"Look! I'm flying!" I shout as I race gleefully around the room. You look up from your newspaper and sternly scold me. "You can't fly. Stop being an idiot and finish your work."

The pain in my hands after I plung them in the scalding hot dish water ceases any grumbling directed towards you. Without any sympathy in your voice, you tease me, saying that I'm acting like a baby again. You then mutter something, but I can only catch a few words, probably about my parents.

Leaning my face against the window, I feel the cool temperature of outside, and sigh in pleasure as all heat leaves my forehead. I smile at the snowflakes, swirling around like ballerinas, making wish I could dance out of here. Out of your clutches.

Squeaking as I wash them with a dishcloth, the plates clatter slightly as I set them out to dry. According to you, I'm making to much noise, forcing me to go slower and deal with this humiliation for even longer. I need the few cents you give me each week to help my family. You don't have any family; I can tell because you snapped at me when I asked about them. But I think that they couldn't stand you anymore. I know I sure can't.

A plate accidentally slips from my soapy hand, shattering into pieces as it hits the floor. I apology immediately, and bend over to clean it up, the porcelain shards cutting my bare hands. But that still doesn't stop your wrath. You yell and shout at me as tears run down my cheek. You grab your cane and push my face down forcefully, breaking my nose against the ground. Blood drips out as I sob and you whack me for disobeying you and, in your words, being a wretched girl. My body shakes with every blow, but I don't feel the pain anymore. You've done worse so many times already, so I don't know why you even try.

Suddenly, an emotion I've never experienced before rises up in me as I grit my teeth. You used to control me, feeding on the fear I have of you. But why should I be afraid of you? You, even with your stupid hickory cane, are an old, decrepit, bitter man that didn't and will never accomplish anything in your life, except for treating people like dirt, no matter who they were. I am young. I am strong. I can do great things, no matter what people, especially you, might think. You are beneath me.

Much to your surprise, I stand up, towering a few feet over you, something I never noticed before. The accursed cane is still in your wrinkled hand, but your grip on it as loosened from shock. In a blink of an eye, I snatch it and break it over my knee. You back away, your eyes filled with terror as I advance closer. The flames of anger lick my belly, and my hands shake with tension.

Grabbing your chest, you gasp and struggle to breath. This unexpected ailment catches me off-guard, and I bite my lip with indecision. Should I help you, even with all you've done? I admit I often had dreams of you dying this way, but reality was a lot scarier than I thought. I stand there, dumbfounded on what to do as your eyes roll into the back of your head. You fall to the floor, quivering slightly as your last breath is expelled from your body. I back away, more fearful of you than I have ever been. Funny how what I always wished would happen was one of the last things I want to happen now.

Gathering up my coat and scarf, I can't help but sigh in relief. As I skip down the hall, I begin to pretend I'm flying once more, because is the day one of the most heinous villains has been vanquished by an unlikely super-hero.

THE END