This was originally intended as a one-shot, but I thought of a couple of other characters who might like to be superheroes, so I thought I'd try continuing.

Sometimes when things start to get hard, I start to feel bad about myself, I run my fingers over the scars on my right palm.

I don't remember getting the scars, but I know they come from when I get upset, from my manic episodes, and they remind me that I could get worse.

That hand always reminded me of pain, of weakness. Until Michael's first day of kindergarten, when he clutched that hand, using it as his shield against the world.

It was at that moment that I realized that my hand wasn't just pain. Even though bad had happened, I could still be strong. Be strong for Michael.

Be his superhero.

When I was little, when I was locked in the closet, I would hit my head against the wall, so softly that my step-dad couldn't hear, and I would promise that I would never hurt my child. That if I had children, they would always be happy and safe, and no monsters like my step-dad could haunt them.

I broke my promise though. The worst possible monster, AJ, got a hold of Michael. MY son. Not his. And even worse, he had hurt Michael.

I had promised him, and I had broken my promise.

The kind of pain that I felt when I looked at Michael, just lying there, staring straight ahead, wasn't something that I had felt before. That was a broken heart. It was more than I could handle. It made me sick to my stomach.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" Reese asked, coming up behind me. Her hand gently rested on my shoulder, but I quickly shook it off. In the window's reflection, I could see the hurt on her face, but I didn't care. I shook my head without looking back at her.

"Sonny," she whispered. "You're no good to Michael if you're exhausted. He's out for the night. There's an empty bed down the hall. Why don't you lie down? I'll call you if anything happens."

"I'm fine," I replied, my tone less brash that I had hoped.

She put her hand on my shoulder again in an attempt to turn around. I didn't. Still, I could still see her reflection in the window, and her eyes stood out the most.

Pity.

"Sonny," she tried, one last time. "You can't be a superhero."

I didn't want to be a superhero. Just his.

"Sonny," Michael asked one day when he was six, going through a policeman stage. "Are policemen superheroes?"

"Well," I said carefully, pulling his blankets up. "Some police men are good. And they help save lives. But there are some policemen who aren't good, and they don't help people. They hurt them. But, the ones who save lives are kind of like superheroes."

"Can they fly?"

"No, Michael," I said with a laugh, "They can't fly. But they do something much more important."

"Can they spin spider webs?" he asked with wide eyes.

"Nope. But they protect people. And that's the most important thing someone can do. Now, it's time for bed." I told him, switching off his light and giving him a kiss on the forehead. Just before I shut his door, I heard him say my name again.

"Yeah?"

"I guess you're a Superhero then."

No, I was no superhero. I couldn't protect him. I was nothing more than my step-dad.