Category: 212 Story Starts

Catcher began to sink down into the sand. The coarse grains found their way into her boots, rubbing against the skin of her ankles. She wrenched her foot free and, with as much grace as a newborn fawn, stumbled over the mounds of sand in her path. The sky, or what she could see of it, was a haze of orange. There were no clouds in sight. A swift breeze picked up some sand in the distance, billowing the black dust against the horizon. In any other circumstance, she may have appreciated the scene and the favorable weather. Catcher wasn’t here to bask in the sun.  

Where are you? 

Silence. Catcher sighed and began the long journey across the black plains. This was going to be a long day for her.  

Desmond sat in class. He blinked. How did he get here? He didn’t remember getting his bike from the garage that morning or the grueling ride through middle-class suburbia to get to school. He rubbed his eyes, brushing away the remnants of sleep from his eyes.  

“Now,” Mr. Livingstone tapped a bit of chalk against the blackboard, leaving dots of white underneath the word ‘Emancipation’, “While the Emancipation Proclamation was passed in 1863, that didn’t necessarily mean that the lives of former slaves magically improved.”  

He scribbled 1863 in his notebook, though he found that his hand was sluggish. He supposed it was still early. What time was it again? American history was his first class of the day, but it felt like he’d been sitting for a while. He glanced up from his notebook, searching around the room for a clock. The walls around him blurred, the striking colors of the posters merging into a haze before him. Desmond’s brows furrowed. He rubbed his eyes, once again finding crusting bits of sleep from the night before.  

“Many African-Americans didn’t have the means to leave plantations in the south,” Mr. Livingstone continued as Desmond kept wiping his eyes, “Therefore, many were forced to stay, working for food and living accommodations.”  

At those words, the pink and white faces of his peers were on Desmond. They stared at him, at his deep, umber-brown skin. Heat rose to his face. He hated this unit. He hated how his white classmates looked at him, eyes filled with pity and sickly pale faces begging for forgiveness on behalf of their ancestors.  

Thanks, He thought, But can you maybe, like, do something about racial inequality in this country instead of staring at me like that?  

“We’re sooorrryyy,” They all chanted in unison, their faces slowly draining of color. Desmond recoiled, watching in horror as his withering, grey classmates rose to their feet.  

The screaming whistle of the tea kettle brought me out of my trance. I reach for the kettle sluggishly, my fingers barely registering the contact of the silver handle. It’s as if my whole body was trapped in a gelatinous box. Every move, no matter how slight, travels in space far longer than it needs to, gravity pushing down on my fragile bones as they fight their way through the jelly-filled space. The tea kettle makes it to the other side of the kitchen. I don’t know how. There are moments like that now. Moments where I move without realizing it, moments where I just nod along, saying “Yeah, alright, no problem” even if it is a problem. Nick says I should go to a doctor or a psychologist or something. I tell him I don’t have time, that the kids need to be at rugby practice in thirty minutes or that Mrs. Paisly from flat 4B needs help finding her keys again. He just stares at me when I say things like this, his once bright hazel eyes grow dark and dim. I’m afraid he’ll set up an intervention. He’d invite my parents, my sisters, probably even Father What’s-His-Name from the church he still goes to, even though I tell him constantly that I don’t want anything to do with organized religion.  

“Lou.”  

The way he says my name sounds worse than the screaming kettle. I don’t answer him. Instead, I grab a packet of sugar, flicking the middle until all the grains are neatly in place.  

“Lou, I’m leaving.” I don’t need to turn around. I know he’s in his grey suit, holding a navy, checkered umbrella in one hand and a worn, brown leather briefcase in the other.  

“Mhm,” Is the only response I give him. The door clicks shut. I tear open the sugar packet.  

I find myself in the study surrounded by towering bookshelves cluttered with books entitled, “The Five Ds of Entrepreneurship” and “Don’t Start a Business, Build an Empire”. There was a time when broken crayons littered the floor of the study and a staticky radio would blare old Queen hits while two kids and their mom stamped their feet and howled that they needed somebody to love. Nick mostly uses the study now. But here I am, standing in the center of the room surrounded by boring books and a growing sense that my life is falling apart.  

That’s when I see the dragon outside my window.  

Honestly, I was expecting a greater reaction. Some tears and resistance, maybe even a little bargaining. Indifference though? The kid looked bored. He just sat there, arms and legs bound to the chair in front of me. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old, yet he didn’t seem phased by the fact that I had just kidnapped him. I supposed it didn’t matter. Rule #689 of the Memorable Evil Archnemesis Handbook states, “The demeanor of the kidnapped holds less importance than the strength of the relationship between the victim and the Hero. Even if the victim is downright joyful to be in your presence, NEVER FEAR, for the Hero will care for them and inevitably fall into a sinister trap of your own machinations during a rescue attempt”. I turned from the kid, resolving myself. He didn’t want to play scared? Fine by me. His father was the one I was after and he would, most certainly, be terrified.  

“Once your father arrives,” I declared, facing the dripping cave walls, “I’m sure I can be persuaded to let you have some sort of reunion before I bring your little family to an end.” 

An exasperated sigh was his only answer. I cleared my throat. The damp cave seemed to swelter suddenly.  

“No matter,” I continued, finally turning to face him, “I can see that your silence is all an act, a façade of bravery. Son of Power-Man, you will be the key to finally bringing the hero of Tri-City into my–”  

“Ugh.” I stopped, my mouth open. Truly, this child had no idea what kind of trouble he was in. To interrupt me during my monologue? I chuckled, approaching the chair that held my captive. Gingerly, I placed my hands on his shoulders and leaned in close,  

“I’m sorry, did you have something to share with me?”  

“Eat shit and die.”  

I recoiled, sending my sleek, black cape billowing behind me. This was ridiculous, even for a child. The language? Unacceptable. Apparently, being the brat of the city’s best super-hero meant that discipline was nonexistent.  

“Excuse me? Do not speak to me in that manner!” At this, the child smiled.  

“Or what?” He asked, cocking his blond head to the side, “You gonna kill me, old man?”