My life immediately afterwards was in tatters. Fractured psyche, ruined relationships and no will to carry on. But somehow I recovered yet again.

Around the same time, I started being trained by a mysterious figure who became a mentor of sorts. Under his guidance and tutelage, my skills improved immeasurably. But then things changed again. I discovered that he, and those he worked for didn't exactly have my best interests at heart and were in fact keeping tabs on me. I came to the realisation at the same time that despite what I was doing, despite my best intentions, I wasn't having the effect that I had desired. I still wasn't making any sort of quantifiable difference. What I was doing didn't seem to matter. So I began to tackle things in a different way. I tried different approaches, using my intelligence as opposed to just mere brawn.

I fought street gangs on their own turf, trying to impart some sort of wisdom and sense of honour into the gang culture that permeates so much of our streets these days. And I thought it was working. Without meaning to, I was amassing a private army under my command, or so I thought.

What I was doing was considered a rebellion of sorts by the agency who trained me, and they warned me against what I was doing. They warned me that my actions were going to have serious repercussions. They were right. In my haste to prove them wrong, I lost sight of why I became the Man In Black in the first place. I was (I assumed) training these street gangs to be better people, but all I was doing was training them to be better killers. And they killed one of my oldest and dearest friends.

Kaia. I haven't wrote in this about her half as much as she deserves, but I hope its come across anyway just how much I cared for her.

...


...


19th June... I had no idea what I was going to do when I left the house that night. I left here and patrolled one of my local routes, half on autopilot, but still very alert and watchful. I padded up Ormeau Road, stopping at the embankment to stop a mugging. A group of mutant gang kids were accosting a cyclist who had been using the Laganside Towpath as a shortcut home. They hadn't done anythuing serious yet, but I could read from the body language and actions that they were close to crossing the line. I sprinted over from the other side of the road and leapt in with a fly kick, taking the biggest one out with no effort at all. The rest, upon seeing me, scattered. No taunts, no jeers. They were afraid. I snapped at the guy on the bike, telling him that he should have known better than to go cycling on the goddamn Lagan towpath at 11 at night. Chagrined, he cycled off as I watched. Everything seemed to slow, and I came to my decision. I jogged the 6 miles to Woodburn Police station (in West Belfast) in 34 minutes. I stopped at the top of Blacks Road and took in the surroundings. As part of my intensive training regime when I startd this, I read constantly. About psychology, about military tactics, about politics... everything. I read and I absorbed and memorised. In particular, I spent inordinate amounts of time learning everything I could about my city. History, places, people... and buildings. City Hall (for instance) has an exact scale replica in Durban, South Africa. Crumlin Road courthouse has a secret tunnel leading from it, under the road, to the nearby gaol. And amongst other structural weaknesses and inappropriate building layouts, Woodburn police station has a defective CCTV setup.

The complex does have however, a massive 15ft high wall around the perimeter. Luckily, in their infinite wisdom, the Police/ army built the station beside what used to be a forest, and there are several trees left. I climbed one and got to the top of the wall, and from there into the central building through an open, upper storey window. Surprisingly easy.

The holding cells in Woodburn aren't actually jail cells, they're just rooms with slightly sturdier locks. In the end, it was just a case of checking each one to see where my target was. In between ducking into empty rooms and niches in the bland corridor to avoid police officers, I made my way through the holding cells one by one, until at last I saw him. Skinhead, with scarring in different areas of his scalp. Even had his back been turned, I would have recognised him. You never forget the face of a person who's killed your girlfriend. He wasn't looking at the door, or me, but was just sitting at a table with his hands resting on the back of his head. Chilled out, relaxed. This enraged me. The door was such that it was able to be opened from the outside while remaining locked from the inside. I turned the handle, and stepped silently into the room, closing the door behind me, but not fully. He looked up as I stepped in and straight away began to yell for help. I bounced over to him and hit him square in the face. Before he had time to recover from that, I grabbed the back of his head and started pummelling his face into the table. Over and again I smashed it down, trying to inflict as much pain and damage as possible. His cries became weaker and quieter and eventually stopped. But I didn't. He was gulping, swallowing blood and snortling, and still I continued. I grabbed him up and threw him against the wall, pinning him against it with one hand on his throat, punching his torso, his bloodied face and kicking his legs. He sagged over and I caught him against my body, kneeing his chest twice before letting him fall to the ground. I'd been muttering incoherently all throughout, senseless jabblings but now I screamed at his mangled form. 'Why!?' Damn you! **** you! You ****!! Why'd you kill her?? WHY!!?' I started kicked his limp body on the floor relentlessly. But each subsequent kick was weaker and increasingly half hearted. Kaia was still dead. And I wasn't about to murder this... this kid. For as I looked at him, his eyes open and glazed, somehow still awake, I saw a sad, scared little boy. He was gasping and choking, quite the pathetic and forlorn figure. Tears formed in my eyes as I backed off towards the door. I grabbed the handle and discovered that in my rage, either I'd banged into the door or it had simply swung back itself. The door was closed.

I was locked in the cell.
 
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7th July 2009

I shouldered the door a few times, already knowing that there was no way it would give. The mutant kid - except he wasn't really a kid; being old enough to be referred to in the news as an adult - was making gurgling, bubbling sounds behind me. Gutteral, plaintitive. I took a quick look around the room, getting my bearings, seeing exactly what sort of situation I was in. The room was about 7ft by 5. In the right hand corner was a small single cot. Beside that was a small table and chair, above which was a small barred window. The walls were painted beige and the floor was tiled. Impersonal. Spiritless.

The mutant kid was sprawled on the floor beside the table, blood pooling around his face. he regarded me with one glazed eye, and I found myself oddly fascinated by him. I gave him the once over - mainly to make sure I hadn't beaten him up too badly. He was hurt, but nothing a stint in a hospital bed wouldn't fix.

I turned to the door, examining the frame and small fortified window. Nothing. There was no escape for me until someone came to open the door. I hunkered in the corner to the left and beside the door, just out of sight of anyone looking in through the window. As it turned out, I didn't have too long to wait. I heard footsteps coming down the corridor outside. They stopped at the door, and I heard a frantic fumbling at the door as whoever was on the other side saw the prone figure lying inches away from me. The handle turned and the door opened. The door opened quickly, and I sprang at the entering figure, trying to take them by surprise before they saw me. I tackled them clumsily, grabbing them round the waist, dragging them into the room and pushing them face forward into the ground beside the mutant kid all in one swift movement, but as I turned nimbly to the door to make my escape, there was another figure entering. I gasped audibly, for I recognised him, and him me.

As his companion got to their feet behind me, dusting themselves off and cursing softly, he looked at me, his eyes narrowed, calculating; his mouth puckered in slient thought. "Hmm. We knew you'd come here, but we didn't exactly expect you to rush in so soon. And with no planning." He smirked slightly, but not maliciously, "Have you forgotten everything I taught you Martin?" He narrowed his eyes, "Are you feeling alright?"

I glowered at him in response. As far as I was concerned, he was still an... not enemy, but not exactly a friend either. I couldn't shake a vague sense of unease though. He gestured at the pathetic figure on the ground, "Have you had your fill of revenge? Or would you have killed him outright given a few more minutes?"

Still glaring at him, I snaped "You know I wouldn't have killed him, thats not who I am. Or what I do." His eyebrows raised slightly in genuine surprise.

"Actually, I didn't know that. But I am glad. It seems you're not as loose a cannon as we originally feared." He looked at the window behind me, thoughtfully. I frowned as I suddenly understood what he had just implied, "Wait. You mean... this was a..."

"A test." He broke in, "Yes. It was." Off my look he shrugged, almost apologetically, "Didn't you wonder why it was so easy to break in here? Did it not once cross your mind that this was a set up?"

"I..."

I blanched, trailed off. The thought had indeed crossed my mind, but I was so engrossed, so intent on my revenge that I had dismissed it outright. Thinking about it now, I suspect that - for whatever reason - some small part of me wanted to be caught. I wonder... is there some part of me so caught up, so invested in the self-deception that is my life, that I deluded myself into overlooking the simple fact that I'm not as wildly unpredictable as I hope to be. I may have spoken before in this about a psychological phenomenon I came across recently in an old magazine about mental blind spots. Called 'Lacunae' blind spots - the term can be applied to many things, not just psychology. In its simplest form, the term describes a way of thought that goes beyond mere memory repression or self delusion - rather it ascribes these blind spots as being inherent in our way of thought, as being part of our very nature, and as such, incredibly difficult to discover.

