Marvel: NIHILITY

As David gradually opened his eyes, he found himself somewhere he never thought he would be back. A life he almost forgot.

David PoV

You ever hear the one about the kid who kept losing everything he touched ? No? That's because it's not a joke. It's just my life. But hey, if you don't laugh at the absurdity of it all, you might just go insane.

Too late for that, though.

Our house was not a quiet home. It was a graveyard of broken things—broken furniture, broken bottles, broken people. The walls were stained with old rage, the floors creaked under the weight of us, almost as if it'd crumble .

My father was a professional at making monsters out of ordinary nights. A little whiskey, a little rage, and suddenly, dinner plates became projectiles, belts became whips, fists became the end of conversations.

My mother? She was a shadow, a wisp of a woman who drifted through our lives without ever leaving an imprint. She spent her days in the kitchen, her nights in the bedroom, and all the in-between moments pretending none of it was happening.

If she ever looked at me, it was only for a second—just long enough to convince herself I wasn't bruised, that my arms weren't covered in fresh welts, that I wasn't shaking. She was a ghost in her own house, and I learned early on that ghosts don't save people.

But Emily did.

Emily was two years older than me, and if you had told me she was made of something other than flesh and bone, I would've believed you. Maybe light , maybe kindness . Whatever it was, it wasn't the same thing that made up the rest of us.

She had this way of making the world softer, even when our father was screaming in the next room. When the walls shook with his rage, she'd press her hand into mine, squeeze just tight enough to say, I'm here David . You're not alone. Some nights, when it got bad—when we could hear the sharp snap of a belt, the dull thud of something breaking—she'd sneak us out the back door and take me to the park down the street.

The park was nothing special. A few rusted swings, a slide with graffiti on it, a sandbox no one used because it reeked of piss. But to us, it was a kingdom. Emily would make up stories about how the jungle gym was actually a castle, how the cracks in the sidewalk were secret passageways, how if you listened closely, you could hear the wind whispering the names of lost adventurers.

I never really believed her, but I liked hearing her talk.

In those moments, I felt free and happy.

One night, I asked her why she even bothered. "Why do you act like things aren't so bad?"

She smiled, soft and tired. "Because if you stop looking for the good, you forget it exists."

I didn't understand what she meant then. I do now.

The night my father killed Emily, it wasn't even special. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just another Tuesday, just another bottle in his hand, just another storm brewing in his eyes. We knew the signs. We knew how to disappear, how to shrink ourselves so small he might forget we existed. But that night, he was looking for a reason.

And I made the mistake of being in the room.

I don't even remember what I said. Something small, something stupid. Maybe I didn't answer fast enough. Maybe I looked at him wrong. Maybe it didn't matter. He was already pulling off his belt before I could even flinch.

I didn't have time to brace myself before I felt the sting of leather biting into my back. My knees hit the floor, and the air rushed out of my lungs in a broken gasp.

And then—Emily.

She stepped between us like it was nothing, like she had always been meant to stand in the way of monsters. "Stop it!"she shouted, her voice sharp and unwavering. "Leave him alone!"

Our father laughed. A cruel, ugly sound.

Then he swung.

I didn't see it happen. Not really. I heard the impact first—the sickening crack of bone against wood. Then the silence. Not the kind of silence that lingers after an argument, but the heavy, suffocating kind that only happens when something irreversible has taken place.

When I looked up, Emily was on the floor.

Her head was twisted at an unnatural angle, her golden hair spilling over the coffee table like liquid light. There was a smear of red on the corner of the table, and for a second, my brain refused to understand what that meant.

I waited for her to move. For her to blink. For her to sit up and make some joke about how our father hit like a girl.

She didn't.

I don't remember screaming. I don't remember if I ran to her or if I was too afraid to move. I just remember the weight in my chest, like something had caved in. Like a star had collapsed inside me, and all that was left was an endless, crushing void.

I didn't cry at the funeral. People kept looking at me like I should have, like I was supposed to make some big, dramatic show of my grief.

But what was the point? Crying wouldn't bring her back. Nothing would.

People talk about grief like it's this grand, tragic thing. Like it makes you deeper, more poetic. But it doesn't. It's just a hollowing. A slow, merciless carving away of everything that used to make you human.

I stopped caring after that. About everything.

I stopped talking unless I had to. Stopped flinching when my father got angry. Stopped pretending that the world was anything other than a cruel, meaningless place.

