Sometimes, I can't sleep.

There are things that run through my head in the night, my brain picking at every detail of my room, scanning for problems. There was a chip in the wall. The lamp on my night table would need a new bulb soon. The sleeping pills my father left for me were two different sizes. The framed picture of my mother was covered in smudges. I sat up a bit in bed and opened the night table drawer, pulling out a small, soft cloth. It was meant for eyeglasses, I think, but my vision had always been close to perfect and I'd never needed them. Instead, this little cloth was used exclusively for cleaning my mother's photo, making sure no spec of dust or any fingerprints were left behind. She deserved clean glass.

The photo was taken years ago, before I was born, and had been shunned out of my father's collection because he thought it too blurry. It's true it was a bit fuzzy around the edges, my mother's arm blurred as she waved it in the air, batting one of the fallen red leaves out of her dark hair. But she looked happy. I'd never seen such a vibrant look on her face...and I never would. She had died years ago, when I was twelve, and she'd been sick long before that. I'd never known her healthy smile. Maybe that was why the photo was so important to me, like it was one piece of her, the real her, that I could hold on to. My father had told me countless times to choose a different photo. I couldn't bring myself to.

I stuffed the cloth back into the drawer and shut it as quietly as possible, even though I knew there was very little chance that my father would hear it. The house was big enough, and my room was far enough from his that I could make a little noise without waking him up. Still, I didn't want to risk it. My father wasn't exactly a warm man, and he would definitely wake up angry at this hour. I was a bit ashamed that I felt so afraid of him, even now, but there was something in the way he held himself that showed he wanted no nonsense. I was twenty three now, just barely, but he could yell at me and I would instantly become ten again, cowering from his power. Things had always been that way. And they always would be that way. I tucked myself under my comforter and tried to lull myself to sleep by humming. I counted sheep, ran through math problems in my head, tried to think up lines of poetry from the many books I'd read, but, as usual, nothing worked. The night dragged on, and my body stayed active. I was thankful when the sun peeked through my curtains.

My father was planning a get-together a few nights from now, something he did monthly, inviting scientists and other individuals of interest to our home for drinks, fancy foods, and, of course, enriching scientific conversation. He'd been into science for as long as I could remember, and it was the first thing that came to mind whenever I thought of him. He wasn't my father first; he was a man of science, innovation, deep thought. His research, in multiple fields, was what he was truly known for. He had even made a name for himself by starting a medicinal research company, appropriately and plainly named TG Medicines for 'Theodor Green.' Theodor was his middle name, but for some reason he felt 'Harold' wasn't as memorable. Apparently he was right in some way, because his company had taken off several years ago, giving him a much needed confidence—and financial—boost. Word seemed to have gotten around about me recently too, his pretty daughter who he'd schooled himself, who had 'inherited his brilliance' and could 'talk about any topic in detail.' I'd been studying the things he wanted me to study since I was very young, and by now I was practically his show-pony. Maybe I had 'inherited' his genius, with the way I could retain knowledge, but I hated the way he took credit for it. It was never about me or how intelligent I was. It was always about him. Always.

I didn't hate my father. I couldn't. I thought about this as I walked into the kitchen after I'd managed to get myself out of bed, starting up the coffee for him so he could wake up to it. He was a man on a mission, always searching for the next thing, studying what he could to try to unlock the secrets of the universe. He really wasn't that bad of a man anyway; sure, he had a temper, and many things were taken out on me, but in the end I always seemed to deserve it. After all, I had pushed my mother too far when I was young, dragging her out to play, hanging on her like she was a toy. I'd only made her worse. And he would never let me forget that. So, when he would get upset, when he'd graze my cheek with the back of his hand in a slap, I didn't think it that odd. It was fitting. Our relationship was what it was meant to be. I was a product of his genius, and I needed to do everything I could to help him succeed. That was my purpose.

He emerged from the hall and approached me, holding his hand out for his coffee cup. I quickly poured it for him and passed it over, being careful not to fill it too high so it wouldn't spill onto his hands. I'd done that last week, by accident, and had paid for it dearly. I needed to be more careful. He didn't say a word to me as he sat down at our counter, flipping open a newspaper and scanning through it, just as he did every morning. He never actually read it. He couldn't. We'd lived in Japan since I was about five, and though we'd been here all this time his Japanese was still sub-par. His speaking was clumsy, and he could hardly read a word of it. So he simply scanned, looking at pictures, reading the few words he could in hopes of finding something interesting. If he did, he'd hand it over to me and I would translate. I'd always had a knack for languages, which was one thing I had on him that he couldn't claim. German was his native language, and he was fairly good with English, but many other languages evaded him. When he had me take up studying he made sure that I learned everything he couldn't so that I could compensate for it. No one had to know I was the one writing the letters addressed to scientists around the world, so long as he signed his name at the bottom. I was too afraid to tell anyone that he really didn't know Russian or Japanese or French, even though Russian had been my mother's first and nearly only language. They'd shared English, but hers was often so bad that they had misunderstandings. I never knew why he didn't even bother learning for her. Maybe it was a power trip. Maybe he didn't want to fail.

