When people picture Superman, they picture a tall, beefy guy with short black hair and crystal blue eyes. They picture a grown man flying in and saving the day with his amazing super powers. To be a superhero, you don’t have to look like Superman. Or for that matter, Superboy. I can be a Superboy without looking like Clark Kent. With my dirty blonde hair and dark brown eyes, I can save the day. Zach the Superboy can do anything.

I don’t have to look like Superman, but I still need a cape. What’s a superhero without a cape? Just some cop, that’s who! Nobody wants to be a cop, they are too ordinary. Superman can fly, burn things with his heat vision, throw bad guys miles away with his super strength , freeze people with his ice breath(people sometimes forget about this power when they think of Superman) and he also has super speed! Using these powers, Superman can do anything! That’s why he is my hero. I grab my red cape(a bathroom towel with a little imagination), and start off patrolling my house.

My bedroom, with the peeling wallpaper. The water stains on the ceiling, the dirty blue carpet on the floor. The old, ripped Superman sheets on my bed, Clark’s faded face looking up at the ceiling, as if he is just looking for trouble. My bedroom is small, yet cozy. For my birthday, mom put shelves on the walls, so that my action figures have complete surveillance of the room 24/7. There’s a traditional Superman looking over my bed, next to him is Aqua adventuring Superman, Superboy is standing tall next to him, a Batman action figure is disgracefully hanging off the shelf fighting GI Joe. My dad got me those last two action figures, he never remembers that Superman is the only hero for me. I have a flash action figure sleeping under my bed, who never comes out to play. A Hulk doll who is banished to my back yard, a chew toy for my dog Milo for all eternity. Spiderman is in a cardboard prison with Lex Luthor for whining too much in all the Spiderman movies. A Fantastic Four play set is crushing the Fantastic Four figures, who are being punished for not keeping their secret identities secret. They are all flawed heroes, Flash only has one super power, the Hulk is a schizophrenic, Spiderman is such a girl and GI Joe is just a soldier, who wants to play with the military? Dad means well, but he just doesn’t understand how great Superman is. Not only because of his amazing powers, but because of his outstanding moral values as a Superhero. There’s a lady being robbed? No questions asked, Superman will swoop in and beat up the bad guy. Spiderman would save her, and then mope and bitch because he missed his date with Mary Jane. Lois doesn’t mind that Clark is always missing, she loves Superman only anyway.

I have to stop gushing about Superman and start patrolling again. I leave my room and walk down the short hallway. Pictures of myself smiling with mom or dad. It’s weird, but the pictures of just mom and dad have disappeared. Their wedding picture, their honeymoon picture, pictures at the beach have all gone. Maybe mom just took them down to clean them, it’s not important.

The old, dirty floors needed a good scrubbing. There are cobwebs in every corner of the floor and ceiling. When did this house get so dirty? Piles of laundry taller than me just missed being touched by the cobwebs. There were scratches in the painted walls, and the fish in the fish tank look like they have died long ago. This living room is a disgrace. I start calling my mother, maybe she has an explanation for this. “Mom? MOOOOOM! Why does it smell like the bathrooms at Sea world in the living room? MOMOMOMOMOMOMOMOM!” I walk into the kitchen and the first thing that I notice is the peanut butter and jelly jars sitting on the counter. Mom hasn’t cleaned it up from this morning? It’s odd, she always cleans up after my messes. A soft breeze hits my face. I didn’t even notice that the back door was open. I walk outside and there’s mom.

Face down on the couch located on our back porch, my mother is dead. Or maybe she is just sleeping. I roll her over and discover that my mother’s face has changed. Creases cover her face like old leather shoes. Opening her eyes, I notice that they are no longer bright and green as I remembered them to be. They are bloodshot and glassy, like some sort of drunken china doll’s. Her breath is labored and smells like vodka. My mother has morphed into this disgusting creature. A drunk creature wearing her favorite blue pajamas with the little yellow duck on the front pocket and her matching slippers. I try to wake her, but she won’t budge. Just great. Who is going to make my dinner now?

I leave the slumbering hell beast who used to be my mother and walk back into the kitchen, making sure to close the door. First thing to do is to clean up the morning mess. At least it’s winter time and there are no bugs around. Bugs are icky. I draw the line at having to kill and clean up bugs.