Not a Hero

Chapter 13

"Now what?" We're outside of the prison, which would be way more impressive if we weren't completely surrounded. But we are. For the first time in my life I know the terror of being on the receiving end of a gun, barrel aimed not to injure, not to mame. No, they're aimed to kill. Aimed to kill me.

I should be terrified, shaking, paralyzed with fear. I should ever so slowly drop my gun, kick it away. My arms should be over my head, I should lay on the ground. I've been called many things in my life, made a lot of questionable decisions. Call me unprepared, under informed, naive, cold, heartless. All those things I've been, all those things could describe choices I've made. But never in my life could you call me stupid. Until today that is.

Because I don't drop the gun. I don't do as I'm told and my hands don't shake. My finger is steady on the trigger. If I have to I will shoot. It won't be a warning shot, I won't be aiming to injure. Today, right now, right here, it's kill or be killed.

If my dad was here he'd tell me I should die. That these women and men are just doing their job. That if I kill them they'll have died for nothing, that the only thing that will come of their death will be more pain. That another kid will come home to find out that their parent is never coming home ever again. Another girl won't have a dad to play catch with, a boy won't have his dad to teach him how to shave, a little girl won't have her mother to help her through her first period. Some other kid in another life will feel the same pain I did and it'll have been my own fault for being so incredibly, unbelievably selfish.

The idea of my dad's shame should be enough to stop me. But it isn't. Because he died. He died a hero, sacrificing himself to save others. But when he sacrificed himself he sacrificed me and he sacrificed mom and he sacrificed the life we should've had. Even if his life was his to give, mine wasn't. Moms wasn't. For all these years I've held my father up as a hero, selflessly giving himself up for the greater good. For freedom, democracy, diversity, individualism, safety, and equality. But maybe he didn't. Maybe he just died and left us behind to figure it out. Except we didn't want to have to figure it out. I just wanted to be a kid. My mom just wanted to have her husband. Alive.

"Please tell me you have a plan?" I ask for a second time, turning slightly to look at Jack. He's unnervingly calm. So I channel my inner Jack and breathe. I'm in my room, my favorite album is playing. I'm calm and comfortable and safe.

"Of course I have a plan," Jack's cocky voice pulls me back to the not exactly calm present.

When he doesn't say anything else I bite, "And that plan is?"

"Just follow my lead." He smiles in what might supposed to be a reassuring manner but really, really isn't.

Whatever happens next I won't be coming back from. Even though I hadn't done anything wrong before, I have now. Sure, I was falsely imprisoned. But false imprisonment won't bring back the dark haired guard from the dead. False imprisonment doesn't change what's happened now. If I stop now maybe they'll let me off easier, if I drop my gun I might at least get a fair trial. For a moment I waver.

Then I tighten my grip on the gun.

"Ready princess?" Jack asks. Before I have a chance to answer all hell breaks loose.

Practically before his sentence is finished two guards on the ground. So quickly and with so little resistance that they must be dead. Before anyone can react Jack rushes forward grabbing a third guard. He shoots him the shoulder. At first I think it's mercy. When he shoves the disarmed guard at me I realize the truth. Mercy is a concept foreign to Jack. He only knows strategy. And the guns that the guards are carrying aren't of a high enough caliber to shoot through a man.

Everytime a bullet hits the man in front of me I have to keep from screaming. But I'm not using a human shield, not anymore. The man is dead. He's not human anymore, just a body. He should be happy, even after his death he's still being helpful.

I try to convince myself that this isn't wrong, that this is fine, this is good. But no matter how hard I try the sick feeling in my stomach won't go away. I can hardly keep the bile down in my throat. It's only a matter of time till I puke.

Because the guard is young. Because his hair is well combed. Because I can smell the same detergent on his clothes that my mother uses. Because maybe he has a spouse at home. Maybe he has a little kid. And now he's dead because I was too cowardly to face this. Whatever this is.

"It must be our lucky day." Jack's grin looks more like a sneer as he moves towards a cop car. He doesn't run, he saunters. When he shoots he barely turns to look, instinctively he just knows where to aim. I don't know how much practice it takes to get that good but it's a lot. A lot a lot. Somehow I don't think he was aiming at targets that whole time.

Jack half helps half shoves me into the car as he disposes of its previous owners. I can't even feign bravery now, I just look away. But I can't block the sound. The sound of someone dying, of a life ending, of someone's "the end". And I can't handle it. I can't do this for a single more second.

So maybe Jack performs incredible feats as a getaway driver or maybe the guards just wave us out. I couldn't tell you because the whole time I have my head down as I puke into a deadmans car.