[ OT ] Sunday Free Write : Leave A Story , Leave A Comment - Half Dozen Edition

*No One ’ s Heroes is a series of articles that explores our heroes and villains, and how every hero is someone else ’ s villain. Each individual represents a deadly sin and the human behind them. * 
 
 [ Part 1 ] ( https: //medium.com/ @ MemoNick/no-one-s-heroes-part-1-of-8-b7bc83139371 ) 
 
 You can visit my blog or follow me on [ Medium ] ( https: //medium.com/ @ MemoNick/ ) to stay in touch!: ) 
 
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 **No One's Heroes - Part 2 of 8** 
 
 I recognize your look. I've seen it a lot of times. Given it, as well. It's that look of uncertainty, of being unable to make up your mind. Is Landon the good guy, or the bad guy in his story? I admit, that was part of the plan. 
 
 Your wandering glance is turning to Wade. That's the burly guy farthest from Landon, the one with the wide shoulders and the soldier's cut exposing his huge forehead. Do n't mention that to him, though - he's touchy on the subject and he's got quite the temper. Your eyes are inquisitive, and your mind is probably seeking a distraction from Landon, so I'll oblige. 
 
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 You must have noticed that this is n't the best part of town. It has been like this for as long as I can recall. That's what makes it interesting and, let's face it, why else would we be here? Terrible things never change, we just see them in different lights. 
 
 I remember walking down the alley, occasionally looking over my shoulders. It was bad then as well. The dimly-lit passageway leading to that bar had become somewhat synonymous with my nights. 
 
 Have you ever thought about age? Or rather, our perception of it. It's like grey hairs are worth more than pain, lost people and missed opportunities. Rules - shackles that we happily bind ourselves with. That philosophy got me to that shady bar every other night. I felt oppressed, like I really was old enough to get in. Just not through the front door, it seems. Most nights, the back door did the job just fine - anything as long as I was in. 
 
 In fact, I could do it with my eyes closed; twenty steps up, turn to the right, a dozens of steps further, and there it was - the beaten-down door, only marked by a faint lantern. The lock never did a proper job of keeping me out. With one hiccup. On that particular night I was n't the only using the door. Mix alcohol with three buff bouncers who had just latched onto my game, and you've got me, cornered at the end of the backstreet. 
 
 The first punch hurt. So did the second. When the third was about to land, I was hoping for darkness to overcome me. It was n't lack of courage, I just wanted it to be over with. And that's when I saw Wade first. 
 
 He was probably out to smoke a drag, or take a piss. He's not the classiest of this gang. Neither is he the first person that springs to mind when someone mentions a savior. But I was n't complaining. He's proud of his code - a man of honor, however twisted, if you will - and he would not have a bunch of drunkards gang up on one person without having a say. 
 
 He did n't just look strong. His first hit took the first of the three hoodlums by surprise. Before the third fist could make contact with my already-battered face, all eyes were on Wade. As I've learned over the years, he is not one to shy away from conflict, and life had just presented him with the perfect excuse. 
 
 At first I was thrilled, relieved that I was going home with my life, if anything. There's something that resides just below our layer of pride that adores the sentiment of being able to let go and leave our fate in the hands of others. Sometimes, I think it gives us the perfect excuse for when we really mess up. And yet, before I could fully let go, the strangest of things happened. 
 
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 Wade took the slightest of pauses in-between punches. If you're wondering at my surprise, it's because it felt like a stampede of wild animals stopped in its tracks for no apparent reason. Even lying on the ground, I could see him turn his attention towards his fists, his eyes squinting at his knuckles in a lengthy stare. Glistening red, a scarlet trail was slithering its way down his forearm. 
 
 Let me ask you something. Have you ever seen fear? I do n't mean the terror that you must have experienced, which brought you here. No, it's the dread that begs to be let out in a scream. It's the fear that claws its way out of your eyes. It's the angst that you ca n't fabricate, which makes it all the more uncontrollable. Have you ever seen *that*? I saw it in Wade's eyes. 
 
 You stare at this behemoth of a man, overcome with wrath that could turn any man's blood to ice, and you completely forget that he is just a man himself. I stared at the sanguine liquid now trickling down his forearms, and I could not distinguish between his blood, and the cohorts'. Perhaps it was the stinging emanating from his knuckles, but he too knew there was blood - his blood in the mix. 
 
 My assailants were done by now; scattered on the floor like ragdolls, they hardly had any breath left in them. Wade was n't through with them though. It felt like everything that night had been building up to that moment. I could almost feel the effort that Wade put in to push out that fear, and instead replace it with something even worse. 
 
 His lips curled into a sickening smirk, and with weighted, unwavering steps he approached the ringleader. The purposeful steps rang hollow, then stopped dead as Wade towered over the powerless figure, cowering on the floor with bulging eyes silently begging for mercy. A hulking figure like his only needed a gentle twist to conjure an audible snap. A short hesitation later he registered my presence. 
 
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 We see evil, and we recognize evil. And sometimes, our primal nature pushes us to walk toward it, instead of running away. Maybe it's because of its ease, or because we see human in wrongdoing. One quick glance, and Wade communicated that choice to me. 
 
 Wade ran, and I ran in the same direction, a few blocks away. We stopped by a dumpster, where he casually slumped down on the floor, a crumpled mess of incredulity and, I could swear, satisfaction. He was the one to break the silence, casually remarking that I had him kicked out of the bar. 
 
 You seem hasty with judgement, so tell me - what would you have me do? Lecturing him was out of the question. So did you want me to turn Wade in? Or maybe run away from him? He had to pick between me and those who had turned on me, and he picked me. 
 
 Would you have me punish Wade for doing what I would have done if I were strong enough? 
 
 Tell me - how could I not offer him a place at the table?
