Present: On the Road, London
N ot far away, the Pillar’s eyes popped open. Had he looked into a mirror he would have seen tiny bloody veins throbbing inside. But he had already known his end was near.
His skin was literally peeling off now. He didn’t bother looking inside. At least he was going to die without anyone killing him and taking his face and body.
He felt old. The fire inside him had faded and he missed it. He missed the madness.
But it was all good. He was grateful. He did good. He didn’t need a medal or applause because no one was supposed to know who he was. It was part of the deal.
A deal he cherished with his very being, heart, and soul.
He promised her once, and kept his promise.
Why wouldn’t he when that deal back in Wonderland was the one that gave him hope and purpose. He had agreed to play the game knowing he would never get the credit for anything. It could only be done this way and made his purpose even more meaningful.
You could only know this is your purpose when your ego doesn’t need gratification accomplishing it, because only then is it a purpose with the greatest value.
What value? To help? To give? To ascend beyond the self and help others. The children.
The only disadvantage was that Fabiola wasn’t around. It would have been a nice touch having her next to him dying. He would have broken the rule--the promise--for only her. But at least Constance knew who he was. Constance would tell Fabiola when the Pillar died.
The noises and war in the distance pleased him. He could faintly hear but knew it was Alice doing her job. He trusted she would kill the Jabberwocky. He only worried about the consequences. Boy did she have to suffer so many times?
Nothing new to that, he thought. Real heroes aren’t comic book heroes. No flashy capes, over the top origin stories, or worldwide recognition. Heroes worked in silence. In the shadows. Because they wanted to do it, not to be appreciated. A mother in a rural house, an underpaid cop, or a young nurse in hospice, among others were the Pillar’s real heroes.
The circling butterfly made him smile inside.
He hardly managed to stand up while his cheek peeled off the side of his face and fall to his shoulder.
He didn’t look.
He couldn’t stand to look.
He stood for one reason.
Because he wasn’t one to die on his knees, even if he stood alone. Besides, he actually lied to everyone. He wasn’t finished. He had one last trick under his skin--he meant his sleeve. A trick he himself hadn’t thought of before but made all sense now.