Little Hero Boy

.o.

Dreaming is something I never enjoy; all nightmares, a repeat of the life I want to escape.

Sleep always brings me right back to red and tears and screams and cries and me, right dab smack in the middle, the cause of all the agony. Sleep brings the rank stench of death, something I could never forget, because I might as well be the morbid representation of death itself. Yes, all praise that person, right there, who kills and kills and kills and is drowning in a bath of spilled blood, of spilling blood.

Well, no, that's wrong, because I'm not a person, far from it. I am a killer. And that is that.

.o.

Waking is the only good—though that isn't quite the right word; more like... not as awful—part of my life.

My eyesight is blurry, ears deaf to the outside world, body not as tense as any other moment of my life. But then, of course, life hits me full force, and so does the sound of a piercing scream. Then I am yanked from the nightmare, shoved into my blood-drenched body, and sent on my way for another day (night?) of killing.

Because that's all I do, really. Torture for information, slice my way through skin and bone and crumbling defenses for weak words that mean next to nothing in a war that means nothing. Then kill whoever—whatever—is left, and whether it be cold murder or a bitter mercy I do not know.

It's all the same by now.

.o.

Pointing in some general direction, Mister Alexander Price—who is oh so important—leads me along to another blank door that holds another nameless face.

I always think his name is funny, especially given what he does. Alexander? That means kind. But it comes with a price, right? That's why he is here, ordering for death around every corner and down every hall and in every room until the whole building collapses from the weight of broken bones and rotting flesh and the heavy burden of hidden guilt.

Of course, I doubt any of that would stop Mister Alexander Price. Nope. His job is far too important for him to ever stop; his work could possibly, maybe, end the war. I doubt that, too, but old Mister Alexander Price cannot be stopped, nor can he have reason talked into that thick skull of his.

Well, nobody else in this place sees reason either, so I guess that leaves me, who does nothing about anything.

.o.

Screaming.

That's all the woman—lady—girl, because she can't be that much older than me, not that anyone ever calls me a boy—does from the second I step inside.

She's screaming and screaming and screaming, and her throat must be raw from all that screaming, and I can already see the crimson drip-drip-dripping from between her chewed lips, and—

I wonder if anyone can die from screaming so hard for so long, if people can die from anticipation and fear and the sudden realization that there isn't much time left. But then I figure that it doesn't make much of a difference, because, in the end, this girl will be dead, even if she doesn't know it yet.

The door creaks shut behind me, and I get to work.

(What a terrible job to have to do.)

.o.

Staring, eyes wide like always despite how often they see this, I step back.

The screaming had suddenly stopped when I had made a wide arch on the presented neck.

But her screaming still haunts me, although by now it is merely an echo in my mind, a memory I wish to erase, to burn away.

I turn around, walk out the door, and ready myself for the next person.

.o.

Taking a break doesn't mean much—at least, not around here.

Some food and water, a bit of freshening up. If I am quick enough, I could take a short nap, but I usually avoid those because my hopeful praying that they would be blissfully blank like the eyes of the dead are always in vain.

My break ends—but I wish so much for it to last for eternity—and I head for another blank door.

.o.

Stepping inside the door is worse than a knife in the gut—than putting a knife in someone else's gut.

Tied down to a chair, humming peacefully to himself because he just doesn't understand, is a little boy no older than seven. His hair is as blonde as an angel's and his face is still chubby with baby fat; Spider-Man crawls across his chest, the big yellow words bold and bright in the darkened room.

When the door slams shut, the boy startles. He looks at me, eyes scanning over me like lasers, lips pursed, before cheerfully stating, "You look like Spider-Man. He's my favoritest super hero in the whole wide world, you know." He stops, thinks, asks, "Are you Spider-Man? I promise not to tell anyone."

I don't answer. I don't think I could if I tried, because my body is trembling, shaking so hard my teeth chatter like a skeleton's.

I don't want to do this. I can't, because this is a little kid who doesn't know anything, who has no place in this war, who is still so young and has so much life.

I want to scoop him up in my arms and carry him away; run away from this hell.

And I step closer.

