After 12 years…
Mark trudged along, his head bowed as if carrying an invisible weight. Dark sunglasses shielded his sensitive eyes from the harsh fluorescent lights, but they did little to alleviate the throbbing pain that pulsed behind them.
It was like some sadistic virus had taken up residence in his body and was having a grand old time torturing him from the inside out. His muscles felt like they had been put through a meat grinder while his head was a congested maze, and even his teeth seemed to pulse with a dull ache.
He stifled a groan, reaching for a jumbo-sized bottle of ibuprofen. Work was a non-negotiable evil, and he needed something, anything, to dull the pain enough to get through the day. As he tossed the bottle into his basket, his phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he saw Ron's name flash across the screen.
"Hey, Ron. What's up?"
"Dude, you sound awful," His friend's voice crackled through the speaker. "Worse than usual, I mean. Flu still kicking your ass?"
Mark leaned against a display of overpriced granola. "Something like that. Feel like I got hit by a truck, then the truck backed up and ran over me again for good measure."
"Damn, that bad, huh? Maybe you should ditch work and come hang out. We can watch those cheesy kung-fu movies you love so much."
"Tempting, but I gotta power through. Bills don't pay themselves, unfortunately."
"Speaking of, you're at the store anyway—"
Mark laughed. He should've known his best friend wouldn't pass up a prime opportunity for grocery delivery service. "What do you need?"
"You're a lifesaver, man. Okay, so I need those spicy chili cheese puffs, the big bag, and some of those weird pickle-flavored chips you like. Oh, and a six-pack of that ginger ale, the fancy kind."
"Pickle chips and fancy ginger ale? Your taste is getting weird even for me"
"Hey, a man's gotta have his indulgences," Ron replied with a laugh. "I'll swing by your place later and grab the stuff. You're the best."
"Yeah, yeah, just don't forget the cash this time." Mark could practically picture Ben's sheepish grin—he knew the cash would be "forgotten."
He pocketed his phone, carefully, knowing he'd never hear the end of it if he lost it (again). The store's flickering fluorescent lights seemed to mock his misery, amplifying his discomfort.
As tempting as holing up on Ron's couch sounded, a promise was a promise. And besides, being out in public always helped shove the shadows to the back of his mind, at least for a little while.
With a look of disdain, he grabbed the box of painkillers and headed toward the snack aisle.
As he perused the shelves, heavy footsteps suddenly filled the store. He turned to see three burly men clad in black and wearing ski masks approaching the counter.
The cashier, a woman with tired eyes and a name tag reading "Sally," looked up from her register, her boredom quickly shifting to alarm. "Uh, sir? Can I help you?"
One in middle—broad-shouldered, voice like gravel on asphalt—pulled out a gun.
"You can give us everything in the register, sweetheart. Nice and slow, no sudden moves, and maybe nobody gets hurt today."
Sally didn't move. Her name-tag, a cheery yellow sunflower, mocked the terror that flickered in her eyes as her gaze darted between the men—trapped. The silence stretched, taut as a wire about to snap.
"S-sir… I …."
"He said move it, lady," one of the other men growled, shoving a duffel bag across the counter.
"Please…," Sally choked out, hands trembling as she fumbled with the cash register. Bills spilled across the counter, some drifting to the floor like snowflakes in the sudden stillness of the supermarket. "J-just take it, okay? Just… please don't—"
"I don't have all day!" he shouted again.
"Please, don't hurt me," she pleaded. "H-Here, t-t-take this. Please, don't—" she sobbed, holding out a wad of cash in front of her.
"That's it? Where's the rest?"
"Th-thh-that is all there is…."
"Do I look like a dumb ass, bitch?" the robber sneered, pressing the gun harder against Sally's forehead.
Sally's sobs intensified, her pleas for mercy turning into incoherent babbling.
"Shut her up, will you, Kev?" The one guarding the door sounded bored.
