Just Super

I stood at the front door of my flat, hand turning the lock. Tonight I’m going to do it, tonight is the night it all comes out. I’ll be the hero I’m supposed to be. My fingers tense and turn it fully and pull open the door.

No. No wait.

I swing it shut with sudden urgency.

What if...what if I take it too far? That’s aggravated assault, grievous bodily harm. I’m a nice girl; I don’t need that on my records. What would my parents think? How will I apply for a mortgage?

They could be rapists though, murderers, kiddie fiddlers. I could be doing something great, would they really lock me up over the removal of scum like that from society? I liked that term, Scum, it motivated me. It made me feel I was better than that
.
My hand finds the lock again but doesn’t turn it. My outfit has these crimson gloves, made of some super tough nylon thing. The guy who made it told me but I wasn't really listening. He asked if I was going to a comic convention. I said yes, then when I got it home, altered it so if I ever made it past the door one night, he wouldn’t recognise his handy work. I didn’t want to make it myself. You always see that in the comics, the symbolic making of the costume.  I could stitch a little, but a full suit was too much hassle, was that dropping out of the superhero persona?

But then again, Batman didn’t exactly work a shitty job to make ends meet. He had the time and the money. But I’m better than him, I actually have super powers. Yeah I’m better than you Batman! I’m better than the flash! I’m better than superman!

Well maybe not superman.

I turn the lock again. My downstairs neighbours must be sick of this by now. I half want them to wrench open their doors, look up the stairs and yell:

“If you’re going go! Just stop slamming that bloody door every 5 minutes!”

I would step out, close the door and fly down the stairs, kick open the door to the street and re-claim my city in the name of justice!

But they never do. And every Friday night I stand here, or in the kitchen.  Some superhero I am.
I walk and flick the kettle on. A cup of tea will calm my nerves I always say, then all it does is make me lazy. I grab a bag of crisps, a bottle of wine and head to the living room.

I heard there was a guy creeping at the park nearby. He'd lure girls in by asking the time, drunken girls, unsteady on their feet, not thinking straight. I didn’t hear what happened after that though, I heard it at work.  Some customers were chatting. I could take him down! Then they’d all talk about this masked vigilante, me of course. I didn’t have a name yet, I figured the media would cook something up for me.  I just hoped it was good, or else I’d have to make a big deal  to change it and it would just seem really...petty.

Of course, the world would have to realise that some people have super powers. Or maybe it was just me. I never met anyone else, though it’s not something you bring up in casual conversation.  Whenever I see someone running really fast, I hope that they’re really holding back, eager to keep their super speed a secret, or weightlifters pretending to buckle under their weights, when in reality they could lift a bus with one hand.  I hope they are. But what if this “coming out” i had planned ruined it for the rest of them? What if they don’t want everyone else to know that this is totally a thing some people have? What if they like it being a secret?

I sigh and sit down on the old armchair. I should change; my flat-mate will be back in a half hour, what will she think if she sees me in my costume. I’d just say “it’s for a party” “I was just trying it on”. We’ll both laugh and I’ll have to get a different one made. I really like this colour scheme, but it totally needs dry-cleaned or else the red will wash into the white. Shit I can’t afford this.
Why didn’t someone who had the drive get super powers? God, you never think about these things when you’re a kid. You just think it’ll be cool, then you finally get it and it’s just really annoying. You never plan for super powers, you plan for flats and boyfriends and nights out. You don’t plan to actually be that person all the time.

It seemed so black and white as a kid. There’s Clark Kent, but really he’s Superman. It’s so simple; you have a real identity, and a secret one. But when you’re where I am they kind of blend at the edges. Sure, I don’t want anyone to find out it’s me under this stupid costume, but wouldn’t that just be easier? Why does it matter so much? Superheroes in comics and films have their reasons, but it’s not like I’m anybody special in real life, caring so much about who knows which persona seems tiring. I’ve got work in the morning.

What if people out there get offended when I help them?

“Excuse me Miss, I think I can handle my own problems. Just who do you think you are?”

How embarrassing that would be. I’d just have to walk away. Or fly, but is that showing off?

And worse than all of this, I won’t even get pay for doing this. You don’t pay superheroes, do you? You never see them getting a payslip. That wouldn’t be noble, or just or whatever.  I kind of want something for it. It’s a total dick move, but there should be some sort of ranking system, or menu or whatever.
“£150 for stopping a bank heist, but it’ll be £220 if you want me to bring the crooks in as well sir”. Can you imagine their faces when you ask for money?

“Sorry Mayor, but my landlady is really touchy on late rent payments, I’ll have that in cash if you don’t mind”

I sit back on the armchair and flick through the channels. This isn’t so bad I guess. There are worse positions to be in. This costume is pinching; I’m going to get into pyjamas.

Next week though, next week I’ll totally do it.