But instead of holding him close and escaping like I always, always dream of doing, I slap him across the face and tell him not to ask questions because only I can. He only has to answer with everything he knows.

Every cut, slice, smack—every injury—sends sharp pangs to my throbbing heart.

.o.

Trembling, I wipe the stained, sticky hair from the boy's forehead and place my lips against the cold skin.

I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, I want to say.

But I don't, because it won't do anything. Because I shouldn't have done this in the first place.

A gentle kiss.

And then I crack, break, shatter—sob harder than the little boy ever did in his short, violently ended life.

.o.

Thinking normally doesn't do me any good, and this time is no different.

Before I had arrived, before the days and weeks and months and years all blurred together, I would imagine I was Spider-Man, my ‘favoritest’ super hero in the whole wide world. I would jump around and spray imaginary webs and smile like I had just saved the day.

When I got here, when I received my first job, I still held the dream of being Spider-Man close to my heart.

After a while, when everything was spiraling out of control, I figured I was Spider-Man, only Venom was confusing my thoughts.

Then I came to believe I was never Spider-Man, only Venom. Only evil. Because no super hero would ever do what I had done.

Now, though, I do not even compare myself to Venom, or any of the super villains for that matter.

Because I am so much worse than any of them.

.o.

Dreaming is still as awful as ever.

There may not be as much blood this time, but there is an angel-like little boy who keeps on whispering, "You were my hero. You were supposed to save me! Why didn't you save me? Why did you kill me? Did I do something wrong?"

I try to answer, to say, "No! You didn't do anything. Nothing at all. Leave now. Please. Please, please, please leave. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

But instead my hand whips out and backhands the sad, sad face of the long dead little boy, because only I ask the questions.

A soft cry, a pitiful whimper. The quiet:

"I thought you were a hero."

.o.

Waking is still the best part of my day, however short and unpleasant it is.

My mind is blank, for just a moment, and I can forget the faces and limp bodies and blood and tears and begging and—

But then the screaming penetrates through the thin walls and I am up and off once again, readying myself for another kill, though I am never truly ready because I never want to kill, or torture, or—

I don't know why I still do this.

.o.

Laughing.

Actual laughter, the first time any has reached my ears in ages, is escaping from an older man the second I step through the door. His eyes are watering, the laughter growing in volume, and he's gasping for breath. "A kid!" he cries. "You're just a little boy!"

I don't say a word—one of the many unwritten rules is to never let anything captives do get to you, and that automatically includes anything the captive says—and walk over to the table lining the wall on the far right-hand side. My hand skims over the many tools—Mister Alexander Price's word, not mine—and my fingers glide along the edges.

"A kid!"

I grit my teeth and ignore him. I know better, and that is enough—it should be enough.

Besides, I'm not even human, so how could I possibly be a kid?

I weigh a knife in my hands—the same one I always pick, because it's simple and I can do so much with something so simple.

Behind me, the man is still chuckling to himself, making comments under his breath that I could still hear. Finally, he asks, "What are you doing here, little boy? I know I came here for a little visit, but—"

I whirl around, knife coming down to embed itself in the plastic table. Visit? Visit! What does this old coot think this is—a vacation?

Growling, I stomp over to the man, hand up and ready and—

"No, seriously, what are you doing here? You aren't a killer."

That stops me dead in my tracks, because how long have I wanted to hear that? Always. Since the beginning of this mess. Of course, I can't believe it myself, but at least one person, even if it's this crazy old coot, thinks otherwise.

The man ducks his head and locks gazes with me. "It's in your eyes. You don't like this, don't want this. You're many things, I can tell, but a killer isn't one of them."

"You're wrong." The words come tumbling out before I can stop them, before my brain can grab ahold of my tongue and remind it of the rules. "You don't know anything about me."

The man hums pensively, his close-cropped white hair swaying as he cocks his head in thought. His eyes scan me over, but it isn't like the little boy's, whose eyes were full of innocent curiosity. No, this man seems to already know everything he needs to know (which is everything about me).

"No," he finally mutters. "You're not a killer. You're not like me."

"You're wrong." My voice is shaking, hands trembling, body winding tighter and tighter, getting closer and closer to exploding. When did I lose control?

