I have decided to bring the story back to life - but, a rewrite is in order!

His name was Clark Kent.

It used to be, anyway.

He was a happy little four-year-old boy from a small town in Kansas, just like any other. Granted, he could lift a tractor with his pinky finger, but he was a happy boy nonetheless.

He had parents. A family who loved him dearly, and a family he loved even more so. They loved him, even though they knew he was different. Even though he was not of this world. Even though he was.. special.. as his Pa used to say, he felt like he belonged.

Of course, some people didn't think so. Some people called him a freak for reasons unknown. Fear. Paranoia. Jealousy. Prevention. They were afraid of him. Even at such a young age, he could see it in their eyes.

It didn't really matter to him. As long as he had his family, as long as he had his Ma and Pa, he was happy. They loved him. He loved them. He belonged with them.

That all changed one day. Even with his memory, he couldn't remember the day all that well. He figured he suppressed it, but who knows?

What he did remember was that people came. Bad people. They didn't even have to speak to him, he just knew they were bad. And he was right.

They took him away from his family. He tried to fight, he really did. But they did something to him. The last thing he remembered from that day was the terrified scream of his mother. She screamed his name. Clark.

From that day forward, his name was Clark no more.

From that day forward, people started calling him Subject Zero.

„I've been in this hellhole, this facility, as they called it, for almost seventeen years. They tried to dissect me while I was conscious. They told me anesthetics didn't work on me. I don't know if they do, they never tried, as far as I can remember. They tortured me. Interrogated me, for whatever reasons. I always begged them to stop. I cried, I screamed. I begged, again and again. They never stopped. They kept doing whatever they wanted to me.

After years and years of constant.. torture.. I stopped begging. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction. I couldn't, because I realized that they, as some sort of perverted satisfaction, enjoyed when I begged for them to stop. When I cried.

They tried to break me, over and over again. They tried, and they failed.

I'm damaged, not broken.

And one day, I'm going to get out of here. I'm going to join the world again. I'm going to see my parents again. Whether the people here like it or not. I might be their slave, but I am not their pawn. And I'm certainly not their plaything. I know my value, even if the others here don't know theirs," he wrote.

He sighed as he put the pen down. Maybe one day, someone will actually get to see the letters.