A Hero

Ethan revisits one of the few memories he has of his mother.

Back when I was a kid my outlook on life was limited. I can only judge the world based on what I saw on television. The television practically raised me, and probably did a better job than my mother. When my mother would take me out I had no clue to where I was going, but I was always anxious to find out. One cold Saturday night, my mother announced that we will be meeting with an old friend of her's. If I think about it now, she never looked too happy when we'd leave. You can see it in her eyes, the resentment with the forced and slightly conceivable smile. But as a young child, it never once occurred to me that maybe my mother was living a hidden life of despair. 

She gave me my bulky Kmart jacket and zipped it all the way up. I hated when she did this, because the zipper would always pinch my neck. I never complained to her about it. Once my jacket was on, I grabbed my antique 

superman action figure and placed it in my coat pocket. I was ready for the world.

While my mother applied her mascara she told me, 

“Ethan, this man is very important. He is a U.S soldier. He fought for our country, so I want you to thank and salute him for that, okay dear?”

My mother had a habit of adding ‘dear’ at the end of a command so she wouldn’t sound so dominant. I loved that about her.

“Alright ma”

I replied.

In the car ride, I held my Superman by the window, pretending he was flying. I remember wishing I had super powers. Wishing I could take away all the problems that were bothering my mother, without the knowledge to what those problems were.

The car stopped by an old building. My mother unbuckled me from the backseat. When I got out the car, I looked around and realized I was in an unfamiliar part of town. It was dark, smelly and ugly. But sure enough, there was a tall dark figure across the street, waiting. It was almost frightening but I knew that was the man my mother had mentioned about earlier. I don’t know what it was that made me walk towards him. I never crossed the street without the grip of my mother’s palm. As I got closer, I studied the man. I observed the stains on his jeans, the tribal tattoo on his arm, his sweat soaked tank. I tried to come up with theories to why he would be sweating and wearing a tank top in forty degree Chicago weather. I remember thinking, 'maybe he was in a rush to meet my mom and ran over here and forgot to put on a shirt and change his pants". To be sure it was the man we were expecting; I looked up and saluted him.

“Don’t f*****g salute me.”

I stood there, gazing at the man with mixed emotions. I was confused, frightened, just displeased. This man was clearly intoxicated. I mean, why else would he cuss at a little kid, right?

“Why not?” I asked.

“The marine T.V commercials say soldiers are national heroes”

“Do I look like a f*****g hero to you, kid?”

He kneeled down to talk to me, at this point I can clearly smell from his alcoholic breath, this man was intoxicated.

“Listen kid, all I did was kill a couple guys who probably had families waiting for them at home and is the war over yet? No! I’m not a hero.”

Author's Note

This is one of my first pieces of writing.
so i'm sure it needs some working on, so please let me know what you think i should have fixed to make it better. thanks for reading!

Reviews

[Night]

I love how you chose to write about heroes, (or, in your case, not-so-heroes, I suppose) it's intriguing, and all too true. How many times have we looked at a soldier and see ony the glory but non of the shame?

Good job!