Hero

Hero

By The Chichi Slaughter House

Warnings: Mentions of child abuse, original, original characters, shonen ai(boyxboy), slash, etc

Disclaimer: All characters and situations in this story are fictional. Any relation to real events is coincidental.

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He always does that. Swoops in and saves the day like some sort of valiant hero. Pretends not to hear the praise but secretly soaks it up and savours it. He truly hangs onto their every word and uses that to build his self-esteem. Without their words, he has nothing.

They don’t know anything about him at all. They ask all these questions but all he replies with are lies. Lies to get their attention. Lies to get the praise he craves. Lies to hide the truth.

He knows that they wouldn’t like him so much if they knew about his home. About his mother who tells him he is worthless and refuses to be near him. About his father who beats him and breaks his things.

No, they cannot know that. He needs a sanctuary after all. Refuge from the hell that is his home; somewhere he can forget about what his mother screams at him and what his father does. A place of peace.

If they only knew that he helps them for their attention. That he doesn’t actually care what has happened or who was involved as long as he can look good for bringing it all to a stop.

To him, it doesn’t even matter if the outcome is fair. Whomever has the most sympathy is the person he backs up, whether they brought the matter upon themselves or not.

Usually it’s girls. They have the softer bodies and apparently are the most sensitive, after all. Delicate and emotional, they need protection. Of course, that’s only what they want you to think.

Honestly they are the most dangerous of the sexes. Their frail bodies contain deceptive minds and they know how to use their sexuality to get what they want. By batting their eyelashes or pouting their lips, they can bring people to their knees.

If anything, men are the ones that need the protection.

But it never seems to be played out that way.

I look over the classroom toward him and see a cheery expression on his face that I know all too well. A fake smile. If anyone bothered to look behind it, into his eyes, all they would see is sorrow and desperation. But no one ever goes beneath the surface unless they have to.

No one ever thinks to roll up his sleeves or ask why he winces when they hug him. They prefer the illusion to the reality. That’s why they can’t see the bruises. The wounds. The marks.

I, however, have seen them. Have touched them, in fact. Gently caressed my fingertips over them and told him everything will be alright. I’ve held him whilst he has cried; burying his face into my clothes and clung at my back as if I am the only thing keeping him from floating away. He whispers his secrets to me in hushed tones, as if saying them too loudly would cause his father to run in again.

It isn’t that I don’t know what goes on already; I live next door and hear every fight, every argument. Then when the silence comes, I climb out of my bedroom window onto the tree connecting our two rooms and wait for him to let me into his, gathering him into my arms and whispering to him until he has calmed.

He always worries that his father will come in and find us, then scream and beat me too. I hope that one day, it will happen. The second he touches me I could give him a beating and get him locked up for his crimes. Nathan is too scared to tell anyone; afraid his mother will say he is lying and hate him all the more, that if his dad is put away there will be no food for either of them to eat. He loves his mother with all his heart, though I cannot fathom why when all she does is treat him like dirt and let his father harm him.

When we are alone, I am begged not to tell anyone. I am made to promise. And I cannot break my promise to him; I am the only person he feels he can trust – he said so himself – and if I told, he could never speak to me again. He would be paranoid that I would tell his secrets.

And I’m not prepared to give up our closeness.

I know there is nothing I can do except listen to and comfort him. So that is what I will do.

I know I am staring when he looks over at me, his expression one of discomfort as I notice that everyone around him is looking in my direction also, and avert my gaze. Tensed up, I end up with my eyes fixed on a single word in my textbook, pretending to read it but not moving my eyes a millimetre. After a few moments, I feel their gaze move from me to something else and sigh, relaxing.

The buzz of conversation gets louder once again as they go back to singing his praises like he is the saviour they all need. They think he is perfect, without troubles; someone to rely on heavily as he never is too busy to help out. They think they can lean on him as much as they want, and that he won’t break under the pressure.

But they’re wrong.

Even he needs help sometimes, and they don’t want to recognise it at all.

What they don’t realise is that I am a hero too; because without me, I don’t think he would be able to cope. Perhaps I am better at it than he is. I don’t ask for praise or do things for attention, I just hold him and listen until he is ready for me to leave. True heroes help because they can, not for recognition.

Not that I blame him; I completely understand why, after all. I will still look after him, and take his fears away.

I just wish I could do more.