SuperHero

We all grew up hearing stories at bedtime. For the boys—superhuman men flying around in jumpsuits and saving the world from dastardly villains. For the girls—princesses locked away in towers awaiting their prince charming and his mighty steed. I was a girl, so I should have liked the princess stories, but I was a bit different.

Superman, Spiderman, Batman—they all fascinated me to no end. I would run around my house with a bed-sheet tied around my neck, zapping away the evil dust bunnies with my laser vision. I didn't want to sit around all day waiting to be saved. I wanted to be the one doing the saving.

And now I understood that those stories were complete bull. I was a wretch living in one of the slave cities of the nation, and I had no freedom, no happiness. No future.

I was the damsel in distress. I was the one waiting to be saved. But superheroes didn't exist, and no one would have ever swooped down from the sky and saved the day.

At least, I used to think that. Until I saw the mask.