This is based on a character that my brother and I created. He came up with the concept. I gave him a back story and a vague destiny. This story is what people in the comic industry call a "one-shot" or what people in the T.V. business call a "pilot". It's a story to set up what the character's all about and demonstrate him as a viable project for an ongoing series. I think this one works. I wrote it and I read it. I don't like reading my own work several times because I wrote it, I know the story, there's not always a lot of fun in going over it again and again except to look at all the things I could've done better. This story I've read at least a dozen times and I still remain pleased with it. I wouldn't change a thing.
Hope you like it.
The Trouble with Being a Hero
People have a million and one memories that flow in and out of their heads without even trying. A favorite toy as a kid, a relative, a good friend, a bunch of different things fit in people’s heads without ever getting over crowded. I only have one memory of my own.
I close my eyes and I see a young girl. She’s scrawny with jet black hair, eyes almost as dark and brown skin. She’s about eight, maybe a little younger, I can’t really tell for sure. She looks happy. It makes me feel happy to remember her. I’m glad I do. Things have been a little difficult lately and I need a little something to help get me by.
I suppose difficult is an understatement. Apparently, I just spent the last twenty years of my life conquerin’ half the known world. I destroyed everything I saw and killed damn near everybody who didn’t follow me. I was the meanest, baddest, baby-punchingest, fucker ever to walk the earth. There was even a little rumor goin’ around that I might have been some kind of anti-Christ.
How bad is that? That’s a special kind of evil that’s labeled as an anti-Christ. I suppose when a guy goes out into battle and gets hit with every blade or bullet ever made, he should be all kinds of dead. But I come out of it not without a scratch, but all fucked up, pulling swords and bullets out of me like I was some kind of pin cushion. Not to mention I’ve sent so many people to Hell I might as well be a travel agent. There’s really only two ways to go about describing a guy who can do that kind of stuff. He’s either God or the Devil.
I’m neither. I used to be man. The girl in my head is proof enough of that. Proof enough for me anyway. For the rest of the world it may take a little bit more than that. Not everybody is exactly eager to believe a former mass troublemaker like me is turnin’ over a new leaf. This bunch of people I’ve been running with lately seem to think that if I help people I might trick folks into thinkin’ I’m somethin’ other than the baddest motherfucker ever to breath.
Suckers.
Fact is I am one of the most powerful things on the planet and I have been corrupted. I am as bad as people say because of this thing that’s inside of me. This black goop that hides itself under my skin feeds on my anger, on my hate. It uses that to make me, or us , stronger. I don’t know what it is but it talks to me. It tells me things. Things I like hearing no matter how disturbing they may be. I know it’s wrong to want to rip a man’s head off but this blackness has me thinking it was always fun no matter how many times I did it.
To think that at all I suppose I had to be pretty screwed up in the head before it decided to crawl up in me. Normal people aren’t supposed to want to kill. Even soldiers don’t take pleasure in it. Honestly, I don’t know for sure if I would or not right now. I suppose it depends on whether or not the guy I kill deserves it.
That little girl is the one good memory I have. She seems happy to see me so maybe I wasn’t all bad. So I have to go along with the plan to be good. Gotta behave. No matter how much fun I could have tearing people apart.
I sit here on top of a small hotel in the Middle East thinking of that raven haired girl and wonder if she’s my daughter, a friend, or one of countless innocent people I’ve murdered. I hope I didn’t kill her. That thought makes me feel alone, kind of empty. She’s the only thing I got left in my head that I feel is from before I was a monster. I want her to still be alive. I want to find her so she can tell me if I was really as bad as I think I was. I hope she lies like Hell too.
Below me in some marketplace, if you’d call a street lined with shops made of twigs and rags a marketplace, I hear several angry shouts. The shouts are spewed from fat, hairy, sweaty, men who move with all their chunkiness to carry their fat asses down the street. They sweat and wheeze as they chase after some little girl. She’s carrying a few pieces of fruit she probably stole from them. Getting caught stealing is a bad habit, especially if you stole from guys who could pound you into the ground just by tripping. Maybe she thought the hippos wouldn’t notice. Fat chance. They notice and they don’t like it. The really big one, with the steak knife he was obviously eating with, means to do some damage.
She moves her chicken legs as fast as she can. She tries to carry her gristly excuse for bones to safety but she’s scared and doesn’t know which way to run. She zigzags through the crowd knocking over a few people and baskets. One guy on a bike slams into a wall trying to avoid her. The big boys behind her follow as swiftly as they can. At this rate she’s going to lose them soon.
I leap across the roof tops to keep up with them. I run and leap from building to building, kicking up dust and scaring away birds. Some roofs lose shingles, others damn near cave in, but I keep running just the same. I can see buildings that look about ready to fall. Some are black like jagged stumps left over from a forest fire. I fucked up this area less than a week ago. They tried keeping me out of people’s homes but the fight got a little carried away. The people haven’t even had much of a chance to move away. A lot of them probably can’t afford to. Some are probably too broke to eat, maybe even orphans because of me.
