Legacy

My father was a hero. Mom whispered it to me every night, reassuring me over and over. He died during the final battle with Malou, the dark lord. Somehow, despite a wound that should've killed him instantly, he got back to his feet, managing to deal a deathblow to the scourge that wanted to destroy the country. Not long after that, he succumbed to his wounds.

That story was legend. My father was the man who killed the dark lord, the man who lived a foot soldier and died a hero. He was the only man to receive a commendation for bravery and service to his country after his death.

Now, though, Mom didn't like to talk about him. It had been years since he died, she would say. Why did I care so much about the dead? This was a time for the living.

I suspected it was painful. She could humor me when I was young, when the pain was fresh, when it felt good to talk. Now, though, it was like digging into a healing wound, causing it to bleed. So I stopped asking. Just studied the picture of the man on the mantle and wondered how I was going to live up to his legacy.

Of course, stories about heroism stay with you. Everyone remembers the tales of knights and horses and castles that they were told as children. Perhaps not all the details are perfectly clear anymore, but that's all right. Age can dull the imagination.

When I was young, my mom pleaded with me not to tell anyone about my father. Being the daughter of a hero could make my life hard, harder than it was. If they knew my father, there would be no peace. 

I promised, and kept my word. Even when I was taunted for not having a father, even when the war veterans stared at me in suspicion, even when I was held up as an example to the class. Mom refused to let me go to the gatherings, dinners and training exercises that supposedly would unite our people, making it impossible for another dark lord to rise.

When I was a year from graduation, having grown into a quiet young woman who kept herself to herself in a class with very few secrets, our teacher announced a field trip. This was a mandatory trip, part of our studies into the dark lord and the factors that had allowed him to seize control of our then-fragile country.

Deep down, I was excited. Of course I was. My classmates would finally see what a hero my father actually was. 

"All right, everyone," my teacher, Miss Caddel, called out. "Pay attention! A few of your fathers are on display in the museum, as you probably know. I'll try to point them out as we walk through. Of course, there will be time at the end of the tour for you to explore by yourselves."

"Miss?" a girl named Samantha raised a hand.

"Yes, Samantha?"

"Is it true that they've recently opened an exhibit displaying the dark lord and his highest officials?"

Miss Caddel nodded. "Very good. Yes, there has been a display created, simply because there were two sides to the struggle, not only one. When we remember that, we are much closer to peace."

"So you support it?"

"Pardon me?"

"You support the display, especially the statues, that immortalize the dark lord? Wouldn't it be better to let the world forget that he existed?"

Our teacher stared at her. "My personal views on the matter don't have anything to do with the tour. The bus leaves in a few minutes for the museum. Line up, choose a buddy. Just like in Kindergarten, you don't go anywhere without your buddy. Got it?"

They lined up, and, like always, I was alone. It was a perk of being in a class with an odd number of people.

"Guess we're partners again," Miss Caddel told me. 

"If you don't mind, Miss, I'd like to explore on my own. I've been waiting for this trip for a very long time."

"Mia?"

"My father was one of the men who took down the dark lord. My mom never wanted to take me to the museum and wouldn't let me go alone. I'd like to see it by myself the first time. Somewhere in that museum, my father's name is on the list of heroes. Please, Miss."

She looked thoughtful for a few moments, then nodded. "Yes, Mia. But don't tell the others, all right?"

It was my turn to nod.

When we arrived at the museum, I waited for the others to leave, then stood up. 

Once inside, I made a beeline for the new exhibit, dodging around some of the smaller groups that were wandering around. Still carrying my backpack, even though we'd been told to leave them on the bus, I knelt down in front of the statue, 

"You thought that I wouldn't know," I said, out loud. I guess I was talking to the statue, but even a little to myself. "You begged Mom not to tell me. She was willing to lie to me, for years. She wanted me to remember you as a hero, the man you were in your last moments. But that doesn't erase the rest of your life." Looking up from my work, I met my father's eyes, eyes that were forever staring over the shoulder of the dark lord himself. "But Mom got tired of lying to cover for someone who was never coming back. She knew that I would find out anyway. Someone had to tell me, eventually. They hated and shunned me for something that wasn't my fault. Something that I never even witnessed. And that was your fault. So, you really can't blame me for this. For a very, very long time, you had this coming."

Behind me, I heard someone come in. Because of the controversy, this exhibit had not been very popular with the public. No one wanted to mess with the past, especially not the villains.

"Look at this," Samantha said. "I thought you looked familiar."

"What do you mean?" Her boyfriend was not an airhead like she was. He was one of the few who had actually tried to befriend me. His name was David, though he preferred Chipmunk. Well, he hadn't come up with that himself. It was gifted to him after a particularly unbelievable win in a marshmallow eating contest.

"Mia. Look at her, and then look at General DeSanto."

Chipmunk stared at me for several minutes, and then his eyes widened. "Mia?"

"Yes, he was my father. No, I never met him. Yes, I hate the bastard as much as the rest of you do."

"What are you doing, Mia?" Samantha had apparently noticed the apparatus behind me.

"You know what, Samantha? I'm done with your drama. How about the two of you turn yourselves around and walk back out of here?"

"Fine Mia. You're such a freak." Samantha grabbed Chipmunk's elbow, swinging him around and out of the room. "Let's go find ourselves some of the bags of spiced nuts or something."

Once I was finished with my contraption, I tucked it under the platform for the statue. Then I lifted my now much-lighter backpack and made my way back to the bus.

Later that day, I was eating with my mom, for the first time in weeks. There wasn't much we could talk about anymore, but she liked to play the news. Several of the doctors I spoke with said that her obsession with current events was a result of her involvement in the war. She had gone from being relevant, important and needed to being a nobody. It was a blow for anyone.

"Today, in the museum, an explosion destroyed the new exhibit, titled Villains in our Time." The newscaster was a male, and his voice was remarkably dry. "Three civilians were killed in the blast, and five others were injured. Two of the fatalities were students at a local school, one David Killinger and Samantha Burton."

Mom sat up a little straighter. "Didn't you have class with them?"

"Yes, I did."

"You went to the museum today, didn't you?"

"Yeah, so?"

She stood up, knocking her chair back onto the floor. "Mia, what did you do?"

"I don't know what you're talking about?"

"Mia, where is your backpack? Where is it, Mia?"

There was a knock at the door. In a split second, I was out the back and running. I had to live up to Father's legacy.