"You like it when you kill people? You enjoy blood and gore and the screaming and begging? Do you—?"

"That's not the point!" I bark, hands clenched, nails digging crescent moons into my palms. "I kill people! That means I'm a killer!"

"No," the man mutters once again. "See, I get off when people beg me to stop. You know what I mean, right? It's my ultimate high, when I hold someone's life in my hand, and then when I end it... I like it. I like putting my hands all up in their business and—"

"Stop. Please stop." I'm gasping now, choking on the tears, swallowing the lump lodged in my throat. "Please."

"You're not a killer. You're a kid in a bad place." His grin is empty, the wrinkles merely from age. "Inherently good, I think."

Another thick swallow. "You're wrong," I say, but the words are weak, soft, barely audible over the trembles wracking my body.

The man leans backwards over the chair, popping his spine, like he is comfortable in this torture chamber. "Nah, I'm right. You're a good kid. Probably still think you could be a hero one day, too."

"Shut up."

His eyes scan me again. "A vegetarian, right? Not because you want a healthy lifestyle though. Not even because you feel bad for the animals. It's just so you feel like you have less blood on your hands."

"SHUT UP!" And this time my hand comes sailing down, fist connecting with this—this crazy old coot who speaks like he knows everything, like he knows anything at all! Blood spurts from his broken nose, and I know for a fact that the skin around it will be bruised for days.

But then of course—of course!—the lunatic laughs. Just laughs. Loud, long, booming, humorless. I am sorely tempted to snatch my knife from the plastic table and end this crazy old man once and for all.

"That all you got?" the man goads. "You're holding back!"

And he is right, because I always hold back. But he should not know that.

"Can't even properly hit a mean, old man," he scoffs. "Definitely not killer material." He shakes his head, blood trickling from his nose into his mouth; he sucks it in, spits it out. It stains his teeth a sickly pink color. "Probably still want to be the big hero, huh? Little hero boy, off to save the world." He grins.

My knee comes up, jabs him in the stomach.

He wheezes another laugh as he doubles over. "Little hero boy gon' save the world, guys!"

I slam my elbow against his collarbone, shove him back with my knee still firmly in place.

"You're no killer," he chokes out. More blood drips from his nose, from between his discolored teeth.

My hand grabs his chin and I'm twisting and twisting and I'll keep on twisting until his head pops off like a screw coming loose. I will kill him.

But I don't, because there's a knock at the door. "Invaders," a voice calls, and then I reluctantly release the man, snatch the knife from the table, and inch my way through the door, promising murder with my eyes.

The man smiles his bloody smile.

"Take care of him," I order the woman just outside, and she nods, a sinister smile playing across her lips.

I grimace at the glint in her eyes—was it in my own?—before sprinting off to find the invaders. Behind me, the old man mockingly calls, "What sorta killer doesn't kill?"

.o.

Barreling down the halls, I grip the knife handle tighter and strain my ears to find the direction of the fighting.

I take a left.

"He says he's a killer!"

A right.

"He's not, I say!"

I pause.

"'Cause look at him now!"

Look left.

"Off to save the day!"

Right.

"More like a hero, I think!"

Look forward, strain to hear.

"With his big plan in play!"

Run, run, run.

"Yes, he's a little hero boy!"

There.

"Off to save the day!"

Shouts. Clashes. Fighting.

Cackling, and then, "At least he'll try, and that's more than I ever did!"

A scream from behind, from a room containing two killers. Well, one now, because the other is surely dead. One dead one, with evil eyes; one living one, that just got his ultimate high.

She is another echo now; he is on the loose.

I race forward.

.o.

Hurtling into the room, I land myself in a different sort of bloodbath.

There is fighting, something I am unaccustomed to—unless a one-sided kind of fighting, with the other tied down, counts, which I highly doubt. What I do is called torturing.

I grip my knife tighter and leap into the mass.

I slash and stab, and the only way I can tell which side is my side (well, the side that fights for this hell) is by the stance of the men and women around me, by their final hits and murderous eyes. My people aim to kill, and that is it; no question whatsoever.

But I hesitate.

