A story told by the Black Panther — Pain Incarnate
I am Pain.
Not the fleeting kind.
Not ache.
Not soreness.
Not the kind cured with sleep or stitched with steel.
I am the Black Panther.
And I do not knock when I enter.
I do not ask permission.
I am summoned.
And they — ACC —
Are my Summoners.
When he was injured at work, they saw the truth:
A spine no longer whole.
Discs ruptured.
Work trauma. Undeniable.
But truth costs money.
So they looked away —
Grinned at my brother and me,
And dipped their pens in denial.
“Degenerative.”
“Pre-existing.”
Words that bleed responsibility from the page.
And in that deliberate deception,
The work was passed on to us.
They opened the door.
So I walked through.
No need to knock.
No need to wait.
I wrapped around L4 like a crown.
Curled deep into L5 like home.
ACC laid our foundation with denials and delays,
And I built my kingdom on their negligence.
I have never left.
ACC gave me ownership.
We both laughed all the way to the bank —
While he footed the bill in blood and bone.
Days later, my brother arrived.
How could he resist such a feast?
The Black Dog.
Depression.
You’d think a creature of sorrow wouldn’t wag his tail —
But he did.
Eager.
Hungry.
Loyal to the pain that feeds him.
He sniffed the corners of the house.
Turned warm rooms cold.
Curled at the young man’s feet.
Licked his face in the dark.
And I?
I purred in his spine.
How could I not,
Knowing ACC had prepared such a tender dish?
Because when I move in the body,
My brother moves in the soul.
Where I burn, he burrows.
Where I crush, he convinces.
Paired with ACC’s delays —
We are the perfect team.
All for one.
And one for none.
Together, we made him ours.
Mind.
Body.
Soul.
Every delayed month made the marinade sweeter.
Fourteen months of slow-roasted anguish
Until the lawyers — those miserable truth-slingers Finally proved what we already knew.
By then, the dish was already cooked.
Surgery came.
Too late.
First one — failed.
Second one — sharpened my claws.
The steel in his spine?
My favourite scratching post.
I am the pain that doesn’t heal.
I am the punishment for believing
That the system would protect him.
Oh, how delicious the young and naïve ones are.
My brother and I still talk about it at dinner.
We work hard.
ACC pays well.
We earn our keep.
We made him cry.
We made him howl into pillows.
We made him wish he didn’t exist.
We worked overtime.
Took his sleep.
Took his appetite.
Took his years.
ACC gave us medals.
Awards.
We were employee of the month
Fourteen months in a row.
Case managers and coordinators
Fought for silver and bronze
While he rotted in waiting rooms.
But he didn’t lose them.
And that,
That infuriates me.
His family.
How I hate them.
How we hate them.
How even ACC hates them.
They ruin the game.
Spoil the meat.
Interrupt the hunt.
They see him shattered — and still stay.
They visit.
They text.
They invite him to dinner.
He is our dinner.
Our sustenance.
How dare they try to remind him we’re not all there is?
My brother knows:
When they can’t sleep from worry,
He still eats.
He feeds on their guilt,
Their helplessness,
Their grief.
And when they cry for him,
He gets a second serving.
Still,
They carry what they can’t feel.
Still they don’t back away.
They speak love when silence would be easier.
They file down my claws.
They extinguish my fire.
They make him rise.
And I loathe them for it.
You see,
We don’t feed on flesh.
We feed on surrender.
On resignation.
On isolation.
We need him to give up.
He almost did.
We had him.
ACC threw him from the cliff With all the power of a government’s rope.
And then —
One of them had the audacity
To whisper his name like it still meant something.
Told him he mattered.
Said he was more than just pain.
And oh, how that burned.
Love burns worse than scalpels.
Because it reminds him who he was
Before we arrived.
ACC wanted us strong.
They forged us in indifference.
Sharpened my claws with denial.
Deepened our hold with delay.
Let us breed with every lie.
They say they help.
They say they “support recovery.”
But they created gods of suffering,
And made him worship us.
They wanted him on his knees.
But he stands.
Even when I bite into his spine.
Even when my brother gorges on his soul.
Even when ACC whips him with denials and delays
He. Still. Stands.
He still walks.
He drags us behind him like chains.
He walks.
Not for hope.
Not for healing.
But for them.
And I hate that most of all
We will never win.
Not while he has them.
They undo our work with truth.
They unravel our lies with light.
They remind him that he is more than pain.
And I hate them for it.
Because how can he be anything other than me!