I think that night, I caught a glimpse of one of my Lacunae. I say one, because I suspect there may be more. Things about myself, weaknesses, traits, foibles, achilles heels that exist within myself, that are so entrenched in my very psyche that they are completely invisible to myself but glaringly obvious to anyone who does a bit of homework on me.

But I digress.

I looked carefully at my onetime mentor. "Now what?"

He stared straight into my eyes, chewing his inner cheek thoughtfully. Abruptly he straightened. Whatever he'd been ruminating over, he'd come to his decision. He stepped aside and gestured towards the open door. I raised my eyebrows in disbelief at it being that easy.

"You serious?"

He chuckled. "I told you i'd help you this once." I raised a querying eyebrow at that. "Heh, there's not much goes on within my organisation without my say-so. I apologise for using a proxy, but I didn't think you'd deign to meet me willingly. Kaia was part of my organisation for a time, and I cared about her. Believe me, I wanted this guy caught as much as you."

I frowned in thought, then strode quickly past him. As I did so, he called after me, "We'll be in touch Martin." That sense of unease crept up on me again. Something in our dynamic had changed, and I didn't know what. And in thinking about it now, I still don't. They say that in a card game, if you don't know who the chump is, then it's because its you. And thats how I feel around this mentor man now. As though i'm being played.

I got home without incident, and the past few weeks have consisted of - amongst long bouts of serious introspection - me going out, patrolling as usual and trying to have a life of sorts.

I had my revenge for Kaia, yes, but like most things, when attained, it becomes all too shallow and unfulfilling. I wonder... will I ever truly be able to put it behind me?

...


...


And these... these lacunae. Clearly there are flaws in my thinking. Not just in my thinking, but the very way I am. My nature. Maybe they've always been there and i'm only now becoming aware of them. But what if... what if they're new? I've been getting stressed and downbeat over the smallest things. I've had panic attacks and have suffered serious emotional and physical trauma. And the way i'm reacting... it doesn't feel right. I've been seeing things differently recently. I've been seeing my life and everything around me as a story... and I never saw things like this before. Never viewed the world in this way.

I wonder... has something been done to me?
 
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15th July 2009

There are moments in life. Moments in life where we lie awake at night thinking about things. About our life; the lives of those around us; problems we're having, problems other people are having. We consider everything, and in these scant few moments, we see everything. And we come up with the answer. The answer to everything thats wrong in our lives. But not just our lives. We hold in our mind the answer to it all. We get caught up in our own runaway train of thought. We think fervently about it all and fall asleep, safe in the knowledge that our problems are over. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will be a brand new day.

Then we wake up, and the harsh light of reality blows cold through our smoky illusions. All those certainties and determinations disappear - all those ideas fade away and take a back seat in our subconcious... til the next time. The daytime assures us that we're in reality. It tells us that what we thought of the night before is best left to nighttime waking dreams. But sometimes its more than that.

I had an epiphany last night. A revelation. About my life, and about what I need to do about my current situation. But now, sitting here... I don't see it. I lost it.

Christ its been a busy few days. Between rioting and bonfires and just general drunken idiots, I can safely say that this is the busiest i've been as the Man In Black for a while. First off was a visit to a bonfire round the corner from where I live. It was a relatively small affair (comparatively speaking) and there were in fact families there - parents with 3 or 4 year old children. I hadn't planned to stop, but there was trouble breaking out with a few rival street gangs and I did my usual quick in and out. Which now has me labelled in the press as a sectarian and anti-Orangeman.

What I thought about last night...

Its bugging me. The fact that I can't remember. All my training. All my mental preparation, memory excercises and the rest. And I can't remember. In fact, the more I try to recall it, the further away I can feel the memory getting. And thats so unlike me (past memory lapses aside) its the only reason i'm even entertaining the thought that something has been done to me.

Jesus. Is that another effect of being the Man in Black? Of being a superhero?

The way I see it there are two possibilities:

1. Something's been done to me. Hypnosis, brainwashing, post hypnotic suggestion, or some other variant on the mind-tampering front. I'm not sure how or when this could have happened, and truthfully, I'm not even sure if anything has been done. Prime suspects are the mysterious organisation of which my mentor is a member. The question is how and why.

or...

2. The effect of being the Man In Black and of living a double life for so long... has had such a cumulative detrimental effect that its causing me to become increasingly paranoid and delusional.

I just know that as of late, i've been acting differently - seeing things differently. My critical thinking and subjective analysis has gone out the window. It seems like recently I can't keep things together long enough to think practically or rationally about anything. I'm not planning patrols in advance where once I would have. I'm merely reacting to events around me where once I would have caused events to which others reacted. I feel as though i've regressed to how I was years ago. Before all my training. Before I became the Man In Black.

The mind has its own self protection system. The way we act and behave at any given moment is ultimately to cause an end result that benefits ourself. Even if we don't realise it at the time.

Is that why i've been seeing things differently recently? Was that my big revelation of last night? Has my mind been forcing me to view things differently as a way of discovering these conceptual lacunae? In my quest to be a better Man In Black (and by implication a better person) have I breached some new level in development? Is my brain even now in in the process of restructuring and reordering itself to become more efficient? Am I - to put it in plain english - becoming a different person?

Christ. I thought i'd put this whole identity crisis schtick behind me as well. I could get my mind all tied up in knots trying to resolve this. Either something's been done to me or... or i'm more paranoid than Batman.

Its interesting, I have been planning and strategising like crazy recently. Not with patrols, but on longer term things. I've been planning and preparing for events that - in all liklihood - will probably never happen.

If something has been done to me, I'll find out soon enough. But i'll have to be more careful. I've been taking massive risks lately. Not just whilst on patrol... but in life also. I've become lax about guarding my identity, about letting people in. Jesus Christ - I've lost count of the amount of times in recent months i've just not cared that my flatmate has seen my bloodied and bruised form recuperating on the sofa. Did I, in my arrogance, assume that he'd be too stupid to put two and two together?

Is that why i'm seeing double meanings in everything he says to me now?

I wonder how many ways it's possible for me to interpret 'You know Marty, you've a lot of black clothes.' Probably not that many, but coupled with 'Are you off out again tonight Marty?' - delivered with a knowing look, perhaps its time I started to get worried.
 
19th July 2009

I...

Sometimes things happen. Its strange how I didn't fully notice before - I write in this when my life turns to ****. When I need some sort of release, some sort of way to put the horror inside of me outside.

I've been writing in this a lot recently.

Is my life that ****?

There are times I think so. There are days when I wonder just what the hell i'm doing. Not just specifically Man In Black related - but just in general. My job... its just a job. I have no career to speak of. I just go in, get through the day so that I can come alive at night. Friends... family? Yeah i've several of both, but... but who do I talk to about MIB stuff? And I think now I need to talk to someone about this life of mine. Writing it down in this diary helps, but just a little. I need someone to open to about this. I need someone who can help me through the ****** patches. I think thats why in the comics (and indeed my own life) the superhero always has their identity revealed to someone. Because, when all is said and done, there's an instinctual need for someone else to know.

This life of mine is hard, harsh, and real. I'm sitting in my room right now, trying to stop my hand from shaking while I try and sew up the enormous knife gash running down the side of my abdomen. Right from the serratus, down through the obliques. Its oozing blood and my sheets and mattress are soaked. As is my computer. I say oozing blood because I finally got it sealed temporarily using stitch tape. I don't have any painkillers - none that are effective against this anyway, and i'm taking a break so that hand my will stop before I actually do the necessary. Heh, this reminds me of the time I got screwed up by the IRA guys back in Andersonstown. I'd made it home from that and was sprawled on my parents kitchen floor in a heap, my back propped against a cupboard for support, and staring at my bloodied hands in shock. I hadn't a clue what I was doing back then. And at times like these, I think I still don't.

I'm sitting in my room, trying to control my (manly) whimpers from rising to a level that others can hear - my flatmate and another friend are sitting in the living room, playing pro-evolution soccer on the Playstation. The first aid kit which I keep in my room has ran out of gauze, and I need more, but the spare first aid kit is in the kitchen, and to get to that I'll have to walk into the living room. Which I can't do. The pain is almost unbearable. Hot, fiery and shooting, although I can feel the dull deep throb that will be with for for several weeks already beginning to kick in. When I breathe and my chest expands, I can feel my lungs burn.

At the moment, I can't do anything but try and stop the wound from opening and bleeding everywhere again. And i'm so... bloody... tired.

For gods sake is this my life?? Is this what its come to??

