Super Hater

I love cracks. No, not druggies or anything, but actual cracks. They make everything so delicate, and prove that the hardest shells to crack can actually be damaged. I always feel so depressed, though, which is a weird feeling to love; I enjoy feeling any emotion, I guess. The cracks remind me that people can be broken, and I fear that the cracks in me are already beginning to appear for no reason, so what will happen when there is a reason? Hairline fracturing of the glass distorts the reflection, showing a whole other you.

The reason I am in such a depressed mood about cracks is because I have been staring at one, or possibly hundreds, of cracks for hours. When my car crashed, the glass of my windshield on my car was distorting the life outside, and it might look the same the other way around. I'm noticing these because it is starting to become more difficult to ignore my wounds and wait out help. I knew I had been here for at least an hour, because the blood and everything was beginning to become familiar. It felt as if I had never known anything but the same pain. The same aching in my ribs, the wheezing where I could have possibly punctured a lung, my broken arm where it had shattered through the shoulder blade. The wheezing from my lung caused me to cough, jostling my arm, and I bit my cheek until it bled. I couldn't see from my left eye at all, and the hearing from my right ear was limited. How would I survive this?

And all of this pain, cracks, my poor car, was all due to a squirrel. Yes, the girl who hates heroism saved a squirrel. It ran right in front of my car, like it was late for an important date with an acorn, and didn't stop. It isn't like I'm heartless; of course I stopped the car, but it swerved on the black sheet of ice, and here I am, facing imminent death. That squirrel better make a difference in squirrel-world, if he wanted to weigh out his life for my death.

"You stupid squirrel!" I call out, my voice scratchy from screaming. And I swear, after I said that, the rodent had the balls to chirp back happily. When I come back because my soul is not avenged, I will haunt that butt of a squirrel to the grave.

"I didn't know I was a squirrel," a voice remarked dryly. Through the shattered window by the driver's door, I can see the legs of someone standing by my upside down car. From my point of view, the person is wearing skin tight pink latex. It stands out from the white snow, like the blood spilling from the door.

"Help," I say weakly, before mentally kicking myself. I sounded like I was begging, and I never begged. Begging is a sign of weakness, and I frowned upon depending on others.

There was distinct ripping sound, so horrible that I had the urge to hold my hands to my ears if I had the strength. There was a blast of cold air, then a steady hand rested on my shoulder. "Hold still," it urged, before the hand tightened and I was softly lifted from the seat. Everything was so numb, and I had to fight the dark spots that were covering the edges of my vision. The snow held my body as I was softly set there, and it bothered me I couldn't even feel it.

"This is going to hurt. A lot," I heard the voice say again, and it just occurred to me that this was a girl. Only an extremely, and I am not saying this lightly, buff person would be able to do what this girl had just done. I bit my tongue to keep from yelling at this girl. "Can't you see," I want to scream, "that I don't want to be saved?" But I don't. Later on, I will wonder why I didn't immediately dis her and tell her to leave me to die. Maybe because I do actually want to be saved, and my hard exterior was to hide all of this. For now, though, all I feel is anger.

After my unfortunate savior says that, a warmth begins in my stomach, where she is touching. It spreads to my chest, then my head. I feel it begin to seep further into my body, until it rests on my injuries. Then the pain begins.

I imagine that is is what my injuries would have felt like if I had felt them in slow motion. The bones are shifting to their original places, my lungs are closing, and all of the other wounds are fixing themselves. I blackout shortly, and when I come to, my head hurts. Just my head, because everything else is healed.

I sit up, brushing the dirty snow by my car off. I take my unlucky hero in, her outfit and all. There is purple hair atop her head, cut off below the ear. Her mask is black with holes for the eyes, and beneath are kind blue eyes. She has on a full-body latex pink suit, and I don't know how she isn't embarrassed saving people in that. On her chest lay the words 'Super Girl' in the same bright purple as her hair. Did I forget the blue cape on her back? All in all, she looks like a real superhero. I hate it.

I find myself standing up, walking close enough until I can smell her candy breath, and I look into her expectant eyes. "You should have let me die," I hiss. "I would have preferred to die than have to live with the fact a superhero," I say the word like it had a bad taste in my mouth, "saved me."

The shock on her face lasted for a short amount of time before her rebuttal hit me like a ton of bricks. "I would have liked it that way much better, too. Knowing I let a brat live is gonna kill me." She steps even closer, her foggy breath mingling with mine. "You wanna know something? Saving people gives me a feeling of satisfaction, and if you would rather all of the people who temporarily need saving or they die to be harmed or killed, just say so."

I stay quiet, thinking hard. I always thought that superheroes saved people for attention, maybe even planting the victims. I can see that this hero, Super Girl, just wants to help people live through the day. How can I hate someone who is sincere in her actions, who only wants the better for people? I can't.

She nods, stepping back. "I know who you are, Harley Davis. I see you every day, because we go to school together. I see how angry and alone you are, and it's because you won't let anyone near you. You don't like to have anyone see you fall or know your secrets. That's a hard life." She looks me in the eyes. Shaking her head, she gives me a hand. "Let me take you home."

I hesitate. I realize that I don't like to let anyone touch me, and she was giving me the chance to overstep all that and come to her. Just like a friend would. I take a big step, metaphorically, and take her hand. Her smile is instant, and in the next second, we are in the air and flying at the speed of sound. I scream like I would on a roller coaster, my hair behind me as if the wind wanted me to stay. The city below me was alive because it never slept, cars honking and the lights as bright as the sun would be during the day. From up here, my home was so small. It was hard to believe so many people lived in such a confined area.

A couple of minutes later, my little house comes into view, just outside the city. Going down at this speed was like a plane crashing, and I have to catch my breath once Super Girl lands in front of my door. "Whoa," I say, out of breath.

"You get used to it," Super Girl says to me. She looks at my house. "Welcome back home, Harley. And, just a note, please let yourself be saved every once in a while. And make a friend. I have a feeling you'll be gaining a new one tomorrow. Bye."

I look up quickly, but by the time I do, Super Girl is long gone, a charred piece of sidewalk all that remained where she once stood. I stared at the black concrete. My anger had floated away sometime during this experience, and it amazed me at how my beliefs had changed so quickly. It isn't the heroes I have to hate, but the ones who make me need to be saved. (Little squirrel, I'm talking to you.)

Turning to the door, I walk inside while preparing myself for the grounding I was bound to get from my parents.

**************

The next day, at lunch, a new member was added to my loner table, making it now have two people. While I was getting lunch, a person walked up to me. "I heard about your accident last night," she said. "You might need a friend."

And like that, she was sitting at my table and we were laughing. I know that she would never admit it, and her hair and voice may have been different, but I'd remember those blue eyes anywhere. So I let her save me from myself.

Author's note:

Hello! How was my first story? I know it was short, but it felt right to end it on that note. This was originally an English assignment, but I fixed it a bit and made it less formal. There is an obvious theme, sorry, because this was an English paper.

Oh, and my name is Hannah. There will be more stories, probably not soon. Please don't tell me this was horrible or anything, only constructed criticism is accepted and acknowledged. See ya later!