Comprehensive Superhero Insurance

TW: A pinch of swearing.

“I’m sorry ma’am, your fight with Cad Bury cost fifty thousand dollars worth of damage and your insurance only covers forty-nine.” She smiles at me as if that’s good news, sociopath.

Why can’t I fly or run super fast like the A-list guys? At least then I could work in deliveries for a side hustle. “Can’t you pay the forty-nine and I can get a loan for the rest?” I ask, leaning over the counter in my ripped uniform. She eyes the torn fabric covered with patches and sponsors with disdain.

“If only Cat Fight, but the policy you signed is only triggered if costs are equal to or less than the cover you’ve paid for.” That smile again, teeth that are veneers hiding enamel as rotten as her soul. Why does my ex have to be such a, Cad?

“What if my sponsors helped out?” I asked, pulling at my top that’s emblazoned with logos and fine print. Lots of people stare at my tits, some of them are just reading, few.

“We have spoken with your sponsors and the bad news is that two of them have withdrawn your support. The Church Heroes Alliance were upset by your actions downtown.” Her suit is the kind of grey that tells me that she loves nothing in life.

“I saved a priest,” I protest.

“And a man who then kissed his boyfriend in the resulting interview.” She says it's my fault. Like it’s wrong.

“What’s wrong with that?” I ask, my voice lowering to a growl.

“You lost their sponsorship, that’s all.” She doesn’t care. Does she care about anything?

“Thanks for your help,” I say, laying the sarcasm on thick.

“Comprehensive Superhero Insurance is always here to help,” she says as if it’s a pre-recorded message, face plastered with a fake smile that’s more plastic than a Halloween mask.

This kind of shit is why there are so many heroes on heroin. This is why the good guys turn bad. The bank across the street looks like an all you can eat buffet to my cash strapped blue eyes. My broad shoulders slouch, making it easier for people to read CSI adverts I have across both. I look at the print for CHA and I want to tear it off, but then I’d be done for indecent exposure. Spandex is part of the job, no bra. No one wants to be relying on one for support and then unhooked mid battle.

My foot clatters on a discarded can. I pick it up, crush it into the negative space inside my fist. The meta starts to warm under the pressure. I throw. It sails gracefully through the air, over a busy street. The metal twists as it passes over yellow taxis and heads straight towards a recycling can emblazoned with the smiling features of Awesome Alien. Our most patriotic immigrant has teeth that make the sun look dull as my can sails towards him. I see the crushed metal arc towards the gaping maw of the trash can. It dances off the top and hits the wall behind with a bang.

Fuck.

I wait for the green light. Like a schmuck. Like any other human. Never mind that I can bench press a taxi with the people inside. No flying for me. No Rat Mobile like Rat-A-Tat Man.

DONT WALK. Hurry up.

WALK.

Old boots with the printed sponsors scraping off clap on the tarmac. I stoop to pick up the can. It scratched the paint on the trash can. It dented the wall. I glance around, toss it in and walk away as fast as I can.

Fifty grand. Where’s an arm wrestling competition when you need one?

A rumble in the distance draws closer, a storm on the wind. Grim Ripper, another hero that turned to crime years ago, rides a cloud. The cloud is in the form a of a horse. Posters of him covered my wall as a child. Back then he was Laughing Lightning. Flashes strobe across the sky. The signature chortle became a cackle. Now his mask is a skull. He wears black robes.

I watch him sail overhead, powerless.

“Why are you just watching? Cat Fight?” A girl dressed as Zeppelin Zoom watches me with hope dripping down her cheeks. “Stop him. You can do it.”

“I can’t afford to.” I say. “Can’t fly anyway.”

“But you’re the hero?” Her voice is indignant. I can hear her dreams dying. I see the birth of a cynic and my heart breaks again. I was that girl once. Full of hope, trusting the righteous.

The rumble of thunder and the flashes shrink away. I leave a broken dream behind me. She’s crying. I’m crying. The walk home is long, but I don’t have money for a bus or the subway.

