She runs swiftly through the thick grass, her long mane of wild brown curls flying behind her. She envisions it as her cape, her magical superpower wielding device, like Batman's numerous gadgets or Spiderman's webs and pumps her legs faster. She imagines being chased by wild animals set on her by her very own villain and jumps as high as she can, escaping into the high trees of her mind's forest, triumphing over the villain once more. Her mother calls her in and she hurries to tell her heroic tale. She is four years old and she is playing hero.
She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes as she breaths in the cool, crisp air, hoping to calm her increasing heart rate. Behind her the purple sheet from her bed set soars in the wind, fashioned to her neck as if a cape, much like Superman as he flew through her morning cartoons. She takes a step closer, her clean white shoes toeing the invisible line, and wills herself to do it, to prove to herself that she can truly fly. A door opens and she hears her mother scream below her. She opens her eye and looks down; her mother is frantic on the ground, hurrying to get a ladder and her father, yelling for her to stay put. She sighs and sits down on the cool shingles of the roof. She is six years old and her mother doesn't want her to be a hero anymore.
The boy didn't cry, she notices, as he spoke quietly to the teacher. She didn't know what happened but the boy had come in from lunch, his eyes shiny from determinedly unshed tears. His entire knee was skinned; a great bloody thing that paled even her newest battle scar and the teacher was out of all the good bandages. The girl pulls a box from her bag and runs to him, smiling a big, toothy smile as she hands him the box. He slowly smiles back, his large chocolate eyes lighting as he selects a Batman Band-Aid, one of her personal favorites. The frazzled teacher smiles gratefully and gives her a Silver Star sticker covered in shiny sparkles. She is eight years old and her teacher has declared her the hero of the classroom.
The boy plays with her now and together they fight crime, ridding the world of evildoers every day after school. They are discussing it now, at lunch, when she sees a different boy, bigger than her friend and with ugly mud brown eyes instead of pretty chocolate, picking on a younger girl. She nudges her friend and he frowns. He tells her to stay but, of course, she follows anyway. Her friend gets a big bruise on his cheek, better than she ever got, but she doesn't mind that so much. She minds the way the smaller girl is looking at her friend as the teacher carts off the ugly brown-eyed boy to the classroom. She is ten years old and she doesn't like the way the girl is treating her friend like such a hero.
She is irritated now. The boy doesn't want to play hero anymore. He thinks it's childish, that they had better things to do. She storms away from him, ignoring the looks he was shooting back at her refusing to walk home with the traitor. She is twelve years old and perfectly capable of being a hero by herself.
He's forgiven by now but they've officially outgrown the old game. Sometimes when it's dark enough or no one they know is paying attention, they will give into the old temptation and play again, but for the most part they settle to leave it to the movies and the video games. She misses it but everyone else is grateful that she's finally growing up. She is fourteen years old and far too old to be playing hero.
She wipes her salty tears on her blue lace sleeve and tries to plaster a smile on her face before answering the door. He's standing there and he can see right through her act but he just smiles that small smile she loves and holds up the latest Batman movie and a bag of junk food. She smiles – a real one – because she knows that even if everyone else thinks she's a whore for sleeping with that boy in the bakery, he would always think she was perfect. As they settle down to watch the movie with a large bowl of popcorn and giant tub of red licorice between them, she is content to lay her head on his shoulder. She is sixteen years old and her best friend has stepped in to be her hero.
Her parents' proud faces are only two in the large swarm but they stand out to her like exotic flowers in a bed of shrubs and she can't help but return their large grins as she joins the other graduates in throwing the caps into the air. She thinks of all the things they've done for her and can't help but admire them. She is eighteen years old and her parents are still her greatest heroes.
She stares at the boy, eyes wide but unseeing, as she takes in his declaration. He stands straight in front of her, his brown eyes calm as he awaits her reaction, the stiff army uniform molding to his body. He needs to leave but she can't bear to see him go. She is twenty years old and the love of her life was going off to be a hero.
She stands nervously in front of the door, willing it to open on its own. Inside the boy – man now, would lay, bandaged, on a hospital bed and she can't face it. She was too frightened, but she forced the door open anyway. The man is lying there, propped up, the dark skin of his chest contrasting against the white of the bandages. She let a cry out at the sight and hurtled herself at him. He wraps her arms around her in response and holds her as she cries. She is twenty-two years old and very nearly lost her hero.
She stares at him and he stares back at her from the ground. He is down on one knee, hand outstretched to showcase his offering. He doesn't say anything at first, just her name very softly, but as she stays silent, he begins talking, sure and even. One phrase catches her attention and she laughs as she hugs him. She is twenty-four now, and her fiancée has called her his hero.
Her hair was a mess and she couldn't remember her last night of sleep but she didn't care. Her husband was off chasing monsters to take back to jail and she was left alone. She didn't mind though. As she stared in the soft eyes of her newborn daughter, a fierce determination overcame her. Saving the world didn't matter anymore. She was twenty-six years old and the only person she wanted to be a hero for was her baby girl.
The pretty dress her grandma had given her was dirty now, grass stains and apple juice has tarnished the front of the soft blue cotton and the little pigtails her mother had spent a grueling time one had lost out to the impenetrable strength of the unruly brown curls but her chocolate eyes remain bright and alert with happiness. She eagerly reaches out for her mother, catching on to the dark jeans before her. Her mama smiles fondly down, that beautiful smile that tells her she will be alright and her pretty blue eyes twinkled in admiration as she bent down and pulled her into her warm embrace. The baby girl loved her daddy but her mama remained the most special. She did not do the things the flashy characters on the bright television did like save kittens from the trees but she fed her when she was hungry and kissed her when she was hurt and all other things faded from importance. Her mother was without a doubt her world. She was two years old and the only hero she knew was her mother.
Sorry if this seems OC to anybody, it was originally an episodic piece for my creative writing class that I edited to fit Ranger and Stephanie. I quite liked the piece and I hope it at least put a smile on someone's face. Thank you for taking the time to read this.