The front door creaked open with a sudden bang.
"Carl! Get your ass out here!" a sharp voice barked. "You reading those damn comic books again?! You're eighteen, for Christ's sake—when the hell are you gonna grow up?"
The screen door slammed shut behind her as she stepped out onto the porch, arms folded, mouth tight like she was holding back more venom than words. Her eyes—cold, sharp, judgmental—cut straight through the quiet morning like broken glass through silk.
Her name was Delores Gallagher. And she wasn't known for kindness.
Inside the house, footsteps scrambled, light ones. A beat later, Carl appeared at the doorway, holding a worn-out comic in one hand, the other gripping the frame like it might keep him from collapsing under her glare.
He looked small. Not in size—he was nearly six feet now, lean but strong—but in presence. In weight. Like he wasn't allowed to grow into his skin properly.
Carl's eyes flicked to hers, then down to the porch floor. He swallowed hard.
"Y-Yeah, Auntie," he said, voice soft. "Sorry, I didn't hear you call—"
"I didn't call," she snapped, her heels clicking once as she stepped closer. "I shouted. Three times. You got wax in your ears or just too busy drawing those cartoons like a damn five-year-old?"
"They're comics, not—"
Her hand shot up—not to hit, just to silence. That was worse, somehow.
"I don't care what they are. Trash, that's what. Useless pictures for useless boys with nothing better to do. You want to end up like your father? Dead in a damn plane chasing fantasies?"
Carl flinched. The sting in her voice hit harder than a slap.
Delores sighed, not because she was tired, but because she liked the sound of her own irritation. She turned and walked back toward the driveway, waving a hand for him to follow.
"Get your shoes on. Go down to the corner store, grab my damn cigarettes. Benson Lights. And don't come back with any of that cheap knockoff shit. You hear me?"
Carl hesitated. "I—I thought you said we weren't supposed to buy from Manny anymore. After he yelled at you?"
She stopped halfway down the porch steps, slowly turned, and looked up at him with a stare that could freeze water.
"Did I ask for commentary, Carl?"
He shook his head quickly. "No."
"Then get moving. You've got five minutes before I start counting it as theft."
She vanished around the side of the house, muttering something about "lazy, spoiled little brats" and "wasted money." Carl stood there a second longer, the comic still in his hand.
It was a superhero issue—one of the old ones. Tattered corners, spine almost broken. The hero on the cover had wings made of fire. Carl had drawn that exact pose a dozen times, traced the lines, memorized the shading.
He looked down at it… then folded it gently and slipped it behind the loose panel in the hallway wall before grabbing his sneakers.
The walk to the corner store was short but heavy. Every house he passed, he imagined the families inside. Warm kitchens. Laughter. Music. People who wanted their kids. Who maybe even read comics with them.
He remembered when things were different. Before the crash. Before the lawyers. Before the blood in the water.
After his parents died, everyone wanted a piece of what was left. Bank accounts, stocks, land. But most of all—Carl. Because Carl meant control of it all.
And Delores had won. Her and her two sisters. "We'll take care of him," they told the court. "We're blood. We're family."
But inside that house, Carl wasn't family. He was the help. The boy who cooked and cleaned and kept quiet. Who didn't ask where the money went. Who didn't ask why the guest room became Delores's "walk-in closet" or why her sister started driving his father's car.
He was the kid who got blamed when the porch light went out or the dog ran away. The one who slept in the basement while his old room became storage for shopping bags and wigs and leather boots.
But he never told anyone. He never ran. He stayed.
Why?
Because that comic book hero on the cover had wings made of fire. And fire meant hope.
Carl reached the store, nodding at the guy behind the counter—Manny, a gruff old man with a lazy eye and a mean temper.
"You again," Manny muttered. "Your aunt still owe me for that last carton."
Carl handed over the cash Delores had stuffed into his palm. "She said Benson Lights."
Manny took it, counted, then slid the box across without a word.
Carl pocketed the carton, nodded a quiet thanks, and turned to leave—but not before his eyes darted to the comic rack near the back.
New issue. Bold title. Phoenix Rebirth #1.
He froze.
It was beautiful. The art, the colors, the name—everything screamed power. Freedom. The kind of thing that didn't belong in his hands, but begged to be.
He reached for it. Just for a second.
"Hey." Manny's voice snapped. "You buying or just getting fingerprints all over my shelf?"
Carl pulled his hand back.
"Sorry."
He left.
The walk back was slower. Not because his legs were tired—but because his heart was. The weight of the house ahead of him, the voice waiting on that porch, the chores piling up—it all pressed down on him.
He stepped onto the driveway just as Delores stepped out of the garage, lighting a cigarette with one hand and holding her phone in the other.
"You took your sweet time," she said, not even looking at him. "What, you fall in a ditch?"
He held out the carton.
She grabbed it, checked the label, then flicked her ash without warning—right onto his shoe.
Carl didn't react.
"You're washing the bathroom next," she said. "Top to bottom. I want to see my reflection in that damn toilet. And make sure you pick up after the mutts. One of them shit on my rug and I'm not smelling that again."
She walked back inside, smoke trailing behind her.
Carl stood there, shoes scuffed, shirt sticking to his back from the heat. Then he slowly turned, walked to the side of the house, and sat on the cracked brick ledge near the rosebushes.
He pulled out a pencil from his pocket and a folded sheet of lined paper from his shoe—sketches. Half-drawn. Wings, capes, fire, chains. All his own.
He drew in silence, tuning out the house, the chores, the pain. Just lines. Clean, sharp lines.
Until the day came when one of them wouldn't be just drawings.
They'd be blueprints for escape.
Or revenge.
Or both.
He smiled, just a little.
Then got up. Because the toilet wasn't going to scrub itself.