This Can't Be Real (A Superhero Story)

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Every story starts with the same overused formula, trying to captivate its audience with a drawn-out exposition of background details. As if they cared what was going on.

It didn't matter what season it was, even if it was late spring with warm weather approaching. When the sunlight would peek through long cumulous clouds during the early morning, casting thin rays of pale light onto the cracked pavement.

It didn't matter how busy each street was, or lack thereof. With each clomping step, the wishing of a speeding car down the main road every 60 or so seconds. It was one of those roads that everyone drove on, but it was scandalous to see someone walking alone.

Maybe they'd be clued in on the main character, but no one wants to read 19 paragraphs about the young protagonist. It just happened they were at a relatable age, still in their, "Who gives a shit, I'm 22" phase where they could get away with a long-sleeved maroon t-shirt and black ripped jeans in 45-degree weather. They were lightly dusted with pollen, giving a rustic vibe to the outfit.

Maybe they'd sympathize, seeing how the clothing had aged and faded. They might realize the rips weren't stylized, but natural from wear-and-tear. They'd watch as her feet hit the ground heavily as she pushed herself forward with exhaustion. Her face drooped into a depressed resting expression as she hiked her bag higher up on her shoulders.

But why would they empathize with a stranger? For all they knew, she did this to herself. She was the cause of her situation. They didn't know what kind of person they looked at, or who this young adult was on the inside.

Something, however, may have piqued a little bit of interest.

The backpack on her shoulders tapped against her lower back as it dragged, the straps stretching with increased weight. The zipper seemed to be puffing from the fabric, already ripping at the seams. An iPhone was dangling out of her pocket, displaying a small dead battery icon. Her wallet stuck out of the other side, which seemed to be faded and worn- a hand-me-down, used by several owners. Inside was about $200 left in crinkled-up $10s and $5s. It was all she had left, every stipend she was given was now worn down to a few mere dollars.

She bumbled down the street, well aware she was quickly running out of options, and even more aware of how little she had to her name. She had lived somewhere at some point, that was clear from the clean hair and sweet scent of coconut soap. However, from the backpack to the duffel bag in her hands, both stuffed full of miscellaneous items, it was clear that wherever she used to be, she was no longer welcome.

Her face was pale and her eyes were heavy. She fumbled with the wallet in her pocket, feeling at each lingering dollar. She was saving them in case something important came along, something that would get her out of her situation. She begged and bartered at every turn, desperately hoping someone would have scraps to give or an establishment had free water cups. She seemed to be surviving fine, but it was obvious her muscles were degenerating from lack of protein. She was built with broader shoulders, giving the illusion of a muscular form. She may have had one before, but not recently.

She eyed the alleyways slowly as she walked down the street, trying to find one with good eye-line to a street camera or a 24-hour establishment. She'd just come from a homeless shelter, but she was a traveler. She tried not to linger for more than a day or two. She knew all too well that good things never last.

She thought back to the first place she lived. It was a large building, where she had plenty of siblings ranging from several ages. They frowned upon anyone staying passed 18 years of age, so they'd usually kick you out if you were still around.

It was cruel. The foster and group homes had a horrible system where, when one of the children turned 18, they would "age out". They were expected to leave their sheltered life inside the home and suddenly fend for themself. They disregarded the fact that the child may have been under-educated, unemployed, or completely unskilled.