I was out last with friends. I watched a girl on the dancefloor in the Menagerie (a club in Belfast). I watched her and she watched me. We both wanted each other; but in the end, she left with someone else. Because I didn't go talk to her. Because I was thinking about patrolling. Because my mind is on things that don't involve having a normal life.

I made my excuses to my friends, shrugging off their invitation to a house party and went on patrol. I patrolled for a bit then walked home. No, that's not true.... I staggered home. Clutching at my chest and trying not to pass out.

I have five patrol routes at the moment. Ormeau, Stranmillis, Falls Road, Cregagh and Antrim Road. I say routes, but they are just areas in Belfast that I would try and be active in. Usually Falls Road is teeming with drunken westies (west Belfast) slurring their way home from one of the many pubs along the road. There are lot of patches of wasteland, lots of derelict buildings. Lots of places for bad people to do bad things to good people. I hadn't been on patrol in the Falls in a while and so decided on a whim to go there, despite being already in the Ormeau vicinity. I cut across the city centre and started up the Falls Road. I was dressed in black, scowling and afraid. Not afraid... not exactly. Apprehensive. Because everywhere I look now there's a threat.

I walked up - jogging or running draws attention, in fact sometimes I pretend to be staggering as though drunk - and broke up a fight between a guy and his girlfriend. Normally I leave that sort of thing alone, I can't very well break up every single skirmish I come across, but this one had the signs of escalating to a more serious scenario. For all the thanks I got from the girl though, I may as well have not bothered. In her nasal tone, she told me to 'piss off' and mind my own business. Quite funny though, as I left them to it, I heard her say to him, 'Nosey f--ker. Who the F--- does he think he is, the Man In Black or something?'

I got as far as the Springfield Road and was pondering on whether I should go on up the road or turn and go home when I heard a dull thumping sound coming from one of the houses on Springfield Road. There was no-one else around, the road was completely deserted and there were no lights on in any of the houses. I jogged up slowly, and witnessed a young man attempting to kick in the door of one of the houses. I accelerated, but he'd already kicked his way into the house. I vaulted the garden wall and paused momentarily - it was a possibility that he'd merely forgotten his house keys. I considered briefly then ran into the house anyway. If there was nothing untoward happening I could easily run away. I needn't have doubted myelf though. As I crossed the bridge of the door, I heard a muffled scream come from upstairs. Its a narrow terraced house, and the stairs are right at the front door. I took them three at a time and burst into the room where muffled cries were coming from in time to see the same young man pinning down an old woman on the bed. He was straddling her, holding both her frail hands in one of his and he was fumbling at his belt. His head whipped round at my entrance, just in time to receive the full force of a massive haymaker punch. I grabbed him and threw him off the bed, his jeans starting to come off. He fell to the ground, and while on the floor, he reached into his jacket pocket and rose up abruptly in a swift stabbing motion. He slashed down, the knife slicing right though my reinforced top and cutting deep. I ignored the pain and rushed him, pinning him to the wall at the foot of the bed and punched him repeatedly all over. He fell to the ground, the knife dropped from his hand, and I kicked him in the face. I then grabbed him and trailed him roughly downstairs. I pulled him outside and started whaling on him completely. It was a minute or so before I realised he was out cold.

I recovered my senses and went back indoors, up the stairs. The old lady was still lying on her back on the bed, trembling. I worried briefly that she'd had a heart attack, but she was trembling and her head turned slightly as I entered. I spoke softly, reassuringly, 'He's gone. He won't attack you again.'

She started to shake her head from side to side. Silent pearls of tears trickling down the sides of her face. She started mumblin - almost as though to herself, 'My house... my house. I.. I live here. How can he... my house.'

My face fell in empathy and I moved to sit beside her. She started slightly at my presence, so I didn't sit, I just crouched. She sat up slightly, propping herself up on thin arms, veined and wrinkled with liver spots throughout. She looked at me, but she wasn't seeing me. She was lost in her own mind, perhaps wondering how the world had come to this. Perhaps thinking of happier times.

'Are you going to be ok?' I asked, somewhat redundantly. She was safe for now, but I suspect she'll never truly be ok again. Not in any way that counts anyway. Her eyes cleared gradually and looked at me directly. 'He was going to... to....' She trailed off, the true horror of what had almost happened beginning to dawn on her. As though to stave off complete hysteria, she changed the subject. Smiling weakly she indicated my side, 'You've been cut.' I shrugged helplessly, 'It happens. Occupational hazard.'

'Who are you?' she asked.

I frowned, confused. 'You don't know me?'

She shook her head no.

'Well... thats a first. I'm...' I stopped, thought briefly. 'I'm no-one. Just a stranger who was in the right place at the right time.'

I shifted uneasily. 'Look, I gotta go, but i'll tie up that guy downstairs. Do you have a neighbour or someone you can call to keep you company until the police come?' She shook her head again, 'No. There's... my husband died last year. I don't have anyone.'

I nodded. 'Well... I'll wait outside until the police come. And i'll check in every now and then, is that ok with you?' She nodded silently, and grabbed my hand gratefully. I smiled at her and walked downstairs, phoning the police from her house phone. I tied the - still unconcious - guy up to a lampost. I went through his pockets and found a wallet with some money, I.D. and a few credit cards. I studied the I.D. 21 years old. I bunched my hands and glared at the trussed, prone figure. I memorised his name. I'd be checking in with him from time to time as well.

I started to move when I heard approaching sirens, loping back into the city centre and clutching my bloodied chest. I went a different route, down the Grosvenor Road and bypassed the city centre entirely. I don't like going through there at night. Not as the Man In Black. There are so many CCTV camera's its only a matter of time before the Police check them thoroughly and see me constantly to'ing and fro'ing.

I snuck in at about 4 in the morning and made a half-hearted attempt at dressing my wound before drifting off to a fitful slumber. I awoke to the sound of my flatmate and other friend shouting abuse at the TV. Hollyoaks was on. I showered and went to work on bandaging myself up.

...

Is this my life? Is this the life i've chosen? It has its ****** moments. There are times when I don't think I can carry on. There are times when it seems as though nothing I do matters. There are times when I just want to quit and go back to being normal. But if I did that... then I'd be reading about that old lady in the paper today and beating myself up for not doing anything about it. I think that's the sort of thing I need to keep ahold of. Thoughts like that do get me through my worse moments.

Thoughts like that make me realise that I can and do and have made a difference. That I do matter. And truth be told, I think we all have that inherent capacity to make a difference.

I can hear my flatmate and other friend leaving. Time to go and get me another first aid kit.

I guess on reflection I happy with my life.

Because I don't have to do what I do. I choose to.
 
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23rd July 2009

Its my birthday next week. I'm having a party in a bar in town, appropriately enough, the theme is 'Action Hero.'

I usually get big into my costumes and dress-up - hallowe'en just past, myself and three friends dressed up as the A-Team and won £500 - but next week.... I just couldn't be arsed. I had planned on going as a T-800, and had bought the stuff to cast my face and make a foam latex mask.... but.... I just couldn't be arsed.

I read about the old woman the other day as well in the Andersonstown News. The paper jumped on her story of 'another attempted rape' in the area, and they put two and two together, trumpeting my involvement. Among the usual 'I'll never feel safe again' soundbites, I'll not forget what she said about me. This is the kind of thing I keep in my thoughts when I wonder what i'm doing: 'I never knew there was someone out there watching over us. Someone who protects us and makes us feel safe. I owe him my life. I'll never ever forget him.'

That... that sort of thing means a lot to me. I don't forget the people I've saved, and I feel humbled that they think of me.

Thing about this party is that... I had something planned for next Friday. Something Man In Black related. Nothing major - more of a 'spring cleaning' of sorts. I hate having to pretend i'm drunk and raucous when i'm... not.

Anyway, gotta go.
 
1st August 2009

I've started to plan more recently. I've been lazy of late. I've not taken due care when it comes to guarding my identity. I've been so wrapped up in seeking revenge and hunting down those mutant gangs that i've let far too many things slide. I've been operating on some gut level instinct whilst on patrol instead of relying on training and preparation.

I realised this recently and as a consequence, i've began to plan things out meticulously. Patrols, routes, times, even things to say while on a night out. I now have plans and contingency back-ups for a multitude of conceivable scenarios. Many of which are unlikely to ever transpire. But I am aware that there are so many more ways that I could be optimising my efficiency.

I spend hours planning and strategising, but sometimes it all just goes to ****. I was...

