Tom was, above all, a likeable child. He was affable and easy-going, a fair athlete and a smart student with a knack for practical jokes which, though fiercely funny, never crossed the line into malice. He spoke wittily to peers and adults and was a champion at verbal insults, though one could never tell whether he really meant it or not.
He was different, he knew that. His mother stroked his shoulder and called him a late bloomer, but he knew it was something more. While his friends abandoned all trappings of childhood and stood sullenly about waiting to spontaneously combust into grown folks, Tom didn't feel the same way, somehow. He stood beside them, in solidarity, but he still wished he was on the playground playing a game or slinging the dozens, something more alive.
He found solace in the comics lining bottom of his closet, tales of men blessed by birth or aliens or radiation with abilities beyond the scope of mortal man. These creatures were so smart and strong and brave, cunning and musc.les he envied and yet desired. Looking at these models of manhood something new stirred within him, something strange and somehow…no, could it really be wrong? He swallowed his longings deep, delved back into the stories of perfect men matched with perfect evils and perfect allies and dreamed of these perfect worlds, perfect lives.
Of course, even on the cusp of manhood, he knew enough to understand that these pulp worlds were utopias, mere backdrops to perfect combat, and had these heroes come to his world, would have had far greater conflicts to resolve before being able to defeat evildoers. They would be revolutionaries, troublemakers, world-shakers were they to peel themselves from the pages and into his neighborhood.
He rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling. Someday, he'd be the perfect man, with perfection at his side, and he'd shake the world. Someday, when he was smart enough, and strong enough, and brave enough…