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?


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?


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.


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.


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.


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.

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.


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.


That bullet was meant for me.

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





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