Heroes Are Human Too

By Zo Daniels

Arms flailing, feet hurting from forgotten footwear I would run until my lungs give out. Believing that I could somehow catch up to him and his beat-down Volkswagen, believing that my chicken legs would spring me off the concrete surface, landing on top of the car to join him on his journey,  to a job he hated in a different country.

It always hurt me that he had to leave, he was the fun one. The happy go-lucky guy, the one that had strong enough arms to chuck me in the air like a bungee string. She was the one who would shout at me, for what seemed like silly little things, that in the grand scheme of things really didn’t matter. 

We lived in a big brick house, bought from a family whose owner had died of cancer in a room that my dog refused to enter. Shiva would bark loudly if anyone went into this room, whimpering if we tried to stay, walking away in a huff if we refused to leave. 

This house carried with it a thousand stories that if the walls could speak I doubt they would be all that nice. Our basement, with boxes lining the walls, was full of bad memories of swinging kicks and fists, and milk soaked cement, from the time a child tried to end a fight with two pints. 

The garden had a world of its own, with secret places to hide whenever we got in trouble. I would often imagine running away from them both to start a new life in our outside paradise, knowing I could survive in a tree house they wouldn’t be able to get to; living off of garden fruits and stolen boxes of cereal. I was a very dramatic child, so any hint of anger sent me running as fast as my speedy Gonzalez legs could take me.

We knew she loved us (and still does) because everything she did was for us. Our birthdays in the big brick house with the paradise garden were made magical, with towering raspberry and ice cream cakes, home made burgers and games that felt they could last for days. Our house was a free for all, lost boys and girls would wander in and out. Eating food, playing games, being loud. 

He was the type that everyone doted on. The days when he used to pick me and the younger one up from school, the mothers would gather around him to gush and swoon. Conveniently, their husbands were hardly there. They always seemed grateful that he showed up instead of her. He used to wear oversized leather coats, well-to-do dreads, a kangol hat, baggy pants; an entire look that could kill. He was suave and the ladies of Sweden loved it, his charm would stun even the most jealous of fathers and all my friends thought that he was the greatest.

Even my teachers were obsessed with him. Making sure they filled him in with all the good things we were doing. Not sure what these things were, since I never paid attention in class, coming to earn the nickname ‘chatterbox’. Even my favourite teacher would lose her cool with him around - flirting - with him flirting back. But I never really understood the flirting until that sort of thing started making sense.

Love for him ran deep; from parents, to teachers, to children and shop keepers. He had everyone in his grasp. Even her, which he used to take advantage of, playing emotional games when he didn’t get his way. Which was often. 

He was as charming as she was determined. She was known as a busy body in school, having campaigned to build a playground that we could live out our wildest imaginations in when the school bells rang for recess. She fought to get us a state of the art playground, even when the school board said they didn’t have the funds, even when the council refused to help, she campaigned, she kicked up a racket and she made it happen.

She was a business woman, owning a five-star restaurant and motel in the middle of the city centre. She also ran a women’s organisation, helping to build confidence through connection. She came from African royalty, having been forced to leave her country of birth due to a brewing war, a husband whose business had fallen and a toddler in tow. 

Once she arrived in Sweden she left her husband after seeing he wasn’t what she thought he was. She built a whole new life from scratch - without speaking the language, without a place to live or a job. 

She was a serious woman, with anger boiling quick; hot blooded. A whip lashing kind of anger. When she flipped it was usually sparked by him; the second husband, having messed up again. She worked really hard at keeping things afloat and he tried but was committed to his guitar. His love of music came first, his family second. 

That’s just the way it was, but we didn’t notice, he was our knight in shining armour. Because when the bamboo stick would fall, he would be the one to comfort and she would be the one left out in the dark, having taken her anger out on us. His many nights away, and vagabond nature meant she was saddled with two kids, the bills and everything in between. He had his moments of taking responsibility, but he was ten years younger and had a dream.

She was beautiful (that hasn’t changed) but I never noticed it because of her anger, only in pictures when you would catch her smile from ear to ear. Her skin is luminescent, reflecting natural light, eyes panther like, and lips that shunned any man that even dared think they had a chance. 

But as angry as she was, she was caring and the day she left a mark she promised me that she would never do it again. She admitted she had lost her temper, explaining that she was wrong, apologising for the first time ever. 

We didn’t stay in Sweden, the day we left for England was the day everything changed, and the childhood of thinking he was the King quickly felt like some kind of dream. The tables turned as I started to grow, knowing what it was to be a woman with seeds to sow. 

I started hearing things about their pasts. Bitter words were exchanged between the two of them, often passed through us to convey messages of distrust. We were caught in a battle of who could throw the biggest blow. The days where he used to win had come to an end, she started telling us harsh truths about him. There were days I felt like Oprah, having to hear both of them tell on one another. Giving them comfort where I could. My advice often being  “maybe it’s time you get a divorce?”, which they would always ignore. 

Over the years, it all boiled over. I never saw him bring her flowers, never saw them have any moments of intimacy, no sign of love between them was ever witnessed by us. Maybe the occasional ‘I love you babe”, but that was about it.

One day it became too much, her time in England had been somewhat of a nightmare. The place had never turned into a real home, no place of comfort like Sweden, no safety, just people with bad intentions, people who saw her hurting but never reached out. People who left her out to dry. But she powered through, and after taking her work to the cleaners, won a big settlement, took us back to Sweden, and headed for America - leaving us behind. 

That was the day a part of my love for her died. I felt abandoned. She had left me with people that weren’t able to care for us, but she had done this to survive. Because years of emotional abuse had taken its toll, she could no longer give us the love that we needed - it was all dried up.

I hated her for so long, never thought I could forgive her and that hate kept on simmering fuelled by other peoples stories. I found out her secrets from a time before him, ones she would have liked to have taken to the grave. These secrets had spilled out from an ex boyfriend, who decades after still enjoyed slandering her name. 

I had gone off to university whilst she was galavanting in America, and when I returned to England to see him, he was skinny as a rake, with hollow cheeks and a grey face, left fending for himself. 

The King had fallen, without his Queen he was lost. No longer the giant I had come to see him as.

I had always thought of him as Michael Jordan-esque, he was everything, he was the best. She, although, angry was the strongest woman I had ever known, unbreakable like granite stone. All the things I had been told by them, about one another and others had marred my image of them both, but in the end, as any Marvel story will tell you, heroes are human too. No one is perfect, even those we place on pedestals have room to fall, as everyone is bound to have their flaws.

As life continues to unfold and I continue to discover things I would rather not know, my love for them both remains true and their love for one another still burns. I have no idea how or why they continue to love when so much hurt has been caused, but they do and us too and so life continues.