I was patrolling in the city centre of all places. Like i've said before, I dislike patrolling in the city centre because there are usually so many police (and people in general) that I find it difficult to operate effectively. Not to mention the plethora of CCTV cameras which cover the inner city as a whole.

There is one area of the city centre which isn't adequately protected though - and thats the Odyssey arena on the other side of the River Lagan. Its an event and entertainment venue, the Belfast equivalent of Madison Square Garden and there are numerous pubs and clubs. Not a week goes by where something of some consequence happens there, so lately i've taken to adding it to my sweep of east Belfast.

I had my birthday party to attend and had spent the day alone with my thoughts. I'd done a bit of shopping in town and actually done some writing in a Clements coffee shop on Donegal Square West. I'd meandered about for a bit, lost in a world of thought and pre-meditation. I'd gone home, changed, and headed out early on patrol with the intention of making a late appearance at my party by about half eleven. The party was to be held in Roost Bar, a venue in the city centre about 10 minutes from my apartment. I'd planned to go home and change into my costume ('Viper' from Top Gun) and head round. Truth be told, I didn't really want to go and had in fact half considered just not going. Funny how things work out.

It was about quarter past eleven and the Odyssey Arena was a ghosttown. Granted, there were a lot of people about, but in terms of anything requiring a Man In Black intervention... there was nothing. Its strange. Although I recognise that the area needs to be patrolled, I don't like going there as there's not really anywhere I can lie low inconspicuously the way I can in other parts of town. I made a few sweeps of the area - nothing too overt, and off the relative inactivity of the area, decided to leave early so that I could make the party in good time. For a brief second I entertained the notion of showing up in uniform as the Man In Black but just as quickly dismissed the idea as idiocy. Not to mention pure egoism. Funny how things work out.

There's a small, narrow footbridge that spans the River Lagan, connecting Mays Meadow (the area of land that the Odyssey is on) to the rest of the city centre. I didn't even think twice about crossing it, even though people have been attacked on it before. Another sign of how lax i've become lately in my thinking.

I was about halfway across, directly above the large concrete moat waterbreak when I saw three hooded figures walk on from the opposite side of the bridge. Straight away I knew it was a trap, and I swore silently at myself for being so careless.

The footbridge comprises part of the Lagan Weir to control flooding and river levels. There are access points and maintenance bunkers at regular intervals. These bunkers sit below the bridge level and are access by steel ladders. As I turned to go back the way i'd come, I heard the clang of heavy boots on metal and saw groups of more hooded figures clambering up the access ldders to block the bridge. I turned again and saw that in addition to the original three mutant kids, there were now a dozen, perhaps more. Some were carrying weapons - brandishing clubs and knives, evil sets of eyes glittered malevolently.

I noted with growing dismay that my protege, the one i'd 'taken under my wing' so to speak was amongst them. I tried to catch his eye, but he looked at me blankly, looking through me, refusing to even acknowledge that he knew me. I looked over the side, intending to jump into the water, then remembered what the mutant kids would undoubtedly already have known - I was directly above a 50ft drop... on to the bottom of a concreete moat. They'd sprung their trap at the perfect moment.

I thought briefly of the bridge scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom and just as quickly pushed the foreign thought away, I couldn't affored to be distracted, not if I were to survive. The gangs were approaching steadily. Not hurrying. They were taking their time, safe in the knowledge that I was completely trapped.

I set my jaw, and started to hop lightly up and down, readying every single muscle in my body. Its a great technique i've learned to get yourself ready for action straight away called 'state alteration.' You can alter your mental state to fit any scenario if you know how. And the technique is surpriingly easy. Next time you find yourself in a mental state of mind where things feel amazing and you want to be able to recapture these feelings and emotions again, you allow yourself to fully experience everything. Feel your breath coursing through your body. Feel the blood pumping around your veins and arteries. Every sound, everything you see all ads to this perfect mental state. Everytime I get into a fight or experience a strong adrenaline rush, i've tried to truly feel, truly be aware of my state of mind. You try and capture this mental state, you allow yourself to feel and experience everything about it, to hear, feel, see, touch and taste the emotion. And when the feeling is ats most palpable, you lock it with a trigger action, or word, or gesture. Some people click their fingers, others dance around in their room. Me? I hop up and down. At least when readying myself for a fight. Other situations have different trigger actions.

I hopped up and down, psyching myself up. I've been planning for scenarios and situations. Some of which will most likely never occur. This situation however, I had planned for. A very simple plan - punch, kick and fight my way out of this.

The bridge was very narrow, perhaps only 3 or 4 feet wide. On the positive, this meant that they could only take me on one or perhaps two at a time. On the negative side, it meant that I would have a longer, more drawn out struggle ahead of me. I would have to fight my way through a crowd on about 15 people in front of me whilst simultaneously defending myself from attacks to the rear.

Its funny the thoughts that go through your mind at times like this. First one unbidden thought of Indiana Jones, now I thought of the scene in Lord of the Rings wheer Aragorn tells Frodo to 'Go. Run Run.' He turns and walks calmly, strolls, in fact towards the approaching horde of Uruk-Hai. I thought of that and grinned, despite myself. My grin grew wider as the first mutant kids stopped hesitantly, fearfully. I stopped hopping and dropped to a ready stance. Ambient sound dulled as my heart began to race, my veins and arteries pumping. My ears were full of a distant roaring and with growing clarity of thought I realised I was hearing my blood pump through my body. This was it, my Berserker attack. I threw a yell of primal rage, fury and anger and charged the first kid.

He threw a weak punch which had no chance of landing, and doubtless I wouldn't have felt it if it had. I sidestepped to the right and spun, elbowing the back of his head while simultaneously snap-kicking the next mutant kid in the face. I pinwheeled round, ready to take on the next in line and came face to face with my protege. For a moment we just looked at each other impassively. "I told you people were starting to hate you again" he said. Then he smirked, yet not maliciously - more conspiratorial - and lowered his voice "But I haven't. And I haven't forgotten what you taught me."

Off my look of complete surprise, he whirled abruptly and viciously pushed one of his compatriots off the bridge into the water. There was a short scream as the mutant kid fell which was cut short by a splash. For a second, no-one moved. Holy s**t.

I laughed out loud, amazed and turned to face the group of mutant kids to the rear. They looked just as amazed at this turn of events, but quickly recovered. I didn't hesitate, didn't pause. I sailed into them, beating on them, blocking punches and 2 by 4's and knife stabs, all the while moving slowly backwards as my new sidekick forged a path forward. The clamour of noise gew as everyone was yelling, screaming and shouting, including me and my sidekick.

You always see in team-up movies and comics how at this moment the two who team up always have a few quips and snappy one liners, but in reality its a bit different. Fact is, we were too busy trying to stay alive to waste our time and breath on talk. A blur of punches, knives and clubs rained down on me, on both of us and although I could feel them, although I was being subject to the worst pummelling of my life, I was so pumped with adrenaline and indeed a mounting sense of glee at being joined by my new helper that I was able to ignore them all. I can take punches and kicks to the body no problem, i'm used to them by now, and i've reinforced my uniform in most vulnerable spots, but i'm still having difficulty becoming invulnerable to knife attacks.

I was slowly but surely taking a lot of damage. We both were, and I was dimly aware of my blood dripping on the wooden gangway bridge. Knives, punches and clubs, we were being attacked from every conceivable angle... but we were making progress. Slowly but surely, inch by violent inch we were approaching the end of the bridge. I felt the wound in my chest rip open, the stitches pulled from the skin and I began bleeding profusely. The trickles of blood became rivers, the tracks becoming wider and wider, smeared over the bridge and handrails. I started kicking and punching blindly, viciously, not holding anything back, and I could see that some of the mutant kids were approaching me more warily.

Louder than the continuous throb of noise from the attacking crowds, I heard a muffled cry behind me and turned, expecting the worst, but saw that my sidekick (who had held his own incredibly well but was losing as much blood as me, if not more) had reached the end of the bridge, and had kicked - King Leonidas style - the mutant kids down the entrance ramp. They collapsed in a heap like dominoes and we jumped over them, using their prone bodies as makeshift stepping boards. We had gotten to the end, and were still alive. Barely.

We were both panting heavily, our breathing laboured, and I felt (and heard) the faint gurgle of a punctured lung. I coughed and sprayed blood on the ground. My sidekick slumped and fell against me. It was an effort to move, but as I looked up towards the bridge, the mutant kids were regrouping, charging down the ramp, a baying mob of muted cries and yells.