Emily had believed in good things. In magic and beauty and hope.

But she was dead.

And I was still here.

That told me everything I needed to know about how the world really worked. And I didn't flinch when I set our house on fire, my parents inside of it, for the first time showing a new emotion.

Fear.

Fear is good.

Foster care wasn't much better. Different houses, different faces, same old story. Some of them were indifferent, some were cruel, and some tried too hard to "fix" me.

Like I was some broken toy they could glue back together. Newsflash: some things stay broken. Some things get shattered so many times that even if you try to piece them back together, all you get is something jagged and dangerous.

And I was nothing if not dangerous.

I went through the motions, did what I had to. I played the quiet kid, the obedient one, the one that didn't cause too much trouble.

But inside, I was already gone—numb to everything, hollowed out like some kind of unfinished sculpture. If I had to spend the rest of my life just existing like that, it wouldn't have made a difference to me.

I tried to go on with life, but whenever I felt like I was moving forward, life would knock me down a peg.

I started working in a nice place. I had even made somewhat decent relationships with the others. The boss, she was a nice lady who treated everyone well. She had a son just a few years younger than me. Nice and bright kid, who often joked and tried to make me smile.

So when I heard he died from a overdose, I felt like life was not only fucking with me, but also anybody I got close to. When the next day, some idiots set fire to my office, I was already numb. None of us were there of course, but the damage was done.

My boss didn't get any insurance due to some legal bullshit. She lost everything. When I brought her some food the next day, she was hanging from the ceiling, her body still swaying in the air. The kind and gentle smile was gone, replaced by eyes filled with despair, sadness and helpless acceptance.

I thought that's it. I'll just stay away from everyone and somehow try die soon. Only death can spare my suffering.

Then, against all odds, I met Claire.

And like an idiot, I did the one thing I swore I'd never do again: I let someone in.

She was this infuriating, sunshine-in-human-form kind of person. The kind of person who smiled too much, laughed too easily, and somehow made everything around her seem a little less gray. Annoying as hell. But also... impossible to ignore.

She had this ridiculous belief that people could be saved. That I could be saved.

"You're not as dead inside as you think you are, David," she'd say, flashing that irritatingly bright grin of hers.

Bold of her to assume.

But somehow—against my better judgment—I started to believe her.

It was slow at first. A small crack in the armor I'd spent years reinforcing. She'd drag me to stupid little diners and force me to try pie flavors I didn't care about. She'd show up unannounced with some garbage movie she insisted I had to watch.

She was relentless, like some kind of force of nature, wearing me down one smile, one joke, one goddamn moment of kindness at a time.

And the worst part?

I liked it.

I actually let myself hope—let myself think that maybe, just maybe, I could have something good in my life without the universe setting it on fire.

And then—because life has a sick sense of humor—she was gone.

A drunk driver, of course. Just another person who didn't give a shit about the lives around him. Just another random, meaningless act of destruction.

One moment, she was there, laughing at one of my terrible jokes, her eyes crinkling at the corners like they always did when she was really amused. And the next—

Gone.

I don't remember much of what happened after that. I know I was covered in her blood. But I also knew I was unharmed I know people screamed. I know someone called for help. I know the flashing red and blue lights came too late. I know they put a tarp over her body, as if that could somehow erase the fact that minutes ago, she was alive.

I remember standing at the accident scene, staring at the bloodstained pavement, thinking,

Of course.

Of course, this would happen. How could I be stupid enough to think I deserved anything good?

That's when I really got the joke.

The cosmic, cruel punchline of it all. Every time I reached for happiness, life yanked it away. Like some sadistic magician pulling the rug out from under me just to watch me fall. It had happened with Emily. It had happened with Claire. It would happen again, and again, and again, because that was just how it worked.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard people crying. Someone grabbed my arm, asked me something. I didn't answer.

I couldn't.

Because in that moment, something inside me snapped.

Not in the dramatic, screaming-at-the-sky kind of way. Not in the way people do in movies, where they drop to their knees and sob while the rain pours down.

No, it was quiet. A simple realization.

Nothing matters.

Not love. Not hope. Not happiness. It was all just an illusion. A joke.

And I was done playing along.

So, I gave up trying, and decided to do something about about this messed up world .

I got it now. My life wasn't a tragedy.

It's just comedy.

And I'm the fucking punchline.

Hahahahahaha hah hah haa.

Let's watch this world burn.