The leader—Kev?—turned, his gaze sweeping the silent aisles beyond. For the first time, his mask shifted just slightly, and Mark caught a flicker of something anxious beneath the bravado—a tell that mirrored the frantic beat of his own pulse. They weren't professionals. Which didn't necessarily make them less dangerous, he reminded himself. Quite the opposite, actually. Amateurs and adrenaline were a volatile combination.
Mark, who had been frozen, now started to take in his surroundings, noting the empty aisles and abandoned shopping carts. The other customers had either fled or were cowering out of sight, leaving him as the sole witness.
His gut instinct was to help, to do something, anything. But the rational part of his brain screamed at him to stay hidden, to not get involved.
Sally's pleas continued to fall on deaf ears, the robber seemingly relishing in her terror as she collapsed on the floor. Mark knew he couldn't just stand there and watch, but his mind was blank.
He needed a plan, a distraction, something…
He took a cautious step back, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
His heel clipped a stray shopping basket—the metal screeching against the linoleum floor. It wasn't loud, but in the sudden quiet of the supermarket, it sounded like a siren.
The robbers turned in unison.
"Well now," Kev drawled, gun still trained on the cashier, "looks like we've got ourselves an audience. You wanna be part of the show, kid?"
Mark's mind raced, adrenaline coursing through his veins. "Hey, let's just all calm down," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Nobody needs to get hurt."
A harsh laugh echoed in the silent supermarket. "Looks like we got ourselves a hero."
"Man, chill with the kid." It was the one near the door. He shifted, a tremor of uncertainty in his stance that mirrored the sudden flicker in Kev's eyes— they weren't expecting this. Good. "Let's just grab the cash and go, alright? No need for—"
"You wanna tell me what to do now, Jimmy?" Kev spun around, the gun swinging away from Mark to point at his accomplice, and for the space of a heartbeat, the pressure in the air eased just enough. Enough.
Sally chose that moment to scramble to her feet, a choked cry escaping her lips.
Kev didn't hesitate. In a heartbeat, he reversed the gun's aim, and brought it down on Sally's temple with a sickening thud. She crumpled, silent, and Mark saw red.
"Hey, there's no need for that!" Mark protested.
"Oh, there's a need, alright," Kev sneered, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "So, tell me, kid," he hissed, "you ever had a gun in your face before?"
Mark swallowed hard, his heart pounding against his ribs. "Look, I don't want any trouble," he said, his voice steady. "Just take the money and leave. No one needs to get hurt."
"But it's so much more fun when they do," Kev cackled, his eyes gleaming with a twisted delight.
Mark's gaze darted between the three masked figures and the crumpled form of Sally on the floor, her face a canvas of pain and fear. A surge of anger, mixed with a deep-seated sense of responsibility, coursed through him.
He couldn't just stand and watch.
Taking a deep breath, he reached within himself, tapping into his reservoir that had always hummed beneath his skin.
Lida's warnings echoed in his mind, but they were drowned out by the urgency of the situation.
Closing his eyes, he channeled his ether, feeling it flow like a warm current through his veins. A shudder ran through him as he channeled, not enough to cause a visible shift in energy that might set off their alarms (and his, the consequences…) but just enough to tip the scales towards his hands and legs, subtly enhancing their capabilities.
It wouldn't last long— but it would have to be enough.
"The fuck you think you're doin'?" Sensing a shift in Mark's demeanor, Kev growled, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Before the words had even left his lips, it was already over. One heartbeat Mark was standing there, and the next he was on Kev, his arm a blur, twisting the gun free, sending it spinning across the tile floor to clatter harmlessly against the dairy case.
Kev stumbled back, his eyes wide with shock and confusion.
"You little--!"
Mark didn't give him time to finish the thought. He lashed out with lightening fast jab, his fist connecting with Kev's jaw in a symphony of cracking bone and cartilage. The larger man roared—more surprise than pain this time— as he crashed into the magazine rack.
Enraged, Jimmy charged at him, throwing a wild haymaker.
