[ WP ] `` A lot of people are calling you a hero . '' `` A lot are n't . ''

`` A lot of people are calling you a hero,'' he said evenly, leaning against the door frame with his hands in his pockets 
 
 `` A lot are n't,'' I retorted curtly. I let my head fall to my hands as I massaged my temples, my elbows resting on my knees. The folding chair was not particularly comfortable, but that was common for almost every chair I had rested upon since it happened. How could I relax physically when my conscience was so uneasy? 
 
 I could feel him look at me, studying me for half a minute after I replied, before I heard him shift and sensed that he stood up straight and crossed his arms. `` Now listen,'' he said in his no-nonsense voice `` I do n't care what personal qualms you have about what you did. The whole nation, hell, the whole world saw it. And you bet your bottom dollar every self-righteous prick with a television set will take it upon themselves to pass judgement on you. But right now, you got ta get out there on this goddam talk show and you got ta goddam talk. Screw the self-righteous pricks. What you did is done. All you have left to do is tell the whole story. From *your* perspective. Now git, commercial break is almost over.'' I looked up at him pathetically, sadness and worry almost a permanent expression now. He was right, of course. I grabbed my crutches and headed toward the light and noise of the main stage. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 `` Gilda Brown.'' The host addressed me as I took my seat and the cheers from the audience died down. My heart was racing, and it was n't just stage fright. `` America's first line of defense, some are calling you, after the events that aired nationally on April 2nd of this year. And for good reason, I might add!'' he smiled as he broke into talk show host mode for a second, chuckling with the audience. `` On Friday, March 27th, you were kidnapped by a group of extremist terrorists,'' he continued before the grins could fall from the audience's faces. He spoke quickly now, outlining my story before the mood could become to somber. But his sparse words were more than enough to conjure up all the details for me. 
 
 *Walking home one afternoon, thinking of nothing more important than possibly calling my parents later. A van comes around the corner, driving slow. It sends chills down my spine. Unmarked, tinted windows. You do n't see that type of vehicle often in residential areas. It pulls up to a stop right near me. I reach into my backpack for....my phone? My rape whistle? Before I can even think, three people dressed all in black jump out of the van. The last thing I remember is them coming at me, then darkness. * 
 
 `` You were held in barbaric conditions and tortured for almost a week,'' the host continued, 
 
 *I wake up slouched on the floor in a grimy basement, my wrists cuffed and chained to iron pegs cemented in the wall. There are four men looming against the other wall - the three that captured me plus the driver. One of them holds a knife. * 
 
 `` Until finally, the terrorists highjacked a national news station with the intent to murder you on air.'' 
 
 *My wrists chafe under the cuffs. I can not breathe without intense pain from my bruised ribs. I am so covered in blood from my many cuts that I do n't remember what color my shirt used to be. One of the men comes in and unlocks my chains. I am stunned. The pain and the shock keep me from bolting. I am carried upstairs and placed in a chair. Two men place a hand on each of my shoulders, guns at their sides. One man stands to the left, gun pointed at my head. A man stands to my right, brandishing a knife I knew all too well. Directly in front of me is a video camera. Knife man, speaking to me for the first time, explains what an honor it is to be such an important sacrifice, and I realize that I am about to be murdered* 
 
 `` But...'' The host let the word linger in the air, `` Everything did not go according to plan...'' 
 
 *A green light blinks on the camera. Knife man begins to talk. It is mostly insults toward the American people. To demonstrate his hate and his power, he brings his knife up high, and plunges it into my right thigh. I scream and double over, the two hands on my shoulders temporarily losing their iron grip. As I look at the handle protruding from my leg and try not to be sick, I am aware of three things. 1 ) I will die, no matter what I do. 2 ) They did not tie my wrists, counting on my injuries to imprison me. 3 ) Knife man no longer has his knife. * 
 
 `` You showed them what it means to mess with an American citizen!'' he continued. The audience began to cheer again. I sat stone faced as I tried not to grimace at the memories. 
 
 *The moment is here. Knife man gestures for the gunman to raise his weapon. This is my last chance to make my life mean something. Knife man steps toward me to smirk goodbye. The smile in his eyes hardens my resolve. In a single, lightning fast motion, fueled by adrenaline and an utter disregard for the cries of my body, I wrench the knife from my leg and leap at knife man, stabbing him in the throat. Gun man gets off one or two shots, but I am a moving target, and have moved on to the two guards before they realized I was escaped. I use their dying bodies as shields while I grab a gun to point at gun man. Before I have come to my senses, I am standing amid four dead bodies. My body finally catches up to me, and I collapse into darkness. * 
 
 `` Gilda,'' the host addressed me once more. I snapped back to the bright lights of the studio, back to the here and now, where I am safe, and not about to be murdered. `` After your actions last April, a lot of people are calling you a hero.'' He paused here, expecting me to reply, or respond, or in some way indicate that I had understood his words. I looked up at him pathetically, sadness and worry permanently etched into my features now. 
 
 `` I'm not.''
