No One Asked for a Hero 1/2
anonymous
September 27 2009, 20:33:57 UTC
Alfred looked out the window at the sidewalk thirty-four floors below, where people were milling around like insects; preoccupied, single-minded, incapable of appreciating the abstract beauty of the world around them. In their own way, these skyscrapers were just as majestic as the forests they had replaced; but most of these people would never be able to appreciate the beauty of either, and those who could would only mourn the former and curse the latter, cursing him, if they only knew it, for making it so. But at least he was keeping them safe. He wanted to make them happy, and more than anything he wanted them to love him; but in the end, freedom and safety were the most he had to offer. He knew he was different from the others. He’d never wanted power; he’d never wanted an empire; all he'd ever wanted was for his people to be free.
A corner of cloth fluttered into his view, and as he leaned closer to the window, he could see a polished shoe on the ledge outside. He opened the window--he hadn't realized the windows up here still opened--and leaned out.
A man was standing on the ledge, clinging to the bricks so hard his fingers were white, and he was peering down with a face that was almost whiter. His dark brown hair had been whipped about by the wind, though it seemed to have been combed to perfection only hours ago. He didn't notice Alfred; his unblinking grey eyes were glued to the street. Alfred climbed out the window onto the ledge.
There was more room than he expected--the ledge extended about two feet from the wall and wrapped all the way around the building, just beneath the windows. Alfred stood, slowly, reminding himself that he was a hero, and heroes weren't afraid of heights. This man was in danger, and it was Alfred's duty to protect him.
He hesitated a moment, not wanting to scare the man, but there was no other way to get his attention. Slowly, he reached out and put a hand on his arm, grasping him firmly and bracing himself to keep the startled man from falling to his death. The man gasped and lost his balance, but Alfred pressed him firmly against the wall, hooking his leg in the open window for support.
"What the hell are you doing?!" the man asked angrily, once he was steady. "What if I'd dragged you off with me? We could both have died." He leaned back, out of breath, and Alfred could see he was trembling severely. Alfred indicated that they should sit, and he nodded.
Once they were both seated, dangling their legs over the city, Alfred got his first good look at the man's face. He was young--younger than he'd thought at first--perhaps late twenties. He was relatively handsome, too, though his face was pale and shiny with sweat, and his jaw was clenched in fear. The stranger was studying him, too, and after a moment their eyes met and he laughed.
"I wonder what you must think of me," he said, staring down at his shaking hands. "I probably wasn't going to go through with it anyway. It's not that unusual, though. People doing this, I mean, not me. This is the first time I've ever actually tried to..." He laughed again, and it was a small, nervous laugh, too high and too fast. "I guess I should thank you, for that, for saving me. Or maybe I'm supposed to be mad. I'm not angry, though, at least, I don't think I'm angry, not at you anyway. I'm not really sure how I feel. Mostly scared."
Alfred nodded. "I get it," he said. He traced the brick under his fingertips, wondering what he was supposed to do. Should he suggest they discuss it inside? Was it time for a dazzling hero smile? Perhaps it would cheer this man up to know he was speaking to a nation. His nation. The greatest nation in the whole--
"You see, it's not just my life I hate, it's this whole fucking country." Okay, so scratch that last plan, then. “It’s just, being an American is embarrassing these days. I’m ashamed to tell people where I’m from. I mean, who do we think we are, pretending we know what’s best, bossing other countries around? Hypocrites, that’s what who we are. A nation of hypocrisy.”
No One Asked for a Hero 2a/2
anonymous
September 27 2009, 20:37:39 UTC
“It’s not my fault,” Alfred said, softly. The man looked at him. “I mean, it’s not America’s fault that everyone wants us to solve the world’s problems.”
He’d never wanted this. All he wanted was to live in peace and freedom, and he’d done his very best to stay out of other people’s problems. He never would have gotten involved in either of those world wars if Ludwig and Kiku had left him alone. Even when Arthur and Frances had come to him, asking for help, he had turned them away until he could no longer afford to say no.
After the war they had clapped him on the back and called him a hero and a world power, and he didn’t want to be either of those things, but they were hurt and tired and he couldn’t refuse. And it had been Arthur, and the look of pride and faraway sadness in his eyes, that kept him from leaving then; because then Arthur and everyone else had thought he was a hero, and he couldn’t bring himself to let them down. Not again.
He looked out over the city, where a bright yellow “M” stood out against the black and grey marble bank next to it. The street was a cluttered jumble of billboards and bright cars, old buildings and new fast-food joints in colors that made his head spin. Everything down there was a blur of motion, a whirling world where there was never enough time and everyone was always late. It seemed strange, seeing it from such a height, where there was no such thing as time.
