The Hero

Cassidy Forrest

The Hero

 

She left, and left the kids to my small apartment. I was happy to have them join me, it was just the space that couldn’t handle the noise and fighting, sleepovers and drum lessons. I took all this as a second chance. My history as a father was the mold that made those smiles crooked. I had seen most of their birthdays in albums, and heard their piano recitals through CD’s my former wife had made. I had a small moment of panic when I had heard she had left forever to god knows where and with whom, and I would be left to fulfill the endless requirements of the single parent; but that panic subsided when I realized this would be my redemption at becoming a better dad.

As they walked through the door for the first time, the children brought that same expression that had been marked on their faces as they had left the car. There was no excitement or eagerness for a new home, no look of awe or a pleasant sigh. They just looked around as if entering a stranger’s home, feeling forbidden to touch, just take in the smells and walls. This look carried through the whole house, until we reached the back yard, where amidst the foliage and grass lay a large pool; eight feet deep with baby blue tiles placed throughout the floor, this sight brought smiles that I looked at with unexpected concern.

“I don’t want a pool,” I had said when looking at the house for the first time.

“It causes no extra charge towards the property, most folks…” the man had said.

“I don’t care, I don’t want it; it’s dangerous.”

But even as I had said these words I knew it was out of my hands. This was the largest property I could afford, and with the sudden company of a 10-year-old girl and a 9-year-old boy, I had to leap on the first property available within my budget.

 Things went as they should.

 The new house reminded me of the one I had grown up in; sterile white walls that always seemed painted, ceilings that hung a few feet over your head, and white carpet that had been bleached to the point of stiffness; but still awkwardly pushed between your toes with each barefoot step. I would make this a better house though, despite the similarities.

 The summertime made the piano and drums last all day, with breaks for video games and grilled cheese sandwiches. I kept the doors leading to the backyard locked at all times; just the knowledge of the pool out there brought a vein to my forehead I had not seen before. But the children had grown enough that it was easy for them to unlock the doors and run circles around the hot cement and cold water until they were out of breath. A week into the new house, I came home from work to find them dangling their feet in the water and splashing one another, reaching as deep as they could into the liquid and bringing it out onto each others faces. Perhaps I was too hard on them; Sally running into her room crying and Michel going off to play his drums louder than usual. I just wanted to make it clear that I didn’t want them around the pool, I had seen to many shows where kids fall in and drown, and parents spending the rest of their lives knowing that they had purchased a recreational object that led to this child’s demise. I would not be like those parents.

After that day, I was bothered to the point where I began to lose sleep. I would sometimes wake up in the night and go to the sliding glass door and look out onto the water to make sure everything was in its place and safe, that the serene and peaceful setting remained just that. Despite its ever-calm scenery, the checking up on the quiet setting began to dawn on my mind more and more. It became a part of my schedule, a large part in my routine between every usual household practice: use the bathroom: check the pool. Take a shower: check the pool. Make breakfast: check the pool. It got to the point where it was second nature to make sure the water was calm, and even the slightest sound of moving fluid from the shower or a sudden drip from the hose would cause me to rush to the waters edge and study the silky blue outer surface. 

I came home from work, and found the sliding door open. A cool wind blew into the house and I dropped my things and began yelling my children’s names. When I got out into the back yard, there stood Michel at the edge of the pool, holding a paper boat he had made. His face was red with panic and guilt, and before I could even say a word to him he began to cry. I felt bad for the boy, and this time I did not burn up and yell; he was just a curious child, and it was not his fault that this thing lay in our back yard taunting his youth and innocence. I sent him to his room, and stood out by the pool wondering what could be done.

There is so much ugliness in the world, and so much danger for a child. A man could spend his whole life watching every moment of his children playing, and still not make them fully safe. It is the burden of a parent to worry at all times.

That night, after the children had been put into bed and the lights were out, I lay awake. The other exit to the back yard was in my room; this I was grateful for because it allowed me to keep an eye on the water from my bed in case some sort of mishap should happen. My brow was pushed deep into my eyes, and every muscle in my body was tensed to the point where it felt like they might rise up and push my skin off; shedding it like a snake.

That thing lay remote in the night air, mosquitoes buzzing around its chemical fumes and the trees laying out leaves to float gently in its soft wake; all right on the other side of my sliding glass door. To anybody without my fatherly position, its calming noises and joyful presence might seem like a modern day blessing; something to encourage the hope for a sunny day, a refreshing way to start the morning or a way to spend an afternoon at home. To me it was nothing but horror. It stood as a dangling sword above my family; a blade hanging by a thin piece of string that at any moment could fall and destroy a life. A curse or a catch on an otherwise beautiful family home.

