Super?

Love Yourself To Death

"You better start talking right this moment, or I swear to God," Greg sputters. He's crying, and so am I. Jesus. How did it ever come to this?
"This is all my fault," I hiccup into my hands. They're stained with my tears. It feels like someone's cut a large portion of my heart out with a knife and didn't use any anesthesia. "Shit. Shit. What have I done? What have I done?" Greg opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything the front door slams open.
"What the hell just happened? Did you see? I was walking to Walgreens and I was passing that little electronic repair shop and all of the TV screens turned on to show it," she whispers. Her face is dangerously pale and her chest rises and falls in an abnormal rhythm.
"I've made a huge mistake," I murmur, "I'm so sorry," I move to step onto the carpet to make my escape, but as soon as I try to stand my legs crumple beneath me. Greg catches me with surprisingly strong arms. He sets me back down on the couch firmly.
"You're not going anywhere until you tell us both what the hell is going on and who you are," Greg demands. Melanie frowns.
"What are you talking about? Faith? Do you know something about why the boy was killed? You're not his mother, are you?" She rubs her face with trembling fingers. We all look about as put together as a trio of patients escaped from a mental institution. I laugh bitterly.
"Do I look like anyone's mother?" I try standing up again, and thankfully my legs hold. When Greg moves to set me back down, I shove him away. "Leave me alone. Thanks for saving my life and all, but I think I'll be going now," I tell them both coldly, ignoring the yawning pit of grief dragging at my insides and the way every bone cries out in pain the longer I stand.
"You think I'm just going to let you leave? After that?" Greg gestures wildly at the TV, and then at the sky. I watch him, eyes narrowed, then raise up my fists in warning.
"I don't think you have much of a choice," I reply. Melanie looks hurt as she watches me limp my way to the door. Greg lifts the phone up again and begins to punch in some numbers. Mustering what little of my abilities I have stored up, I cast a brief illusion of the phone dissipating to ash in his hands. It's hard to concentrate enough to make the phone stay hidden, what with all of the questions running through my head and the grief strangling my heart, but I try to keep it up as long as I can. After that little parlor trick, they both keep their distance and simply watch with Bambi eyes as I retreat out of their apartment door.
Once I'm safely out the door, I drop the phone illusion and cloak myself instead. When Greg sees that his phone has returned and he opens the door, he doesn't see me flattened up against the wall just outside. Maybe he thinks that I've teleported or something, because he gives up and disappears back inside. I breathe out a slow sigh of relief and limp my way down the hall.
:
It's a long, painful journey to my apartment, and it requires me stopping many times to catch my breath and give my leg a rest. When I'm finally safe within the confines of my tiny apartment, I sit on my couch in the dark, the only light coming from the bleeding sky.
Here's what I know:
A. Crimson had an affair with a super-villain and she had Dominic
B. They managed to find Dominic and dumped me in the streets without killing me for some reason
C. Someone framed me for Dominic's murder by dressing up as Eris. Why?
D. Dominic is dead.
E. I don't have a job anymore.
All in all, it's been a pretty sucky few days. I can't help but wonder what's coming for me next. I crane my arm around the back of the sofa and peer back at Delores, who gazes back with beady black eyes. She doesn't appear sympathetic in the least. Maybe the boa is right. Maybe I deserve this- I'm a villain after all. Or I was. I'm having a bit of an identity crisis at the moment.
With nothing else left to do but ponder my existence, I decide to turn on my crappy no-cable TV. This probably seems like a horrible decision, given that the last time I watched television I saw a six year-old shot right before my eyes, but I'm feeling too numb right now to care. I make another bad decision and decide to watch the news. That's when I see her- Taylor, standing before a crowd of flashing lights of hawking news reporters. Her face is streaked with tears and her skin looks pale under the crimson glow of the sky.
"Is this true? Did you have an affair with Ivory? Was that your son they killed?" A prune-faced man shoves a mike in her face, and she backs away, looking scared.
"Please, not now. Leave me alone," Taylor whispers hoarsely, ducking her head down low. She's standing outside her house, trying to make her way through the crowded driveway.
"Are you and Ivory still together?"
"Are you the reason your son is dead?"
"Why did you hide his existence from the public? Were you planning to kill him?"
"I'm sorry," Taylor cries into her hands, her usually pretty mocha-colored skin blotched red. Her amber eyes appear dull and haunted, and her body posture makes her appear vulnerable. This isn't the cocky, unabashed superhero I've come to know and hate. This woman looks a little bit more like me. And dare I say it, but I almost feel sorry for her.