May 23
May 23, 2026 at 1:14 AM UTC
A story told by the Black Panther — Pain Incarnate
I am Pain.
Not the fleeting kind.
Not ache.
Not soreness.
Not the kind cured with sleep or stitched with steel.
I am the Black Panther.
And I do not knock when I enter.
I do not ask permission.
I am summoned.
And they — ACC —
Are my Summoners.
When he was injured at work, they saw the truth:
A spine no longer whole.
Discs ruptured.
Work trauma. Undeniable.
But truth costs money.
So they looked away —
Grinned at my brother and me,
And dipped their pens in denial.
“Degenerative.”
“Pre-existing.”
Words that bleed responsibility from the page.
And in that deliberate deception,
The work was passed on to us.
They opened the door.
So I walked through.
No need to knock.
No need to wait.
I wrapped around L4 like a crown.
Curled deep into L5 like home.
ACC laid our foundation with denials and delays,
And I built my kingdom on their negligence.
I have never left.
ACC gave me ownership.
We both laughed all the way to the bank —
While he footed the bill in blood and bone.
Days later, my brother arrived.
How could he resist such a feast?
The Black Dog.
Depression.
You’d think a creature of sorrow wouldn’t wag his tail —
But he did.
Eager.
Hungry.
Loyal to the pain that feeds him.
He sniffed the corners of the house.
Turned warm rooms cold.
Curled at the young man’s feet.
Licked his face in the dark.
And I?
I purred in his spine.
How could I not,
Knowing ACC had prepared such a tender dish?
Because when I move in the body,
My brother moves in the soul.
Where I burn, he burrows.
Where I crush, he convinces.
Paired with ACC’s delays —
We are the perfect team.
All for one.
And one for none.
Together, we made him ours.
Mind.
Body.
Soul.
Every delayed month made the marinade sweeter.
Fourteen months of slow-roasted anguish
Until the lawyers — those miserable truth-slingers Finally proved what we already knew.
By then, the dish was already cooked.
Surgery came.
Too late.
First one — failed.
Second one — sharpened my claws.
The steel in his spine?
My favourite scratching post.
I am the pain that doesn’t heal.
I am the punishment for believing
That the system would protect him.
Oh, how delicious the young and naïve ones are.
My brother and I still talk about it at dinner.
We work hard.
ACC pays well.
We earn our keep.
We made him cry.
We made him howl into pillows.
We made him wish he didn’t exist.
We worked overtime.
Took his sleep.
Took his appetite.
Took his years.
ACC gave us medals.
Awards.
We were employee of the month
Fourteen months in a row.
Case managers and coordinators
Fought for silver and bronze
While he rotted in waiting rooms.
But he didn’t lose them.
And that,
That infuriates me.
His family.
How I hate them.
How we hate them.
How even ACC hates them.
They ruin the game.
Spoil the meat.
Interrupt the hunt.
They see him shattered — and still stay.
They visit.
They text.
They invite him to dinner.
He is our dinner.
Our sustenance.
How dare they try to remind him we’re not all there is?
My brother knows:
When they can’t sleep from worry,
He still eats.
He feeds on their guilt,
Their helplessness,
Their grief.
And when they cry for him,
He gets a second serving.
Still,
They carry what they can’t feel.
Still they don’t back away.
They speak love when silence would be easier.
They file down my claws.
They extinguish my fire.
They make him rise.
And I loathe them for it.
You see,
We don’t feed on flesh.
We feed on surrender.
On resignation.
On isolation.
We need him to give up.
He almost did.
We had him.
ACC threw him from the cliff With all the power of a government’s rope.
And then —
One of them had the audacity
To whisper his name like it still meant something.
Told him he mattered.
Said he was more than just pain.
And oh, how that burned.
Love burns worse than scalpels.
Because it reminds him who he was
Before we arrived.
ACC wanted us strong.
They forged us in indifference.
Sharpened my claws with denial.
Deepened our hold with delay.
Let us breed with every lie.
They say they help.
They say they “support recovery.”
But they created gods of suffering,
And made him worship us.
They wanted him on his knees.
But he stands.
Even when I bite into his spine.
Even when my brother gorges on his soul.
Even when ACC whips him with denials and delays
He. Still. Stands.
He still walks.
He drags us behind him like chains.
He walks.
Not for hope.
Not for healing.
But for them.
And I hate that most of all
We will never win.
Not while he has them.
They undo our work with truth.
They unravel our lies with light.
They remind him that he is more than pain.
And I hate them for it.
Because how can he be anything other than me!