[ WP ] Tell the story of the hero who always saves the day and is loved by everyone , but from the point of view of an innocent person who has had their life ruined by that hero .

There are n't many things you remember fifty years after they happened. 
 
 The autumn leaves had recently started to fall and were just getting to the point where they crisped underfoot. I shuffled my bookbag onto my shoulder and hurried my feet. If I showed up late to class one more time the professor would fail me, I was sure of it. 
 
 Nigel was n't exactly everything you'd ever dreamed of in a man. In fact, he had his nose buried in some textbook at the exact moment that I slammed into him and sent the contents of my bookbag scattering across the pavement. He had a short, scruffy beard and hunched his shoulders when he walked, and he had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. 
 
 I scrambled to shove the errant items into my bag while muttering'sorry, sorry', but Nigel did n't even bend down to help. Instead, he watched me, as if I were a science experiment, and when I was done, he stuck out his hand. I scowled at it. 
 
 `` Would you like to go out for a drink sometime?'' he asked. I'm not sure why I said yes. 
 
 I failed that class, but the journey he took me on almost -- and I do say *almost* -- made it worth it. 
 
 When we'd been dating for six months he laid out a scavenger hunt for me in the park. At the end was a picnic. We watched videos on his cell phone and talked about things I was n't smart enough to understand but all the same I nodded along and smiled and pretended I knew. It enthralled me just to hear him talk. The words washed over me and soothed my soul in a way I'm not sure I could describe to another person, you'd have to feel it. 
 
 When we were dating for a year, Nigel brought home a puppy. Nigel did n't really have an opinion one way or the other on dogs and he certainly had no idea how to take care of one, but he knew I always wanted one, so he meticulously researched breeds until he found one he thought suited our lifestyle. He seemed so excited about the surprise I could n't bear to tell him I'd seen the searches for breeders in his browser history. 
 
 The next year Nigel graduated college and took a position on a research fellowship that explored the mechanics of trauma. He worked long hours, but he always called me during our lunch breaks and on the weekends he always made sure we spent time together. 
 
 When we were together for three years, Nigel asked me to marry him, and Pearl, our Bichon Frise, acted as the ringbearer. We kept the wedding small, just friends and family, which was probably a good thing because the next year the breakthrough happened. 
 
 I remember one night I heard a scream come from our kitchen. I ran there out of concern for what Nigel might have done to himself. When I got there I found him lying on the kitchen floor, a serrated, bloody steakknife clutched in one hand and what looked like spray-on sunscreen in the other. I screamed. In fact, I almost fainted. 
 
 `` Naomi, you have to see this!'' he said. 
 
 Nigel sprayed the sunscreen onto his chest and like a miracle before my eyes, the gash he'd self-inflicted healed. I nearly killed him again. 
 
 I wish I could describe to you how it worked, and if Nigel were still around, he would, but the best I can understand it is that the discovery turns back time. As far as your body is aware, the trauma never happened. The serum was cheap, easy to produce, and affordable. Nigel and his team released the discovery for free. 
 
 It was the stupidest thing he ever did. 
 
 Almost overnight the media was upon us. The frenzy was overwhelming. Reporters knocked on our door night and day wanting to know about the discovery. Within a week it was being used in burn units. Within a month it was rolled out to every drugstore in South Africa for the treatment of every insignificant cut, bruise, and scrape one could dream up. Not long after that they rolled it out across every place where testing laws did n't prevent it. International news hailed him as a miracle worker, and that was before it gained approval in bigger countries like the US. 
 
 Everything was fantastic. They flew Nigel out to every press conference, every medical talk, every scientific research council. He'd found the cure for every disease. Anything that caused a cut, or a scrape, or a bump, all of it was fixed. All because of Nigel. 
 
 A year later the first reports started to come in. People were showing up in emergency wards. They could n't remember who they were or why they'd come there. The news showed pictures of the bodies... every surface of them covered in cuts and scrapes and horrific gashes. Nigel's miracle spray did n't work on the new patients. Instead, they screamed and screamed for release all night and day until mercifully, their injuries killed them. 
 
 It did n't take long for the source to be found. Studies in mice showed the miracle Nigel found was no miracle at all. Instead it only masked the wounds for a period of time. A month for some. For others, a year. After which they came back gruesome as ever, and many times all at once. For reasons no one could figure out, the victims did n't seem to know what was happening to them. The ones that lived never regained knowledge of themselves. Luckily, most of them died. 
 
 The media frenzy turned on its head overnight. People worldwide started calling for Nigel's resignation. When he gave them what they wished, they started calling for his arrest. Then his execution. They did n't get that wish because Nigel started losing his mind. Not long after that they found him alone in his cell, dazed and covered in blood. I did n't even get to say goodbye. 
 
 And then it came to me. 
 
 The public latched onto me as a symbol for everything they'd lost. I never used Nigel's miracle spray. I do n't know why I did n't. I just as easily could have. I had plenty of cuts and bruises, as did everyone else, and after all, my husband made it. Something about it just did n't sit right for me. It never had. 
 
 People started accusing us of running a conspiracy. They claimed Nigel was a terrorist, and I was his confidant. As a natural consequence of this, I found myself whisked into custody and subject to interrogation. Then before long I found myself in solitary confinement. 
 
 And that's where I've been ever since. 
 
 A year or so ago one of the guards snuck a tube of Nigel's spray into my cell, still in its vintage orange wrapper. I suppose as some sort of sick joke. Needless to say I wo n't be living long. You've been a dear friend to me, journal. I hope you wo n't miss me much.