"Stupid Stark," he mumbled in German, tossing the paper to his side and taking a loud gulp of his coffee. "He's working on all of this clean energy stuff now. His name is everywhere because of it. Like he's special for doing it. So much recognition for something that other people are already getting into, just because the world idolizes him. It's stupid." I tried not to look too curious as he cursed, though I felt tingles in my fingers at the mention of Stark. Tony Stark was not only an influential philanthropist (and self-proclaimed genius), but he was also now known as the legendary Iron Man. People called him a superhero, though some were still skeptical of the title, and I'd been so intrigued by him ever since he'd come out as such. Though I spent most of my time studying and reading complex textbooks and nonfiction, I did occasionally get my hands on comic books. I wasn't sure why I'd always been so drawn to them; they were stupid, really, with all of the action and ridiculous plots that shot off in every direction. Scientifically, many of the things within comic books were completely outlandish. But there was something about them, some charm, that drew me to them again and again. My younger cousin, Portia, would sneak them to me when we were younger, during the few visits she would make. My father and aunt didn't exactly get along so I didn't see her that often, but when I did she always had something new for me. I could get lost in a comic for hours, reading it over and over, the laminated pages falling through my fingers as the story unfolded. I wanted to be a superhero more than anything. I loved it more than science, more than language, more than anything I could ever learn within the books that my father gave me. I wanted to burst out of this house and go out to save the world, side by side with other heroes. Or, alternatively, one of them could make me their next project, scooping me up away from my father and taking me to a better life. I knew all of it was ridiculous, just make-believe, but the thought of it excited me completely.

I'd shaken the obsession years ago, though, trying to focus my efforts on more realistic means, but my love for the strange, brilliant, and supernatural stuck with me. So when I saw the newspaper next to my father, an image of Tony Stark smiling in front of his magnificent tower plastered on the front, something stirred in me. I waited patiently as my father droned on, complaining out of jealousy before finishing his coffee and leaving the room to go work. Cleaning his cup and trying not to jump for the newspaper, I attempted to calm my sudden over-excited thoughts. I made sure my father wasn't coming back before taking the paper and heading off to my own room.

The article wasn't anything too exciting, detailing Stark's work in the clean energy department and highlighting some of his newest endeavors. There wasn't anything about Iron Man, nor the other name that I was always looking for: Captain America. I'd been infatuated with him for years, back before he had even been found in the ice. I'd read comics about him, seen old newspaper articles about who he was and what he'd done. I didn't know why he'd stuck out more than anyone else. I honestly didn't question it, even if it was absurd. In the past I'd written an embarrassing amount of letters to him, after I'd found he was alive and awake. I couldn't recall exactly when he'd been found, which was odd, considering I knew almost everything about him, but I knew that I'd been old enough to know better than to write such ridiculous letters. Still, I'd done it. I was, quite literally, what I'd seen referred to as a 'fan girl.' Not that I would ever tell a soul. I'd work on weening myself off of my obsession, focus on the things I was meant to.

I had trouble sleeping again that night, tossing and turning irritably before I finally turned on my lamp and sat up, grabbing a book to sink into. It was on astro-biology and connectivity between human and other lifeforms, something that had become popular after the alien attack on New York a few years back. Scientists from all over had flocked there to try to gather materials to study, and though many had been sent away by the authorities, a few still pushed on. Their findings were highly theoretical, working on little evidence, but were still fascinating. Because of this, reading it was giving me the opposite of what I'd hoped for; instead of it lulling me to sleep, I found myself engaged in it. After about an hour, I had to put it down. This wasn't working. I cast my eyes on the sleeping pills, still sitting near the edge from the night before, and finally gave in. I scooped them off the table and swallowed them with a gulp of water, hating the way they felt as they slunk down my throat. Pills always made me feel like I was going to choke, like it was impossible for something like that to make its way down. But, just like that, they were gone. I waited, wondering how long it would take for them to set in. Sleeping pills had never worked well on me. I must have had some kind of tolerance, but I was too much of a chicken to take too many and….

