No Savior

Images flash on the screen as I sit front of my computer at weird hours of the night watching a blind guy beat the hell out of bad people with his fists in an aptly-named town called Hell's Kitchen. Let's face it: we're all mashing the "next episode" button on Netflix not because we're Marvel fanboys or slaking our thirst for a gritty comic book drama or hungover on righteous beatdowns of bad guys representing the ugly people in the world who deserve it most. We're here, separately united behind glowing screens because we all want to wear a cape, to be badass enough to put the hurt on those who need it, to take a punch and keep fighting, to stand up for a worthy cause.

Because if a blind guy can do it, I can do it.

I pull the mask over my face as night descends on my city, cracking my knuckles in anticipation. I don't have a name or a costume or a signature catchphrase to quote before I descend on unassuming thug preying on helpless victim, but I don't need one if I possess the heart to stand up for justice. Right?

Left hand, right hook, roundhouse to the ribs--would-be purse-thief crumbles to the ground. Spinning hook-kick across the temple for the carjacker, jumping knee to the groin for the rapist, uppercutting elbow for the abusive father/husband. Leave 'em laying in that dark alley, in the backstreet with no lights, bruised and broken, never to hurt another poor soul again. The cause of justice fuels my furious fists--or perhaps it is the dull thud of foot meeting face, the crunching of bones hitting the pavement that drives me. I'm no dark knight. But I want them to fear me. 

I'll defend the defenseless in this fictional town where evil arrives clear as day dressed in outrageous costumes, revealing grand schemes of global domination for me to bravely foil in the closing seconds of the episode. I'll fearlessly face the forces of evil head-on, bashing skulls for goodness' sake to make the city a better place.

Plot twist: 

I'm not here to save the city. 

I know the good guy doesn't always get the girl because "I have to keep you safe" and secret identities and stuff but I wouldn't let that stop me. I'd still swoop in at the last moment when you're in the deepest hole, when it looks like all is lost just to snatch you out of the clutches of evil. I'd rescue you from your doubts, your insecurities, your fears because you deserve better. Blood-thirsty thugs and base criminals lurking around dark corners to seize the innocent girl have to go through me first. I'd happily slam my fists into anyone who treats you any less than the amazing person you are. You wouldn't even suspect that the brave man behind the mask risking his wellbeing for the good of others was really me; the shy and introverted kid is the cover for my cape. Maybe you'd thank me like Mary-Jane did on that rain-soaked street, lifting my mask just enough to uncover my lips...

I could be a hero. But I wouldn't save the world, or even the city--I'd only save you. You are my world.

Plot twist-twist:

I can't save the world. 

I can't beat back the forces of evil or pummel fools who dare to lay hands on innocent people or shield you from all the ugly things the world has to offer. I can't push back the oncoming darkness because I can't land a punch on my own shadow.

I don't wear a cape because I can't fly. I wear a mask not because I'm a master ninja or fearless vigilante, but to hide my scars--my cuts from the last fight I lost to the jagged edges of a broken bottle, my bruises when I got blindsided by that car, my brokenness from when I lost my footing and fell off that roof. Now I'm weeping Tobey because my web has run dry and I can't find my super-suit. But spiders never bite me, I'm not trained by assassins, I don't have a suit of armor. I can't shoot a bow or run fast or punch straight. I live with my parents and I'm five-feet-three-inches of skinny, scared, and please don't hurt me.

But I don't know what's worse for my ego: a hero who needs saving or the girl who doesn't.

You're the one saving me, collecting my bruised and broken body from the street after thugs and bullies put the beating on the guy who's supposed to be giving them out. Yet you scoop me up, limp and nearly unconscious and bring me to your home, nursing my wounds and tending to my injuries until I can get back to my feet. Soup and a smile, you said. You walk me home, leading me by the hand like a lost child until I find my way again--because this isn't the first time. And it won't be the last.

And then you're gone, flying away to be the perfect help to someone else, leaving me standing there looking skyward, chicken soup still warm in my hands, the imprint of your selflessness still evident on my face. She's clothed in compassion they say, greeting darkness not with closed fists but open hands to heal and hold. Killin' em with kindness.

Thank you random citizen, I manage from behind this stupid mask. We need more people like you, making the world a better place one kindness at a time. Sure I have a mask and a husky voice and blood on my knuckles but I'm an imposter in a jumpsuit. I can't find my cape because you're already wearing it.

What is an unemployed super hero supposed to do with all his free time?

I stare at the screen eating my popcorn in awe as Russian mobsters continue to fall to the fists of blind justice. He's no devil, and I'm no savior.