[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/xPBnPSf.png?1[/img][/center]
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I never fancied myself a writer. That, I left to my wife. The way she could put words together with such ease never ceased to amaze me; how she could make a single sentence sound like Mozart’s forgotten masterpiece. But the last few months (Months? Years, maybe? I don't know. It feels like an eternity) have been hard on me, on everyone, and Iris insisted that I write everything down, a memoir of sorts, if not to tell my story then to get this heaviness off my chest. 

I never fancied myself a writer. But as I sit here now, pen in hand, I can only hope that I find some closure through these words. Some small comfort to make it easier to live with myself. 

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[center][b]Chapter One[/b]
[i]Sunday, March 20th, 2005
7:00am[/i][/center]

God, she looked beautiful. Her brows furrowed in concentration, auburn hair carelessly billowing over her shoulders. She bit her bottom lip, the way she always does when she gets lost in thought, her eyes never leaving the television screen as she replayed HYDRA's message for the umpteenth time. A mug of coffee steamed in her hands, yet to be drunk. Beside her, nestled in the corner of our living room sofa, was her notepad and pen, notes scaling down the page in her graceful handwriting, the bottom sentence underlined with two purposeful strokes:

[center][i]Red Skull is a dick.[/i][/center]

I didn't know how journalism worked, but if I had anything to go by, I'd have said that Iris West-Allen was the cream of the crop. I still would.

I was making breakfast: scrambled eggs and toast, nice and simple. Her favorite. It was slow work, the eggs cooking at the pace of a snail, the toaster taking its time to defrost the bread. I stood over the pan, watching as bubbles formed and grew, inching upwards and outwards before popping, disappearing into the yellow mix of yolk and egg white. A light droning met my ears, almost sing-song in its character, slow and drawn out. I barely noticed it, its sound registering, but not acknowledged. 

After what felt like ages, the eggs began to harden, and I sighed in relief, scraping them from the pan’s bottom with a spatula.

“Barry?” asked Iris, turning from the TV to look at me. “Did you hear me?”

“Hmm?” In the back of my mind, I realised something, almost nonchalant in my thoughts. [i]Oh. That was her.[/i]

“Do you think this is the real thing?” She raised her hand, pointing at the HYDRA symbol that so boldly imposed itself on the screen.

I stopped to think. To me, it felt like a good few seconds. To Iris, I answered in an instant. 

“Yes. Yeah, it’s the real thing.”

She eyed me with faux suspicion. “And how can you be so sure, Mr. Allen?”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” I replied, cracking a smile. “You tell me. Aren’t you the investigative reporter around here?”  

She laughed. I love it when she does that. “Oh, just hurry up and cook my breakfast. A lady’s gotta eat.”

I lifted my hand in mock salute, fixing my attention onto the ever-slow eggs once more.

I was saved by my phone, kicking to life on the kitchen benchtop. I answered it within the first ring.

“Hello, Barry Allen speaking.”

“Barry, hey,” said Captain Darryl Frye, head of my precinct and, as the years went by, friend. “Sorry to interrupt your morning. You’re not at church, are you?”

“No, Darryl, I’m not. What’s up?”

“There’s been a murder down at 20th and Kanigher. Singh wants you there. You’d better hurry up, Barry, he’s not in the best of moods. I just saved your ears by taking this call.”

“Thanks, Darryl. I’ll be right there.” At that, I hung up.

“Police work?” asked Iris. She’d gotten up from the sofa, somehow managing to sneak up behind me. I don’t know how she does it. When it comes to her, I guess I’m just not as alert.

“Yeah,” I said, “Sorry. Looks like breakfast will have to cook itself.” I leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And just like that, I was gone, the familiar crackle of electricity carrying me to the scene of the crime.