Therapeutic Stories

Superhero

I used to love superheroes. Super Man, Wonder Woman, Captain America. Batman! Batman was the best. For one thing, he looked cooler than the rest. Sure, if you want to wear spandex and underwear, if that's your thing, go ahead. But you won't match up to that of the dark and swift Batman. I still love Batman.

I guess I loved superheroes because they could stand up to anything. They had weaknesses, of course, but that only made them more realistic and more enjoyable. They could stand up to those that wreaked havoc, or those that singled out innocents to torture them as they pleased. The superheroes I read about made me feel warm inside, that I was safe. No matter what would happen, I was safe.

Yeah, when I grew older I was able to understand that my beloved superheroes didn't exist. I still believed in them. The heroes of fictional world aren't like Santa or the tooth fairy. Superheroes protect, they defend, they bring hope to those in circumstances too horrible to describe. Santa's a stalker who sends presents. In all honesty, which one does it seem more likely I would stick my dreams with?

When I was ten, I was sent to an orphanage. My parents had been killed on one of their nights out at this restaurant, something along the lines of "Green Hill Café". It was torn down a couple years after their death. I hated whoever killed them. My parents were my life, and suddenly they were taken away from me. I locked myself in the room the orphanage had provided me for days, reading and re-reading my collection of graphic novels.

And that's when I realized something. I was Batman. I was sent so I could provide justice for this messed up world. This was why my parents had been shot, why I was given the same experience that Bruce Wayne himself went through. I was Bruce Wayne.

It may have just been an excuse that my mind came up with so I could cope. Even so, I believed. I believed with all my heart that this was meant to be. So I swore vengeance for my parents' death and went on to try and recreate my life as Batman's went. It was already at a rocky start, being that I was placed under government care unlike that of who I was convinced I must be. More obstacles came my way to trip me up. Sometimes they worked, and really well.

My certainty that I was Bruce Wayne re-incarnated gave me trouble from other kids. What a ridiculous notion, that I was to be a superhero! What makes me think I'm so special? Pfft. It pushed me on and off the track, sometimes motivating me to prove them wrong, other times putting me into a mode of depression that seemed idiotic and pointless. I was completely injured when I was fourteen, the age when Bruce Wayne went on his journey. I awoke and went to go read this arc, when I found the collection I had built up destroyed. Dismantled. Ruined. And when I saw this, I became like the books. Destroyed. Dismantled. Ruined.

I'm not sure how long I stayed in this phase, this phase of depression and realism. My dream, my beliefs were gone. Maybe it seems silly, reacting this way over some books. Maybe it doesn't. I hated the orphanage kids, and turned into one of those teenagers you see standing in an alley with the hood of their sweatshirt covering their face. I never did anything illegal, no, but the dark alley was so comforting. Darkness was comforting.

I do know when I was of age, that of eighteen, I immediately left the orphanage. I had given up on the heroes that used to speak to my heart so, and got a cheap apartment and minimum wage job. This was how I stayed for two years. Bland. Depressed. Invisible.

And then I went to that flea market. I was going to get some cheap food, maybe some clothes. There was this stall that was filled to the brim with books. Biographies, novels, comics cut out of old newspapers and pasted in binders. The guy running the stand wanted to spread the joy he had gotten from these books. He said he was about to die. He didn't want to waste these things that were special to him.

There it was. A prime copy of the first edition of Batman. It was sitting there, glowing in the midst of everything else. I didn't buy any clothes that day, or even any food. The minute I held that graphic novel in my hands, I knew it had to be mine. So my paycheck left my wallet as I went to go sit on the curb and indulge in memories. Memories from before my parents died, memories from before I was fourteen. Memories of when I was happy.

I was nearly done with the edition and about to start again when sirens got my attention. A purple car went speeding by, flashing red and blue lights desperately trying to keep up. I don't know what other people around me were thinking and feeling, but that moment in time went by in slow motion for me. My heart was racing, my mouth suddenly dry. Batman found its way carefully into my pocket as I started running after the line of cars.

Idiotic, I know. My running capabilities were never that great, and never would I be able to keep up with six cars pushing their limit. And so, I went on to do something even more idiotic. I stole a car. It was a nice car, one of those cars that are somehow from next year. But perhaps next year's cars were better, because this baby could drive!

I raced after the purple car, watching as he hid in an old construction site with the police cars racing by, not noticing that he was no longer in front of them. Classic move. The man started climbing ladders and running across support beams, impatient to get to the top. I followed. I climbed. I ran. This determination raced through me, itching to catch this guy, itching to be a hero.

We were both at the top of the building, police cars surrounding the bottom. I guess they finally realized that he had actually left them. The guy smirked, a bulge in his right pocket, a diamond in his left hand. I stepped forward, giving him a vibe of confrontation. We spent maybe five minutes just looking at each other, veering towards and away. He made this sudden lurch backwards as if he was about to fall off the edge, and I raced towards him, eager to catch him off guard. But the world flipped, and I was on the edge, and he was not. I first grabbed onto a beam so I wouldn't fall, than tackled the guy. I would not let him escape from my grasp, would not let him get away. He eventually pushed me off, and then in such speed that I could not imagine, flicked out a gun from his pocket, the anonymous bulge showing its identity. No matter, even with this petty threat I would not let him escape. His arm flinched once, and so I ran forward again. A shot rang out, and as I felt air rushing beneath me, and as I looked down and saw the city coming closer, I realized something.

Superheroes don't exist.