Thor: Ragnarok - The Avengers: Infinity War - The Avengers: Endgame
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Tony stark gave his life so we could make something of ours.
*EDITING SPRING OF 2023*
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For me, the terror of growing up - real terror as opposed to demons and boogeymen that lived solely in my own imagination - began April 26th of 2005. I had just turned eleven.
I started out that day as I had started any day before that since starting school six years prior to that in the year 2000, the year when the summer Olympics were held in Australia, the PlayStation 2 came out and when cellphones became a thing of not the future, but the present. I woke up, brushed my little teeth and combed my hair into a ponytail. I ate breakfast - pancakes drenched in warm maple syrup from the farmer's market - and got dressed. I wore a pink dress with white lace trimming on the hem and my new flip flops. It was going to be a warm day, April tended to be warm throughout the last two weeks.
In 2005, all was well. I went to school, where I had a small group of friends that I played with during recess and secretly chatted with during class. I had teachers I liked - and teachers I didn't like - and I was very good at reading and writing for my age. I enjoyed school - maybe unlike most kids, I don't know - and learning new things.
I was a regular kid, really. Sure, I would end up killing a boy before summer would start, but hey, nobody's perfect, right? Everybody has their flaws.
I don't even remember the first time I noticed there was something wrong with me. Perhaps I'd been sitting in our backyard, which always looked unkempt and overgrown with moss and such, or maybe I was taking a bath with my favorite bubblegum pink bubble bath while my dad was singing along to his Johnny Cash records upstairs in the attic. Maybe I'd been reading a book or drawing pictures or writing in my diary.
Perhaps I can't remember when it started because it's just always been there. Even when I was born, when I came shooting out into the world screaming like my lungs were on fire. Maybe it felt like they were. I can't remember.
That low, humming vibration in the back of my head, the rumbling in the pit of my stomach. The tiny pricks in my fingertips, almost like I'd been sitting on my hands too long and pins and needles were the result. Sometimes my head would throb and ache horribly, sometimes I would feel the need to puke and on one occasion, I had blacked out at the end of a busy street just before the green light. That was not my proudest moment, I'll admit it.
If you were to ask me why I was the one in the family with special abilities - the only one, may I add- I would laugh in your face and tell you that it was God's way of playing a cruel joke on me and all the people who would come to know me during the course of my life, because I was just a kid and I still believed in the literal God, a man sitting on his throne high up in the sky that watched over us humans like we were his children and treated us as such.
When I saw Jimmy Dean's eyes, staring at me like two little black marbles on the middle school playground, I knew that that God did not exist. I knew it when I heard the hinges on the swings squeaking terribly above me like they were going to fall on my head - if only they had - and I knew it for certain when the principal began to shout in my face, so angrily that splatters of his spit flew from his mouth, landed on my cheeks and in my hair. That kind of God - the God in the literal sense - couldn't exist, because if he did, I would have to be the Devil.
