Diary of a teenage superhero

[wiegeabo]

Glad you're still reading boywonder!

Damn.

I thought you were posting another part. Got my hopes up and opened the thread for nothing.

 

[Rambo, John J]

16th January 2010

Happy new year all. Happy Christmas and all that jazz. Bloody hell, first entry of 2010. I never thought when I started this that i'd be writing in it almost 10 years later. Truthfully I didn't think i'd still be the Man In Black for this long. I never had any sort of game plan for this gig, I never planned it out. I always just figured that... ach, I never really figured anything when it came to the Man In Black. But I didn't think i'd be at it for this long. And I never thought it would have impacted on my life the way it has.

As the Man In Black, i've come to embody the role quite well. My dad was right - I do drift through life. My real life - the life of Marty - is passing me by. Somewhere along the line it became easier, less strenuous to ignore my real life and hide behind my superhero facade. Weeks go by now where I virtually ignore the world around me during the day. I talk with people, with customers and work colleagues, but they're empty, meaningless interactions. Hollow. I don't even remember what I say most of the time. It feels as though i'm cutting myself off - and I don't know why. Life as the Man In Black can be tough, demanding, lonely and empty. But it doesn't have to be. It can also be fun. It can be rewarding. It can be fulfilling.

Christ, what the hell am I doing? Its half one in the morning and i've had to cut patrol short because once again i'm bleeding from several large wounds. I staggered home in the pouring rain and the wind. I wobbled up the stairs to my first floor flat and slammed my key into the door, missing the lock twice. My vision blurred and wavy as I saw spots dancing in front of me. And to think this time last week I was practically dancing home in the snow and ice, Belfast's hooligans and criminals seemingly taking the night off - a reflection of the picturesque cityscape. I'd spent the day with nurse 3A and had gone back to hers where we cooked chilli con carne (or chilli con carnage as she calls it - my terrible cooking) and watched a DVD (Wedding Crashers). I left her sleeping on the sofa and went on patrol, but as I said, the town was pretty quiet.
Compare to now. Typing this with my fingers still bloody. I've dressed my wounds (arm and back) but haven't bothered having a shower yet. I'm trembling all over. Not a fearful kind of trembling - more the kind you get when you're nervous or excited. The kind when you're cold. And I am cold. The economy 7 heating in the flat is crap, and I can't bloody afford to turn on the electric heater for too long. Not with Jonny gone and me having to pay all the rent by myself. Nurse 3A has offered to let me crash at hers anytime I want, and I would take her up on the offer, but for times like these. She worries enough about me, I don't want her to worry any more. And I know thats redundant, given how we first met and how unwavering she was, but still... it feels appropriate that I shelter her from this life of mine as much as possible.

And my friends... What do they think, I wonder, when I bail on them seemingly for no reason. They had a name for it, they called it the Rock Manouvre. 'You mean Marty's gone without saying goodbye to anyone? Typical.' Even now, when I do say goodbye ( I was at a friends earlier before I went on patrol) I feel compelled to lie to them. Rather than just a simple lie of omission, I usually spin some intricate, detailed story about why I'm going, rather than just say 'I have to go'.

Agh... I don't wanna get into another wangsty tirade about how terrible my life is and how its all my alter ego's fault. Its not why I write in this - its really not (although some of my more cathartic entries have helped me come to terms with some crap that's happened). No... I write in this because, believe it or not, I like to write. And, heh, I like to write about me. Or about things that include me. Which is strange, I never kept a diary before I started this. And truth be told, the only other stuff I write besides this is funny anecdotes in emails. Or my facebook blog. Go figure.

Anyway, I'm tired and sore. I'm going to go shower then go to bed where i'll toss and turn, trying to find a comfortable position before I doze off.

I wonder... besides my wounds, is it possible that i'm just so down because its f**king winter? Could it be that simple?

 

[Rambo, John J]

26th February 2010

Snow. ****ing... ****ing snow. Its nearly March for crying out loud! I wear layers yes, but my thermals aren't exactly up to the task of coping with minus 5 temperatures every goddamn night.

