Three In The Morning

I had partly written this story in time for Carry On Tuesday but ended up having a few unexpected things crop up so I couldn’t finish it. It is about being a hero in your own life. I wonder if such a thing is even possible. The prompt is taken from Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield:

“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life…”

Here’s my story –

I saved the little girl. I was out of my mind on pills and red wine but when I saw her run in front of the car all the old reflexes I used to have kicked into gear. I scooped her up like she was doll. Well, she was a doll. Three years old and exploring the city on her own.  She had blonde pigtails with pink ribbons on the end. The pink reminded me of my mother’s lipstick – the kind of pink that is so celebratory it makes you inwardly cringe. My mother insisted on wearing the lipstick right up until the day she died. It bled into her lips that were creased and cracked from chainsmoking. She didn’t notice. Sometimes when she washed her face I could see dried trails of lipstick in the cracks, you would have needed a toothpick to get them out. The residue of beauty.

The parents of the little girl were in a store arguing over money. They took their eyes off the ball and let their baby walk out into the street where 5PM traffic ranted and raved.

She might have died if not for you, one police officer said.

You’re a hero, said the mother.

How can I ever thank you? said the father.

Have you been drinking? another police officer said.

I ignored the cop but it gave me a bit of a jolt to realise he’d noticed how out of it I was. Made me think of possible litigation if I’d hurt the kid by dragging her out of the way of an SUV.

Just keep an eye on your kid, I said to the father, loping off with the press snapping photos of me from behind, wearing jeans I’d been sleeping in for three days.

Syd saw the photo on the front page of the Herald. She rang, forgetting everything that had happened between us in a bid to congratulate me. I could tell that she was hoping my heroic act meant I had recovered from what she had done, that she would no longer have to carry around all that guilt in her heart.

I am so proud of you, Jase, she said. That was very brave of you.

There was no bravery involved, I said. It was like kicking away a piece of broken glass on the street so someone coming up behind you who hasn’t seen it doesn’t step on it. I wouldn’t step over the glass and I wouldn’t let the little girl just walk into the traffic. Anyone would have done it.

You used to perform heroic acts like that all the time. Does this mean you’re feeling better?

There it was. The plea. For forgiveness, redemption, a lifting of the black mark against her name. It threw me, this concern for my welfare because she sure hadn’t been concerned for my welfare when she’d been in bed with my best friend. She’d been so concerned about my welfare she’d been moaning in pleasure.

Money and sex. Two things guaranteed to screw up a relationship. Two things guaranteed to make you lose your faith in humanity. And in yourself.

Sometimes good sex can make no money seem bearable but lots of cash makes even the worst sex the best you’ve ever had.

David has money. My friend. I still regard him as a friend in spite of what he did. What he continues to do. How can you just throw away 25 years of shared experiences? It’s not that easy.

I knew he wanted Syd straight away. I could see it. He’s done it to me before, lured girlfriends away, but most of the time I didn’t care about them enough to make a big deal out of it. Until Syd.

I loved Syd unashamedly. She made me believe in true love. I felt that life was worth living with her around. And I thought she felt the same way about me.

That’s what hurt the most. I was sure she felt the same way about me but it turned out she had a price just like everyone else.

I fell apart afterwards. I used to hear young girls on the train talking about how they fell apart when their boyfriends left. It always sounded so melodramatic, so unlikely, until it happened to me.

I split. Bit by bit. From the inside out. Atoms and electrons fell off me like dried skin, ground into the carpet. My psyche was falling into empty space, tumbling and spinning as if caught in a centrifuge.

When someone you love betrays you there are days you think you can handle it but there are nights you know you cannot.

It started with waking at 3AM. Every night for months like there was an alarm clock in my brain, clutching anxiously at the bedclothes, dreading to look at the clock. There is something eerie about regular occurrences, something sinister.

For months the dark swarmed like bees. The pills helped. The wine. But even when I managed to sleep and woke when the sun was shining I knew I was still alone.

A journalist contacted me. He knew my background.

On leave from the Police Rescue Unit are you? Used to be a hero for a living were you? Saving people comes naturally, does it?

I resented his badgering tone but it made me think of the old days when getting up in the morning actually meant something.

Once you open yourself up to it you can’t help but save people. You see them everywhere, floundering, hearts on fire. You don’t do it because you’re a hero, you do it because it’s the right thing to do.

The little girl sent me a drawing. Squiggles and smudges. Flowers and balloons.

♡My hero☀ it said in shaky script.

I was uncomfortable, glad that I had saved her – but it didn’t sit well that I was being thought of as something I really wasn’t.

How can anyone truly be a hero if they are walking a path of self-destruction? Self-pity, self-indulgence, moroseness – these are not heroic traits. Sure, I’ve had my heart broken, but if you lined up everyone in the world who’s ever had their heart broken and stood them side by side the line would stretch several times around the world.

I bet none of them are drinking two bottles of cabernet sauvignon a day. Accompanied by pills for imaginary back pain or headaches or sleeplessness. I bet they’re angry about having their heart broken and are using that anger to propel themselves into a life without their beloved. I bet they’re shouting : The stars shine just as brightly with or without you.

But what if the stars have lost their glitter without that beloved? What then?

I’m sitting by the window with an open bottle of wine. A drink wipes away misery. Did you know that? A bottle obliterates it. I can’t drink. Not tonight.

The little girl’s drawing hangs on the wall. Her hearts are crooked, leaning to one side. Much like the human heart just waiting to be broken. For some reason it cheers me, that crooked heart. It’s as if in her innocence she knows just how frail we all are.

Syd. Her name is a little leaf in my hand. I have to let it go, let it fall. I hold my hand out the window, turn my palm down. A shiver of wind brushes it and the leaf is released. If I am to be a hero I have to start with my own life. I have to learn to let things go even if the pain threatens to burn me alive.

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life remains to be seen. But I will try.

*{Image by his tears at Deviant Art}