They told me I was lucky.

 

Lucky to be born with such a talent. Lucky to be bestowed with abilities many would’ve begged for. 

 

Lucky to be born at all.

 

Everyone told me I was lucky. The adults especially. They would go on and on about how, when they were my age, they would read comics of people just like me. Just like us. People that had powers, that would heroically rise from the common folk to serve as their protectors.

 

With us, they had delusions about how the world would be fixed in an instant. No need for talking. For understanding. For mutual respect between differing views.

 

No.

 

They just needed us. 

 

They just needed me.

 

My youth was spent in front of cameras, when I had barely an understanding of a spoon. They broadcasted me to the world; the prophesied one, born to settle all conflicts within the world. But I wasn’t born. I didn’t understand any of this, of course. I didn’t even understand my own strength. They would constantly put my favorite toys in front of me. And when I would snap them with a single touch and burst into tears. They would cheer.

 

They would always cheer.

 

I lived my life in a world of glass, where every touch of mine would shatter another part of it, leaving debris where once was stability. I was shunned by the other kids, jealous of what I could do. Jealous of the reverence I received from the adults. From their own parents. My own father and mother saw this, and decided the best course of action was to lock me away from both. From everything. Every month was spent in near complete isolation, desperately attempting to temper my powers with the expectations of the world.

 

As time sped forward, so did their wishes. Thirteen years had passed, and the world was not at peace. Far from it. It was ablaze with conflict, desperate acts from countries using whatever arsenal they could to quiet the world. I had grown, sure. But their impatience grew faster. 

 

They placed the hopes of the world on my shoulders. And wondered why I could not walk with them.

 

Unable to hold their expectations at bay, I enrolled into a special facility for those just like me, slicing away my dreams and letting them flutter into the wind. It’s for the best. I told myself. My wants and needs did not matter as much as the countless others waiting for me. So I had hoped that, here, I would finally be able to control my powers. To finally live up and do some good, like everyone was expecting me to.

 

My first assignment went perfect. A skirmish in a foreign country. Our men were pinned down, seconds away from being eliminated. I swooped in, tossing enormous hunks of rubble like styrofoam. These acts routed the enemy away. The troops hailed me as a hero.

 

And, for the first time in my life, I felt like one too.

 

The news praised what I had done. Talking about the ‘lucky’ girl who had saved their men just in the nick of time. I had done exactly what they had wanted from me.

 

And they wanted me to do it again.

 

The assignments continued to come in. For as long as I could, I obeyed the orders. I pulled sleepless nights and restless days. And it didn’t take long for my body to beg for a break. My mind pleaded to put a stop to the operations, to place a dam on the endless flow of duties. But I refused.

 

They’re depending on you. I repeated to myself endlessly to get through the exhausting months. 

 

I grew weary. My mental state waned. And with it, my mood. The assignments grew worse. I was sent into more treacherous areas. And what were once rescue missions, soon turned into plans of assault. The enemies, no doubt tired of this one girl, began to fight back. And when they did.

 

So did I.

 

Each life I took, I reasoned myself it was to save two others. Each war I engaged in, I reasoned that it was for my country. Each war I helped win, I convinced myself it was to keep my parents safe. It needed to be done. For them.

 

For the greater good.

 

You’re doing good! Those words etched themselves into the bathroom wall, and deep into the surfaces of my mind. I’m doing good I’m doing good I’m doing good. I chanted, crouched in the corner, tears streaming down my face. I hoped that the repeating words would drown out the screams in my head. And that the shattered shards embedded in my palm would finally give me a semblance of pain, to distract me from the visions that would constantly terrorize me in the silence.

 

For years, I repeated those words to myself. For years, I spun a web of lies in my head to tell myself I was the hero. And for years, my country supplied me the silk to keep on weaving. That is, until I did the unthinkable.

 

I made a mistake.

 

The soldiers’ skills had been replaced with complacency. Care replaced with dependency. And I was too blind to see any of it. My eyes were heavy with exhaustion, blurred from restless nights. My body screamed in pain from the ache. And my mind was on the verge of shattering. The troops ran into a building, rigged in such a careless method anyone should’ve seen it.

 

I should’ve seen it.

 

I did!

 

I did. I swore I did.

 

But it didn’t matter. I was a split second too slow.

 

It was all that was needed.

 

That one mistake turned the million of hearts painted on my back to targets. In the span of one night, people wanted me dead. “I never trusted her,” they whispered in hushed tones, just loud enough for me to hear. “How could she let that happen?” “I bet she’s working for the enemy.”

 

“I bet she wanted them to die.”

 

Those cowards were too afraid to take it up with me, so they took it up with my parents. Harassed for weeks upon end, I attempted to disperse the crowd when I could, but like moths to a flame, they just kept returning. My mom told me they had it under control. My dad said to go save the world. I believed them. They gave me a kiss goodbye each time and off I went.

 

That is, until one night, when a patriotic maniac broke through the perimeter and stormed the home.

 

I lost everything that night.

 

My life. My loves. My will. It all vanished with a tug of a bloodied knife. And no remorse was given.

 

'Two lives for hundreds.' The headlines read that day. A worthwhile trade. The public read the news with much glee. Smiling, ear-to-ear grins filled the street.

 

I tried my best to truck on for the next few days, using the pride of my parents to steer me in the right direction. Memories of their encouraging words. Phantom hugs and faded talks that I could be the hero they had always wanted me to be, peppered with kisses that my mind was starting to forget how to feel. Foolishly, I continued to pile everyone’s expectations upon my back. Their hatred. Their pain. And distant thoughts of redemption. I tried to walk. To take one step forward. But I buckled. And crumpled.

 

And fell.

 

The end would come quick. Painless. Simple. A bottle of pills and a cup of water. But on my last assignment, I saw something that I never thought I would see. The enemies we had been battling this while had banded together, in a desperate attempt to take me down.

 

Me.

 

It was then that I realized I had been wrong. We had been wrong. All my actions, all I ever did. It was never good enough.

 

I was never good enough.

 

Good was never enough.

 

So I decided that I would never be good.

 

I finally understood that a hero wasn’t what was needed for world peace. They needed to unite against a common enemy. A foe that the rest of the world could build grounds upon, to level their cities so that the leaders and citizens could finally see eye to eye.

 

But no one else could see that. And even if they did, they didn’t have the capabilities to execute it.

 

Except me.

 

The fire was stoked, and I made sure to spread that flame throughout the country in that same moment.

 

They lost everything that one night.

 

I comforted myself with thoughts that this was what was needed. Every life I took, it was to save countless others. I was a hero. Even if they could not see it. They might scream now, but they will thank me when they succeed. If they succeed.

 

There were only two outcomes to this: either they band together and settle their differences, engaging in the peace they long touted for, or allow their differences to drive them apart and leave the world at the palm of my scarred hand.

 

I didn’t mind either way.

 

Long ago, they told me I was lucky.

 

They were right.