Yes, the streets were busy, but he liked a busy life. And if you looked out, above the streets to where the grey buildings met the bright blue sky, it was a breathtaking sight. Of course, canyons were breathtaking too, and he’d seen trees taller than some of these buildings, but those days were over. A nation must accept change and never waste time mourning the bygone days.
The man sighed, and Alfred realized he had momentarily forgotten where he was.
“I just wish we could spend more time working on our own problems, and less time worrying about other people.”
Alfred nodded. “Me too.”
“And if capitalism means selling your soul to survive, I’d rather be socialist,” the man said. Alfred looked at him, startled.
“But socialism isn’t freedom. We have to limit the power of the government, or else they’ll take away all the rights we worked so hard to win. Then we might as well have never left England in the first place.”
“That’s just it! We never should have left England. We traded an oppressive government of monarchs and aristocrats for an oppressive government of corrupt corporations. We aren’t free, we’re slaves of the stock market, and now even England’s better off than we are.”
Alfred looked away. He’d done his very best, but it was hard, trying to be different and prove that it was better to be independent than to be a colony. He wanted his people to be free, but sometimes he couldn’t remember what freedom meant.
No One Asked for a Hero 2b/2
anonymous
September 27 2009, 20:40:32 UTC
The man was watching him, and after a moment, he stood up. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.”
Alfred blinked, realizing there were tears in his eyes. “No, you’re right,” he said, standing up quickly, holding the window for support. “America sucks. Please don’t jump.”
The man laughed. “No, I couldn’t go through with it. I was actually thinking of going back inside.”
Alfred nodded, and stepped aside to allow the man to climb carefully through the window. Then he ducked in after him and closed it behind them, making sure the lock was secure.
The inside of the building was dark after staring at the bright blue sky, and the fluorescent lights seemed a pathetic attempt to keep people from missing the sun. Alfred sniffed and rubbed his eyes, his eyelashes damp against his fingers.
“America?” someone said, and he looked up to see Matthew walking toward him. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. The meeting is about to start, and Russia said he saw you about to jump off the building or something…. Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”
Alfred smiled, sniffling again. “I’m fine. It’s nothing. Sorry to hold you guys up.” Matthew glanced at Alfred, and then at the man standing silently by the window, brows knit in puzzlement at his brother’s odd behavior.
The man, meanwhile, was staring at the two of them, confusion written on his face. Alfred held out a hand with something close to his usual grin. “Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Alfred F. Jones.”
But at least he was keeping them safe. He wanted to make them happy, and more than anything he wanted them to love him; but in the end, freedom and safety were the most he had to offer. He knew he was different from the others. He’d never wanted power; he’d never wanted an empire; all he'd ever wanted was for his people to be free.
A corner of cloth fluttered into his view, and as he leaned closer to the window, he could see a polished shoe on the ledge outside. He opened the window--he hadn't realized the windows up here still opened--and leaned out.
A man was standing on the ledge, clinging to the bricks so hard his fingers were white, and he was peering down with a face that was almost whiter. His dark brown hair had been whipped about by the wind, though it seemed to have been combed to perfection only hours ago. He didn't notice Alfred; his unblinking grey eyes were glued to the street. Alfred climbed out the window onto the ledge.
There was more room than he expected--the ledge extended about two feet from the wall and wrapped all the way around the building, just beneath the windows. Alfred stood, slowly, reminding himself that he was a hero, and heroes weren't afraid of heights. This man was in danger, and it was Alfred's duty to protect him.
He hesitated a moment, not wanting to scare the man, but there was no other way to get his attention. Slowly, he reached out and put a hand on his arm, grasping him firmly and bracing himself to keep the startled man from falling to his death. The man gasped and lost his balance, but Alfred pressed him firmly against the wall, hooking his leg in the open window for support.
"What the hell are you doing?!" the man asked angrily, once he was steady. "What if I'd dragged you off with me? We could both have died." He leaned back, out of breath, and Alfred could see he was trembling severely. Alfred indicated that they should sit, and he nodded.
Once they were both seated, dangling their legs over the city, Alfred got his first good look at the man's face. He was young--younger than he'd thought at first--perhaps late twenties. He was relatively handsome, too, though his face was pale and shiny with sweat, and his jaw was clenched in fear. The stranger was studying him, too, and after a moment their eyes met and he laughed.