But Mark, his reflexes heightened by the energy coursing through him, effortlessly sidestepped the blow. With a swift counter punch, he slammed his fist into the robber's ribs, feeling another sickening crunch beneath his knuckles as his enhanced strength connected with bone and sinew.
Jimmy went down with a gasp, crumpled against a display of canned peaches. But the third one was already moving— a dark blur reaching for the fallen gun.
However, Mark, with his speed, intercepted him effortlessly. He grabbed the man by the collar, spun him around, and threw him into the nearby aisles, causing cans and boxes to crash down around him.
He turned just in time to see Kev struggling to his feet.
"You're dead, kid." He spat blood onto the white floor. "You're fucking dead."
Mark simply shrugged, a sardonic smile playing on his lips.
Kev, enraged, charged at him like a bull, fists flailing wildly.
However, Mark was faster and skilled. He bobbed and weaved, dodging the intruder's wild swings and counter-attacking with precision.
Each punch from Mark landed with a satisfying crunch, and he relished in the feeling of his knuckles connecting with his hard face.
His bravado shattered, Kev tried desperately to fight back, throwing wild haymakers that Mark easily dodged.
He moved with a grace that belied his enhanced strength, his strikes precise and punishing. A left hook to the jaw, followed by a right cross to the temple, sent him staggering backward.
The robber tasted blood, his vision blurring. He tried to catch his breath, but Mark gave him no respite. A flurry of blows rained down upon him.
"How does it feel to be on the receiving end?" Mark taunted between punches.
He had never been a violent person, but seeing the fear in Sally's eyes, the way these men had treated her, had unleashed a rage he couldn't control. Each blow he landed was a cathartic release, a way to channel his anger and disgust into something tangible.
He felt a sense of satisfaction in seeing the intruder cower and wince in pain. Finally, Kev fell to the ground, blood trickling from his nose and mouth staining the pristine white tiles of the supermarket floor.
With the immediate threat neutralized, Mark's focus shifted to the trembling cashier. He rushed to her side, gently helping her to her feet. "Are you alright?"
"I… I think so," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.
"Good," he said reassuringly. "Call the police. I'll take care of these guys."
Sally nodded numbly and reached for the phone, her hands shaking as she dialed 911.
Mark, meanwhile, turned his attention to the subdued robbers. One by one, he approached the subdued figures. Two of them, unconscious, thankfully. The third— Jimmy, if he remembered the name right— met his gaze with a dull sort of defiance as Mark used coils of heavy-duty rope he found near the cleaning supplies to secure their wrists and ankles.
The minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness as they waited for the cops. One of the nameless robbers, regaining consciousness, began to struggle against his bonds, his muffled curses filling the air.
"Save your energy," Mark said flatly, his gaze unwavering.
The robber glared at him with pure hatred. "You'll regret this, you little prick," he hissed. "Just wait till me and my boys get out. They'll hunt you down."
Mark sighed, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before. Now just stay put until the cops haul your ass off."
The robber continued his tirade of threats and insults, but Mark simply tuned him out. His attention was drawn to Sally, who sat huddled in a corner, her body still trembling from the ordeal.
"Thank you," she whispered shakily, her voice barely audible over the robber's rant. "Thank you so much."
Mark offered her a reassuring smile. "It's okay," he said gently. "It's all over now."
He kept a watchful eye on the robbers, making sure they didn't try anything before the police arrived.
It felt like an eternity before Mark heard the sirens in the distance. He could feel the tension in the air, but he refused to let his guard down until the police were inside the store. Finally, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching and the jingle of keys as the officers unlocked the door.
Two uniformed officers entered cautiously, hands hovering near their holsters. Mark raised his own hands in surrender, backing away from the groaning figures of robbers.
The officers quickly assessed the situation and took the intruders into custody. Mark gave a statement to the police, explaining what had happened.
Their gazes lingered on him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, but they ultimately accepted his account.
As the robbers were led away, Mark made his way back to Sally.
