Super?

My Heart Is A Ghost Town

It's him again. Of course he couldn't just let me go.
"You're right. Reggie's ticked off. He spent a full half hour ranting about you while I just sat there and checked out some feeds online." Sebastian grins and seats himself beside me, looking totally comfortable despite being in the roughest bar in this part of the city. But he clutches his laptop tote close to his chest.
"Mm," I mumble as I nurse my beer. I don't what it's what it's called. I just asked the bartender for the darkest beer they served. He's a pretty cool guy, the bartender. I'm what you would call a "regular," I suppose. This bar is pretty much the only public place I go in my civilian identity besides the local Walmart. Other than that I'm a complete shut-in.
"What happened to your face? You didn't do something stupid, did you?" He frowns. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I didn't realize you would actually go and try to pick a fight to prove yourself to me or whatever---"
"I'm not that pathetic, Sebastian. I don't need to prove myself to you or anybody else. I just kicked some superhero butt because that's my freaking job," I snarl.
"You're bleeding," he comments, and flags the bartender down. After he practically shouts his order of the dull roar of the boisterous occupants of the bar, he turns back to me with concern written over his face.
"I'm fine, thanks," I hiss. I wipe the back of my hand across the cut on my cheek and my fingers come back streaked with red.
"If you're so determined not to accept any help, why didn't you just cloak your cuts when you came in here? That way you could've saved me a lot of worry," he snaps, clearly frustrated. I don't reply, just pick up the napkin under my sweating glass and blot the blood from my face. 
"Happy?" I grumble, and I reach into my pocket for my phone to check my reflection before I realize that Reggie smashed it on the ground.
"No."
"Look, I'm not your little 'damsel in distress,' OK? I don't need you to fondle over me just because I'm bleeding a little. I only give you permission to help me if I'm fricking bleeding to death. Even then you better not make some stupid little 'poor-you' remarks. Got that?" I snarl. He just blinks at me for a long moment in a sanctimonious way.
"I'm not worried about your physical pain. I know you can take a lot. You have a healing factor, for God's sake. It's what you're doing to yourself that I'm worried about." His voice is low and condescending. I want to punch him in the face. So I do.
"Oh, Jesus!" He curses, holding his face as his nose immediately starts pouring blood. "What the hell?"
"You don't get to fricking talk to me like that. You're not my therapist. Nobody will ever be my therapist. You know why? Because I'm perfectly fine the way I am. I don't need your 'help.'" Heads start to turn, looking at the fuming blonde woman and the nerdy guy clutching his nose in pain. A few chuckle and look sorry for him. (Ok, so maybe I have a reputation.)
"That's what drug addicts say. What people with eating disorders say. They think they're fine. I've seen the scars on your wrists, on the back of your neck. Do you think I wouldn't figure it out? I don't know if you're masochistic or what..." I punch him again. Harder. He screams in shock and pain and his glasses fly off his face, landing on the floor with a shattering sound.
"I'm a sociopath," I say coldly, standing up. "Get it right." I lean down, grab his broken glasses, and press them into his hand with a little more force than is necessary. "And just in case you didn't get the point through your thick skull," I whisper in his ear, "if you so much as try to do something smart like that again, I'll pull your intestines out through your nostrils. I'm not broken. I don't need you to fix me." I pull back and smile sweetly. Now a lot more than a few people are staring. I stalk my way to the door, leaving Sebastian behind. I hear a few low whistles.
"Does this mean you're single now?" Another regular and an acquaintance of mine, a jokester named Dave, chuckles as I walk past him.
"Only in your wildest dreams, Dave." I grin at him playfully and step out into the cool dusky air, letting the door shush closed behind me. The smell of cigarette smoke lingers in the air, but it doesn't bother me one bit. Cigarettes smell like danger, and I love danger. I slow my pace and talk my time walking to my car, tossing the key ring up in the air and catching it absentmindedly.
That's when I hear the sound of a crowd- a buzz of chatter and is that... camera flashes? I walk past my car to investigate instead. Immediately I see the throng of people, all surrounding a single figure- a woman with curly brown hair and worried amber eyes, and fresh bruises spanning her face.
"Ms. Garcia, tell us please, how did you get injured? Were you fighting a criminal?" An obnoxious salt-and-pepper-haired man shoves a microphone in her face. Ah. This Taylor Garcia, Crimson's other half. Why am I not surprised?
"Yes, I was. Eris was determined to fight me." Little ripples of shock run through the paparazzi at the mention of my name.
"Who won, Ms. Garcia?" Another microphone in the super's face, this time held by a short woman with a suit and a ponytail so tight that it has to be giving her a headache. Maybe even worse than mine.
Another sharp pang floods my brain just as I remind myself of said headache, and I wince. Nope. Not worse than mine.
Taylor looks distracted as she scans over the crowd, and to my horror her eyes settle on me, to where I'm standing at a distance. I can immediately see the curiosity flare in her eyes when she sees the gashes on my face. Once again I curse myself for not taking a nap to at least regain a little bit of my illusions back. I'm standing out here like blood in the snow.
