A Hero's Story

One

     I drum my fingers angerly on the steering wheel of my car. "GO. FASTER." And bang my head on the headrest. I seriously wish that I could fly to work instead of driving through traffic, but I could blow my cover. Besides, it's only a ten minute drive, with no traffic.
     Unfortunately, there's traffic. The traffic is moving so incredibly slow, I am able to study the detail on the road of the freeway. I see a doughnut and coffee shop I've never seen before, as well as an ice cream shop.
     I roll down the window and lean as far as I dare without taking my foot off the brake. "Why?" I pout.
     "Stop being such a drama queen," snarked Elliot. "It's just traffic."
     I shoot a glare at him. "You. You should know that I am the most impatient person, on the planet. This traffic is killing me."
    He singsongingly replies, "Drama queen."
The cars in front of me begin to move and I shout "Finally!" At the top of my lungs. The cars creep forward about six get before creeping to a halt again. "Nooo" I cry.
     "Just take the next exit please. Take the long way, before my eardrums burst from your wailing." Elliot says calmly as he sips from his travel mug.

I turn my blinker on and as soon as a gap appears, shove my way into it to get into the "slow" lane on the freeway. The off ramp is about twenty feet away, from there, I can get to work in eight minutes.

     Elliot and I, the most unlikely of friends, and now roommates, met under the unfortunate events that were my now ex-best friend and roommate , and his ex-fiancée. He had moved in with us shortly after he proposed, and after two months, she dumped him and moved out within two days. The argument? I ate the last of the peanut butter. Although, I highly doubt that was the entire reason, it was the one she gave me. My response? How dare I eat my own peanut butter.

     "Almost to the off ramp," Elliot remarks.
    "I can see that." I retort. "Gee, which one of us is the one that needs glasses?"  I roll my eyes as he pushes his glasses up his nose. "So where am I dropping you off today? The mall? An apartment? You need to tell me before I get to the studio, otherwise you're walking from there."
     "Well, let me see."
     "You don't know yet? What the heck, Elliot. They tell you these things in advance for a reason."
      He scrolls through his phone. "The Metropolitan Fine Arts Studio requires me to guard their precious dancers and musicians today, from 10-3, and again from... Let's see."
    "My studio? I guess Oscar is finally taking his vacation." Oscar is a dear old security guard who wouldn't hurt a fly. He's been working in my studio since before I worked there. Which had been two years... But besides that he's worked there for forever. I can always count on him for a smile as I walk in the front door. The night guards always rotate, but Oscar is always there from 10am-3pm.
     "Wait. I can't be reading this right. They want me to work from 7pm until two in the morning." Elliot slumped in his chair. He works as a Rent-a-cop, or a body guard, or whatever the job needs. If someone needs protecting, for the price of $30 an hour, he's there. He wears a black suit with a tie to every job.
     "Why would they even need you there that late? The studio closes at 8pm, every night. Let me see."
    "No, you're driving."
    "Really?"
    "Look! I bet you could make it to the off ramp now." He says.
     I slam on the gas. That distraction costed me precious seconds, and there was a wide enough gap in between my car and the one in front of me, just enough, to where if I went slightly over the white line, I could escape the freeway. Before I think twice, I'm turning the corner at a green light at the bottom of the off ramp.
     "You're mad." Elliot says as he lets go of the handle.
    I flip my hair and say, "Completely, dear."
He pulled his baseball cap over his eyes, some of his short, brown curls falling out. "Absolutely insufferable."
"I live for-"
"No more words from you." He interupts. After a few moments of silence, he sighs. "Isn't that nice?"
"What the weather? My hair? The smell of burning pertrolium that has encased the car?" I retort, grinning.
He glares at me and rolls his eyes. Sitting up, he removes his hat and straightened his tie. "Drop me off in front of the building."
"Uh, no." I respond.
"Uh, why? Wait, wait no you're gonna miss it!" He complains.
"Say please," I sing back.
"Please," he says. "You're such a child."
"Who's driving?" I say back.
" Shut up." He grumbles.
I pull up to the curb and let him out. "Have fun watching the door."
"That's not what I'm doing," He tells me as he closes the door.
"Byee," I wave. "So long, chap! I may never see you again!" I drive slowly, steering with one hand and waving with the other as I pull into the studio's parking lot. I park, hop out of the car, and grab my clarinet out of the back, along with a new box of reeds. I stick a reed in my mouth and walk into the building. I wave at Elliot through the window, who is getting a security badge from the security office. Again, he rolls his eyes in response.
I lock myself into my soundproof booth, and begin my daily practice routine. As a super powered individual, my powers are somewhat different from others. My mom's side has always had "weaker" genes, small scale manipulation (turning things on like light switches), or inhuman vision. My father's side though, time manipulation, incredible speed and strength. I got some of both. I can fly, and I have super-hearing. They flying is hard to control, it's more of an anti-gravity sort of thing. Also, owered people can continue to gain new powers until the age of 25. Since I have above average hearing, it helps my musicianship- perfect pitch is a wonderful thing to have. I'll never need a tuner. (Not saying I don't have three because I'm parinoid. Uh one in my case, one at home, and one on my phone that works quite well.

     In my room in the studio, there is a one way mirror that occasionally hides my benefactors who have come to listen to me play. The deal with the studio, I come in to the studio five days a week, any time, so long as it adds up to 30 hours, and they pay for me to preform. I also get 40% of the profits from every concert. It's been a long time since they've booked me though, lately they've been favoriting a cellist, a child prodigy.

I begin to play a Mozart solo from memory. I lilt myself away from my thoughts with the comforting tones and melodies in the song.