"It's okay," he said softly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You're safe now."
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with gratitude. "I don't know what I would have done without you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
He gently guided her to a chair and sat beside her. He stayed with her until she calmed down, offering words of comfort and support. Once the initial shock had subsided and Sally was in the capable hands of the paramedics, Mark quietly slipped out of the store as they were loading Kev, unconscious now, onto a stretcher.
The damage on the guy's face… He hadn't meant to…
Mark was already halfway across the parking lot, head pounding before he allowed himself to exhale.
* * *
Crouched behind a scraggly bush a few houses down from his own, Mark wiped his hands on his jeans, cursing under his breath as tomato sauce smeared across the worn denim. It'd have to do.
Lida's warnings about drawing attention to himself, already an incessant buzz in the back of his head all evening, cranked up to full volume as he snuck closer to his house. The last thing he needed was Mrs. Henderson, queen of the neighborhood gossip circuit, spotting him.
He imagined her peering from behind her lace curtains, already composing tomorrow's installment of the neighborhood gossip chain— "That strange boy, out at all hours, looking like he wrestled a jar of spaghetti sauce..."
Yeah, that'd go over well.
Lida would have a field day with that. The well-worn lecture about "keeping a low profile" played on repeat in his head.
Fumbling with his keys, he snuck a glance toward her lace-curtained window. Clear.
The door swung open, and he nearly tripped over the welcome mat as the warm scent of roasted chicken wafted out—a wave of normal that should've soothed the tremor in his nerves. It didn't.
Mark silently tiptoed past the living room, trying to make his way up to his bedroom without being detected. He could hear the clink of silverware, the familiar, comforting murmur of the evening news playing softly in the background.
He'd almost made it to the staircase when—
"Mark!"
Busted. He froze mid-step, turning to find Lida emerging from the kitchen, a flour-dusted apron tied around her waist.
"Where have you been?" Concern etched deep lines into her forehead, lines that deepened as she took in his state. "You're covered in … is that tomato sauce?"
"Oh, it's nothing. I just… uh… tripped and fell on my way back from the library."
"Is everything okay? You look a little shaken up." Lida's brow furrowed.
"Oh, I'm fine. Just a long day, you know."
Her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him for a moment longer before she seemed to accept his explanation. "Dinner's ready. Wash up and come down."
"Actually, I'm not really hungry."
"Are you feeling ill again?" She asked, concern creeping into her voice.
"Nah, just not feeling much of an appetite."
Lida strode towards him, her hand reaching out to touch his forehead. "You still feel a bit warm," she murmured, her touch gentle yet firm.
He gently pulled away. "I'm fine, Lida. Just tired. I think I'll just head to bed."
She studied him for a moment, a flicker of doubt still lingering in her eyes. "Alright," she finally conceded. "Get some rest."
Mark breathed a sigh of relief and quickly made his way up to his room. He collapsed onto his bed, the events of the day replaying in his mind like a broken record. His heart hammered against his ribs, the adrenaline slowly receding, leaving behind a tremor of unease. He closed his eyes, seeking solace in the darkness, but sleep offered no escape.
Dreams, vivid and terrifying, pulled him back to that fateful night.
It began the same way it always did—his parents, faces etched with the love and laughter of that last, normal evening.
He saw his parents, their faces etched with love and laughter, then contorted in terror as the intruders burst into their home. But this time, he wasn't huddled in the cellar's stifling darkness. This time, he stood beside them, frozen, powerless, as the shadows converged.
He was eight years old again, trapped in a nightmare he couldn't escape. The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils, the screams echoing in his ears.
Mark struggled, his breath catching in his throat. He kicked out, feeling his bare foot connect with something solid, hearing a satisfying crunch— but it wasn't the intruder who went down. It was his mother.
Her scream, sharp and sudden, shattered the dream's chaotic narrative. He recoiled, his gut twisting with guilt, but someone held him fast, the grip tightening on his throat. Panic clawed its way up, choking him, and just when he thought the world would go black, he was flung free.