"Who won?" The ponytailed woman asks again, sounding impatient. Taylor's eyes flicker back to the reporter, and she gives a half-hearted grin.
"Crimson, did, of course. That villain never stood a chance," the woman laughs gently. Ouch. Not only is that untrue, but it's a little bigoted of her. I feel offended. This is why I hate superheroes.
I turn to leave, not wanting to hear any more of her self-absorbed commentary, but before I can take a single step away, I see the crowd dispersing, leaving Taylor standing all alone with a complacent look on her face. Huh. Little Ms. Special sent away her paparazzi. Oh. No. Wait. Why is she walking over here?
I quickly start to walk away like I originally intended, my heart beating so loudly I'm almost afraid the super can hear it too. With all my luck she probably has super-hearing or something too.
"Wait!" I hear her call, listen to her run up. She doesn't use her super-speed, which is strange because usually she likes to flaunt her superpowers even when she's not in costume.
"What?" My voice comes out a little flatter and harsher than I intended it to, and for a moment I'm worried that maybe she suspects I'm Eris and that's why she stopped me. Oh God. But what she says next takes me even more by surprise.
"Who did that to your face?" I brave a look at her, and her eyes are gentle and concerned. To see that face directed at me sends a shiver up my spine. Just hours before, she had looked at me with a complete rage. She had been trying to kill me. And I made a little boy with black tentacles for tongues crush her ribs until she passed out. This is awkward.
"Nobody. It's stupid. I tripped," I grumble, coming up with the lamest excuse ever. "Not even a superhero can save me from my own clumsiness," I force a smile, ignoring the panicky flutter in my stomach. Why do I feel so afraid?
"I had a friend once who's wife abused her. Whenever I'd see her come to our book club meetings with bruises on her face, she would tell me that she 'tripped.' She's not clumsy. She's a dancer."
"I'm assuming you took care of the problem. Probably sent the wife to prison or whatever. Tied her up with a neat little bow for the police. You going for some publicity stunt here? 'Superhero saves woman from abusive husband?' I bet that'd look good on your resume." Hah. I didn't even know I was acting the part until I was. I may not have my illusion powers replenished yet, but that doesn't mean I still can't be as deceiving.
"I didn't take her to the police. Well, not right away," Taylor mutters under her breath, after looking fearfully over her shoulder for lingering fans.
"What?" Call me intrigued.
"Let's just say I exacted my revenge," Taylor breathes out through her nose and looks up before her eyes flicker back down to me. Why does she have to be so tall?
"Sounds surprisingly dark for a superhero who saves kittens from trees and calls a red swimsuit a costume," I comment dryly. Is that a brief smile that flashes across her face?
"I'll do anything to protect those who need it. That's the point. I'm not doing any of this for publicity. If it were up to me, I'd ditch the costume completely. It's uncomfortable and yes, a little embarrassing," the woman sighs. She shuffles her feet anxiously.
"So why don't you? You'd probably earn other key to the city if you went for a full-body costume like that other dumb super-villain, Eris or what's-her-face. People respect you." I shrug.
"Do you?" She tilts her head, completely bypassing my inquiry about the costume. Hm.
"Do I what?"
"Respect me? Something tells me you don't." Her eyes narrow slightly, and she looks like she actually cares about what I think. If only she knew the truth.
"I don't count on people in spandex to solve all my problems. I like to keep myself grounded. I like to take care of things myself," I tell her, flinching when I realize that I'm speaking truthfully.
"That's admirable," she says with a soft smile, "but you should never be afraid to accept help. It takes courage to admit that you need somebody to lean on once in a while." Her freakishly amber-colored eyes are unsettling as they bore into mine. This conversation is all-too-familiar. Why is everyone so convinced that I need saving all of a sudden? Last time I checked, it was other people who needed saving from me.
"It also takes courage to stand up for yourself. And that's what I'm doing. So thanks but no thanks. I can handle these things myself," I growl quietly. Her face doesn't change, and I feel the sudden need to flee. It's ridiculous, but the feeling's there.
"How long are you going to try and convince yourself of that before you self-destruct?" She puts her hands on her hips.
"Forever, preferably," I retort. There's that faint smile again. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have better things to do than stand around and have a therapeutic talk with Birchwood City's finest swimsuit model." I'm walking away again. No punches were thrown this time, but I'm still feeling unsettled. Like maybe I... shudder... understand Crimson a little more. Don't get me wrong, she's still as annoying as heck. And that thing she calls a costume is still really offensive.
"Think about what I said," she calls to me as I walk away. "I'm always around if you need me." I give her a wave over my shoulder and breathe a sigh of relief as she lets me walk away.
Time to go home, I think to myself as exhaustion weighs down on my feet and my head throbs painfully. I can't stay weak like this forever. Especially not now, when everyone seems so convinced that I'm a ticking time bomb. And what's even worse is that I'm starting to think that maybe they're right.