I grabbed my sidekick and we started to run. My chest was agony, I was having difficulty breathing but we accelerated to a full sprint and made towards High Street and the Victoria Square area. The rasping was growing... I was going to need medical treatment soon. And not my usual brand of self-administered bandaging, but proper medical care. We ran blindly, being pursued past gawping groups of onlookers, club-goers, pedestrians and tourists. All wearing the same horrified expression. The groups jumped out of the way, shocked looks and bemused expressions as we sprinted past.

Running blindly, not really focussing on any one thing, I nevertheless recognised a building and we veered towards it, operating on pure survival instinct. We ran down an alley to the side, and scaled the fire escape steps onto the roof. I looked back, hoping; but we were still being pursued. I took a brief second of respite to ask my sidekick how he was, he replied by giving me the finger and a withering look. He was still able to force a laugh though.

"We should split up." My voice croaked, my lips flaked with specks of blood. "They only want me." He shook his head weakly, tried to get to his feet but fell before he got halfway. I nodded my head "Yes." Then, without giving him a chance to respond, I hopped up in full view, jumped across to an adjacent rooftop and started to sprint across, leaping over and weaving around and between external A/C units and other plant. I could hear the mutant kids behind me, gaining on me and I made for a gap between two buildings which seemed familiar and was a handful of strides away when they caught me.

A hissed whisper "Where's the other one?"

And the reply "F**k him. We've got the Man In Black." Punch. Kick. Punch. Stab. Kick. I was spent. I couldn't even muster up the energy to defend myself. I blearily looked at the blood falling from the ends of my fingers, dripping to the gravelled rooftop. I stared at the blood, transfixed. I was a human rag doll being swung around, punished brutally and mercilessly. Here lies the Man In Black. Killed by a bunch of twelve year olds. I started briefly at the image of that epitaph, sheering away from the possibility and began to fight back weakly. I lunged up at the nearest mutant kids, grabbing for his face. I swung blindly, wildly, desperately; flinging my arms and clenched fists as though they were demolition balls. One blind haymaker took me off balance, and one of the mutant kids, seizing the opportunity, slammed my face with a massive punch. I careened wildly over the edge of the building, arms wheeling comically and I went over into the alleyway.

I wondered if I would die on impact or if I would just bleed out into oblivion, when I slammed into the steel steps of the fire escape. I had only fallen a few feet, but as I landed on the steps, I rolled down awkwardly, head over tail, banging my shoulders against the ground, my head slamming off the wall and steel railings. I smashed through the fire escape door and carried on rolling down the internal concrete steps. I felt my left arm snap on one of the impacts and as I tried to stop my wild tumbling, I saw the mutant kids still, still giving chase. I landed awkwardly on my left leg and kicked off, propelling myself down the steps even quicker.

After what seemed an eternity of falling and wheeling, I slammed through another door and finally came to a stop, lying sprawled out on the ground. No, not ground. A dancefloor. I realised that my wild fall and tumble had taken me through the maintenance door of a busy nightclub. Music was blaring and strobe lights captured the soundless, horrified expressions of the gathering crowd around me.

Sprawled out on the floor, face down, I tried to get to my feet and collapsed again, blood pooling beneath my chest. I coughed weakly, blood spattering beside my face. I gazed at the ceramic tile of the floor, not really able to move, think or do anything. I struggled again weakly, somehow getting as far as my knees. The music stopped, and I heard the growing murmur of speculation, hushed whispers and gossip. Amidst the mutterings, someone said my name loudly and clearly. I sagged over, falling on all fours and hacked laboriously. Someone shouted my name again, "My god! Martin!" I looked up blankly, unfocussed, my eyes washing over the crowd. Strong arms grabbed me by the elbow, and pulled me up slightly, letting me rest against them. Amongst the sea of strange faces and unknown, random clubbers, I saw my family and friends staring. Transfixed. Amazed.

I'd ended up at the party after all. I was in Roost Bar.

Funny how things work out.
 
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19th August 2009

I always wonder what to write in this. I mean... I wonder how much of myself I want to commit to page. I wonder how much of this diary is me, Marty... and how much is the Man In Black.

Heh... At times i've felt confined, controlled by the Man In Black - as though its an unwanted duty, an appointment, a task; best dealt with in a reluctant (yet morally obligated) manner. So its ironic now... I want to go out on patrol. I really do, I need to be on the streets. But I can't, because i'm still stuck in hospital.

My last stay in hospital was in the Royal Victoria Hospital on the Falls Road. This time round, i'm in City Hospital on the Lisburn Road. There are (including mine) 8 beds in my section of the ward. 4 on either side of the corridor which goes through the middle. Privacy is afforded by the draw curtain around each bed. Mines has almost always been drawn, although for the moment its open. I've had a lot of thinking to do.

Lying collapsed on the floor of Roost Bar in a pool of my own blood with friends and family looking on, aghast, as one of my brothers cradled my broken body - things at that moment did not look good for the Man in Black.

Is that egotistical? To refer to myself in the third person in this diary? Or is it some sort of psychological... curtain? A safety net that, through the divorcing and seperation of the 'real' me and the 'Man in Black' me, allows me to analyse, learn, and ultimately recover from whatever issues i'm going through.

Meh.

As I was lying there, the door through which I had fallen burst open again and Mutant Kids stormed in. I say kids, but their ages ranged from 15 to 19. Not exactly children. They took one look at their surroundings and ran back the way they'd come, pursued by a couple of quick thinking doorstaff. As for me, all I could do was lean heavily against my brother and try not to breathe heavily. Every time I did, blood bubbled from my lips.

Heh, amazingly, a couple of my friends thought that it was all an elaborate prank; a set-up, for me to make a grand entrance dressed as the Man In Black. They began to whoop and cheer "Now thats how you're supposed to arrive at your own party! Holy s**t! Thats amazing!" But as my brother laid me out on my back and someone phoned for an ambulance, they (and any others who thought the same) realised that it was for real. Its funny the things you focus on when you as badly banged up as I was. I was aware that my identity had just been 'outed' (although I did and do have a contigency plan for exactly this scenario - talk about crazy prepared) and although my body was battered and I was close to shutdown, there was that little part of my undermind working overtime, thinking, processing, analysing and observing. Running through explanations and excuses, forseeing the barrage of questions and accusations that would come soon. I saw doorstaff look uncertainly at each other, each of them for once in a situation where they weren't sure what to do. Most of the clubbers were shepherded out the front and back doors, most of my friends with them until only a few remained.

Like I said, its funny the things you focus on. Despite the severity of my injuries and the horrified looks from my family, there was a surreal disconnection or disassociation happening. They began to talk as though I wasn't there. As though I was already unconscious or out of it. And I suppose thats how I must have come across. I lay there numbly as my brother spoke to me, my eyes glazed, but not unseeing the way i'd have expected. I could have answered, but chose to lay there silent - almost tranquil. I could hear snippets of conversation. Beleiving me to be catatonic (and I suppose in some respects I was) they didn't bother to keep their voices down. My younger sister was the loudest, punctuating each of her statements or sentences with a vehement 'O God' or 'My God'.

'Is that real blood? O God!'

'My God, how'd he get like that?'

'O God, he looks horrible. O God!'

Another sister shushed her mercifully, taking her out of the club. My brother was talking to me, making sure I was responsive, but I can't remember what he said at all. More snippets of conversation.

"Is he... Is that a Man In Black costume?"

"Where the hell was he?"

"Why's there blood coming from his mouth?"

"Punctured lung probably. Must have gotten in a fight on the way here."

"Is that a costume or uniform?"

"Uniform??"

Each of them looking uncomfortably at each other, no-one wanting to verbalise what had just been implied. They turned to my flatmate who had stuck around also.

"You live with him, what's this about?"

He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, i've never seen him like this before." Cheers Johnny I mentally thanked him.

Other snippets and speculation as they hovered around, waiting for the ambulance. When it arrived, and the paramedics saw me, there was a practiced professionalism in how they worked which didn't completely mask the faint sense of urgency and speed. Placed gently on a dolly and rolled to the ambulance, I looked across at my family, locking eyes with my brother who had caught me. I noticed for the first time that he was dressed as Batman and I gurgled an unheard laugh. One of the paramedics began to work on my chest, cutting my top off (with some difficulty - reinforced) and after that I passed out.

...

I woke up in hospital with my chest bandaged and sealed. I could see that it was early evening, and I surmised i'd been out of it for an entire day. After a few moments of grogginess - the punch-drunk kind where you want to function, need to but just can't make your body do what your mind commands - I woke up properly and felt surprisingly alert and indeed well-rested. Well... notwithstanding the ache in my chest and the numerous (also dressed) cuts and wounds on my body.

