"Alright, thank you, Maddie," the professor says once Maddie finishes reading her poem for her creative writing assignment, "that was very well written and read. So much power behind your thoughts and feelings."

"Thank you," she proceeds to give a small bow to which I roll my eyes.

She wrote a stupid poem about the Avengers being such great heros. Idiot.

She takes her seat and the professor looks at his list.

"Let's see," he pauses for a second, "we've got five minutes left so.... Cad, why don't you read yours next? Yours tend to be on the shorter side."

I stand up and walk to the front.

"Go ahead," the professor smiles my way.

"I've wrote a free version poem titles 'Not Heros'," I look pointedly at Maddie before begin.

"They're heros, they say.
They're the good guys, they say.
They protect us, they say.

They're not, and they don't.

You say they protect us, you say they save us.

But they don't save us all.

They save a great number, I'll give you that.
But that is all I will give you.

Have you ever been in a collapsing building, hoping, praying, for someone to save you?

Have you ever been stuck beneath piles of rubble, calling for help until your throat goes hoarse?

Have you ever had to stare into the eyes of your mother, your sister, your father, your brother, and watch as the life leaves their eyes?

Have you ever been told to be grateful you survived when so many others didn't?

Have you ever had to stand before a group of people shoving cameras and microphones into your face, asking who you thank for being alive?

Have you ever had to walk into a home, once filled with the exciting noises of a happy family, and hear nothing but boards creaking beneath your feet?

Why must you call them heros?

They're not.

You say they are here to protect us from those who would try to hurt us.

But those people are here because of your silly heros.

They live in our city painting it with a big red target for the enemies.

They live in a large building marking exactly where they are, like it won't attract attention.

Why must you call them heros?

They endanger us by being present.
They endanger us.

They bring to us the very thing that they say they protect us from.
Whether it be aliens, beings from other realms, terrorists, or killer machines.

What's next?

A plague they accidentally create in a lab while trying to make new weapons?

These are not heros.

These are individuals that don't need to constantly put us in danger.

They can have their abitues or smarts.
But let that be all.
Let that be all so that they will not hurt us or endanger us further.

They are not heros."

The room stays silent as I finish, my classroom peers looking at me like they don't know what to say or do.

"That was," the professor looks for words, "insightful, Cad. Thank you."

I just nod to him.

"Okay well that's the class for the day, everyone," he stands up, clapping his hands once, "have a safe weekend, I'll see you all on Monday."

People begin to quickly pack up their things and head out of the room while I walk back to my desk to gather my books as well.

As I leave, I get looks from every direction. Some of disgust, some of judgment, some of pity. The last being the ones I hate the most.

I keep my chin high and my shoulders back, not letting them see how much their stares bother me as I walk out the doors.

No signs of weakness. No signs of emotions.

I head to my bike, unlock it from the rack, and head to the grocery store.

I pass different beauty stores filled with makeup and clothes, with promises of making you stunning written on the windows. I roll my eye as I see one that promises to cover up all of your imperfections.

When I finally arrive, I put my hood up, grab a cart, and go straight for the freezer aisles. I pick out a few freezer dinners, garlic bread and frozen vegetables, then go to the pasta aisle and get noodles and sauce. I grab a case of water on my way to the self check out.

"Hey, aunt May," I hear someone call out, "I'm gonna grab the milk and stuff."

Shit. I forgot milk for myself.

I have a sigh and turn around, heading back to the area I need.

"How did I fucking forget milk?" I mutter as I go, irritated that I have to spend even more time in this stupid place backtracking.

I leave my cart on the right side and cross over to the other side to grab a gallon. As I turn around I run right into someone and almost fall back into the door.

"Sorry," I feel someone's hand holding my arm and pulling me to stand up straight again, "are you okay?"

I look to find a boy staring back at me worried.

"I'm fine," I reply quietly, "thanks."

"No problem," he gives a nervous smile, "excuse me, I just need to get some milk."

I take a few steps back allowing him to open the door, and there I see it. His dark shirt causes the glass to act as a mirror, showing the disgusting, ugly scar that goes across the entire left side of my face, rendering my left eye useless and just as hideous.

I turn away and put the milk in my cart, hurrying out of the aisle. I make my way back to the front to check out as fast as I can.

I strap all of my things in the basket of my bike, making sure it's balanced before taking off.

I go past all the shops again, avoiding cars as the streets are now busy and head back to my house.

My empty, cold, and lonely house.