Welcome to Gaia! ::

I wrote this last year and never got around to editing it. I'm hoping to write some follow up one shots but without further ado here it is:

My Volunteer service started with the phrase “Look! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No it’s Superman!” In about ten words my entire existence was defined. I made myself an idol, a role model to the public. Did I ask for this? No, but then again I never said I didn’t want it. And it fed my ego; I was the Man of Steel, The Last son of Krypton. I’m faster than a speeding bullet, I am more powerful than a locomotive and I am tormented. I put two uniforms on every day, with the first I am Superman, close friend of Batman and protector of the innocent. With the second I am everyday nobody Clark Kent. I have to be in order to blend in.

I drive to my office at the Daily Planet News Paper Press in a 2007 Chevy Malibu. Good Americans buy new American cars right? Sometimes Lois Lane asks for a ride and mocks me for the Johnny cash and other assorted country artists on my iPod. I love her; she is the yin to my yang and she loves me when I’m not Clark Kent. Floating miles above the world being caressed by his arms is her dream. Those arms, his arms, my arms that she dreams of and only one me can hold her with them. I dawn the red cape and save not just the city but even the world. I’ve brought down the world’s most formidable foes and I can’t tell her. I can’t say I love her and I can’t tell her or the rest of the world who I am, what it means to be me. Superman doesn’t have problems, he can’t cry on someone’s shoulder when the public accuses him for not saving that one child rather than the subway full of people.

Superman’s hero, my hero, is Johnny Cash. He’s the only man I could ever relate to, may he rest in peace. How is it fair for the public to judge me? How is it the hold such high expectation that I’ll always prevail? Everyday I see her and I want to tell her every thing. But like Mr. Cash I have to keep a close eye on this heart of mine because I find myself alone when each day is through and for that I walk the line. Having to watch innocent people suffer, watching madmen kill them and all of it haunts me.

For all the good I do I always end up deeply upset by the faces of those who I let down. Those faces of the people who knew it was their last living moment permanently burned into my skull. Everyone dreams about being me, being nothing short of a god and being admired and loved by all. They couldn’t handle my burden…. And I’m afraid neither can I. I give people hopes and dreams but we all have to grow up and face the cold hard reality some day.

Kryptonite bullets, I stole them from Lex Luthor, I’m sure he wont mind. They fit a standard revolver I bought at the pawn shop because good Americans have guns to protect them, not men with capes. I load the revolver so all the chambers are full and stand up to take off my second suit. Maybe everyone will understand if I leave them with the thought of Superman sending a Kryptonite slug through his own head. I chose Friday night because the apartment complex will be mostly empty and those who do here the gunshot will sleep soundly knowing Superman will take care of the gunman. Nothing left to do but pull the hammer back and squeeze the trigger. Tomorrow is Lois’ turn to drive. My apartment door will be unlocked.

Approximately 72 hours later...
A tired Lex sits at his desk eyes straight forward, a single tear has
escaped his eyes. In his hands: a copy of the Daily Planet. The Headline
reads “The Pressures of being Superman.” Pressing the intercom he tries to compose himself, “Ms. Graves? Could you please send flowers to a Mr. Clark Kent’s funeral?

EDIT: I broke it into paragraphs to make it easier to read.

Thank you! I'm working on a Batman response but I don't have wuite the gritty feel that I'd like, If I posted it would anyone be interested in reading?