Maybe it’s that guilt that makes me do all of this just to keep an eye on a little girl I don’t know and who’s in the wrong. Of course being a criminal myself I do tend to root for the bad guy. Being in the wrong doesn’t mean capital punishment though. The big body brigade here seems to think it does but they’ve all but given up after about four blocks. I’m surprised they made it that far. Really surprised their shoes held up.
She’s at least a block ahead of the fastest man when she trips over her dirty old sandal as a strap on it breaks. Those damn shoes. As she’s going down another girl riding towards her veers away. The rider loses her balance but lands on the thief’s left leg. The two girls cry out in pain. The rider holds her wrist as she sits up. The stick figure thief holds her leg and moves the bike. Her blood drips from the uncovered metal handlebar and down her leg.
The stick leaves what she’s stolen scattered in the street. She bleeds down the road to get to safety. She stumbles into a half exploded apartment complex. I’m pretty sure that building was my fault. What’s left of the building hides her from my eyesight, not that there’s much to hide. The lumpy men have stopped running but the blood ain’t very hard to follow. It’s time for me to step in.
I let the darkness in me do what little good it can and almost fly across the street and into an apartment missing a wall. The apartment complex holds up and I rush to find a way to the little girl. The place reminds me of some kind of twisted little girl’s version of a doll house the way one whole side is missing.
I bust my ass comin’ down some stairs that were deceptively sturdy. Luckily, a lamp breaks my fall. I heal from anything, but everything still hurts. I’m plucking porcelain out of me when I see dead bodies staring at me. My damned fault they’re dead. Poor bastards stink to high Hell. No time for a proper burial though. I got a little girl I need to help.
I hear the fat men huffing and puffing on the second floor looking for her. It won’t be long before they catch up to her. I’m still two stories up with no easy way down. It’s damn frustrating to know I’m responsible for her situation even if I don’t know her. The anger I feel makes my skin burn. I’m pissed at myself for making her life miserable. Pissed ‘cause I did a lot of bad shit. Pissed ‘cause I can’t remember a God-damned thing. My skin burns hot and the thick black goop pours out of me like sweat. It hardens over my body and becomes my black armor, an unbreakable barrier between me and the world.
I use that barrier to plow through the floors like a damned bullet. I come down to the first floor in a dark room, only a few streaks of daylight shine through. The two fat boys in here turn their attention to me. My eyes flare up like a torch. I growl, if Hell has a sound I’m sure that’s it. One of them must agree ‘cause he pisses himself all of two seconds before he passes out.
Sissy.
Chunky butt number two picks up a busted plank of wood. It’s gonna hurt goin’ up his ass but that’s what he picked. He swings slowly and wildly. I let it hit me. It hurts him more than me. It’s like swingin’ a bat into a tree, when I concentrate. He drops the plank and shouts in pain. As his head is raised I give him a swift jab to the throat, not too hard don’t wanna kill him. I’m a liar. I don’t care if he lives or dies but I did hold back. I pick up the wooden plank and break it across my knee. As porky’s crawlin’ around on all fours gasping for air, I launch the board into his fleshy ass like a dart. He cries out in pain. I laugh.
I hear a high pitched shout in the hall just outside this apartment. The girl. I let myself get distracted with this asshole. I step out and realize that son of a bitch just did the dumbest thing he could ever do. A God damned steak knife is stickin’ out of that little girl. I run at him and make a sound. If the devil heard it he just shit his britches. I punch the worthless baby-killer so hard he almost flies out of the apartment complex before I drag him back in the shadows with me.
I lose control. The dark side takes over. It’s fast and violent and painful. There’s nothing left of him. Funny, ‘cause he’s everywhere.
I go to the girl and hold her up. She’s already gone. That worthless excuse for a human being sent her away. People wonder why I’m as mean as I am. I’d be a good guy if people were something better than me.
She’s gone but I can bring her back. This goop doesn’t just heal me. If I concentrate it can do damn near anything. I can work miracles with this shit. I close my eyes and put my hand over her wound. I concentrate on fixing her. Bring her back God damn it. Let her go or I swear to God I will fuck you up.
She coughs. Blood spurts from her mouth. I lift my hand and there’s nothing, not even a scar, not even the wound on her leg. She opens her eyes. Tears fill the dark brown circles. She pushes me away and runs. I fall back and watch her run away from me.
I look down and see the blood and pieces of flesh that are still splashed across me. No wonder she ran. All that hate, all that determination, all my power means nothing if the one little girl I care about looks at me like she just did. I have to be a better man. I have to do this right. There’s no room for mistakes. I saved her life and I killed a piece of shit that deserved it but I can’t lose control again. I have to be in control not this devil inside me or else I’m just Trouble.
No comments:
Post a Comment