There is a boy in front of me, back turned, and my hand is coming down in a dangerous arc. But I don't want to—to kill him, or anyone, for that matter. I don't want any of this.

So my hand turns, just the slightest bit, and the boy crumples to the ground in front of me, but I know he is not dead—at least, not yet. He will be if anyone else gets to him.

Feeling satisfied—because I didn't go out of my way to kill, so could that mean I have a chance to be human?—I twist on my heel, ready to fight once more, maybe even to leave, when a startling blow lands on my head and ultimate darkness follows.

Apparently, the boy's side did not appreciate my kind gesture.

.o.

Dreaming, as awful as it is, seems to be different from being knocked unconscious.

With dreams, it is because I am sleeping.

A blissful nothing is the result of being knocked out. Sleeping but not quite sleeping because there is nothing.

Nothing.

No nightmares whatsoever.

An empty void.

It's the best I sleep in a long time, and the best I sleep for many days (weeks, months, years?) to come.

I greet it with open arms, and rest my weary soul.

.o.

Waking up is different.

It's quiet, silent, without people shouting outside the door, although my mind remains restless; I do it of my own free will, without a piercing shriek or a shaking hand; and there is sunlight leaking its way through a door down the hall, instead of everything being draped in black, without any way for the light of the sun to infiltrate the blanket covering the building in which I stay.

In which I stayed—as in, past tense. And isn't that a marvelous prospect.

I wonder where I am, because there is no way I am still in my room, and heaven is completely out of the question—though hell, the actual one, is sounding possible.

Down the hall, a door creaks open, allowing even more light to flood into whatever building this is, through the bars of my cell—because that I am certain of. I am in a cell, locked up like how I used to lock up others, except this time the prisoner is viewable to any peering eyes.

Heavy footsteps echo, getting closer, louder. Coming for me.

And I wait for whoever it is, because whatever they do to me—well, I more than deserve it.

.o.

Taking off a worn glove, the man places his hand through the bars.

I stare at it.

The man gives a rough, booming chuckle. "What—never shake a hand before? Come on." He waves his hand. "Shake it."

Trembling, I slowly lift my right hand and give it a loose-gripped shake.

And the man gives a weak smile in return. "That's it."

I do not say a word, lips tight, sealed. Don't speak, never speak, a voice whispers in my head.

Don't betray them.

His smile dims, the edges tilting down just the slightest bit. "Now, I'm going to be nice at first, know that, but if you don't answer, I'll have to go to more... extreme methods." The man sucks in a shuddering breath, releases it, thinks for a moment. "I'll start off easy: What do you know about the opposing side? I need you to tell me everything now—no holding out. All the information we can get about the enemy helps us."

Enemy. That would be me. Is me.

My lips stay locked, the key left behind in my dispersing nonexistent dreams. Nothing will escape from me, no matter what they do, because I know how this works, know everything about what they're doing and more—although my victims never had a chance to kindness, if this could be called that.

The man sighs, rakes a hand through his unruly, greasy hair, and leaves.

But he'll be back, I know.

And so I wait some more.

.o.

Returning the next day is torture in its own right to the man; I can tell by the way his shoulders sag, his head dips, eyes drip remorse, by the bag held far away with one hand, dragging along the floor as if he wants nothing to do with it.

I never looked like this, I think, but then I wonder.

Too late, though, because the man hobbles over (limp, right leg, recent) and slides his arms through the bars. "Last chance. Are you going to talk?"

Nothing. Not even a breath.

"Well, then, I'll pre-apologize for this, but it has to be done."

Don't show weakness, I want to hiss. I am the enemy, remember? Don't apologize if you have to do this.

But then the door slides open, the man steps in, and he's cutting into me, each question harsher, each inflicted injury more agonizing than the last.

And still I make not a sound.

As the man packs his supplies—his tools—his hands shake, and he keeps swallowing as if his throat has been screamed raw (for me, of course, because I know how to bite my tongue). He stares at me, opens his mouth to say something, snaps it closed at my daring look.

Apologize again, my eyes taunt.

He doesn't. Just leaves.

And I'm okay with that.

I'm okay.

(Not really.)

.o.

