• Heroism Comes in Different Forms

    She stared into his bloodshot cobalt eyes; his greasy chocolate hair was matted, his skin tainted and stained in dried blood, she wasn’t sure whether it was his or another’s. She supposed, she should be terrified, aghast even, but she found herself at a loss for words and emotions; her gaze lingered between him and another man lying unconscious before her. She suspected she should be fearful in the least, the man before-the conscious one- was a murderer, or at least the media considered him to be. His face splattered over news reports, it didn’t help that he was always there when the police arrived but vanished seconds later after taking a half-second to stare at him.

    ‘He’s a murderer, run, why aren’t you running? He’s going to kill you!’ Her subconscious screamed in the back of her head.

    He clutched his chest where blood began to seep through his shirt, she was halfway tempted to approach him and check his injuries, to see if they were fatal, he never broke eye contact though. His eyebrows knit together.

    “What’s your name?” He bit out, his voice jagged and hoarse; blood began tickle down his chin from his swollen lip and bloody nose.

    She took a half step back, caught off guard; she stood her ground and silently whispered back delicately as she studied his body language, “That doesn’t concern you.” A smirk flew over his lips, “True, but it does concern them.” He pointed behind her to a group of police officers; each held a cocked gun aiming directly for the man’s forehead. She had been so lost in her own world that she hadn’t heard the sirens. He mindlessly chuckled at her disoriented gasp. In a flash and cool rush of air blowing her hair she found herself lost in a transparent sea of blurred colors, a fierce grip around her waist held in place as the crisp air flew around her, she found her breath caught in her throat and nearly chocked.

    Warm liquid began to drip down onto her porcelain face, she stifled a scream as she looked at the surprisingly clear vision of the murderer before her, her face lodged into his ribcage, half her body pressed against his chest and lower torso while the other half remained limp in the air. It was a rather awkward position; much less a position superman would chose to carry Lois Lane.

    Suddenly, the two halted to a stop in front of a building at least ten miles away from where they had recently resided, he dropped her to the cement sidewalk without much thought, and she herself was in a bit of panic as she watched him slowly limp away without second glance. She saw his blood, felt his rush of adrenaline as they soared through the sky…that was the day Lois Lane realized that this superman was neither villain nor hero. He was not nefarious, just misunderstood.