I noticed a paper beside me on a small table and picked it up. The headline read...

Ach... I'll get to that in a moment. Its weird. I'm trying to write about being in hospital as though it only just happened when in reality i've been here for over two weeks. Right now i'm on one of the computers in an OAC near the canteen. I'm mobile (for a change) and was down having coffee with... heh... with nurse 3A. My family haven't been to see me in a few days. I think once the initial novelty of having a family member in hospital with near-fatal injuries wore off they realised they had lives to get back to.

My parents - bless them, they were just glad that i was alright. They didn't even really question how I ended up in hospital. Well, not in front of me anyway, and I doubt very much if any of my siblings would have gone into the details of my attire.

My family, Jonny, and other friends - they all know. They know i'm the Man In Black. And yet... they don't know. How certain they are of what I am is entirely dependent on what they know of me. On how often they see me and hang out with me. Even though they saw with their own eyes their youngest brother beaten up so badly he was hacking up blood, even though he was hospitalised by a gang of teens - there's a part of them that just simply cannot beleive it.

And its not so hard to fathom really. I mean, collectively, they see me, what? Maybe 4 or 5 times a year? They don't have to contend with the daily sight of me looking dishevelled, beaten up or bloody and worn. In fact, and time they do see me, i'm looking almost normal! Ditto for most of my other friends.

Add to this the headline I saw when I woke up that day: Man In Black breaks up crime syndicate in North Belfast.

My family must have seen it. My parents and my friends. 'How', they must have wondered, 'How could he have been breaking up a crime syndicate when if he was undergoing life-saving surgery in hospital after being beaten up by a gang of teens?' Answer - the real Man In Black was out in North Belfast. Marty was only wearing a costume after all - he was just unlucky enough to have been beaten up by a crowd of anti-social teens on his way to the party. Yet another sad statistic in Belfast's growing crime rate.

So... they know. But they don't. However, I still catch the odd look every now and then from one or two of them when they come to visit. A questioning look. A look thats just a little off. And I feel sad when I catch that look now as well. Because there's a tinge of fear in it.

Except Jonny. My flatmate. He hasn't been to visit. I tried phoning him, but it just rang off.

I'd forgotten that I was in the same hospital as nurse 3A until I heard a familiar 'hello' as I was down in the canteen one day feeling sorry for myself.

'Er.... hey'. I replied.

Slowly, she stooped down and hugged me gently, then sat beside me.

'What was that for?' I asked, surprised.

'You looked as though you needed it.' I thought (guiltily and briefly) of Kaia, then smiled sadly.

'It... ah. It hasn't exactly been my month.'

She shook her head laughingly, 'I don't think its been your year! The state you're in! What was it this time? Hoods? Gang lords? Pimps? Drug dealers?'


Crap... would you beleive they're shutting the OAC? I'll have to finish this another time.
 
21st August 2009

Its weird.... My mind keeps focusing on the image of me on my knees and one arm - my broken left arm tucked into my chest - sprawled on the floor of Roost Bar. I'll be lying in bed reading a book (Wolves of the Calla for the Nth time) or sitting at one of the OAC computers (as i'm doing now) and... and I just get this mental image of myself bent double, on my knees.

Is that how I see myself at the moment? Weak? Beaten?

Weird...

Anyway, where was I...? Oh yeah, talking to Nurse 3A. It was a shock to see her. In retrospect, I was aware on some level that she was in the hospital, but I hadn't given it much thought. Hadn't thought that I would run into her. When she saw me I was... in a more contemplative frame of mind I suppose, contemplative and maudlin, which is why I just started talking. Again with the Goonies (tell us everything kid).

(Gang lords? Pimps? Drug dealers) She asked.

I shook my head mournfully, looked at her sitting opposite me. 'Am... am I doing the right thing?' I pinched my nose between my thumb and forefinger and started talking - almost as though to myself. 'I... I go out and I beat people up. To make other people feel safe. I've tried to not let this... what this life does to a person... i've tried not to let it affect me, but it does. It has. How do I make it so that it doesn't get to me? How do I separate the Man In Black from Marty? Can I? Should I?

I've just been outed and... and those who thought they knew me the most have just found out that they know me the least. And here I am again... again! In hospital. With multiple wounds. Stabbed, cut, beaten, broken bones. And all I can do is whine!'

I looked at her again, 'Am I doing the right thing?' She opened her mouth to answer, but I cut her off, 'You know what, it doesn't matter. I've gone over this a thousand times on my own. I don't need to hear the answer, I already know what it is. I just... I guess I just needed a sounding board. Someone to talk to.'

She leaned forward and took my hands in hers. 'Look, my man in black, I have to get back to work, but you can always talk to me.'

So I have. That was a few weeks ago, and i've seen her... if not every day then at least every other day. And I guess i'd forgotten what it was like to properly talk to someone. To trust them implicitly. And I suppose I do - and not just because I have to at the moment. This feels like its helping. And its good to have someone who fully understands. Someone to open up and - not complain non-stop to, but - talk about and tell things that, by rights, should never have to be uttered by a living soul.

My family have been in again in drips and drabs. Heh, they've obviously been talking amongst themselves, for my one of my sisters, after sitting and prevaricating around the bush for several minutes finally blurted out, 'Are you... him? Is it you?'

I feigned ignorance, raised my eyebrows apologetically, 'Er... who?'

'Him!' she implored, 'The...' she cut herself off, looked around melodramatically then lowered her voice and stage whispered, 'The Man In Black! Is it you?'

Oscar Time 'What...? Wh...? Are... are you..? The Man In Black?! Me??' I scrunched my face up in a crude mixture of horror, laughter and bemused revulsion. I looked around as melodramatically as her and lowered my face, looking up at her, 'Are you serious? I was dressed as the Man In Black. Costume party, remember?' I didn't mention the newspaper article, I knew she'd seen it, best to let her connect the dots herself. She leaned back, a tension in the air i'd been unaware of dissapating as she did so. She breathed out, trying to steady herself, but still visibly releived. 'I know. It's just... well... it was a bit weird you showing up like that, dressed as you were...?'

I shrugged, 'Yeah, but.... the Man In Black? Me? Seriously?'

We both giggled at the supposed mental image. Inwardly I breathed a sigh of relief.

So that was that. I assume she passed on my denial to the rest of the family for no-one's brought it up since.

Jonny still hasn't shown though, and hasn't answered his phone or returned any calls. Deep down I wonder... I wonder if there are some betrayals you just can't live with.
 
6th September 2009

I....

It's wierd. Over a month since my birthday, since I got the ***** kicked out of me and I still... My mind, my thoughts, keep going back to that night. More specifically, that... that image of me. On my knees, bent over, propped up by my right hand with my left tucked into my chest.

There's something about that image, that memory. Something I saw, something that happened. While I was helpless. I think that's why my mind keeps turning to that memory. That image, its a secondary memory. Its not the memory I need to see, but its a way in to the other memory, the real memory. Its like a mental hiccup. You distract or scare yourself so that your hiccups disappear. Similarly, the secondary memory is a distraction, a back door through which one can access the real memory.

You know how when you try to think of a word or a name and you just can't for the life of you remember it - even though its on the tip of your tongue. So you think of something else. Something thats almost the same but not quite, and suddenly the name (or whatever) you can't recall just pops in there? Memory by association. That's what this secondary memory is I think. A way in to the other memory. Although I have no idea what it is. Is it something I saw? Someone I saw? Something I thought of while in that position? Agh... I just don't know.

I've been seeing things in terms of stories lately. My life; other peoples lives; things around me. And I think I know now why that is. My life as the Man In Black has (like it or not) conformed to that of one big story. Defined by a series of build-ups, events and showdowns, punctuated by a confrontation with a 'big bad'. Afterwards I have a period of rest and recuperation until... the next 'story arc'. And while I think thats true of us all - that is, I think our lives are built up by these defining events; events which we don't know about, acknowledge or even fully understand until years after they've happened - the idea of my life as a story has been with me for a while.

And is it really so surprising? As the Man In Black i've been the subject of (and subjected to) numerous story tropes. I've had a Heroic Blue Screen Of Death. I've been the accidental hero, the byronic hero; i've had my 'what you are in the dark' moments; and i've even come close to crossing my own moral event horizons. Jesus, even just talking about things now and i'm talking about them in storytelling terms.