And its even worse when nothing happens while on patrol. At least when I get into a rumble with someone (or someone's) it keeps my body warm. Although it may come across in this that i'm involved in something every night... there are nights when nothing happens. Nights where I patrol, spend hours running around the city, climbing buildings and treating the cityscape like my own personnel playground. I sit... no, heh, I perch and I wait. I watch crowds, groups, couples; come and go and nothing happens. No-one gets stabbed or beaten or raped. No-one gets hurt. At least not where I am anyway.

When I started this (oh so many years ago) I had a run of successive encounters in those early days. Encounters that greatly boosted my confidence and sense of purpose. Of direction. I think if those early successes hadn't happened, I would have given up quite quickly. The career of the Man In Black would have ended with a whimper. Without anyone knowing who I am or what I do.

So tonight i'm back in the apartment early. Nothing seemed to be happening out in town and... and it was just too goddamn cold to be sitting out, waiting on things happening. Thing is, on those nights when i'm sitting doing nothing, I have lots of time on my hands. Time to think. To plan.

I... heh, oh christ. I'm a nerd at heart. Always have been, always will be. I watch countless movies, I read comicbooks, I watch Star Trek, I like science stuff. I actually love reading comics. One of the things about comics is that if you read about the same character enough you get an understanding, a sense... of the character. You understand what fanboys (myself included) mean when they complain online about Spider-Man acting 'out of character'. Even though they're fictional characters, you get an understanding of how and why a character acts in a certain way. You empathise with them. You identify with them. That's especially true when you're a wannabe superhero just starting out and looking for inspiration. Spider-man and responsibility. Hal Jordan and willpower. Batman and strategy. Planning. For me, that was one of the defining characteristics of Batman. The planning. The 'prep-time'.

I...I read an issue of Batman recently (well... about a year ago) where he (Bruce Wayne, not Dick Grayson) created an alternate personality for himself in case of psychological attack. I read it, and it made me think. Like I said, I have a lot of time to think when i'm out patrolling. When you're perched on a rooftop, rain and wind beating your face and you're half blinded by the orange glare of street-lights, its almost impossible to not welcome the random stream-of-consciousness thought that your mind takes. It was partly a mix of the concept and execution of that particular Batman story that got me thinking - 'what if?'

My mind wouldn't let that that thought go. All of a sudden, countless 'what-if' scenarios were in my head. I went home and started writing. And writing. And writing. This was a year ago. I started writing about things that might happen while on patrol. Scenarios I might come across, situations that I might encounter. I started writing and planning. The more unlikely, the more bizarre the scenario, the more I tried to devise a solution. Like I said, i've a lot of time to think when on patrol, and eventually I ran out of possible situations that might occur when on patrol and I began to imagine what else could happen in my life. And I began to plan for them as well.

Cut to a year later, and... and I have a 'prep-time handbook'. A notebook full of random scribblings, musings and hastily jotted down notes. Originally they were MIB-related, but now... heh... now I don't think there's any one aspect of my life (or possible life) that isn't accounted for. These things range from 'probable' to 'likely' to 'unlikely' to 'downright bizarre'.

In a way, the act of planning is the first step in the creation of an alternate personality. You plan for events and situations so that when they occur you'll already have an idea of what to do. How to act. You plan when you're clear-headed and free from delusion, distraction and external influence so that when the inevitable does happen, you've already anticipated it. You know how to act. Even though it may seem mechanical, coldhearted and overly pragmatic (not to mention paranoid) i've come to realise that its necessary.

My prep-time handbook contains hundreds, no; thousands of possible futures. Ones that are unlikely, ones that I think might happen, and ones that I hope never to happen.

I'm glad of the handbook, as bizarre as some of the scenarios are, they can (and have) happened. And each time i've been prepared. But there's a new situation, and although its one that I prepared for, its one I hoped never to arise. Because there's only one solution.

I have to stop being the Man In Black.