"I wonder what you must think of me," he said, staring down at his shaking hands. "I probably wasn't going to go through with it anyway. It's not that unusual, though. People doing this, I mean, not me. This is the first time I've ever actually tried to..." He laughed again, and it was a small, nervous laugh, too high and too fast. "I guess I should thank you, for that, for saving me. Or maybe I'm supposed to be mad. I'm not angry, though, at least, I don't think I'm angry, not at you anyway. I'm not really sure how I feel. Mostly scared."
Alfred nodded. "I get it," he said. He traced the brick under his fingertips, wondering what he was supposed to do. Should he suggest they discuss it inside? Was it time for a dazzling hero smile? Perhaps it would cheer this man up to know he was speaking to a nation. His nation. The greatest nation in the whole--
"You see, it's not just my life I hate, it's this whole fucking country." Okay, so scratch that last plan, then. “It’s just, being an American is embarrassing these days. I’m ashamed to tell people where I’m from. I mean, who do we think we are, pretending we know what’s best, bossing other countries around? Hypocrites, that’s what who we are. A nation of hypocrisy.”
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He’d never wanted this. All he wanted was to live in peace and freedom, and he’d done his very best to stay out of other people’s problems. He never would have gotten involved in either of those world wars if Ludwig and Kiku had left him alone. Even when Arthur and Frances had come to him, asking for help, he had turned them away until he could no longer afford to say no.
After the war they had clapped him on the back and called him a hero and a world power, and he didn’t want to be either of those things, but they were hurt and tired and he couldn’t refuse. And it had been Arthur, and the look of pride and faraway sadness in his eyes, that kept him from leaving then; because then Arthur and everyone else had thought he was a hero, and he couldn’t bring himself to let them down. Not again.
He looked out over the city, where a bright yellow “M” stood out against the black and grey marble bank next to it. The street was a cluttered jumble of billboards and bright cars, old buildings and new fast-food joints in colors that made his head spin. Everything down there was a blur of motion, a whirling world where there was never enough time and everyone was always late. It seemed strange, seeing it from such a height, where there was no such thing as time.
Yes, the streets were busy, but he liked a busy life. And if you looked out, above the streets to where the grey buildings met the bright blue sky, it was a breathtaking sight. Of course, canyons were breathtaking too, and he’d seen trees taller than some of these buildings, but those days were over. A nation must accept change and never waste time mourning the bygone days.
The man sighed, and Alfred realized he had momentarily forgotten where he was.
“I just wish we could spend more time working on our own problems, and less time worrying about other people.”
Alfred nodded. “Me too.”
“And if capitalism means selling your soul to survive, I’d rather be socialist,” the man said. Alfred looked at him, startled.
“But socialism isn’t freedom. We have to limit the power of the government, or else they’ll take away all the rights we worked so hard to win. Then we might as well have never left England in the first place.”
“That’s just it! We never should have left England. We traded an oppressive government of monarchs and aristocrats for an oppressive government of corrupt corporations. We aren’t free, we’re slaves of the stock market, and now even England’s better off than we are.”
Alfred looked away. He’d done his very best, but it was hard, trying to be different and prove that it was better to be independent than to be a colony. He wanted his people to be free, but sometimes he couldn’t remember what freedom meant.
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Alfred blinked, realizing there were tears in his eyes. “No, you’re right,” he said, standing up quickly, holding the window for support. “America sucks. Please don’t jump.”
The man laughed. “No, I couldn’t go through with it. I was actually thinking of going back inside.”
Alfred nodded, and stepped aside to allow the man to climb carefully through the window. Then he ducked in after him and closed it behind them, making sure the lock was secure.
The inside of the building was dark after staring at the bright blue sky, and the fluorescent lights seemed a pathetic attempt to keep people from missing the sun. Alfred sniffed and rubbed his eyes, his eyelashes damp against his fingers.
“America?” someone said, and he looked up to see Matthew walking toward him. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. The meeting is about to start, and Russia said he saw you about to jump off the building or something…. Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”
Alfred smiled, sniffling again. “I’m fine. It’s nothing. Sorry to hold you guys up.” Matthew glanced at Alfred, and then at the man standing silently by the window, brows knit in puzzlement at his brother’s odd behavior.
The man, meanwhile, was staring at the two of them, confusion written on his face. Alfred held out a hand with something close to his usual grin. “Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Alfred F. Jones.”
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I'm American, so this hit close to home. Very nicely done.
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It made me wibble. .__.
Recaptcha: Edgar 30. Yes, captcha, we need to be more literate too. >>
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