The true nature of stories is that they tell us who we are. Stories are the perfect integration between our conscious mind and our subconscious. Moreover, stories follow patterns. Like fractals. On first look they look sporadic, unstructured, random. But on further examination there are patterns; direction. Structure. These patterns mirror that of our own lives. Our own evolution. They can't help but reflect the very essence of our being. And that; I think; is why i've been stories in everything. If you can understand stories, understand the pattern, structure and direction, you can understand yourself, and your own life's direction.

The many different guises of the Man In Black. The different story tropes i've carried out, fulfilled, or embodied have all weaved together in one long story arc. Which has culminated now with me just released from hospital. I'm typing this one handed in my apartment, my left arm in a cast and i'm half watching 'Swingers' on TV. (I can't patrol at the moment for obvious reasons - although my copycats are still out there despite my telling my mysterious mentor that I wasn't happy with their existence). I got home earlier today to find the place relatively tidy. Jonny's been here, that much is obvious, but as of yet he still hasn't shown.

Like I said - stories. Thing about stories is... is that they don't end. Stories never end. The imaginative reader; the imaginative story recipient knows that the story never ends. Can't end. Stories evolve. They change. Chapters end. The book ends. But the story doesn't stop. It evolves. And in doing so it becomes part of a story much larger than itself. Its just the nature of stories. The nature of life.

So what happens now? One chapter has ended for me, that much is clear. My identity has been 'outed', so to speak. Several of my family members suspect (at the very least) that i'm the Man In Black. A government agency (of which I know virtually nothing) know that i'm the Man In Black. And one of my best friends, my flatmate; knows that i've been lying baldfaced to him for the past 7 or 8 years.

I got home today to a reasonably clean flat and a message written on our grafitti wall. More accurately, a drawing. A cut out comicbook panel of the Punisher, but with his costume crudely coloured in all black and with an arrow pointing to it from a single word saying 'Marty?' And below that a written message - 'We need to talk'.

But despite that; despite the implications that short message has; despite the enormous upheaval my life is about to undergo... I still can't shake that image. When I was beat. Broken. Something I saw. Something I thought of. That memory is the key, my way in.

Funny thing is, my next thought is always about Mojitos.

Weird.
 
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5th October 2009

Not being out... not patrolling for so long... I forget how physically demanding being the Man In Black can be. Not just the running, jumping, climbing and punching (and believe me, since my sojourn in the hospital my fitness level has plummeted) - but the actual toll it takes on the body externally.

After training an patrolling for any long period of time, your body gets used to the wear and tear. You know the scene in Taxi Driver where Travis Bickle holds his arm over the stove to 'toughen the skin'? That sort of thing actually does happen. In martial arts, students hit each other, block punches and take so much impact on concentrated areas over such a long time that those areas of skin become thicker and tougher. Not quite the hard calluses of fingers of a guitar player or palms of a weightlifter or sailor; but not far off either.

I'd developed those hard areas over my years of being the Man In Black, and although this has happened before during my periods of inactivity, and although i'll develop those hardened areas again, it still amazes me just how quickly my body 'softens up' (as it were).

Last night was my first night out on patrol since my birthday, and right now i'm looking at my arms and sides, all completely black and blue. My left forearm in particular stands out to me. There's a massive bruise running from the wrist right up to the crook of my elbow. It stops briefly then continues on up my bicep, curling around the shoulder and tapering across my neck. In the right light, it looks like someone spilled ink on my arm which has faded somewhat. From another angle it turns different shades of purple, blue and red.

Seeing a bruise like this on TV or in a movie doesn't do it justice. I know now what people mean when they say 'an ugly bruise'; and although i've had much worse in terms of injury, it only seems to be now that its hitting home just how prominent (and painful) a bruise can be. I guess i'd just gotten round to ignoring that sort of injury, discounting it as a merely a triviality. 'Real' injuries are the result of stabbings, shootings and being pushed off rooftops. If I get away after a night out with only bruising, I consider myself lucky. Or at least I did.

Maybe this is my mind making me see things differently after my epic birthday fail. Telling me to be more alert to injury, to setbacks.

I started back to work last week, and when I went in today (mindful of the bruising but still not really noticing it the way I am now) my manager gasped in shock. 'Martin!' she exclaimed, staring at my bare forearm (our uniform is a short sleeve shirt) in morbid curiosity, 'what the hell happened to you??'

And again its these moments that I despise as the Man In Black; 'I, uh...' I dredged up an old excuse, 'I fell down the stairs.'

She gave me a reproachful, 'I don't quite believe you' look, but didn't push it, instead, scratching her head and walking away, giving me a lopsided, suspicious look.

And i'm so. Bloody. Tired. And i've so much to write about. To catch up on. My talk with Jonny (who's now moved out) my recovery in the hospital and talks with Nurse 3A; and last but not least, my family's constant unannounced visits and 'check-ups'.

And those mutant kids. They're still out there, and I still need to put a stop to them.
 
6th October 2009

I had this thing in work today as well. A 'career progression plan' (CPP) to determine how I see how I can develop my 'career' as a bartender.

Great, just what I needed in my second week back. I wonder, am I the only one who doesn't really think or plan that far ahead? I mean, I plan rough - i've a vague idea of where i'll be in 5/ 10 years time, but that plan is always open to change and amendment. And hearing my boss talk today... its as though everyone has their own litle life plan sorted and ready by the time they hit 20.

I dunno... she was trying to get me to talk about myself as well (not exactly my forte as i'm sure you can sympathise constant reader) and... ugh. Not the funnest hour of my life.

Its strange though how compartmentalised I still keep my life - even without meaning to. My chase, attack and hospital stay are a big deal to me and those in my immediate social circle, but outside of that, all anyone knows is that I was off ill for a few weeks. I could (theoretically) make up any old story and they would have to take me at my word. The official story (that I got mugged) has done the rounds in work, and it still comes a surprise at how accepting people are. How unquestioning.

I chat away to folks in work and marvel to myself that they don't know that i'm the Man In Black. Its like I have this perspective that just because a few people now know, therefore everyone must know. But in saying that... I never really consider other people and their lives. To some extent, we all compartmentalise our lives. All have aspects of our personality that no-one, not even our closest friends know about.

Is it really so surprising that i've gotten away with being the Man In Black for so long without anyone finding out? And now that i've let people in on the secret (or they've found out through my own carelessness) is this the beginning of the end? Is the curtain of my anonymity beginning to unravel slowly but surely?

There was a point to this... Oh yes. My CPP today in work. My boss made a brief, almost offhand, observation about my behaviour recently. 'Myself and Marielle (another boss) were talking about this the other day. Lately it seems as though you've taken a back seat in things. You used to be more involved, more active. But now its like you've gone off the radar and are just keeping your head down.'

My face must have registered some sort of expression of surprise, not because she was wrong, but because she was dead right, because she hurridly backtracked. 'Now i'm not saying you're acting out of the ordinary, but you have seemed a bit quieter than normal.'

I frowned in thought then asked, 'How long would you say i've been like that for?'

She paused, looked up in recall then posited 'Say... since around the start of the year? January/ February or thereabouts?'

I frowned again, thinking. Then realised that a response was due, 'Umm... I guess you're right. I've had a few things on my plate that I've been dealing with outside of work and I guess they've occupied most of my time.' Say like mutant kids hooding around beating up people and killing my girlfriend.

But no, Kaia wasn't killed til round about the middle of the year. What was going on with me round about the start of the year? How, and to what extent have I changed? And how is it that its taken someone else to point this out for me?

Anyway, i'm off out on patrol. My bruises are starting to turn that lovely jaundiced yellow. And to make things better, my face (which - truth be told - i'm usually quite good at protecting - I need all the help I can get in the looks dept) is purople and blue all down one side. There are various scraping marls and scratches. Comes from getting kicked by a DM boot with bits of grit stuck in the soles. I took one hell of a pummelling last night from a guy who shouldn't have been any problem. I'm still weak - physically. Mentally... i'm not so sure. I'm doubting myself a lot at the moment. Holding back and crying off when I should be going full steam ahead.

And to top it all off, I'm starting to lose the urge to write in this as well. I go through phases where I just avoid this nthing like the plague. Then other times where I update it constantly.

Ugh... so much to catch up on and write about, and I just couldn't be arsed. I have to explain about what happened with Jonny, about what currently is happening with nurse 3A and agh... loads of other stuff. Not least of which is my nightly patrols. It seems that nights on patrol just blend into each other, and only a few stand out in my memory.

