A Wishing Well

Ashes to Ashes

 Heroism, noun; the qualities and actions of a hero or heroine; bravery, nobility, valor, etc.

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"The poetry of heroism appeals irresistibly to those who don't go to a war, and even more to those whom the war is making enormously wealthy. It's always so." - Louis-Ferdinand Celine

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When she was young, she wanted to be a hero – someone that everyone would look up to and admire. People would respect her and she would receive gifts and end up in books. Her family would be oh-so-proud of her and no-one would tell her what to do.

(When she was young, she wanted to be a hero.)

Then autumn arrived the year she turned sixteen and everything. Fell. Apart.

(Tell me, do you believe in fairytales?)

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She is numb. Numb to everything but the bitter cold rage rooted in her heart. She is angry. Oh so angry as red taints her vision and scarlet paints the ground beneath her feet. She walks, and she does not hear the gunshots or panicked shouts. All she hears is the dry crunch of autumn leaves, and all she sees are flames.

(The scent of ash and smoke haunts her.)

That day, she becomes an orphan.

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In a war-torn world, the only use that orphans will ever have are as soldiers and cannon fodder(and the girls are nothing more than entertainment). In this war-torn world, she becomes a soldier – one with no name. She is nothing more than a puppet; a tool; a machine. She is no-one.

(And No-one was very, very cold. )

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Her face is nothing more than a blank canvas now; a mask that she has donned to conceal the pain in her heart as she pulls trigger after trigger after trigger.

She sighs, and turns – only to see a toddler wailing in the corner. She picks her up, cradles the child to her chest and names her Hope.

(Hope dies in an explosion meant for her.)

And No-one is alone once more.

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It is by chance that she meets the enemy's leader. She is running, hiding from the soldiers chasing after her. She runs and runs and runs. A man bumps into her and she recognizes his uniform as enemy garb.

She shoots.

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They have won the war and she is praised and honoured with a medal. They call her a hero. A hero, because of the bravery she has displayed.

(Then why does she feel so hollow, so empty? Like everything she's done was simply in vain?)

(A hero? Hah. She's nothing more than a monster.)

She rather hates being a hero. Hates it so, so much.

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Once upon a time, she was Irena – she was peace. But Peace is gone now, as is Hope.

(She lost Hope.)

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Finally, she is a hero.

(Heroes are nothing more than fairytales.)

And she was nothing more than a lie.