Fiction in the Sky

A superhero flew across the sky in the distance.

It was a streak of color against the grey haze of Kuala Lumpur, a blur of red and blue that defied gravity, defied logic, defied the heavy, humid weight of the earth below. People on the street stopped to look up. Children pointed, their faces alight with a wonder that seemed impossible in a city so worn down by heat and hustle. For a brief, suspended moment, the fear of the Black Dragons, the tension of my father’s grip on the steering wheel, the bruised body of Besi Mari against the wall, all of it vanished. Replaced by awe.

To them, he was a savior. A symbol of hope. A promise that good could triumph over evil, that justice was not just a word but a force of nature. He flew with his arms outstretched, embracing the wind, free from the constraints of law and consequence. He was untouchable. Pure.

But I didn’t look up. I looked down.

I looked at my father’s hands on the wheel, knuckles white, veins mapping the stress of a life lived in the shadows. I looked at the dust settling on the pavement where Besi Mari had fallen, a small cloud of grit that marked the spot where a man’s dignity had been shattered. I looked at the shadows stretching long and thin across the asphalt, hiding the cracks in the city’s foundation, hiding the secrets that kept the wheels of this place turning.

Because I knew something the people on the street didn’t. I knew that while the superhero flew in the sky, the real power lived in the streets. And it didn’t wear a cape. It wore a tailored suit. It didn’t save people; it controlled them. It didn’t fight for justice; it enforced order. It didn’t answer to the law; it wrote it in blood and silence.

The superhero was a fantasy. My father was a reality.

And reality is messy. Reality is violent. Reality is quiet.

I remember feeling a strange dissonance, a cognitive clash between the myth above and the truth below. The superhero represented everything I wanted to be: powerful, admired, good. But my father represented everything I was becoming: powerful, feared, complicit.

I thought that if I could just fly high enough, I could escape the shadow of the dragon. I thought that if I could just be like the hero in the sky, I could wash away the stain of my family’s secrets. So I tried to be good. I tried to be helpful. I tried to be the person who saved others, not the one who broke them. I volunteered. I listened. I tried to fix things with words instead of force.

But you can’t fly when you’re anchored by guilt.

For years, I stayed on the ground, navigating the labyrinth of my father’s world, learning its rules, speaking its language. I became an enforcer of my own making, using my intelligence to manipulate, to control, to survive. I coordinated logistics for high-end clients, ensuring that secrets stayed buried and deals stayed clean. I managed relationships like assets, discarding them when they no longer served my narrative. I thought I was fighting the dragons, but I was just learning how to breathe fire. I thought I was being smart, but I was just being safe.

The superhero in the sky didn’t have to worry about NDAs. He didn’t have to worry about who owed whom. He didn’t have to worry about the cost of his power because his power was given, not taken. My father’s power was taken. Every ounce of respect he commanded was purchased with someone else’s fear. And I had inherited the debt.

Now, standing in the village with the truth in my chest, I look up again. The superhero is gone. The sky is empty. But the feeling remains.

I realize now that heroes don’t fly. They walk. They stumble. They bleed. They admit when they’re wrong. They ask for help. They choose kindness over power, even when it’s hard. Even when it’s dangerous. They stay on the ground because that’s where the people are. That’s where the work is.

My father never looked up. He was too busy watching the road, too busy enforcing his will, too busy being afraid. He thought looking up was a distraction. He thought looking down was control.

But I am looking up. Not for a savior. Not for a fantasy. But for perspective.

Because the sky is vast. And the earth is small. And I am no longer trapped in the car. I am no longer trapped in the shadow. I am free to choose my own path.

And maybe, just maybe, I can learn to fly. Not with superpowers. Not with violence. But with truth. With honesty. With love.

It’s a slower kind of flight. A harder kind of freedom. It requires me to let go of the control I’ve clung to for so long. It requires me to trust that I won’t fall. It requires me to believe that I am worthy of being seen, not for what I can do, but for who I am.

The superhero was a lie. But the desire to be good? That’s real.

And that’s enough.