 

[Rambo, John J]

10th April 2010

Sometimes it amazes me just how much people change. I went down to Limerick at Easter there to visit cousins - cousins I hadn't seen in about 15 years or thereabouts. I mean, i'd seen photo's of them on facebook and the like, but the actual reality of seeing someone you haven't seen in years is completely different.
And I could tell they thought the same about me. 'Where' they must have wondered, 'where is the skinny, gawky awkward kid I used to know?' Over dinner and general catch-up chit-chat, we commented on how we'd all changed and the conversation moved on, but that night I examined myself in the mirror. I saw myself through their eyes. And I didn't recognise myself at all. My posture was upright, my gaze steady and... just my overall demeanour bears very little similarity to the skinny kid I used to be. My body language suggests someone who is supremely confident in anything he does, my speech patterns and cadences have changed - become quieter and more solemn. My clothing, my gait, my physique, my very essence. All changed. And of course it always takes someone else to highlight this sort of thing before you see it yourself. Although the skinny kid is still inside there somewhere. I wonder if its such a good thing that through my improved posture, body language and training that i'm able to mask the underlying insecurities that I feel day to day. That we must all surely feel?

Interesting side note - when I was down in Limerick (and very definitely not in Belfast) the Man In Black was out and about back up in Belfast - busted up a gang in north Belfast, helped tackle a house fire in East Belfast ('he' rescued the cat of all things) and brought coffee and sandwiches to the homeless along the Lisburn Road.

Copycats. And I thought i'd put a bit of a stop to them too.

Anyway, as I was saying before, we all get content in our own lives don't we? Complacent. Each of us trying to eek out some sort of justifiable life; balancing and contending everyday mundanity with our wants, desires, hopes and dreams. Our aspirations. Hiding our own personal fears, demons and insecurities from the rest of the world.

We all eventually get to a point (like it or not) where before we know it, we've gotten ourselves into our own little routine, your own little comfortable shell of existence where our fears are kept at bay by the warm familiarity of routine. Perhaps that consists of seeing a few friends every couple of nights. Perhaps you sit at home alone playing X-Box or PS3 online. Perhaps you argue with your wife/ girlfriend/ significant other. The routine of life. Of staving off the fear.

We live our lives content in the knowledge that we're different from everyone else. We're 'special'. it doesn't matter how or why, there's just something indefinably different about us that makes us somehow... removed from the rest of the human race. Its how most of us live our life, its what enables us to get through our lives.

But every now and then, we're forced to confront the stark reality of the truth. We're on the subway, the bus, walking down the street, thinking we're 'better' than everyone else. No, not better. We wouldn't be so narcissistic to think that now would we? But we're certainly different than everyone else. We're special. We're individuals. We think we're all clued into what life is all about. That we're living it to the fullest and that everyone else is living a mere shadow of an existence. The fools.

Then reality hits you. What we think and how we think is exactly how everyone else thinks as well. We're not different. Not at all. And we're certainly not special.

I think that's what's been up with me recently. And I think thats why I said I had to stop being the Man In Black. I couldn't empathise with others the way I used to. I couldn't empathise and I couldn't help people the way I should be. In short, I had a dose of reality.

When I realised that, I decided that I could either quit as the MIB or... or I could try and recapture; rediscover what it was that made me start it originally. I decided that I would go travelling for a bit. One of my old Wing Chun masters has moved back home to China, and I originally decided to go visit with him for a bit. At the very least, i'd get plenty of training in in his martial arts school. Then, as I thought about the idea more, I thought I could perhaps go farther afield - Australia, New Zealand, hell, the rest of the world if it took my fancy. I don't know, i've always had the travelling bug, i've just never really acted on it.

And now... now i'm in the throes of something very different in my life. Both as Marty and as the MIB. For whatever reason I started this years ago, my passion for it has waned. My empathy and compassion for others has gradually dried up and my resolve is all but spent.

Now it could be that i'm running away from my problems here. Could be that i'm refusing to face my own fears and my own routine - perhaps the very notion of trying to escape routine is in itself a routine. A comfort.

