Cellar Door
A Super Boy - Miss Martian FanFiction
By Thwack (formerly Sympathique)
This is a different take on the one-sentence writing challenge.
1. Comfort
Explosion
There are bodies everywhere.
Literally hundreds of them, littering the streets of downtown like many pieces of confetti. Slumped against buildings and lampposts, hanging halfway out of windows, or lying stagnant on the sidewalk. They are fresh – the peeling skin is still emanating small tendrils of smoke, the muscles not yet stiffening in rigor. The explosion eradicated most of the blood. The wounds (extensive and gaping) were cauterized almost immediately. Everything is in a charred and blackened condition – even the corpses. Especially the corpses. The whole thing resembles a charcoal drawing come to life – or death, as it were.
I have one or two seconds of composure before promptly turning around and becoming sick. Nausea triggers an unbearable churning in the depths of my stomach, and my sphincter gives one pathetic stab at resistance before giving way to the bile. And then I am heaving and heaving and heaving.
The sincerest of efforts were made at evacuation once the bomb threat was realized. I know because we were there, gathered and assessing what could be done. Sirens blaring and yellow caution tape across the pavement. The law enforcement swelling the downtown area with foot soldiers and trucks and all other sorts of machinery. We believed that there was a chance at salvation. Aqualad was strategizing with the commissioner. Kid Flash was practically vibrating where he stood. And Robin, though prepubescent and juvenile in more ways than one, was muttering calculations and disjointed datum on the proper way of dismantling a bomb. We are the Justice League – only pint-sized with a slighter faction. And we were ready to provide evidence to the fact.
But the explosion was premature.
And our approach ill-timed.
I'm still doubled over but thankfully the vomit seems to have died down. The others are there too, but none of them have started chucking their lunches. They are impressive in their impassivity – the only indication that they are reeling is in the hardened lines of their faces; their drooping mouths and downturned eyes; the new heaviness that seems to have burdened their shoulders. One of them has started rubbing my back. I am the only one making a commotion – the only chink in their proverbial armor – but I realize that I'm too overcome with sorrow to feel embarrassed. And really, there isn't anything to be ashamed about, is there? So it turns out my stomach has a delicate disposition when it comes to blistering human cadavers. So I'm tearing up over strangers that I never actually knew. So I am showing a decimeter of emotion for such a gargantuan waste of an existence. I think about the relatives of the dead that are as of yet unaware of the explosion; the lack of embarrassment they will feel when they receive that horrible call. The shifting and realignment of their worlds as the reality of it all changes things forever. I think about the parents who will never see their children and the spouses who promised to love one another forever and the children who will grow up never knowing (but always wanting to know) the sound of their mothers laugh. I think about funerals and gravestones and wasted potential.
There is no reason to feel shame.
I straighten up and meet blue eyes. Connor is looking at me and I can tell that he has been for a while. My throat is still burning from the vomit and there is exhaustion in every contour of my face that I know he can see, but I return the gaze nonetheless. I realize that his is the hand that was rubbing my back – it's still there, warming my shoulder blades. I am waiting for him to do something – say something; comment in that scathing way of his on how being a superhero means not chickening out every time someone bits it. But he doesn't say anything. He doesn't even think anything.
He just keeps rubbing my back.
And I know, then.
Even the strongest of us are not impervious to tragedy.
Even the stoutest can be humbled.
I blink.
Connor drops his hand.
The moment passes.
There is nothing but silence and the soft brush of wind for a few more minutes.
Then Kaldur is exhaling and addressing the team as a whole.
Giving us assignments.
Giving us a purpose.
And we are moving.
But the lingering warmth on my back continues.
And I am comforted.
