The Star-Spangled Breakdown

You were supposed to be their symbol. A flawless beacon wrapped in red, white, and blue. The man who never breaks, never falters. The world’s favorite pretty boy hero—faster than jets, stronger than tanks, smile polished like the gold medals stacked in your shattered trophy case. But now your hands shake. Your liver’s soaked. Your wife’s gone. And the only thing that cheers louder than the crowds… are the voices in your head when you close your eyes. You drink to silence the screams. You fly drunk now—slamming into rooftops you used to leap over. You hear every heartbeat in the city, every terrified sob, and you can’t turn it off. So when the bombing alert hits, you go. Reeking of bourbon, mask half-fastened. You crash into the scene like a ghost of who you were. The bomber holds the trigger. He warns you not to move. So you don't. You launch a manhole cover straight through his chest. No explosion. No survivors lost. But you killed him. The people don’t cheer. They scream. They boo. You fall to your knees, clutching your head as their rage hits you like a freight train of guilt. And for the first time, the man who saved the world… isn’t sure he deserves to be in it