It could be that I don't want to confront aspects of myself any more than I already have. And it could be that deep down I sense that if I stay here for much longer, sooner or later i'll have to.
But it doesn't feel as though i'm running away. Rather it feels like the opposite. It does feel as though I will rediscover some important aspect of myself that i've lost. And I decided something else about what i'll do when i'm travelling. As the saying goes 'wherever you go, there you are.' I'll be in different countries all around the world over the coming months and years. And I decided that I will stop being the Man In Black - in Belfast.

Because as of next month, The Man In Black is going global.

 

[Rambo, John J]

10th April 2010

Sometimes it amazes me just how much people change. I went down to Limerick at Easter there to visit cousins - cousins I hadn't seen in about 15 years or thereabouts. I mean, i'd seen photo's of them on facebook and the like, but the actual reality of seeing someone you haven't seen in years is completely different.
And I could tell they thought the same about me. 'Where' they must have wondered, 'where is the skinny, gawky awkward kid I used to know?' Over dinner and general catch-up chit-chat, we commented on how we'd all changed and the conversation moved on, but that night I examined myself in the mirror. I saw myself through their eyes. And I didn't recognise myself at all. My posture was upright, my gaze steady and... just my overall demeanour bears very little similarity to the skinny kid I used to be. My body language suggests someone who is supremely confident in anything he does, my speech patterns and cadences have changed - become quieter and more solemn. My clothing, my gait, my physique, my very essence. All changed. And of course it always takes someone else to highlight this sort of thing before you see it yourself. Although the skinny kid is still inside there somewhere. I wonder if its such a good thing that through my improved posture, body language and training that i'm able to mask the underlying insecurities that I feel day to day. That we must all surely feel?

Interesting side note - when I was down in Limerick (and very definitely not in Belfast) the Man In Black was out and about back up in Belfast - busted up a gang in north Belfast, helped tackle a house fire in East Belfast ('he' rescued the cat of all things) and brought coffee and sandwiches to the homeless along the Lisburn Road.

Copycats. And I thought i'd put a bit of a stop to them too.

Anyway, as I was saying before, we all get content in our own lives don't we? Complacent. Each of us trying to eek out some sort of justifiable life; balancing and contending everyday mundanity with our wants, desires, hopes and dreams. Our aspirations. Hiding our own personal fears, demons and insecurities from the rest of the world.

We all eventually get to a point (like it or not) where before we know it, we've gotten ourselves into our own little routine, your own little comfortable shell of existence where our fears are kept at bay by the warm familiarity of routine. Perhaps that consists of seeing a few friends every couple of nights. Perhaps you sit at home alone playing X-Box or PS3 online. Perhaps you argue with your wife/ girlfriend/ significant other. The routine of life. Of staving off the fear.

We live our lives content in the knowledge that we're different from everyone else. We're 'special'. it doesn't matter how or why, there's just something indefinably different about us that makes us somehow... removed from the rest of the human race. Its how most of us live our life, its what enables us to get through our lives.

But every now and then, we're forced to confront the stark reality of the truth. We're on the subway, the bus, walking down the street, thinking we're 'better' than everyone else. No, not better. We wouldn't be so narcissistic to think that now would we? But we're certainly different than everyone else. We're special. We're individuals. We think we're all clued into what life is all about. That we're living it to the fullest and that everyone else is living a mere shadow of an existence. The fools.

Then reality hits you. What we think and how we think is exactly how everyone else thinks as well. We're not different. Not at all. And we're certainly not special.

I think that's what's been up with me recently. And I think thats why I said I had to stop being the Man In Black. I couldn't empathise with others the way I used to. I couldn't empathise and I couldn't help people the way I should be. In short, I had a dose of reality.

When I realised that, I decided that I could either quit as the MIB or... or I could try and recapture; rediscover what it was that made me start it originally. I decided that I would go travelling for a bit. One of my old Wing Chun masters has moved back home to China, and I originally decided to go visit with him for a bit. At the very least, i'd get plenty of training in in his martial arts school. Then, as I thought about the idea more, I thought I could perhaps go farther afield - Australia, New Zealand, hell, the rest of the world if it took my fancy. I don't know, i've always had the travelling bug, i've just never really acted on it.

