She walks briskly, carrying a look of exhaustion on her face, heels clacking rapidly against the pavement. Its half past midnight, the number 5 bus arrives at Picket Ave and Lux St in 15 minutes, more than enough time for her to reach her destination. She continues her half-walk-half-run, racing past the night demons and the usual suspects – junkies and. A feeling of relief washes over her as she approaches the bench scribbled with the aliases of local hoodlums past and present. She sits, relaxed but still attentive as she awaits the last ride home. The streets are well lit, exposing what the shadows can't hide, misery scattered on the ground like the pieces of a puzzle no one wants to put together. Long has this been the décor of Paradise Square, a neighborhood that once matched its title. Time can heal; just as it can bring about slow decay.
Her watch shows the big hand pointing between the 7 and 8. The sirens screaming as she hurried are now a distant cry. She reaches into her purse to take out a portable music player in the hopes of drowning out the residual cries of the police cruiser, quickly placing the ear buds in each canal. Exhaustion lingers, but the music gives the temporary peace that won't be complete until she's in the comfort of her studio apartment. Out of the corner of her eye she notices a homeless man, torso erect with legs spread in a V. His beard, full, with traces of gray, drips whiskey onto his shirt. She can tell that it's whiskey from what she can make out of the label on the barely-grasped bottle. A red and blue Flash Gordon T shirt covers his upper body, the red is more of a purple as a result of street lights luminescence. Flash Gordon stands heroically, aiming his gold ray gun, like the wearer now only a faded recollection of the original. The woman's eye lids lower, focused on Flashed Gordon, entranced by the red and blue of his outfit.
Shutting her eyes, dull silhouettes of objects or maybe people form in her mind. The music is fading, her favorite song trying desperately to put out its last notes. The images begin to focus, revealing their texture; a lightning bolt becomes visible. The hero stands with fists placed on both hips, confident, unwavering, as if any battle fought will unquestionably end in his own triumph. She is now fully engulfed in her own subconscious: the sheets embroidered with the interstellar protector blanketing her 13 year-old body, traveling not through space but time, to the night her innocence was lost. She lays there quivering, not from cold but from fear as her bedroom door slowly creeps open. A man appears, a figure hidden in the shadow from the hallways light. Even unable to see his face, she can sense his sinister intentions. The door closes behind him and she hears now the rasp of his breath in the ensuing silence.
The man speaks, a deep yet nurturing tone resonating throughout her bedroom. "Nugget," the voice says, "Daddy needs to talk." Her eyes close tighter, trying to block any image of this man, this monster that is supposed to be her father.
She remains motionless, knowing full well his request has no relevance to what is about to take place, hope lingering in the back of her mind that the hero image on her sheets will come to life and save her from this villain. The edge of the bed sinks under the weight of her predator as he sits and stares through the sheets, now her last line of defense. She's too young for it to be Déjà vu, but the familiarity isn't just some anomaly in the fabric of time and space. This is real, as was the time before, when her unwanted visitor first began his tyrannical quest. Slowly he uncovers her sheets and with it her last bastion of hope, his eyes fixed on her with a gentle stare belying his ignoble intentions. The man — her father — closes in as if he's engaging a lover prepared or receptive to his passion. But he's no dashing prince. This is not a romantic rendezvous; it's another classic tale of selfishness with malicious intent – the weak versus the strong.
The woman is awakened from her nightmare by the hydraulics of the bus door opening. The music from her portable player floods back into her ears, but she finds herself still disoriented from her trip through time. She snaps out her ear buds, reaching into her purse for fare as she walks toward the bus.
The homeless man grumbles, distracted for the moment from his binge, noticing for the first time the woman just feet away. Before she's on the bus he speaks, his throat raspy from years of destructive self indulgence, "Nugget….I'm sorry".
The woman freezes, eyes wide open, the change she took out of her purse ringing as it hits the ground. Impatient, the driver closes the door, driving off as the woman stands there in a catatonic state. The voice, though altered by age, is as familiar as a song where the melody is familiar even when the name may not be. Her shock is short-lived, collecting herself and straightening her posture as in haughty response to an embarrassing moment. She turns to the man, this bum, to see him broken and apologetic. She walks slowly towards him devoid of malice or animosity, with the calmness of on approaching a defenseless animal for petting. Reaching him, he grumbles but is unable to move. She kneels down and looks at him with a fearless stare. The demons have grown quiet for the moment, driven away by her newfound courage. At long last she has achieved triumph she longed for, having become the very hero she longed to protect her as a child.
She smiles at the faded Flash Gordon image, realizing that battle has for years now been within, that if everyone waited for the hero, there would be no one to be the hero. Where once this bum was intimidating he quivers now, defeated and powerless. With a whisper, she fires a triumphant beam at her nemesis, "Need any change?"
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