When I opened my eyes again, sun was shining onto my face. My body ached, my heart beating erratically against my chest, contorting my breath and sending a wave of nausea over me. I tried to move, but it felt like all my muscles were paralyzed. All I could do was dart my eyes around in a panic. Eventually I started to regain some control of my muscles, starting with the tips of my fingers and moving up, until finally I was able to sit up in bed. Sweat dripped down the sides of my face. It took me a moment to notice the piece of paper that had been tacked to my bedside table, scrawled in German with a lazy hand. 'Let me know how the pills work,' it said. A spark of rage flared up inside me. This wasn't the first time my father had used me for testing out new products, but for some reason it angered me more than usual. He didn't even have the decency to warn me. He knew that I would do anything for him, comply where I needed to, take whatever he told me, and yet he still felt the need to go behind my back and do things like this. I crumpled the note and threw it across the room, angry tears springing to my eyes. My heart continued to painfully and violently throb. I pushed myself off the bed and stumbled my way to the door, my breathing heavy and taxed, but the anger that had risen in me was fueling me enough to stay standing. I didn't know where I was planning on going, but my body took me to my father's lab. It had always been a bit cluttered, full of failed ideas and tests that he carelessly left around. I shoved several beakers full of unidentified liquid off of one of the tables, feeling the slightest satisfying twinge as they hit the ground, shattering into pieces. My vision faded in and out. I continued around his workspace this way, throwing papers around, ripping things up, carelessly tossing around his supplies. Something inside of me kept me going, even though logically I knew this was wrong. I needed to go back to my room and calm down, have some tea, accept what had happened and move on like I always did. No, I thought, pulling over a small table and letting it crash to the ground beside me. He can't do this to me anymore. I am not a puppet. I am not a test subject. I am not standing for this anymore. Let him burn in hell. The latter startled me a bit, so violent and seething with hatred. But I couldn't stop. I had the burning urge to take down everything, ruin all of his work and make him start from scratch without me. He's going to be so disappointed when he comes home to everything in flames.

At the corner of the room there was a rounded device propped up on a small table, a sheet of paper taped to it. I ripped the paper off, about to crumple it up, but the first line caught my attention.

Dear Captain America.

I felt as if everything stopped. It was written in my hand, clearly one of the stupid letters that I had written, though I couldn't remember actually sitting down to write it. My eyes scanned the page furiously as I stood there, my thoughts jumping in every direction. This is stupid. But this is what you wanted. Why would you ever write this? You're completely in love with him. How could I be? I don't know him. Did I write this? He's everything you want to be, everything that has kept you going all this time. He would burn this lab down. He would take down everything. He would stand up.

I let the letter fall from my fingers and grasped the circular object from the table, scanning the smooth surface. I remembered seeing blueprints for this. My father was into medicine now, that was true, but he'd also dabbled in weaponry. This was a bomb. What was this letter doing on a bomb? I clasped it between my hands and searched the surface with my fingers, trying to find any sort of activation switch. My heart thudded in my chest. I almost cried out in pain. If I blew this up somehow, I would go with it. Did I want that? What else do you have? My thoughts mocked me. But they weren't wrong. What did I have besides this sorry life of experimentation and submission? Would I do this until he was dead? Would I stay here and waste away as he tried countless things on me, most of which wouldn't even work? Would I continue to entertain at his parties, giving my mind and my body away to whoever would please my father? Was this all I was? Pain plagued my fingers as I finally found the switch, a little indention that opened the side of the small capsule and exposed a little blue button. Not anymore, I thought, positioning my finger over it. I am not yours anymore.

My back collided hard with the wall across the room as flames burst from the device, everything all at once alight with brilliant explosions. My father must have designed it to release multiple smaller explosions after the initial one, fire dancing around the room, though I could hardly see it with the spots seared into my eyes. My ears rang. Something warm trickled across my legs, my face, my arms. I couldn't feel my hands. The cool breeze of Japanese autumn air brushed over my skin, though I couldn't focus any of my senses enough to tell where it was coming from. I could feel myself slipping slowly. Somewhere in the distance I thought I heard the blades of a helicopter.

Dear Captain America,

There are things in this world I don't understand. People say that science matters. Other say religion. Some say neither. Everyone has something to say, some opinion, but none of it is real. If that's the case, then what is real? Are you real? Am I? The clock on my bedroom wall is always ticking, the man-made construct of time moving us all forward. What if we didn't have to move forward? Did you move forward when you were frozen, or were you nearly suspended, lost to time and humanity alike, defying every rule and regulation placed upon human kind? I believe I am also suspended. I see time move by but I don't feel its effects. Everything out there moves and I stand still, waiting, watching, doing what I'm told. You spit in the faces of those that told you no. Teach me to be the same. Teach me to be free.

Please.

Annabelle Green.