He landed hard against the supermarket checkout counter, winded but alive. Sally, slumped at his feet, a bloody gash across her forehead. A huge figure looming over her, gun glinting in his hand… The dream twisted, blurred, refusing to release him, morphing faces, shifting locations until the fear of that night and the brutality of this afternoon were a single, overwhelming entity. He thrashed, shouting, but the sound died in his throat.
He was eight years old again, trapped in a nightmare he couldn't escape.The images played out again and again. He couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness and despair. He felt the terror and the pain, and the guilt of not being able to save them.
Mark tried to shake himself out of the dream, but it was like he was trapped. He could hear the shouts ringing in his ears, and the smell of blood was overpowering. He couldn't escape the feeling of loss and the crushing weight of the tragedy.
* * *
He woke to the lingering taste of fear, the metallic scent of blood clinging to the back of his throat like stale cigarette smoke. The dream— those blurry faces, the cries, the bone-deep wrongness of what he'd done and hadn't been able to prevent—clawed at the edges of his mind. He took a shaky breath, pushing back against the shadows of sleep as sunlight sliced through the gap in his curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the morning air. A normal day.
Or so he tried to convince himself as he stumbled into the bathroom, the cold shock of water against his face doing little to wash away the grime of the night before. The nightmare lingered, a phantom pressure against his chest that tightened with every step down the stairs.
Lida's humming drifted from the kitchen along with the sound of sizzling bacon and the smell of freshly brewed coffee.
"Sleep well?" Lida didn't even turn from the stove, spatula in hand, auburn braid swaying gently as she moved.
"Like a rock," he lied, masking his unease.
"Good. Breakfast's almost done. Have a seat."
Mark settled into a chair at the kitchen table, his gaze distant, his thoughts still clouded. The familiar sounds of clinking utensils and the sizzling of bacon did little to soothe his troubled mind.
As she served him his breakfast, Mark's thoughts wandered back to yesterday. He couldn't shake off the image of the terrified cashier.
They ate in silence for a few moments before Lida broke it. "You said your head was bothering you yesterday. Any better?"
He swallowed, pushing the scrambled eggs around his plate. "Little bit."
"Rough day at the library, huh?"
"Library?….. It was … yeah. Busy."
"Hmm." She took a slow sip of coffee. "So, how's college?"
"It's going… well."
"That's good to hear. Any interesting projects or assignments?" she pressed, trying to engage him in conversation.
"The usual stuff," Mark replied vaguely. "Presentations, group projects, the never-ending cycle of exams."
Lida's eyes narrowed slightly as she observed him. "So, nothing out of the ordinary? No strange occurrences, no… unusual encounters?"
He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Nope."
"Really?" She set down her coffee cup, her gaze unwavering. "Mark," she said, her expression turning stern, "is there something you want to tell me?"
He froze mid-bite, feeling his heart skip a beat. Did she somehow know about yesterday? Or was she picking up on his anxiety? He tried to keep his expression neutral as he looked back at her.
"What do you mean?"
"You've been acting strangely ever since you got home last night," Lida observed. "Something's bothering you. What is it?"
"Nothing. Just swamped with college and work," he deflected, hoping she'd buy it.
"So, you were never going to tell me about yesterday, huh?"
Mark nearly choked on his orange juice. "What…. what are you talking about?"
"I got a call from the police station, informing me about a robbery that took place at the store," Lida explained.
A cold dread washed over Mark. He had been really hoping that the whole thing would go unnoticed. Shit.
"I…I didn't want to worry you."
"Mark," she sighed, her voice laced with frustration. "Why would you involve yourself in something so dangerous? You know how important it is to keep a low profile."
"I didn't go looking for trouble. I was just at the store, and…" he trailed off, unsure how to explain the situation.
"And what?" Lida pressed, her eyes narrowed. "You just happened to be a hero in the right place at the right time?"
