I thought my uncle could lift 20 floor brick buildings and hold them on his shoulders to protect us from the ground. The furniture comes alive at night and morphs into monsters. They make children quiver under their bed sheets and pray. We grow up, fond of our fears. I'd wait all night to hear the nonrhythmic clasping of worn out, splitting high heels against a cold tiled floor, its edges chipped like white wood paneling. There was the sleepy creek of the metal apartment door shutting out the sinister whisper of night's polluted, urban air. I hoped to myself that someone was being saved by a vigilante from a merciless crime outside that door, just as shutting it gave me the false security that all became safe now that she's home. As I grew up, promises and dreams became a thin mesh blanket of hope wrapped around a glass jar, bursting with reality. I realize I am my own hero in the midst of the night, and the only saving any one is really doing, is saving themselves. My name is Kimberly, and I want to hear it being called from the sky.