✍ & for super: ✈
✍ - a memory of their mother Little was practically glued to the television set when they talked about Dragonfly. She couldn't possibly turn away when they showed her acts of derring-do, the streak of flame that lit up the sky when someone needed to arrive just in the nick of time to save the day. She was her hero. And maybe she did spend long hours away, but this made it feel like she was spending time with her. Every little quip to a villain she fought or remark she made to an intrepid reporter lucky enough to get her still for five minutes felt like a hidden joke Little was sharing between her mother, a funny little quip at the expense of the entire rest of the world that only the two of them would ever get. She'd watch her come home and collapse onto the couch, mask off, smile weary and small but a thousand times more sincere than the one on the television set, and she would run a hand through Little's hair and kiss her forehead. Sometimes she'd fall asleep there, and wouldn't rouse in the morning when Little needed to get herself to school, but heroes didn't cry when their legs ached from walking, and neither would she.✈ - an eye-opening memory None of her mourners even knew her. They talked about this version of her-- not the bruised, sleepy woman on her couch, not even the grinning idol on the television screen-- but this vague, nebulous vision. This symbol and beacon and guiding light, someone who wasn't and could never be real. Little watched them unveil her memorial. The following night, she spray painted all over it, in every color she could find. Lies. Lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies. The news covering the damage talked about how unsoeakable and painful it was for the city, so soon after her death, but Little was furious. What gave them the right to turn her mother into some golden calf? They made her into something that isn't even real.
