Why? – I’ve asked myself the same question countless of times.

You told me once – it seemed like a lifetime ago – that you would die for me.

Take a bullet to the brain like Bruno Mars would.

But aren’t those just words commonly professed by couples in love?

Aren’t those merely words?

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They have never heard your laughter,

They have never seen you shed a tear,

They have never seen you angry, frustrated,

They have never seen you in ecstasy,

They have never seen you.

But that is the whole idea of a secret identity isn’t it?

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I slaved for hours preparing dinner, bought your favorite flowers, lit the candles, turned down the lights and waited.

You called 3 hours later:

I can’t make it. There is an emergency downtown. Civilians in danger. Sorry.

I scraped the food into the bin, extinguished the candles and left the flowers to die. 

Happy anniversary.

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Sometimes in the morning, I would watch you sleep, sprawled across the bed, still in your work clothes.

I have always hated the fact that you had to be dressed that way – in that figure-hugging outfit that left little to the imagination.

I never told you this, but I hated how all female superheroes always dress like sluts.

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I’ll admit – maybe I am bitter, angry, resentful.

They talk, you know? The boys at work. Called me a pussy – laughed at the fact that you protect me instead of the other way around.

Told me to grow a pair. 

I’d shrug it off; but just because there isn’t a wound, doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

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There are times where I wished I was in your shoes.

Moments where I fantasised about swooping in to save the day – to be the hero.

Instances where I coveted your powers, your gift, your destiny.

But then I would see you come home with an array of cuts and bruises,

Or wounds invisible to the naked eye when you failed to save someone.

And I know that though regenerative powers may heal, may mend, it doesn’t make one invincible to pain.
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It was a typical week night – you left for work right after dinner.

Sorry babe. I have to go. I know it’s my turn with the dishes. I’ll make it up to you okay?

So there I was, hands covered in suds, doing the dishes – a typical week night.

And then it hit me.

Why should I be the one at home doing the dishes? Why should I sit back and allow the worldto poke fun at my manhood? I will show them. I will show her that I am capable, that I am strong and that I can protect her.

One moment I was standing over the sink, and in the next, I was walking down the street.

Without a cape, mask or god forbid – tights.

That’s when I heard a commotion in an alley. That’s my cue.

My chance to prove myself.

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It all happened so fast; there was a blur of movement, and a single shot.

I thought I had everything under control. It was just a thief – nothing out of the ordinary.

It was supposed to be a typical week night. I would apprehend him and go home early. To bed, to you.

But you showed up. The one variable that I did not foresee.

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That bullet was meant for me.

Why did you do it? Was it out of love? Did you do it out of love?

Why?