And now... now i'm in the throes of something very different in my life. Both as Marty and as the MIB. For whatever reason I started this years ago, my passion for it has waned. My empathy and compassion for others has gradually dried up and my resolve is all but spent.

Now it could be that i'm running away from my problems here. Could be that i'm refusing to face my own fears and my own routine - perhaps the very notion of trying to escape routine is in itself a routine. A comfort.

It could be that I don't want to confront aspects of myself any more than I already have. And it could be that deep down I sense that if I stay here for much longer, sooner or later i'll have to.
But it doesn't feel as though i'm running away. Rather it feels like the opposite. It does feel as though I will rediscover some important aspect of myself that i've lost. And I decided something else about what i'll do when i'm travelling. As the saying goes 'wherever you go, there you are.' I'll be in different countries all around the world over the coming months and years. And I decided that I will stop being the Man In Black - in Belfast.

Because as of next month, The Man In Black is going global.

 

[missmarvel]

great story! i really like it so far. keep updating

 

[Leather Neck]

You do good work Rambo.

 

[Rambo, John J]

Sunday, September 5th 2010

"Because of next month, the Man In Black is going global."

I wrote that back in April 2010. Its now September. When I wrote it, it was kind of true. I'd planned to go back to China for a bit. I'd gotten back in touch with one of my Kung Fu Masters and he'd agreed to let me come back and train for a bit. I guess I needed to regain or rediscover some of the focus and drive I'd originally had but had seemed to have lost. Its weird. Am I the only one who looks back on things; on life; and wonders how its happened that I've changed from the person that I used to be - lets call him Marty 'A' - to the person that I now am - Marty 'B' - ?

And things are different now. I needed to get away. That much is obvious to me now. I worried that I was running away from a problem - that I was deluding myself; that I was merely pretending to 'do the right thing' by taking myself out of the equation (so to speak) for a bit. But I needn't have worried I think. There's nothing quite like getting your ***** kicked in every day by a Kung Fu master for 3 months to sharpen your resolve and focus. After my stint in Kung Fu academy in China, I travelled around the country for as bit as well - I've always had a bit of a fascination with Chinese culture. Some things I saw made me realise just how lucky we have it in the western world. Seeing what I saw and training constantly for 8 or 9 hours a day every day for the past 4 months have... well... lets just say they've changed my perspective. Before I came away I worried too much. I worried about what I was doing. I worried about my motivation. About my ethical and moral right to do what I do. I worried about my reason. My purpose.

You ever see Dragonball Z? There's a saga storyline where all the Saiyans need to lock themselves in a room. A 'room of space and time' for a year so that they can train properly and 'level up' to defeat the baddie. Watch it. When Goku and Gohan walk out of the room and they've done all the l;evelling up they need to and there's a palpable sense of energy and aura about them... - its kind of how I feel now. Super confident - but not arrogant. Like when Harry Potter takes that good luck potion and just has a 'sense' of when things are the right thing to do. Its kind of how I feel. I stepped off the plane earlier today at the George Best Belfast City Airport. I grabbed my battered rucksack and took a train into town. On the way I took in familiar sights such as the polluted Victoria Canal - heh, with the top half of a burned out car showing in the middle at low tide; - Craigantlet; The River Lagan (and the footbridge where'd I'd gotten a kicking a couple of years ago); and the bog. This little short area of nameless bogland right beside Belfast City Airport which - to me - has always embodied the very essence of Belfast. Parts of it were here, untouched 1000 years ago, and parts of it will be here untouched 1000 years from now. I smiled privately to myself as I passed the area on the train. I love this city!

I've spent almost 10 years sacrificing myself and trying to do whats right. I've just spent a quarter of a year bettering myself in the service of my city. I've observed, watched calculated and prepared; from up close and afar. Things are going to change. Starting tomorrow. I'm Back. I've upgraded.

