[ WP ] A person gains a superpower through an accident , and must decide if they will be a superhero or a supervillain .

Four nights, five days. It's been exactly four nights, five days, six hours, a couple minutes and a few seconds. But none of that is important, because the obvious fact is that four nights is a long time for a person to stay awake -- no drugs, no coffee. It feels like something though, stimulants of some sort, but this is n't cocaine or Adderall or anything I've ever known. It does n't *feel* like a drug; there is no sensation no discernible `` effect'' -- no cracked out afterglow, no comedown, no jitters, no teeth grinding -- just... just an awareness. 
 
 Most of all I'm aware that I do n't need to sleep anymore. It's been four nights and I have n't even touched my bedsheets. I have n't changed, or shaved or showered. I have barely moved from my kitchen chair, that goddamn dying lightbulb doggedly buzzing aloft, reminding me that I'm not dreaming. I am not tired, I do not feel hunger or thirst, and accordingly I do not sweat, nor do I feel the slightest need to empty my bladder or bowels. Should I be worried? My mouth remains moist, but I think I have ceased saliva production. I just know it. But I am afraid to go into the bathroom and look at the mirror -- afraid of what I'll see. My imagination wanders into terrible places, and I'm seized by a wild fear of what I might see, that I am not myself anymore, both inside and out. Perhaps I have been transformed, into a monstrous vermin or some horrifying mutilation of my former being. 
 
 I have spent the last four hours in this state, possessed by a this grotesque euphoria, shadowed by a primitive terror. I picked up a random book off my bookshelf after the first night ( before that I had been pacing up and down my narrow kitchen, lighting cigarette after another with trembling hands ) and attempted to read, but I can not. Perhaps it is unreasonable to ask my mind to comprehend words and sentences in light of such suspense which waits to be confronted. 
 
 I needed time. The realization did not bring with it the appropriate resolve, and agitated more than ever I briefly stepped outside the apartment. It's been four nights since I've breathed fresh air, but the air is different since then. The bitter, snow-flecked Buffalo wind no longer causes me pain, which I mentally add to my list of symptoms. 
 
 I'm on Allen St and the streets are dark, lit only by the Christmas lights from nearby restaurants and bars. Some quick addition in my head and the convivial bubbles of people smoking outside the bars tells me it's a weekend evening. I hear them laughing faintly through the snow, unaware that I am watching them. 
 
 I cautiously walk down the street to approach the bar the voices are in. It's a dingy little joint called the `` Mug Buddies'', overpacked as usual and there's a small group of smokers out in the patio. I can feel the stares, but I ca n't tell if it's just my paranoia or the fact that I'm in a tank top with gray splotches of cigarette ash all over me. I can feel their gaze, fixed squarely on the back of my head as I enter the pub, but I ca n't bring myself to turn around and meet it. My chest is pounding and the corners of my vision are blurring as I slip inside. 
 
 I see a mirror, and in it, amid the heads of anonymous people, I see myself. A wave of disgust, horror and terror surfaces and spreads within in and with it, people being to scream. I look behind me, numbed to the deafening roar around me: the smokers have vanished. 
 
 I do not remember killing them, nor do I remember fleeing. 
 
 I am back in my apartment, covered in blood. I have not slept in, let's see, 7 nights, 8 days, 2 hours and a couple minutes and a few seconds. But I know now, none of that matters. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