I looked out at it from my pillow. It waited in calmness; it’s brutal tranquility mocking my fear. Still I lay in silence and listened to its soft movement outside my door like a burglar and murderer laying out the plan for their strike. Its drips and soft splashes like a foreseeing demon whispering in my ear, telling me of all the horrors of what will come to those that I love. Its cool water and deepness was a lingering threat, something in my own home that stood as danger with nobody to do anything about it. A monster or terrorist’s trap waiting to be sprung by the inquisitive. I decided that this thing that waits for my children would have to be dealt with in the most swift of ways. I realized that I was meant to be that guardian, the one to make the first move.

I would have to be the first to raise a fist and strike. The father who missed soccer games and forgot birthdays would have to leave, and in his place would have to stand a savior; an angel with a spear who swoops down from the heavens with a blinding sublime light, and shield to block the tormenting rays that came from the blinding florescent greens and blues that protruded from the depths of what lay waiting outside. I wouldn’t look away; I wouldn’t pretend a menace wasn’t there or just be an onlooker as an atrocity occurs. Not another parent accepting fate and danger for their child: I would take that spear and pierce this mischievous sprite right through the heart.  

I sat up in bed and walked into the hall. I put my ear to the door where my children slept and listened to their breathing to make sure they were asleep. I didn’t want them to hear the horrible things their father was about to perform. I walked into the kitchen, where the moonlight illuminated my naked body, and lit the large knife I pulled from the rack on the counter. I walked back into the hallway and put my head again to my children’s door. Their breathing held a strong repetition, and when I was sure no noise would wake them, I slipped back into my room, and out into the night air of my backyard.

The water was cold, but the adrenaline that ran through my veins made sure my body did not tense up. I held the knife between two fingers so as for no tension to run through my body and bring awareness to my deed. I did not want my presence known until the last moment. My movement carried as light as the water that was about to surround it. My toes moved onto the first step into the wet, followed by my foot. Then my legs moved in without making a ripple. Finally I was up to my torso, and I waded into the center of the pool. The moon was bright, and I saw every wrinkle the water made, and ever inch of depth down to the very bottom.  I raised the knife above my head, and without a moments hesitation, I brought it down hard into the stillness. The water splashed up onto my face and chest, and I waited to see the effect.

Nothing.

I realized this monster could not be brought down with a single slash, that a single thrust would not cut it in half or make it bleed out, I began running the knife back and forth across the top, and stabbing at it under the water. I tried to get lower, and soon I was under it, grabbed by its tentacles, and deep into the mouth of the beast. I slashed wildly about me, like some berserker Viking in the middle a fray. I stabbing and slashed all around, mouth open and screaming into the silence as bubbles swarmed all around me. I did this for as long as I could, until my muscles burned and my back ached. With my last ounce of strength, I worked my legs against the floor of the pool, moving myself backwards towards the stairs I had came in on, still slashing and prodding the water with the blade that now felt heavy. I finally made it to the dry concrete, and feeling run through with fatigue and breathlessness, I collapsed on the cold cement. 

I had failed. Between my tears and sobbing I realized I had underestimated my adversary. There was no throat to cut, no veins to slit. My struggle had done nothing but made me a charade of my attempted valence. My knife moved through the water like it was nothing, just filled in the infinity of small gaps I left almost at once; as if every head I cut off a thousand more grew back. I was a false Hercules, and this my Hydra.

“My Hydra.”

I said the mythic beasts name out loud.

I stood up, and faced the pool. I smiled the way Hercules must have when he realized that it took more than just his steel to kill the monster. This beast was the sort that could not be slain with a mere weapon that was meant for flesh. It would also take cunningness, and an element like itself to finish off the creature. I stood a moment longer, to let it see my eyes and know I would walk away from this battle but not this war. Then I turned and went back into the house. I entered my children’s room, and kissed them on the foreheads.

“Daddy will make everything alright,” I whispered.

I went back into my room, and still soaking, I crawled back into bed.

I slept, and dreamt of victory.

I awoke, prepared breakfast, and went to work.

I came back, made dinner, and put the kids to bed.

I went out to my car, and removed the canisters of gas I had bought.

I stripped down again, so both I, and the pool, could be in our purest form.

Naked in the moonlight, I took off the caps of the tanks, and let the gasoline glop into the clear water, until there was a layer of yellow on top of the translucent blues. I stood for a moment and took in the deed I was about to perform. I lit a match.

“Die monster,” I whispered.

The dark night became darker as a rush of flame lit up the sky. The oranges and reds of the surrounding flowers enhanced, and the dark grays of the fence diminished to black.

The pool hissed and gurgled as the flames lashed about, and tinted the exterior of my home in a hellish light. The hot inferno blackened the cement surrounding the water, and singed the hair on my chest, legs and genitals. But I laughed, laughed as if I would never laugh again.