MIB 2.0

 

[Rambo, John J]

The worst thing about my decision to become the MIB was the effect it had on those closest to me. I could see friends and family growing silently but steadily distant as I gradually and surreptitiously sliced myself out of their lives. The glances they cast me on nights out or at family gatherings; wanting to ask me what was going on with me. What had changed. But ultimately deciding to leave well enough alone and just quietly ignore the all too obvious alteration in my personality.

Just as well I suppose. I couldn’t tell them, could I? I couldn’t explain – not with any sort of logic or reason that makes sense. ‘Hey Marty, know how you used to be a bit of a laugh and we’d have a bit of banter on a night out?’
‘Yeah, why?’

‘Well... what’s happened? Now you’re a stiff.’

‘Hh... I decided to become a loner superhero/ vigilante.’

Yeah. I can see how that conversation would have gone really well.

And its kind of like that now. My return from China was pretty low key, and I caught up with all the essential folk – Mum and Dad, family etc. But more now than ever I just feel like a bit of an outsider. I just... things that seemed important before now no longer seem so. And things that i never much considered before I find myself now contemplating all the time. More mature, more serious. With the result that once again those people close (relatively) to me don't seem to know how to handle it. Life as the MIB is... its satisfying. In a way I never thought possible given my upgrade, but personal life is – as always – down the toilet. I wonder, is it my personality that does this, or is this what would happen to anyone who becomes a superhero? Am i naturally predisposed to being contemplative or is this something I should be able to shake off myself?

On the plus side, there’s no longer any suspicion of me being the MIB from my family. Thanks to my copycats being very active in my absence, I’ve a cast iron alibi now. I ‘helped’ their opinions form by acting a complete klutz for a few days on my return – spilling tea, tripping over the carpet, banging my head on the door etc. - with the final straw being my dropping a tray of beers and wine on the floor at a bar in town. What was supposed to be a welcome home meal ended with my younger sister cradling her head in her hands - while the rest of the siblings and parents hurriedly wiped beer off their clothes and handbags – and muttering ‘ I can’t believe I EVER thought you were the Man In Black.

I shot a quick look at my parents – the last thing I wanted at the time was for them to even think anything of the sort, but thankfully they hadn’t heard. They will find out one day, that's inevitable at this point given what I have planned to take things to the next level, but I don't want them to find out second hand, I'd rather tell them myself. I still think of me bleeding out on their kitchen floor the first time I headed out locally in Andersonstown. Luckily, they hadn’t heard, and we continued with the ‘celebratory’ night out – my family getting pissed on beer and wine while I drank soda and lime. Anytime anyone asked me what it was, I’d just say it was a gin and tonic. Another difficulty of being the MIB. Pretending to get drunk whilst everyone around you is drinking like fish. After the first few rounds though, everyone loses track of who’s been drinking what and it makes it that much easier to feign drunkenness. ‘Marty, you want another pint?’ ‘Nah, I’m ok mate, just got a fresh one.’

But yeah, things have changed. Marty 2.0 and all that. There’s a very unique kind of clarity that one experiences after living in a kung fu academy in rural China for a few months and training all day every day and seeing nothing but your kung fu master, trees and (if I’m lucky) a few local peasants. Living by oneself and not having any contact at all with the outside word. Not being able to speak to anyone has a way of making you focus, of sharpening the mind and granting you ability to see paths that were previously hidden.

The mutant kids. My copycats. My identity leaks. The Milkybar Man. Myself. All the things that have happened to me since becoming the MIB. All my problems – social, psychological, physical, mental - all chess pieces on the great game of the battle for Belfast. But the game has changed. I’ve changed. There’s a new path.

You won't believe what I have planned for phase 2.

 

[Rambo, John J]

9th June 2011

'The Man in Black going global.'

Just over a year ago that I said that, and although I didn't quite beleive it myself at the time it turns out that I was bang on the money.

Sorry, I'm jumping in halfway through again, aren't I? I realised during a recent re-read of this there's pretty much no continuity between chapters (or updates if you prefer) is there? I make these grandiose statements leaving you with a hook so that you'll read next time and then I leave it for half a year (or maybe a year) before starting up again with a totally new issue/ angsty dilemma.

