So, time for another one of
Chuck's challenges. This week we got to pick one of six random titles. Here goes nothing...
The Splintered Savior
There are some things all the vodka
in the world won’t let you forget, but I’m determined to die trying. It would
be easier than the alternative. Do you know what happens when you don’t sleep? A
night or two, you feel fuzzy, tired, almost drunk, but you can still function.
Longer than that, you start to get paranoid, to see things. What you see
depends on how fucked up you are inside. I haven’t slept for two weeks, and the
dead are getting restless.
I’m so tired,
but every time I close my eyes, they pounce. All those poor jerks I wasn’t able
to save. Passing out is the only rest I can get. Saving the world can be a
messy business.
Sure, it was great at first. I remember when
it was just the Black Tornado and me, ripping a hole in the criminal
underworld, maybe a tiny tear into the fabric of society too. Then came the
supervillains; why the hell do they all feel the need to destroy the world,
anyway? Fucking idiots. Anyway, that’s when we joined the Silver Shepard and
Ultima, had ourselves a proper team. What can I say, that was what you did in
those days. Taking down a crime boss or two was a respectable Friday night’s
entertainment.
But then it all
changed. Out crawled the terrorist, the neo-nazis, the rotten politicians. It
wasn’t so clear-cut anymore. Silver Shepard got blown to smithereens trying to
dismantle a bomb on a plane, and Ultima’s in prison for assault and battery.
When Tornado died I got out of the game. We saved the world from the mole-rat
women, stopped Doctor Tinsel from making it Christmas every day, and sunk the
invading fleet of the Gora-Ga. I figure that’s plenty.
I still miss
Tornado. Her real name was Tiffany, and she was amazing in bed. And she made me
pancakes afterwards. I’m pretty sure I was in love with her, and maybe she
liked me a little, too, not just for a tumble. She died taking down her
nemesis, the Tempest. Saved a whole lot of school kids while doing it. Her face
is the first one I see when I try to sleep.
I open my
second bottle of the day. It’s still chilled from the freezer, and goes down
smoother than the last one. The TV’s blaring about yet another school shooting.
That’s fucking depressing. I click through the channels until I find some old
action movie, where Schwarzenegger is still kicking ass. It fills me with
nostalgia for about a minute and a half. I turn the TV off. That’s when I hear
the commotion from the hallway. I struggle up. It’s those damn kids again.
The door slams
into the wall and bounces back, hard. I step out, filled with indignant rage.
Three scared boys look up at me. They have the look of bullies. My suspicion is
confirmed when I see the fourth boy. He’s got a bloody nose and his clothes are
torn.
“What the hell
is going on here?” I growl. “You let that kid go right now.”
“Fuck you!” the
bravest one of them says, not letting go of the kid.
I crack my
knuckles. “Do you know who I am, you little punk?”
One of his
friends whispers in his ear and pulls at his jacket sleeve. He clearly knows.
“Now get out of
here before I wring your scrawny, worthless necks.” My power stirs, even
through the vodka, and I can feel their heartbeats, fast, like baby mice. How
easy it would be to snuff them out.
The bully sees
something in my eye and lets go of the kid. They run.
I give the kid
a hand up. “You okay, kiddo?”
He sniffles,
but mostly from the bloody nose. “Yeah. Thanks, Mr. Agrioli.”
“It’s nothing.”
I look the kid up and down. He’s got that nerdy look to him, gangly and
nearsighted. I turn to go back inside.
“Umm, Mr. Agrioli?”
“Yeah?”
“I lost my
key.”
“So?”
“Mom’s not
coming home ‘til six. Can I stay with you until then?”
God the kid
looks pathetic.
“Okay, fine.
C’mon then.”
Once we’re inside, the kid makes a
beeline for the pictures on my bookcase. I don’t even know why I have them.
Been too drunk to throw them out, probably.
He holds one
up. “Is this the Black Tornado?”
“Yup.”
“Wow.”
He keeps up the
third degree for an hour, picking up every picture and knick-knack in the
living room. I gaze longingly at the vodka bottle on the table as I answer him.
He finds the plants on my windowsill and wrinkles his nose.
“How come these
are all dead, Mr. Agrioli? Wasn’t that kind of your thing, bringing dead things
to life?”
It was a nice
party trick, making a wilted rose bloom, very popular with the ladies, but life
and death, that’s something you take seriously; I get that now. But the kid
stares at me, eyes full of hero-worship. What the heck, just this once. I wave
my hand and the plants spring to life. The kid laughs with delight. I can’t
take it anymore. I grab my bottle, slump into the easy chair, and take a long
swallow. Without thinking, I offer the bottle to the kid.
“Hey! I’m only
eight!”
“Oh, sorry.” I
take another swallow.
He fidgets. “Mr.
Agrioli? Why did you stop being the Resurrectionist?”
“I dunno. Just
didn’t want to be him anymore, I guess. Don’t you ever want to be someone
else?”
“Yeah, all the
time.” He pulls off his jacket and reveals a Superman t-shirt.
His mother
finally picks him up at half past six and thanks me profusely for helping her
boy. I sit in my chair, contemplating the half-empty bottle in my hand. A
warmth fills me, but not from the drink. I smile and put the bottle down.
Maybe it’s not
that tough being me after all.
