I don’t consider myself a very good writer but I try from time to time. During my lunch break at work, I typed this out on my windows phone. It is dark. Some of you may not like it. It is a self narrative told by a strange super hero. I was going to hold on to the tale until I could draw some illustrations. I know me, if I do that I might never tell it. So here it is…
Tales from The Rooftops; Part one.
It was a dark and stormy night.
Ya, I like that. That’s how I’ll start this.
I know it sounds cliché, but it was dark, stormy and it was night.
I don’t remember anything before that night.
I woke up, crouched on this ledge, looking down on that street from way up here, dressed like a superhero right out of a comic book.
The only thing difference between me and them, is I am real, and they aren’t.
I saw two punks, thugs, dressed in their colors, bothering a woman in a tight red dress.
They where yelling give me your money.
She was scared. I could feel it, her heartbeat, the chills.
I could feel it like I was her. Her fear, her panic, it ran through me.
It hurt.
One of the punks pulled out a switch blade.
He cut one strap to her dress.
she felt it fall. She instantly covered her breast.
I didn’t see it.
I was a little disappointed.
I am lonely.
That is why I do this,
Or at least I think that is why.
I don’t really know.
She turned around to face the guy with the knife.
The other punk grabbed the back of her dress and pulled.
I felt it rub into her skin.
It hurt.
She screamed.
They grabbed her, covered her mouth and pulled her into the alley.
She fought but they pinned her, began tearing at her clothes.
The fabric ripping into her skin.
I felt it, her pain.
Warm tears filled her eyes.
She knew her fate.
She went into shock.
I went into a rage.
I leapt, soared.
I was on them in seconds.
I saw what I was doing, but like I was outside my body.
I saw it like I was inside the woman.
Like I was using her eyes.
It was weird.
I left one alive.
In pain.
He would never walk again.
That knife between his legs, in his throat.
The one in his hand, in his spine.
The other guy, the dead one, he was lucky.
He died quick.
I went to the woman.
She was still afraid, terror-stricken, but not of what almost happen to her.
She was afraid of me.
I felt it.
I heard sirens, the cops, they where coming.
I knew she would be alright.
I ran.
In this town, the hero always has to run.