"It wasn't like that," Mark insisted, his voice rising in defense. "Those guys were hurting th--this woman, I couldn't just stand there and do nothing!"
"And what if you had gotten hurt? What if those weren't just ordinary men with ordinary guns? Or worse, what if someone had seen what you can do?"
"I was careful. Nobody saw anything… unusual. I was--"
"Even if nobody saw anything overtly strange," she cut him off, "drawing attention to yourself is never a good thing. You know the risks. We've talked about this."
Mark ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling up within him. "I know, Lida, I know…..But they were hurting that woman! They had a gun! What was I supposed to do, just stand there and watch?"
Lida's expression softened. "I know it's hard. And I'm not saying you did the wrong thing by helping. But you need to be more careful. There are other ways to help, ways that don't involve exposing yourself."
"Like what?" He challenged. "Call the police and hope they get there in time? Sometimes, you have to take action, even if it means taking a risk."
"And sometimes," Lida countered, her voice firm but calm, "taking action means knowing when to step back, when to let others handle things. We are not superheroes. We are not invincible. And the more we expose ourselves, the greater the chance of something going wrong."
"But what about the people who need help? The ones being hurt, the ones being threatened? Are we just supposed to ignore them and act like it isn't happening?"
Lida sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "It's not that simple," she said, her voice heavy with the weight of years of experience and caution. "We have to be smart, to choose our battles carefully. We can't save everyone, but we can protect ourselves and each other. And that, Mark, is the most important thing."
"I'm not going to stand by and watch while innocent people suffer."
Lida reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "Mark, please," she pleaded, her voice cracking slightly. "I understand your anger, your desire to help. But you have to trust me on this. It's too dangerous."
Mark pulled away, his frustration reaching a boiling point. "Why can't you see it from my perspective?" he snapped. "I'm not a child anymore, Lida. I can make my own damn decisions."
"Don't you think I know that?"Lida sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "I just…I… can't lose you too."
The air hung thickened with unspoken emotions. Mark's anger dissipated, replaced by a wave of guilt. He knew that she only had his best interests at heart, but he still couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to use his abilities—needed to help, to fight back.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, the words catching in his throat.
She gave him a small smile. "I just want you to be safe." Her hand reached across the table, her fingers resting gently on his.
Mark stared at their intertwined hands, shame twisting his gut. The concern etched in her face, the weariness around her eyes— it was a mirror of his own fear, of the ever-present shadow of their shared loss. He saw, with painful clarity, how his recklessness resurrected those ghosts for her— the memories of that night, of the frantic search for him, of discovering…
Just the thought of causing her any more pain, any more worry, was a lead weight settling in his stomach.
"Lida… I'm so sorry.. I-I didn't mean to snap at you."
"I know, sweetheart. I know. It's alright. We both get… a little heated sometimes" She squeezed his hand. "I trust your heart, Mark. Just promise me you'll be more careful."
"I promise." The word felt flimsy, even to his own ears.
"I'm sorry too, I don't want us to argue like this every time." Lida took a deep breath, composing herself. But there was a tremor in her voice that betrayed the facade of calm "It's just— I'm scared, Mark. I can't… I've already lost so much. I can't bear the thought of losing you too."
"I know," he replied, offering her a reassuring smile. He understood her fear, the echoes of their shared loss that haunted them both.
She pulled him into a tight embrace, her arms wrapping around him like a protective shield. He held her close, drawing strength from her warmth and the steady beat of her heart.
"I love you, you know that, right?" she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I only say all of this because I worry. That's all this is. Just… a worried old woman clinging to--"
"I know," he replied. "And I love you too."
Later, as Mark pulled a clean shirt from his drawer, avoiding the mirrored reflection of his own guilt-stricken eyes, the scent of bacon still lingered in the air. Comforting. Normal. Normal. The word clung to him now like a label he didn't deserve.
He'd promised he'd be careful. Meant it. Truly. But as much as he hated worrying his aunt, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had done the right thing.