I called into the old lady's home on Springfield Road as well. Early evening today, brought flowers and everything, although I wasn't dressed in Black. She recognised me though, invited me in and showed me her newly started scrapbook of cuttings of me. I should have been chuffed, but instead I just felt sad. Empty. I made my excuses and left, coming back here to change. I caught a glimpse of my upper torso in the mirror and... jeez, scar tissue is ugly. Have I just been blind to this? Am I only seeing (and feeling) properly now the physical effects of the Man In Black lifestyle? And how is it that no-one else has ever commented on this?

I mean, barring the chest waxing incident (which was only humiliating because it was in front of a lot of people I knew) I have no problem going to the gym, swimming or being in a situation which calls for a removed top. But no-one's ever said to me. I've never even noticed any looks. But I look at myself in the mirror tonight and ask myself 'how can people not stare at this?' This trainwreck of a body. Scars on the back, chest and shoulders. Bruising throughout. Weals, welts, scrapes and scratches. There aren't many unaffected areas. Heh, christ, I go to the sauna once a wek up in Queens PEC. I walk from the males changing area, past the pool to the sauna. How come no-one ever stops and stares? How come no kids (who have no sense of decorum or propriety) ever ask 'Gee whizz mister, what happened to you?'

Oh goody, another depressing entry. But then, who would read about a happy, carefree, well-adjusted superhero?

Later folks, i'm off out on patrol.
 
Last edited:
1st November 2009

"We need to talk."

When was that, September? I'd just gotten out of hospital anyway. I remember wondering what he was going to say. And not just to me. At my worst, I wondered if I could trust him not to tell anyone else.

I got my answer that night. Now that I think about it, it was the start of September. I'd gotten his note and had sat in, waiting. Nervously. Nervous of what, i'm not sure, but I think (surprisingly - for a guy who goes out and gets into fights most nights) I have a tendancy to avoid serious confrontation. Hmm... maybe not so surprising. Physical violence I can handle, emotionality is a different kettle of fish.

I guess I just didn't want to argue with my friend.

He came in about half 10 that night. Drunk, bleary eye'd and carrying a chinese takeaway, swinging in a white plastic bag.

'Heeyyyy heyy... the big M...!' He bellowed, greeting me with a false cheeriness. Not really looking at me, he swaggered drunkenly to the sofa and flopped down upon it. He rummaged around the bag slowly, painfully slowly. He staggered to his feet and swayed into the kitchen and came back out with a knife and fork.

'All about the knife and fork Marty!' He said loudly, his voice rising in pitch. 'All about the knife and fork. Otherwise you just make things difficult for yourself.' He looked at me carefully, skewering a piece of chicken on the fork as though illustrating some poignant point and rubbed his head with one hand awkwardly, shaking it. His eyes were red and unfocussed. I realised that not only was he drunk, he was extremely drunk, and liable to do anything.

'Uh... are you ok mate?' I asked, all too aware of the irony of the question.

His head swayed unsteadily on his neck again, as a newborn baby's does. He wasn't really looking at anything, and I wondered with mounting dismay just how drunk he actually was.

Staring manically at the floor he eventually responded, bellowing loudly again, 'No Marty! I'm not ok! Not! One! Bit!'

I've seen him drunk before when he gets like this, and at those times i've wondered just how mentally stable he actually is. I started to psyche myself up in case he flew off the handle.

He continued, 'And you know why i'm not ok, Marty?? You know why?' He cackled madly, his head flopping from side to side, 'I'm not oooKkk... because my flatmate! My friend! The one person I trust more in the world.... doesn't trust me!!!'

I remained quiet, looked at him carefully.

'Whats wrong Marty??' He bellowed again, 'Cat got your tongue? WHY? SOO! SERIOUS!?!' He cackled crazily again, lost in his own rant. I realised there would be no serious talk out of him that night, so I stood up and walked out. He stumbled to his feet and tried to tackle me, tried to pin me to the wall. I sidestepped easily and he fell back down on the sofa where he began giggling insanely to himself again. He started muttering semi-incoherently as I strode by him, his head still flopping around. 'Here he goes... The Man In Black out on patrol again... And whhYY!? Does he not tell me? His best MATE? F**K knows. F**K KNOWS!!?' He threw his fork down onto the ground, started gesturing to the sky 'Why GOD!? Why does he NOT...? ...Tell me? His best friend!?'

I walked out to this nonsensical jabbering, wondering how much of this was my fault. I went on a halfhearted patrol, returning after an hour and sneaked to my room. He was still in the living room, the TV on and blaring.

The next day I woke early and went to the gym. When I got back, Jonny was up eating breakfast and watching TV, the remains of his chinese scattered around his feet. He looked up guiltily as I entered. I opened my mouth to talk but he cut in,

'Look Marty, i'm sorry about last night. I was... a bit drunk.'

I nodded, 'Yeah, I know dude.'

'I'm gonna move out I think.' He looked up, 'Honestly mate, i'm not sure I can handle knowing.' He began to speak more slowly, clearly, 'I mean, i've suspected for a while, but thought I was just being crazy. You know the way I get when i'm on the beer.' He shrugged, 'Never know what i'm seeing or doing when i'm on the sauce.'

I cringed inwardly, yet another person's psychoses to add to the list of things i'm guilty of.

He got to his feet and walked past me to his room. 'My dad's coming to pick me up now. I'll get my stuff over the next few days, you'll probably be at work.' I opened my mouth to say something. Anything. But he raised his hand to stop me before I could start. 'Nah, don't bother saying anything dude, it'll be better this way.'

He grabbed his coat and walked out the door. I haven't seen him since. Or heard from him.

Ugh... well that was depressing. Thats why I don't like to write about that sort of thing on a regular basis. But sometimes its necessary. As the saying goes, 'You have to put the past behind you before you can move on.'

And as guilty as I feel, as much as the knowledge stings... it is better this way. And has been since he moved out. No more sneaking in and out, no more pretense. No more unnecessary complications.

And although i've lost another friend, and I wonder at times is this life worth it; I feel a little less confined. Is that a bad thing?
 
12th December 2009

My best friends. My family. My life. What else can... what else will the Man In Black take from me I wonder. Well. I used to wonder. Now I know.

Even as a kid, even before I knew what the word meant, I always had a strong affinity, a strong sense of empathy for those around me. This sense grew during my time as the MIB. Saving would-be victims, making sure they were ok, making sure they got home safely and that justice would be meted out amongst those that deserved it.

Ha, I remember one of my first nights - the girl and guy I'd saved - and the girl looking at me, her eyes searching my face. You know how when someone actually looking at you, seeing you. As though for the first time. They're memorising your every feature. Their eyes darting all over your face, looking at your eyes, your lips, your brow, everywhere. I remember her doing that and me feeling... Hh... it felt as though a part of me needed it. Needed the recognition, the full regard. Mostly I remember how, whilst she was studying me, I was studying her. Memorising every line, every crease (not quite wrinkles - not yet) the eyelashes, the way her hair joined at her forehead, her locks, tresses, eyes, lips.

She turned out to be Nurse 3A, while I... I turned out differently.
Its a very sad truth, but when you save someone, you feel responsible for them. Even though they should be grateful to you, even though (one would think) they should be indebted to you, its... its the opposite. And this responsibility placed on you... heh, it adds up. And its heavy. It weighs. Its a burden. Its chipping away at me. No, thats not quite true -chipping implies a striking motion - this is an erosion. Its wearing me down. Gradually.

That empathy I once had... I don't know if its there anymore. I rescued a girl tonight from a... christ I don't even know what it would have been. A mugging, rape, it doesn't matter, they're all the same to me now. Her eyes danced wildly about as I pulled the guy off her and I realised she was drunk - horribly so. She fell into my arms and slurred something at me. I realised with dismay that I was annoyed at her. I realised with a certainty that was shocking in its clarity and suddenness that my capacity for goodwill and understanding had been irrevocably diminished.

Her eyes were searching my face, looking into mine, but whereas in 3A I'd seen intelligence, recognition and understanding, all I saw now was emptiness and lack of reason. In that moment I despised her for her lack of culpability. For her inability to look after herself. And in that moment, I despised myself for feeling like that. For being so judgemental. For being so heartless.

I remember thinking to myself that I was going to have to waste half an hour waiting with her while the police came. Half an hour wasted that could have been better spent. Half an hour of listening to slurred, incoherent speech. Of looking into those dead eyes and feigning warmth.

I won't stop being the Man In Black... but my reason for being him has changed. Will have to change. Until I claw my way back from whatever downward spiral i've trapped myself in, i'm just going through the motions. Until I rediscover my connection, my empathy with those I purport to save, I'm just going to have to wing it.
 
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