Bolt

Prologue| Forgotten Son.

The world loved everything about black people, except black people.

Very early on in this whole, "I am a hero" shtick, I knew they would blame me when something went wrong. It wasn't because I was careless or a bad hero. The harsh truth was, it was because I was black.

And I learned how to live with it.

Society had decided to put many expectations on my shoulders compared to other heroes.

I wasn't allowed to show anger, or I would be labeled The Angry Black Hero.

I wasn't allowed to complain, or I would feed into the stereotypical Loud Black Man.

I was told I sounded ghetto and hood-like, and I had to change.

They wanted me to be perfect from how I walked, talked, and looked. And these expectations were set by leaders of the Black Hero Agency. They thought it would make others feel more comfortable around me.

I hated it.

Why did I have to change?

There was nothing wrong with me.

Being the first black hero from my struggling district should have been celebrated. Instead, they used me to appease the wealthy one percent and show them that not all black people from my district were criminals.

There were so many times I desperately wanted to end my life because of the overwhelming pressure on me. And I always came close before I pictured my mother's sunken face at my funeral. Her red eyes, messy hair, puffy face, and snot coming out of her nose as she gave a eulogy was enough for me to keep living.

So for years, I played the agency's game.

I became their golden boy from Mamba District.

"The best young black peculiar," they had dubbed me at the time.

That's what they called those of us with inhuman abilities.

Peculiars.

Then one day, another black hero came to the fold. I was glad there were two of us from Mamba. The expectations of me decreased. And in a matter of weeks, more and more black peculiars from my district signed on to be heroes.

People asked, "Why so many of them suddenly? Where were they the entire time?"

I knew why.

The money heroes made was too much for the black peculiars–who chose not to reveal themselves before–to ignore.

And before I knew it, there were too many of us to count.

But with the arrival of new black heroes from Mamba, no one needed me anymore. Not the sponsors, advertisers, or my agency.

And that's how I became Mamba's forgotten son.