Heroes have flaws, and as a non-hero, I carry mine too. My life prior to the raid was a partially eaten club sandwich resting on the table, the mayonnaise nothing but a clear smudge coating the bacon. This ignored, leftover lunch would make it to the trash eventually — the next time I took a piss.

I kept consuming, making a mess. I guzzled Pepsis down like it was the only beverage. My thirst was never satiated. I was so apathetic to my surroundings that I built a decent stack of empty restaurant cups on the floor — guarded by a housefly seeking the sugary residue.

The newest addition didn’t make it to the stack. The straw was stuck under a greasy takeout bag containing the previous day’s burger wrapper and empty carton of fries. I noted the straw’s tenuous connection to the lid, forcing the Styrofoam cup to dangle from the end table — temporarily defying gravity. When the cup finally fell, drops of sticky pop speckled the beige carpet. I didn’t bother to clean it. I was the stranded, hollow cup.

The window blinds concealed my messy lifestyle. My bedroom was my sanctuary, the only place I could be who I was when I wasn’t out convincing people I was somebody else. I was an angry man with a strange obsession. I didn’t care how I lived when no one was looking.

Even amid my obsession, I knew my name: Martin Ashburn. No matter what, they can’t take that away from me. I’m in my mid-thirties in human years, with dirty dishwater blonde hair like the ‘Ash’ in my surname.

I’m good looking enough for my line of work. I’m tall with a good physique. Working out frequently was my signature activity, but I didn’t need to lift a finger. I had endless energy. I shared videos of myself lifting weights and taking long walks, but it was all performative.

I have steely eyes and a watchful gaze. My admirers considered me a champion of their rights, but only if our goals were aligned. My most empathetic feature is a slight quiver at the left corner of my lower lip. It happens whenever I think of her. It’s a symptom of the tremors inside of me. You’d understand if you’ve ever suffered a tragedy.

When I was trying to convince others of my sincerity, I let it show. I sense your judgment, and you’re right. I am a self-serving slob. I never claimed to be otherwise, and I don’t now — I am simply telling my side of the story. Every rogue has their own version of events.

As I rewind the tape of my life prior to the raid of my home, I feel numb. I don’t regret my desire for knowledge. When the truth was revealed to me, I couldn’t go back. The world is a frightening place, but like Pandora’s cursed jar, there’s a single, lingering remnant of good. Small, fragile, and surrounded by ruin, hope of redemption keeps me going.