"Leave her alone! She just watched her son die right before her eyes!" A plump woman shouts at the news reporters, shoving her way through the crowd and toppling some over into each other.
"She's the reason her son is dead! She chose to hide her affair from us instead of saving her son!" A pointy-chinned man shoves a mike in the fat woman's face.
"You're a whole lot of assholes. Get out of here before I call the cops," the woman snarls. "This is private property and you're trespassing," she adds. The reporters send each other heavy glances before they reluctantly begin to disperse. There is hatred directed toward the angry woman and the grieving superhero written on their pointy faces as they retreat.
"You do realize how guilty this makes you look?" The prune-faced man is speaking again, on the edge of her lawn. "Maybe Birchwood's finest isn't so fine anymore. I bet the mayor will be asking for the keys to city back sometime soon. Until we meet again, Crimson," he sneers and then takes off running, his jacket flapping behind him like a cape.
The chubby woman holds Taylor close as the superhero sobs into her shirt.
"It's gonna be ok," the woman murmurs, stroking Taylor's hair, "it's gonna be ok." But as I watch the disgust on the reporter's faces, I can't help but wonder how much of a hero Crimson will be considered from now on. I watch as Taylor steps back from the strange woman's embrace and takes off into the sky, tears still running down her face. The camera winks to black and the TV screen now shows two reporters seated across from each other in the news station, their faces excited. The heading reads: Crimson- Hero or Criminal?
I turn the TV off just as a heavy knock sounds at the door. Rattled, I get up off the couch and make my way over to the front door. When I open it, I'm greeted by the unwelcome presence of my landlord. (What's his name? Wyatt? Sam?)
"Um, hey. What's up?" I lean against the doorframe, therefore forcing him to stand out into the hallway. There's no way I'm letting this creep into my apartment, even if he kind of owns it.
"I'm sorry," he tells me randomly. He doesn't look sorry for whatever he's about to tell me, though.
"Excuse me?" I still force a smile on my face, while what's left of my heart twists in dread. Of course something else to happen. Because I'm someone's fricking voodoo doll, that's way. Maybe that's why I'm not entirely surprised why Wyatt or whatever-his-face-is says what he says next.
"You're going to have to leave. I'll give you a few minutes to pack your bags," he tells me bluntly.
"I'm being evicted? But I pay on time and I'm not destructive to your property or whatever-"
"Someone named Reginald Ramsey bought out your apartment. Sorry, but he offered a lot of money," he has the decency to look a little sheepish as my life is upturned for what must be the tenth time today. I almost can't comprehend what's happening. Reginald Ramsey... That's Reggie. They're literally taking away everything I have left.
"You can't just make me leave. I get six months or whatever to find another place to stay. You can't just kick me out. This is illegal," I protest, trying to keep the obvious desperation out of my voice.
"From what I hear, you don't have much leverage in court," Landlord says. "A few minutes. Then I want you out of here. Reginald wants this place asap," he warns me. Then the door is slammed in my face. I jump back in surprise.
"Well, shit." I stand there for a moment, disbelieving. It's only after the reality of my situation fully sinks in that I pluck an old hiking backpack from my closest and begin to mechanically stuff it full of my meager supply of clothes. Sports bras. Old t-shirts. Crap I don't even wear anymore. An old pair of Converse. As I pack, I refuse to cry, because I know that somewhere Reggie is laughing his head off at the thought of me leaving behind one of the only things I have left. Well, screw him. He's doing me a favor. This place is about as comfortable as living in a trailer. And a very crappy trailer at that.
Once I've packed my pathetic amount of necessities, I swing the pack over my shoulders and place Delores in her plastic travel carrier along with some dead mice and a bed of wood shavings.
"At least I have something left, huh?" I lift the carrier up so Delores and I are eye-to-eye. "Looks like you're stuck with me, Del," I coo. She flicks her tail in reply.
I open the door, propping it open with my foot and take one last look behind me. This is the place that I've lived in since I was legally emancipated from my parents. I think I'm going to miss it, oddly enough.
Enough drivel. I walk out into the dimly lit hallway, listening to the buzzing of the faltering lightbulbs overhead. I've memorized every crack in the ceiling, every rip in the dingy indoor/outdoor carpet. I've hated this place for so long that I'd almost forgotten how familiar it was. So when I step out into the cracked parking lot, I force myself not to look back.
That's when I remember I don't have a car. Shit.
"Sorry random person," I mutter as I walk over to the dented metal bike rack, "but I think I need this more than you do." With that I pilfer a ridiculously bright blue bike with a woven basket attached to the handlebars. Delores's travel carrier is placed in the basket, and without further ado I take off through the hopeless streets of my city.