I looked suddenly to the glass door that entered into my bedroom, and lit from the fiery blaze I could see the small faces of my children staring wide-eyed out at me. I realized the triumphant bellow of my laughter must have awakened them. For a moment I wanted to shout, and tell them to go back to bed, that this was no sight for a child’s eyes. Then suddenly I was glad they were here, I realized wanted them to see this; I wanted them to know what their father was doing for their peace of mind. I was the father figure they wanted, the one they deserved.

I raised my hand, and pointed at them.

“THIS IS FOR YOU!” I shouted.

They ran away, a look of fear in their eyes. It didn’t matter; in time they would come to realize the degree of their father’s care.

I stood awhile longer, aglow in the flames and the sweet scent of conquest.

That night, while the flames still wild outside my window, I slept a beautiful sleep.

I awoke early the next morning; the children had still not awoken, and I ran to the window to view the burnt corpse of the monster that had once haunted me.

I stood for a moment in utter terror before opening the door.

 The cement was black, and the bushes and flowers surroundings the house had wilted and died. In the center of the blackness the water lay poised. I few specs of soot and ash floated on the surface, but the water still lay and splashed with the soft wind that blew.  My body tensed, and my eyes grew so red and tight not even the tears that bombarded behind them could escape onto my face. The weight and pain of failure pounding into my temples and forehead, I screamed, and then the tears had their way, dropping onto the black soot below my feet; creating little dots of grey on the burnt pavement.

In this state of fury, I ran into the house. I dug threw the cabinets and drawers, trying to find something, anything, that could kill the gloating beast waiting outside. Soon I came to the closet, where the vacuum and other cleaners were kept. Above, in a small drawer, the liquids were sitting. I dug through them until I found the most poisonous concoctions I had. Gallons of bleaches, rat poisons, drain cleaners and every other type of canister with a skull and crossbones and a difficult cap on it you might expect to find in a house with white walls. I took all of these, and with the tears still flowing from my eyes and onto my hands, I walked back out to the pool.

Confident that it was over, I left for work. Where the knife had unsuccessfully cut, and the fire had only been able to burn the top layer of the water; the poison could fall all the way to the deepest depths, stir and combine and strike at its very entrails. The kids had not been up yet, so I left them some money for lunch, and a note saying I loved them. The day went smoothly, and I came back earlier than usual with some toys I had picked up on the way home.

When I entered the house, there was a silence. No laughter, no drums; no bangs and explosions from the TV. Instinctively, I ran to the pool.

The water had turned green, and odd pales of silver and dark blue moved throughout its depths.  I smiled: this was the color of the dead. I walked back inside, and a flashing light on the answering machine caught my gaze.

You have one new message

I pushed the big red button.

“Mr. Miller, this is Doctor Siller from St. Fellows Hospital.”

I stood upright and listened.

“Your daughter Samantha called 911 earlier this morning, and we have your son Michel here with us. It would seem he suffered from a dramatic episode of toxic exposure and after farther testing we discovered numerous amounts of toxins in his blood stream.”

I couldn’t breath, and my heart shook in my chest.

“He went through some serious treatments, but I am fortunate to say, he is now stable, but we would like to have a word about your surrounds and household.”

I sighed, but the sadness caught my breath halfway.

“Child services is here; your daughter informed us this happened after your son attempted to go swimming this afternoon. She also told us there might have been an incident with fire last night that…”

I pulled the cord from the wall, and the message stopped.

In silence, I walked out to the pool. A strong wind moved the top about, and it splashed up onto the burnt cement, and on my shoes that grew dark from the dampness.

In my anger, I had not realized the talent of the beast. That a truly good opponent will use the enemy’s strengths against them, and I, in a blinded rage moved without thought, and my opponent had used this to its advantage. In my haste, I had not seen this pool for what it really was. This pool was death; and it would not stop until it had taken a life.

It was destiny that somebody would die in the wake of its wickedness. It had almost taken from me what I cared about most, and in my fury and greed I had sought multiple answers to a problem that only had one. Of all my faults, I would no longer be that father that missed sleepovers and heard first words on videotape. I would be the man that sacrificed it all to protect the ones he loved. The one who arrives just in time, saves the day, but must give it all up as a martyr for a lesson to others.

 

I was the next Hercules, the next Achilles, the next Prometheus; giving up his life for the greater good, and remembered for all time as a hero for his selfless deeds. Written about and remembered as an inspiration to others, the hero that my kids will talk about for all time.

With that, I took off my shoes and shirt, pants and underwear, and dove in.

Breathing in the water, I smiled that smile only heroes can.

 
 

 

Cassidy Forrest Copyright 2009