Not a Hero

Chapter 12

Once I make the decision to leave with Jack, we immediately have to leave. Maybe it’s stupid but I didn’t really think that far ahead, didn’t think past getting out of my cell. But getting out of one of the highest security prisons on the East Coast proves to be all at once much harder and much easier than anything I might’ve dreamed. In all honesty I do almost nothing at all, I half jog half walk behind Jack and scream periodically.

It’s pathetic. It being me. I recognize that but can’t seem to stop being pathetic. Guards at prisons are supposed to keep the prisoners in their cells, and Jack’s made it his job to get a prisoner out of her cell. Obviously those things clash. Fortunately for us, Jack is a much, much better shot than any of the guards. It isn’t even close. Beside him, highly trained prison guards look like rent-a-cops. He shoots them and makes it look like a sport. But a really easy, lame sport like curling.

“Get on the ground!” A middle aged woman with caramel eyes the exact shade of my mothers screams. She carries only a taser but her arms don’t shake, the lines in her face are hardened with resolve. We don’t get on the ground.

“Do I look like I’m about to get on the ground?” There’s pure contempt in Jack’s voice, as if this woman is nothing more than a mildly annoying gnat.

“I said, Get. On. The. Ground.” The woman shouts again, her voice unwavering. Not angry, just stern. Like a mother telling a kid to put down the scissors they were running with.

“How about you get on the ground?” For a split second the guard looks confused. Then a bang echoes through the hallway, a circle the exact colour of a rose blossoms on the guards uniform. Her deep brown hair drifts almost lazily across her dark features, as if it somehow knows this is the end and is in no rush to get there. It strikes me that for a dying woman she looks incredibly at peace, as if somehow she knew that her entire life was leading up to this moment and now that it’s arrived she’s ready. Her body hits the floor and I swear it’s louder than the gunshot.

An alarm starts. Ringing ringing ringing. It’s so loud that I want to put my arms over my head. Want to curl into a ball and just cry. Louder than the alarms though, is Jack. Jack laughing. Laughing and laughing and laughing. It’s not a maniacal laugh, not the laugh of someone who just killed a woman. If I’d heard it anywhere else I’d think it was the laugh of someone who’d just heard a really funny joke.

The alarm keeps blaring and Jack keeps laughing and I swear if there isn’t quiet it’s going to drive me insane.

Finally, Jack stops. Catches his breath. Lets out one last tiny giggle. Then he walks on, not even giving the dead guard a glance. I have no choice but to follow.

Somewhere inside me I know I should stop him, ask him what he thinks he’s doing, tell him he needs to stop. But it’s deep inside me, deep enough for me to bury it, hide it, ignore it. It seems like I can ignore anything if I try hard enough, run far enough, do enough. So I bury my kernel of doubt. Tuning out the alarm I run, not closing my eyes, not flinching. I don’t scream for the dead or the dying. Not anymore. Everyone meets the end sooner or later, these people met their ends sooner. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

“Princess,” Jack stops abruptly at a body that only just became a body. He leans over, grabbing the gun the woman had just fired at us. The handle is still warm. “Do us all a favor and grab a gun if you’re done screaming your face off.” He tosses the gun at me. Reflexes kicking in I snatch it out of the air. But I don’t move, I just stare at the weapon in my hand.  “Oh,” he says in a patronizing tone, “does the little city girl not know how to shoot a gun?”

It’s not that I don’t know how to shoot. My dad’s military and my grandparents were from South Carolina, I practically grew up with a gun in my hand. My mom was never particularly happy about it, growing up in Puerto Rico she’d had a very different introduction to guns. But I guess she knew what she was getting into marrying the son of a southern farmer.

Still, even though I should be completely at ease, I’m not. Because this isn’t some old hunting rifle that Papa kept in the back of the closet, this is a weapon that is designed to kill something other than deer. But I’m not just a little city girl. I might be small but I’m not scared, not weak, not afraid. Never afraid.

So I lift the gun. I wipe all emotion from my face. I nod curtly and follow Jack onwards, weapon at the ready.

Out of nowhere a guard appears. The moment he notices us is obvious, his eyes widen almost comically and he reaches for his radio. Not his gun.

He’s not a threat, not really. Sure, I’m short. Arguably very short. Ok fine, very very short, but that only serves to prove my point more. Because if a 5’10” girl doesn’t think someone looks physically imposing then chances are they probably aren’t. Jack could knock him back side the head easily, save a bullet.

But he doesn’t. Bullet to the hand, a shriek of pain, an explosion of crimson and hurt and anger. The man stumbles, falls, tries to stand, tries to reach for his gun, tries to do anything to protect himself. Jack has to feel my pain at this man's pain, has to know how much this hurts me. But that doesn’t stop him. And that scares me more than anything else.

It’s not like I can stop now though. People are dead, somehow I doubt I’d be allowed to go back to my cell. Now I have to keep going, have to finish this, have to be free. Once I’m out I don’t know what I’ll do. Go home? Or would I be arrested again?

For the first time it hits me, really hits me. I’m breaking out of jail. I’m breaking out of jail with someone who’s a criminal, who’s a terrorist, who conspired to overthrow the United States government. In cop shows, running away is always taken as a sign of guilt, I’m not guilty but I’m running. Running away from this prison. Running away from the guilt, the blame, the confusion.

It strikes me that my dad would be ashamed. He lived a hero, always looking out for the little guy, always putting others before himself, never ever being selfish. He died a hero too. He died for his family, his friends, and his country.

But I’m not my dad. I’m not ready to die today, not ready to make the sacrifice. Sure, that makes me a coward. But at least I’m a living coward. Better a living coward than a dead hero, right? Because in a way dying is the easy way out, the fast track to herodum without really putting in the work.

That isn’t fair to my dad, to say his death was cowardly. He died how he lived— heroically. But I’m not him. I’m not a hero like my father. I’m just trying to stay alive, no matter what it takes