Old wood creaks beneath my boots on the steps to my apartment. The elevator was broken when I moved in seven years back.

White paper with red writing is taped to my door.

EVICTION NOTICE.

Dear Tennant,

Eve Solution, we regret to inform you that due to missed payments on repeated occasions, the Super Homes for Superheroes Group PLC must ask you to leave within 30 days. Debt consolidation advice is available if you call the following number.

I stop reading. My key still turns in the lock. The swinging door reveals the kind of minimalist shithole only shared by drug addicts, stereotyped starving artists and heroes who can’t pay their way.

My boots leave prints on envelopes printed with the words FINAL NOTICE.

No shower for my sweaty body, the water was shut off yesterday. I sold my bed so a mattress welcomes my weary muscles. Constellations of green mold speckle the ceiling. Printed memories are scattered along the skirting board because I can’t afford frames. I was never allowed to ‘damage’ the walls with pins.

A creek in the ravaged living room sets off my instincts. I leap to my feet with a bang. Dust falls from the ceiling.

“Who’s there?” I ask, clenching my fists.

“An old friend,” says Malcolm Tennet. His voice is a contradiction of reactions for me. Joy. Despair. Love and hate.

“Cad Bury,” I say with a voice of ice. “What do you want? I’m already beaten. I can’t afford another fight, fiscally speaking.”

“I’m just here to offer you a job.” He holds up hands that don’t have the callouses they used to. Being a villain seems to have health benefits. He gives a playful smile that used to tick all of my boxes. I’m betrayed by a warm rush of pheromones that feels like my mother telling me I’m not getting any younger.

He looks younger. Dick. “I don’t want anything you have to offer.” I wanted your babies. I wanted to grow old with you. I wanted to know why you would betray me with that bitch. I wanted to wrap my hands around your head and hear it crunch like cereal. I want to forget you. “Get out.”

“I paid this.” He holds up the yellow envelope for my mother’s nursing home. His blue eyes hold mine like handcuffs on Valentine’s.

I couldn’t.

I’m a terrible daughter.

But he did.

“I always liked your mom.”

 He means it. “She hated you. From the start.”

“That only made you forbidden fruit. Sweeter.” He hangs his head with the somber innocence of a boy taking their emotional break mid song. He’s got the ‘00s look, long hair over one eye. Black shirt over a black long sleeve T. Muscles bulge beneath.

Don’t think about his chest. Don’t think about your arms around him in the morning. “You paid it?”

He nods. His eyes scan my body like they always did, but they don’t linger like they used to. He’s moved on, or learned tact. “I know what she means to you. You couldn’t pay it. She was going to be tossed out on the street. No nurses on call. No medication for her pain. She wouldn’t have anyway to stay because you’re being evicted. You’d watch her die in a shelter or on the street. You can move mountains with your bare hands but because this country holds us responsible for the cost of saving lives, we can’t afford to.” He shrugs. “I never wanted to turn, Evie. I just hit the same wall you have. Sued for saving a jumper, mid leap. That’s the world we live in. They’re not grateful. When was the last time someone said thank you? When was the last time someone asked you if YOU’RE OKAY?” His voice is turning bitter. “They don’t care. If they did, you wouldn’t have to save the world wearing rags.”

He fishes a card from his back pocket.

I take it.

“You can’t catch us using that number. You can call if you want to see what it’s like being with people who understand you.” He hugs me. I melt into him before I can swing a fist.

“I hate you,” I sob. My nose fills with the scent of his skin, it takes me back years and picks open every wound that was nearly done healing.

“I know. I know.” He rubs my back, then holds me at arms length. “Think about it, Evie. That’s all I ask.”

The floorboards creak as he walks away. I hold the card with the number. I look at my mom’s paid bill.

One photo faces the wall by the skirting board in my room. I have the biggest smile with my arm wrapped around him.

I look at the number on the card and then the envelope. Lying back on my dirty sheets, I weep.