No Heroes Left

In our town, there were no heroes left. One by one, anyone with even the smallest ounce of courage departed, to protect those who lacked the courage to defend themselves. 

Even those with no strength, with nothing but bravado to their name, were willing to pick up a sword and fight the good Fight. But not I, nor my friends. Despite being of an appropriate age to give our lives for the cause, we remained in the safety of our homes; in the warmth of our beds.

It would be easy to blame others for our cowardice. To say that our parents begged us, tears in their eyes, to stay. That our parents asked us to live out our lives, to ensure that they would not need to know loss. But that would be a lie- no, our parents certainly would have loved for us to join The Fight. Our parents who had lost siblings and other children to battle. Parents who looked at us, their eyes whispering It should have been you. 

Of course, my friends and I recognized the hypocrisy. And that’s certainly part of the reason that our parents never actually said anything- they knew that, were they to actually speak their minds, we would just as easily ask why they were still here, too. Why do we not all simply leave the town together, swords in hand, willing to sacrifice ourselves for those who cannot bring themselves to do so? But they never vocalized their accusations, so we never vocalized our defenses.

Personally, I have lost three siblings, one uncle, and two aunts to The Fight. For the longest time, my parents still loved me, even though I refused to partake. As my aunts and uncle gave their lives, my parents hoped these sacrifices were enough to protect me. When their hopes were dashed, and my two older siblings gave their necks for the cause, my parents still wrapped their arms around me and prayed this would be enough to spare me. However, when these prayers went unanswered, and my younger brother volunteered to join The Fight- that’s when my parents stopped seeing me as one who needed to be protected, and saw me instead as one who failed to protect. 

I’ve tried not to let this bother me, but it’s difficult to live in such an oppressive atmosphere. My friends felt the same way, so together we spent our days seeking escapes from this life. Day after day, we would meet to fill up the hours. Sometimes, we would swim at the town lake. Other times, we would go to the market and shop together. But most of the time, we would simply talk. 

We would talk about a world where our town had heroes left. A world where we could explore outside our town with hope of survival. A world where we could be safe and happy, and where our families were whole. Day after day, the wishes and hopes and dreams piled up, one on top of the other- but they had nowhere to go. Nowhere we could plant them, to expect the seeds to germinate and grow into a future that would bring us beyond this town, beyond The Fight. Instead, at the end of each day, my friends and I would go our separate ways, promising to meet again tomorrow. 

One day, we met up to talk and to dream, only to discover that one of our number was late. We waited and waited, but this friend did not appear. At first, we joked that perhaps they had found something better to do- a better way to pass the time in this decaying town. But as the minutes turned to hours, the jokes lost their humor, revealing instead our fragile nerves. Eventually, we decided that we would go looking for our friend. 

This friend was neither in the market, nor by the lake. We even stopped by their house, but it was empty. Empty houses were not a scarcity in these times, but this friend's parents were known to still be among our town's numbers. As our nerves reached their breaking point, we heard a commotion. Something was happening in the plaza.

Together, we located the struggle. A small group of people were surrounding a single person- the hands of the former grabbing and pulling the latter against their will. For a moment, my friends and I were prepared to turn away- to depart the scene before we ourselves were noticed, and dragged into it. But something made us hesitate: we noticed that the one being grabbed and pulled was our missing friend. 

Even though we had not been there for the beginning, we were able to piece together what was happening. The people surrounding our friend were, after all, their parents and neighbors. All people who had lost others to The Fight. All people who had refused to brandish a weapon and fight for themselves. People who were now demanding that our friend give their life for this cause instead. Hypocrites, demanding one death to potentially spare their own. 

Rage devoured the very core of my being- how I longed to jump in there, to shout at the mob, Why not you? Why force this on another? Shame on you! I wanted to claw at their arms, to stop the grabbing and the pulling. I wanted to free my friend and, together with the rest of our number, run until our pursuers were dots on the landscape- until their shouts were nothing more than the whispers of the wind.

I would love to say that this is what happened. That we stood between the mob and our friend and used every ounce of courage in our terrified souls to protect someone who lacked the courage to protect themself. That we ran and ran until we found a new life- a life beyond The Fight, where our fantasies and daydreams and delusions found a soil suitable for their growth. Where we planted them, and they germinated and grew into a future beyond our imagination.

…but that would be a lie. In the end, we could not bring ourselves to be heroes. After all, in our town, there were no heroes left.