I don't do it on purpose though. Its just that sometimes (or most times) what seems so important, so crucial, one day, is trivial the next. My moods change, my feelings change. There's no continuity in my life. At all. So i'm not surprised there's none in this. The only thing in my life that has remained a constant over the past 10 years (or however long its been since I started this diary) is the constant presence of the Man in Black and its impact on my life.

I returned from China over half a year ago with a new idea on how to go about things. A renewed resolve and purpose. New ideas and a fresh approach. The Man in Black going global. And my 'phase 2' plan. You're probably wondering what that was and wishing I would get to the point, huh?

Well I did go through with it. For the past few years, there's been plenty of copycats in Belfast. Some trained by me, some seemingly acting on their own. Streets were safer, the gangs of mutant kids driven underground (for now). The simple truth is that when I returned to Belfast, I wasn't really needed. The Men in Black were handling things just fine without me. It was interesting observing and noticing just how quickly my job had been usurped.

Except... it was never really my job to be usurped, was it? Everything I've done over the past ten years has been a reaction to that one event, witnessed on a dark and cold night in winter. A reaction that began as a solitary journey but which gradually picked up followers, copycats, admirers and mentors and ended up being something very different than what I envisioned (not that I envisioned anything in particular) when I started. When I returned to Belfast, it was to a familiar city. The city was the same, but I'd changed. And I realised that for better or worse (hopefully the better) I'd accomplished what (I suppose) was my original goal. To make a difference. And I guess in the end, isn't that the point to anything?

So. Phase 2...

In retrospect it was inevitable. Critical mass and all that. The snowball effect. And interestingly spore-like. The originator starts the ball rolling. Starts something and keeps it going in the initial phase. Nurtures the inital idea/ event or whatever. Things happen, and events take on a life of their own and grow. Sooner or later, somewhere along the way the originator becomes less and less important. Things become self sustaining. The originator is no longer required and indeed may hamper overall progress of the whole. I returned to a city that no longer needed me. And I don't mean 'me' as in the 'Man in Black', but 'me' as in 'Marty'. Belfast has its pick of Men in Black to choose from now to protect it. And I know, because I hand picked them myself.

Its funny how you catch glimpses of the future. This can be nothing more than a half-hearted daydream. An imagining of what your life might be like in half a year; 2 years; 10 years time. But if you hold to that dream, if you work for it, it'll happen. Its what happened to me. I had these ideas about where the Man in Black could go; what I could accomplish. And now the ball is rolling. Bruce Wayne may have beat me to the punch with the conception of Batman: Incorporated, but I had the idea for this years ago. Ten years in the making - even if I didn't know it at the time. A global franchise. A Man in Black in every city I visit. I've set up bases and groups in Beijing, Shanghai, Seoul, Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne.

Next stop - Perth.

Its not the Man in Black, not anymore.

From now on its phase 2.

The Men in Black.

 

[Rambo, John J]

10th October 2012

Bloody hell. 2012. What was it, 10 years ago I started this? 10 years and where am I now?

Over a year and I've gotten used to a life in Perth. It just kind of happened. I arrived with all the intentions of setting up another franchise before I moved on. But somewhere along the way, things changed. I had contacts here before I arrived, but somehow those contacts morphed into friends. Somehow I was persuaded to stay for a while longer. I was persuaded to get a job and get a place. In between going out patrolling and trying to carve some vestige of a life out here... The grand plan I had somehow evaporated.

I had a new circle of friends (well, circles of friends - compartmentalisation comes so easy to me), new patrol routes, new things to do and a new city to learn. But gradually I began to slack off on things. I suppose you could say life got in the way. The grand idea of a Man in Black franchise in every city began to fade, supplanted by mundane everyday things that I never thought would become more important than the mission. But somehow that's exactly what has happened.

Somehow... I became happy. Content. Lazy.

