Blog of a Teenage Superhero

Chapter Ten: I'll Protect You

Unpublished blog post—Title: It's okay, I'm a superhero

You can picture it perfectly. A lone damsel, clutching her purse as she strides through the dark alley. The click of shadowing footsteps.  The sudden touch of cold steel against her temple, the gruff whispered demand of a hoodlum. Then, when you think you'll need to break out the tissues and stuffed cuddle-buddies for emotional support, bam! The hero swoops down like an avenging angel, the shimmer of their bright cape the only color in this dark, dark world. He—or she in my case, actually— hits the ground with a smirk and kicks the hoodlum's butt in a flash of 'kapows' and 'kablams.' The hoodlum runs. The damsel collects herself with a gush of thanks to the hero. The hero follows her (him, in my case, actually). Protects him.

The question is, as a superhero, how do you do it? You can climb up the side of his house, perch on his windowsill, even commit a little breaking and entering if the situation calls for it, so long as you don't cause a noticeable amount of property damage.

But it's creepy. Standard hero behavior, maybe, but any damsel would be thoroughly freaked if a shadowy figure just showed up in their bedroom. You would be thoroughly freaked if you stepped out the shower and I was sitting in your bed with a wave and a creepy smile. Screw witty banter. Police would be called. I'd be running for my life.

Come to think of it, this is a terrible way to introduce myself, but no take-backsies! No regrets!

I'm Onyx, your new neighborhood superhero. And I'm not a creep.

(But if anyone has an answer to the perplexing how-to-break-into-someone's-bedroom-without-looking-like-a-perv riddle, please drop me a comment below.)

Thanks.

x Onyx

***

I type this while perched in the branches of the ancient Oak behind the school, hood drawn up over my head, mask digging into my face. The headache it brings on even beats out the pain in my ribs, the constant throbbing pulse and ebb, like I have a second heart beating through the bone. I smile through the hurt. By the time I hit 'publish,' I have it all figured out.

I bolt for home, the world a whoosh of darkness and chirping crickets and the distant bellow of car horns. The faster I push myself, the more the sky quivers around me like the air itself is filled with lightning waiting to strike, the molecules stretched, snapping, pulsing with static heat. 

When I arrive in front of the complex, I clear the second-floor railing in a single bounce. A man with a cigarette stump hanging over his lower lip stares bug-eyed at me from his door frame. I slip through my open window and slip out with the seventy-six dollars I keep in the shoebox under my bed. The man is still staring. I wave.

The air is frosty and cool. I hit the ground, spraying gravel and grit. The near-forgotten pain in my side flares with a sharp and sudden stab, but when I steady myself, the warmth of the adrenaline flood is all I can feel. Sure, I am in debilitating pain and running on ungodly amounts of caffeine, but I have a duty to find Red Comet, and that's the only reason I'm on my feet when I could be snuggled under my quilts with my teddy bears.

And okay, maybe I want to see Max again. His dimply face, those brown eyes, the way his messy hair falls over his forehead and makes a little Superman curl. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I am a bit of a creep.

But it's nothing I can dwell on now. I skip to the Walmart, taking alleys, slipping through gutters. With my hoodie-cape quickly balled, mask tucked folded into my pocket, I do a little stupid twirl when I enter and a cartwheel when I leave with my Sharpies, poster board, and root beer. A greeter even tops off my bag with a rose from a twitchy Joe's dropped bouquet.