Creaking, closing, a faint warmth by my limp form.

Water. It sloshes around as I pick up the dirty wooden cup and bring it to my cracked lips, as it soothes my parched throat.

Food. Stale bread, hard cheese, and some mystery meat.

I sit up, gritting my teeth and groaning internally (because I am not going to give in, even if it's only to myself) and set the cup down with a click on the cold concrete floor. I chew the tough bread until my jaw aches something fierce and crunch my way through the bland cheese, but I leave the meat on the makeshift plate.

A vegetarian. Not because I want a healthy lifestyle. Not even because I feel bad for the animals. It's just so I feel like I have less blood on my hands.

It doesn't work.

.o.

Clicking. Click-click-click. One after the other.

Different shoes, but same man, same weary steps, same black bag of pain.

Another cutting into, another closed-lipped day.

Water. Bread, cheese, mystery meat. Leave the meat, you vegetarian.

Repeat.

Repeat until it changes.

.o.

Changing is not a part of my vocabulary.

You're changing. You've changed.

Change.

It's a chance I am never willing to take.

Apparently, for this blonde-haired girl, this angel-haired child, that is not the case, because she barges in one day and ruins the pattern. Changes something I cannot even begin to understand.

She falls to her knees, begs me, "A little boy—looks like me, a bit, because we're siblings—tell me, please, please, please—tell me if you saw him. I know you're from that... that place, and—and—and that it's unlikely, but please—he's my little brother. He just turned seven a couple of months ago."

She goes on to describe him, "Blonde hair." She grabs her own golden locks. "See? And—and he likes Spider-Man. He loves him. When he went on the hunting trip, he was wearing one of his Spider-Man shirts. Peter is his name, actually, like Peter Parker, who is Spider-Man." She is rambling now, desperate for an answer, on her knees with tears trailing down her red-stained baby cheeks.

Of course I know who her brother is. I had killed him, tortured him for information he did not have. My insides twist at the thought, the painful reminder, and my chest clenches. I don't utter a single word, however. Just make a slice across my neck with my index finger.

And then the silent tears turn into heart-wrenching sobs.

"You monster! How could you? How could you let a little boy die?" she screeches, hands shaking the thin metal separating us.

And to think, I didn't even mention the little fact that it was me who ended his life. Who killed him.

.o.

Ruining the pattern seems to be a lot of people's favorite pastime, I come to learn.

The man still comes, oh yes, but he does not hold back nearly as much knowing that I was not an innocent at hell, at the place where people torture and kill by the dozen, that I very much knew what was going on. He is hell-bent on making me talk.

A boy—the one I refused to kill—comes by and gives me a disgusted look before dropping my meager food into my cell. After spitting on the mystery meat, of course.

The girl visits again, this time behind a large woman with the same golden locks who must be her mother, and they scream and shout and demand to know who would do such a thing. When I jab a finger to my chest, they do not understand and turn away, leaving with glossy eyes and fiery glares and aching hearts.

Most of the time, I'm left alone, but even that has changed—well, I have changed. Something has switched in my brain, something is different.

Except it's not really that new.

Because escape has always been a dream.

.o.

Planning has never been my forte, and it continues to be that way—but, then again, neither has going through with anything.

So I don't plan. I simply wait; wait for the perfect time to make my escape, to make a mad dash for away.

Of course, there is no perfect time, because I have no idea where I am or where I'll go or even how to escape in the first place. I am surrounded by my so-called enemies who will kill me without a second thought.

The only thing I know for sure, however, is that I am escaping, no matter what. I am leaving behind this cell, hell, the war. I don't want any part of the war—I never did—and it can survive without me, like how it started long before I existed and will last long after I leave.

So I'll go someplace that isn't wrecked by the war, someplace... free.

Just as I will be.

.o.

Staring, I tilt my head to the side in confusion at the man's question.

He huffs, crosses his arms over his chest, and asks once more, "Why don't you ever eat the meat?"

How am I to communicate that I am a vegetarian? I don't know, so I shrug my shoulders helplessly.

"Don't you want the strength? Just the extra food? You must be starving, skinny as you are.”

Another shrug. Not like I can mention that I can't go and get my own food anyway.

