Underground Hatred - My Hero Origins (MHO)

18: Triton Who?

Word Count: 1697

(Kat)

 Both hands—white at the knuckles—gripped both sides of her muted pink hood, Kat's heart pounded against her sternum. Imaginary sets of eyes plastered to the back of her head, voices wandering around. Footsteps echoed on the wood-finished flooring, the bright, white spotlights above blinding. The lemony smell of bleach was intoxicating and dizzying, the surroundings disorienting to Kat.

Her eyes trailed along the wall in front of her where walls of old pictures from all decades sat. Some were drawings of old depictions; some were in the past twenty years. Each one showed off a superhero, doing some heroic favor for the public. Kat's lips pursed as each one was studied: fake, irritating, staged. Each piece grew the hole in Kat's gut, memories running rampant. Though, her eyes avoided the pictures to her left, despite the history buried beneath their frames; those were the truly sickening pictures of fraud and humiliation that resonated deep inside her. Smiles, cheers, fake, false, simulated, forged. Every fucking picture was the same.

The giggle of children entered the room, their footsteps coming in a swarm—but in an organized manner. Kat kept her eyes glued to a black and white picture taken in the 40s, listening to the class with their teacher in tow. The room grew warmer, the heavy atmosphere Kat once wallowed in growing cheery. A new form of life was there to light up the room in place of Kat's grim attitude.

"Careful not to touch the pictures, friends! They're very old and hold a lot of history."

Kat's hand dropped from the edges of her hood to her sides, one hand draping over her satchel that was slung across her chest. Her teeth gnawed at the inside of her cheek, continuing to listen to the chaos unfold behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, little bodies cluttered near the walls to take a closer look at the pictures present.

"Miss Lauren, what are these pictures?"

"Oh, that's from over one hundred years ago! Those are old heroes that are now in our history books. Isn't that so cool?"

"Miss Lauren, my uncle is a hero!"

"I'm sure he is!"

A small figure ended up beside Kat, peering at the pictures she wished to avoid. Her amber eyes veered away, praying no attention was attracted to her. Her teeth locked onto her tongue. Her lips wished to utter the argument that were connected to the pictures, but she held herself together, understanding the naivety of children.

"Miss Lauren," the kid from beside Kat called out, spinning their torso to face where Kat had no capabilities of seeing, "aren't these the Queens?"

Something cracked inside Kat: she spun on her heel away from the wall and hurried with quick feet out of the gallery, a boiling feeling in her chest rising. Her mouth was drawn into a tight line, limbs building the same scorching feeling in her chest, as if her heart was pulsing the sensation to the rest of her body. Her features grew dark in the face, amber eyes filled with a hidden rage that could kill if wanted with a single swipe.

The gallery held few twists and turns, walls filled with pictures and descriptions, cases displayed with relics of the past. The spotlights were becoming brighter than ever, the crowd diminishing as the field trip of children were left in the dust. Kat brushed past a few suits in their display cases and some commemorative plaques against the wall, but found the glass door that led out of the now-suffocating gallery. The lemony bleach burned her nose hairs, the warm air baking her alive. The abstract walls were closing in, the costumes and relics cluttering her brain.

Kat broke out of the gallery with a silent, deep sigh. The heat that moved through her veins broke, relief easing her tight shoulders. Though, she glanced around, watching the large, grand hall that represented neoclassical architecture, marble and granite spreading across the interior, frescos painted above in their vibrant colors that was a clash of the renaissance. Dark wooden benches glazed with a thick coat of a shiny finish lined the walls here and there, people speckled upon them. Small alcoves sat as implants in the middle of the walls, busts of recognizable heroes sitting in each: no matter where Kat ended, there were the constant faces that haunted her.