Diary of a Teenage Superhero

by Darrell Pitt

  Chapter Six

  It is evening. The air grows cooler by the minute. Stores and apartment buildings slide past my gaze. Cars beep at each other. Someone practices opera from an open window. A man sweeps his front step with a straw broom.

  I see and hear it all, but it is as if I am deaf and blind.

  I have killed a man.

  I am a murderer.

  It was self defense. That goes without saying. There is no doubt in my mind the man would have dragged me back to the room with Doctor Ravana and I would have been tortured and eventually killed. My body would have probably been buried in an unmarked grave or disposed of in a river. My parents, whoever they are, would never know what had happened to me. My own death would have been a foregone conclusion if I had been recaptured.

  Still, I have killed a man and I will carry that knowledge with me for as long as I live. This is what soldiers must go through. They must experience similar feelings of guilt and horror. Once a person passes through that door they can never return. I have taken a human life and there will never be a time when that can be undone.

  Every time I close my eyes I see the event in some sort of stop motion sequence. I try to grab him. He falls. His eyes meet mine. His body lies motionless on the floor. His neck lies at an unnatural angle.

  Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself. I realize I am cold. Freezing. I stop at a street corner and the city slowly comes to life around me. A man is walking a dog. A woman is playing with her two small children on the sidewalk. A bus stops and passengers exit. It seems inconceivable that people are still carrying out their everyday lives.

  I have to start thinking about where to go from here. My eyes randomly search the street and settle on a dimly lit vertical sign.

  LIBRARY

  Such places often stay open later than many retail stores. Crossing the road, I mount the steps and a moment later the warm interior embraces me. It’s not a large library. More of a local community center. Still, it is better than nothing. An idea is forming in my mind. The woman at the desk smiles at me pleasantly. She is middle aged with brown hair and eyes. Probably even if you saw her on the street, you would still pick her profession. They must make all librarians from the same cookie mold.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I say. “I’m very lost. I was on the tourist bus and I’ve gotten out at the wrong place.”

  She nods.

  “Can you tell me where I am?”

  “You’re on Fort Washington Avenue.”

  “Which city?”

  She gives me an odd look. “New York City, of course.”

  “Thanks.”

  I turn around and meander through the dozen aisles that make up the library. Why am I in New York City? Does my family live here? I find I can remember images of the city, but they could be from television programs. I can’t actually remember any street in detail, whether it be from here or anywhere else in the country.

  The questions remain: who am I and how did I get here?

  I slowly decide on a course of action.

  “Can I use your internet?” I ask the woman at the desk.

  She looks up. “Our internet isn’t working. I’m sorry.”

  She looks a little annoyed. Maybe she’s busy playing Minesweeper. I persevere anyway.

  “Where are your encyclopedias?” I ask.

  She nods to a nearby shelf. A few minutes later I’m searching the ‘S’ volume. The man back at the room told me I had to find the Swan. He did not tell me to find Mr. Swan. I had to find The Swan. Possibly the name is some sort of code. Maybe something in the encyclopedia will give me a clue.

  Fifteen minutes later I put the book down in frustration. I’ve found out a lot about swans. They’re part of the same family that includes geese and ducks. They are among the largest flying birds in the world. They feature in the mythology of many different cultures.

  Unfortunately none of this is going to help. If someone gives me a snap test on swans I should ace it, but as far as finding out what the hell is going on –

  I drag open the encyclopedia again. There must be something in here that will help. I’m half way through studying the section again when something leaps at me from the first line:

  Swan (Genus Cygnus)

  That’s the second time today I’ve seen the word Cygnus. The business card I extracted from the dead man’s pocket bore the company name Cygnus Industries. The address was West Forty-Ninth Street. I lay down the book in triumph. At last I have a lead. The Swan must be located at Cygnus Industries.

  “We’re closing soon,” the woman calls from her desk.

  The woman is becoming icier by the moment. She must have bombed out of Minesweeper. Still, I bravely ask her for directions and within minutes I’ve found my bearing. Despite everything I’ve been through, I now have a spring in my step. An hour before I was cold, alone and lost.

  Okay, I’m still cold and alone, but at least now I’m not quite so lost. I have a plan. The man in the room said to find the Swan. The Swan can probably tell me all sorts of information, like my last name, my address and how the hell I got into this situation.

  I’m feeling brighter by the moment. Maybe I’ll even get my memory restored. This time tomorrow I could be with family and friends and looking back on this whole experience as an unpleasant memory.

  It only takes me a few minutes to find the right address on West Forty-Ninth Street. It turns out to be an art deco apartment building nestled between taller, more modern structures. Turn of the century apartment blocks huddle together across the road. A motley collection of small businesses seem to operate out of the address. I can see signage in one window for a mortgage broker. Another window advertises shoe repairs.

  My eyes slowly shift to the roof of the building. A shape seems to be silhouetted against the night sky. For an instant I think it’s a bird, but then I realize it is growing closer with every passing second. Before I can make a move, it becomes terrifyingly close and the object slams into the roof of the car parked behind me. Glass and metal fly in all directions. A passing woman screams and faints. An elderly couple stare in horror at the sight.

  I stare in horrified fascination at the dead man. He is covered in blood and more is appearing with every passing second. I can see his face. He looks stunned. Obviously death was the furthest thing from his mind when he reported to work this morning.

  Nobody needs to tell me his identity. This is the Swan. As surely as night follows day he is the man who held the answers to all my questions and now those answers have died with him.

  One thing I know for certain.

  This swan could not fly.

  I look back up at the building and get my second shock for the evening. There is a man leaning out of a window high above. His hands are on the sill. He peers down, not at the dead man on the car, but at me. Our eyes meet.

  Doctor Ravana’s face twists into an expression of seething hatred.