Sighing, he mutters sarcastically, "What are you, a vegetarian?" before twisting on his heels to clomp away.

I smack the floor to gain his attention, nodding all the while.

He starts, blinks at my nodding head. "You, a vegetarian? I know for a fact that you were at that torture house, and I can guess that you did your fair share of killing, so why?"

I lift my hands in defeat, trying to convey, I already have enough blood on my hands, so why add more?

He doesn't get it, just shakes his head and says, "Well, more for me, then."

But I understand, and that's enough.

.o.

Escaping is fairly easy, I should say.

One day, when the man comes to... attempt at gathering information, I sneak his key from his black bag, along with a plain knife. I know he will figure it out soon enough, so I act fast.

By the time night spreads its long fingers across the sky, trying to grab all the stars before the moon hits the earth, I am ducking behind sagging tents. Earlier, I had left the key in the food house where I had hoarded ancient canned goods into a rare plastic bag.

Feet silent on the cold, cracked concrete, I make my way between the tents, sneaking past the sleeping, ignorant guards.

But one, it seems.

A man, ancient, with veined hands and liver spots and a bald head, holds out a gun, one of the few left, and orders, "Stay where you are, boy, or I'mma hafta shoot ya where you stand." His gnarled hands shake around the metal, and I can tell that he is scared. Scared of shooting, of killing, or scared of me, I'm not positive, but I know what fear is.

I reach out, knife sharp, deadly, and I think, Well, he thinks I'm human—he thinks I'm a boy.

So I bang his noggin, just a bit, and knock him out, but I don't kill him because, yeah, maybe the old coot was right and I'm not a killer. Gently laying the man down, I finger his gun, something rare and valuable, but then I leave it.

Why would I need a gun anyway? For killing?

No, I'm done with that.

.o.

Exhilarating.

That's the word I'm looking for to describe this... warm bubbly feeling spreading from my chest.

It is exhilarating to be free.

And though my bones may ache and my muscles are sore and I might be very well on the brink of death from exhaustion, I'm the happiest I have been in... ever. Yes, the travels were difficult, I have no idea where I am, and living will be rough, but I am happy, something I didn't even know existed.

So I shout, yell, abuse my poor, unused vocal cords, and I laugh and smile—and when was the last time I did that? It makes my face hurt just to think about smiling, and now I can't possibly wipe my silly grin off.

And I run, jump and leap and dance across the field of grass beneath my feet, through the colorful wildflowers dotting the green, toward towering trees and other unseen natures. Because who sees life anymore? I had never seen grass, felt it curling beneath my toes; never gazed in awe at the trees that touched the sky; never plucked a vibrant, fragrant flower and inhaled its sweet scent.

I had never lived before, but now I am.

I laugh, racing the gray clouds rolling in behind me to the woods. And when I lose? I watch the cracks of lightning split the sky, sway to the claps of thunder, breathe in the wet earth, taste it on my tongue with every deep inhale, feel the gentle touches of joyful tears raining down on my filthy skin to cleanse me of my past.

And I think of the future.

.o.

Dreaming is not so bad—not anymore, at least.

Not when there are vivid pictures of life surrounding me, dancing and smiling and laughing.

Not when the pattern of my past is broken.

Not when there is a future to look forward to.

.o.

Swiping wet hair from a boy's forehead is a man.

They rest in a small shelter, a crude tangle of leaves the roof, a spluttering fire the only warmth from the howling wind and ice drops falling from the sky. The man pokes at the flickering flames with a stick, tries to make them grow.

The man strokes the boy's hair, fingers threading through the tangled strands, something that is strange for him, strange for a person of his kind. He normally is not so... affectionate. If anything, he is cruel, inhumane.

Actually, he is exactly that.

But this boy—the man knows him, better than anyone else.

He chuckles, lips twitching at the soft smile on the boy's face.

Well, he knew the boy before; things are different now.

"Little hero boy, off to save the world," he quietly sings.

Then the man is gone, disappearing with the wind in a single breath.

But what old man are you talking about? That old coot? He never existed, never had the chance to.

Not with the way the boy is dreaming.

.o.

​