Short Story : Night Fury

“So much for trying to be a hero”.

 “This is what happens when teenagers do not grow up. Freak.”

 “What was the costume made of? Trash?”

“Did she really call herself Night Fury? LOL”

“Come on guys, we should be nice. After all she might be retarded.”

                I scrolled through the comments on the channel where a video of me was posted. Dad told me that going through the comments was an act of masochism and at some point I think so too. Reading all these comments hurt yet I could not take my eyes off of them. Let alone stop thinking about it. With shaking hands, I clicked on my mouse and watched open eyed on my computer screen. It was a video I filmed shortly after I finished my costume.

“Fear not citizens. Night Fury is on the way!” I could hear myself saying.

                Even though I knew what was about to come, I could not take my eyes of the screen as I watched myself enthusiastically preparing for a cartwheel that I had been practising for months. It had worked before but apparently not this time. I had miscalculated the space I needed and the direction I was going because I ended up crashing into a glass cupboard. It took me three months to recover. Three horrible months that I miraculously survived albeit permanent scars all over my body. Honestly, the humiliation that followed hurt more than those few months.

                 Falling to my knees, I reached for a box under my bed where I kept my costume. My hands quivered over it as my sobbing increased and my whole body shook mirroring the magnitude of emotions that was spilling out of me. Instinctively, I held my knees against my chest and rocked back and forth, only one word ringing in my head; “freak”.

                When I finally calmed down, my eyes were sore and the time was unknown to me. I reached out for the costume and buried my face in it. In the calmness that followed, my mind cleared and I had a sudden urge to put the costume on. I hesitated but pushed my doubts aside. Standing before the mirror in my blood stained purple costume, I started to remember.

                I started to remember why I did it. I remembered mother’s voice as she told me that I was adamant. I remembered the day she told me I was meant for great things. I remembered the surge of adrenaline, the fire that burned my skin, the slap of realisation, the clarity of thought and most importantly, the beautiful feeling of righteousness. Maybe they were right; I am probably hallucinating. But I believe that the courage to put back the costume when everything goes wrong is the most powerful thing a hero can possess and what I believe is much more important than what they say. I am Night Fury; and I am a hero.