Chapter 1
Being a good hero is one of the hardest things in the world. Harder than being the President, harder than getting rocket science just right to make it to Mars. Almost downright impossible. But that’s what I wanted to do. I started off with the name Matchstick, due to my hot head, skinny little body, and the ability to shoot roaring flames from my palms. I was a vigilante, often mockingly featured in the newspaper as a ‘Hoodlum Hero’, and known around the neighborhood as a ‘dirty little snitch’.My homelife obviously wasn’t the best, considering that I spent my free time destroying half the town’s livelihood. My parents washed their hands of me, my friends left me, and the thugs tried to steal whatever they could from me. Everybody knew who I was and they knew what I was capable of, but I wanted more. I wanted to be known as the greatest, the best.
It was a few years later when I’d finally moved away from the slums, (they lit my house on fire one too many times), that I started making a name for myself. Up in the big fancy part of town, where they didn’t live on drug money, I could make my own reputation as Flare. Helping save old ladies from pickpocketing hoboes and flaming bank robbers as fast as they ran out of the bank.
”He’s a hero!” some of the old ladies would gush. “He saved me from that horrid man who tried to steal my purse.”
“He’s a lunatic” the businessmen would grumble. “He burned off their fingers, and even when he tried to ‘help’ at the bank, he burnt the money!”
I tried to do what they asked. I practiced harder, till my fingertips blistered until I felt that they could be proud of me. I started focusing my abilities on the way the citizens wanted me to act. I flamed the robbers before they even finished pulling their weapons from their pockets, and threatened the homeless folk to stay away. Life was good for about two years, and I even got married to the mayor’s daughter, and together we had a son named Blaze. I thought I had achieved what I was looking for.
But then the bank began complaining about the unsightly scorch marks on their shiny wood floor, people protested about their children having nightmares, and the once adoring old ladies expressed their disgust of me bullying the “poor homeless folk”. It didn’t end, even when I came home. My wife would gripe at me because she said I ‘mooched’ off her money and Blaze barely knew who I was. I couldn’t get any sleep, afraid that I would miss one job and be dragged through the media again. Then came a new hero, a well-liked fellow called River. Instantly, I disliked him just because of his powers. Then his approval ratings started shooting up. The people loved him, and soon I was forgotten.
It burned me up inside that they replaced me so quickly. I thought I was their best, but I guess I wasn’t. What have I done but tried to be their hero? Am I the problem? I remember thinking. No, they are the problem. And at that very moment, I saved myself from that downward spiral of depression. And, as an extra bonus, I make the front page of the newspaper just as nicely as River did. All it takes is a little house fire, or just one tiny murder of the town’s best hero to be featured for weeks. Turns out, being the best villain is way more rewarding than being the best hero, and is very good for making your life feel more fulfilled. In the end, I moved to a different country to work on becoming my own hero. And the people of Old York? Well, let’s just say they had a nice barbeque last week.
This was something I did for my Ap English 3 class and I wanted to share it with you guys cause I was a lil proud of it. Let me know what you think!
