Too many years ago, Fiona had been a bright eyed optimist, thinking she could save everyone in the world if she just hoped hard enough. Back then, good intentions were enough. If you crossed your fingers and tied your cape on tight enough, the heroes would win and villains would go chasing their tails and everything would be just how it was meant to be. Happy endings were guaranteed for the good guys and when the curtains came down after it was over, everything would be wrapped up with a neat bow.Â
Back then, she hadnât known how much she would lose in the fight. She hadnât known the sacrifices that would be made, the brutal cost of survival and victory. She hadnât realized that blood stains never came off your hands no matter how many years you spent scrubbing and that the weight of the world never really left your shoulders. All those years ago, it was just about being a hero and saving the world; she never thought of what came after the world was safe.
Once the parades ended and the cheering died down, Fiona had been left alone on a pedestal with no way down. Her wife, her little brother, her parents, and her friends were gone. Some were dead. (Her wife had taken a blow meant for Fiona, a mortal wound that nothing could heal. Fiona would never forget the feeling of blood on her hands and the shudder of Aliceâs body when her last breath slipped away.) Some were lost to the very darkness that Fiona had dedicated herself to fighting. (A note left in the middle of the night, signed by her brother and telling her how he would bring their parents back, no matter the cost. She wished she could see him again, just once, so she could explain that the cost was never worth it.) Some just couldnât handle what she became, the way she fell so hard from grace that she thought her bruises would never heal.
Of course, few people realized that she had fallen from grace. Fiona knew how to smile when she needed to and she visited her statue often; she usually convinced others that it was to sign autographs and take pictures, though the truth was she came for the names engraved in too small font at the base. (It seemed no one paid attention to who they lost except for her.) To the general populace, she was simply a hero that no longer fought, an exhausted celebrity of sorts. To the heroes and villains that still ran amok, she was a coward, a threat, either useless or dangerous.
Few realized the truth of her situation except for the few that shared the weight she carried. There were not many of them -- being a hero didnât have a high life expectancy rate -- and most of them kept to themselves. When it came to Fiona, she had one person she could still call a friend, but he had fallen back into the trap of heroics and was currently fighting for his life in a hospital. She wanted to visit, but the risk was too high for both of them; it was better if no one knew they cared for each other.Â
So she was spending her birthday alone with a bottle of cheap wine and a cupcake from a gas station, a tired candle illuminating the table in front of her. As she blew out the candle, she wished -- not for the first time -- that she could fix things. Fix anything. The light flickered out in time with a knock at the door, startling her out of her introspective thoughts. Cautiously, she got to her feet and made her way to the door, glancing out the peep hole to see someone she didnât recognize. Taking a slow, deep breath, she opening up the door just a crack, leaving the chain on.
âCan I help you?â