Well... for the most part. Right now I'm ****ing miserable. And I don't know why. Although I suspect my complacency has something to do with it. Its just... I used to deal with this sort of thing by going out patrolling but right now I just feel empty and unmotivated.

It's weird, as bad as things have gotten in the past, I've generally always felt connected. Alive. But right now I just feel numb. Could it be the sheer scale of Perth? Right now I feel like there's nothing I can do to make a difference anywhere in the city. I break up muggings in Northbridge and there's a stabbing and a rape in Mount Lawley. I stop a murder attempt in Leederville and there's a dozen more in the surrounding suburbs. It's just so ****ing big.

I never deluded myself into thinking that I could be everywhere at once, but at least in Belfast I had some measure of certainty that I was having an impact. Here though... I feel out of my element. In Belfast, everyone had heard of the Man in Black. In Perth, virtually no-one has. Belfast seems almost parochial compared to Perth.

In Perth... It's taking longer than I thought to establish myself. Here, I'm just one person swimming against the tide. And I'm drowning.

I guess I'd gotten used to the newspapers making a big deal of me back home. Over here I've gone out night after night in different parts of the city. I've prevented rapes, murders, muggings and stabbings. I've broken up fights and rescued people when they've needed it. And there's never been a mention of me anywhere.

Christ, even the fact that I'm getting wound up about that sort of thing speaks volumes about my current mental state. I don't do this for recognition, I never have, so why am I getting so pissed about it now? I feel like I'm stuck in some phase of arrested development. My mind has been going in circles for weeks and I can't quite figure out why.

To be continued.

 

[Rambo, John J]

31st October 2012

My last entry isn't strictly true. I knew then (and know know) why I've been so miserable. But like always, I’ve avoided the issue.

As the Man in Black, I've always been alone. Rather, I've always felt alone. As though this life of mine is not one to be shared, or indeed should be shared. I've never told the truth of this. Not really. Not even to myself. My double life as the Man in Black has been one of lies, deception and misdirection. Even when I want to tell the truth - need to tell the truth; the pre-prepared lies take over.

I had an idea of the Man in Black when I was just starting out. Who he was and what he would stand for. What kind of man he, and by extension, me, would become. There was an idea that he would be a Batman-esque character. Strong, silent, un-yielding. No matter how difficult things got, no matter what happened, the Man in Black would be unwavering, forthright and virtuous. Forsaking a normal life for the benefit of his fellow man. Calm under pressure, with an innate sense of self-belief, caring and magnanimity.

In my arrogance and naivety, I once considered this romantic. The quiet loner, dealing with things in his own way and in his own time. He would patrol at night, go home and write about his experiences in his journal. People in his life would wonder 'where does he go?'. 'What does he do?' And the mystique; the legend; the character would grow.

To a certain extent, this image of who I would become has come true. Outwardly anyway. This is exactly how my life has gone. I am now the exact kind of person that I envisioned I would become all those years ago. The mystique has grown around me. My reputation has spread.

And somehow… it’s gone wrong. I don't know if I've gotten too detached or too close, but somehow I feel as though I've lost control. Not just as Marty, but also as the Man in Black. Friends always assume that because I act calm, smooth and confident, that these behavioural traits comprise my entire person. That I am calm and confident all the way to the core. But lately, (although for all intents and purposes the external facade remains unbroken thus far) I feel as though I'm coming apart. It's only lately that I've endeavoured to do some self analysis and figure out why.

It's been a while since I considered the possibility of a normal life. But life in Perth gradually became stable. Comfortable. I met someone and gradually she became important to me. More important than anyone has in a long time. Perhaps even more so than Kaia. While with her, I caught a glimpse of a life that I could have had.

And it was all predicated on a lie. A lie of omission to be sure, but a lie nonetheless. I wanted so much to tell her the truth. I didn't want to lie to her, but I continued to do so - more out of habit than anything I suppose and eventually my sins found me out. Ironically, she thought I was sneaking off at strange hours to meet another girl. So we broke up.

Somehow she got in. All the defenses I have, my walls against close relationships ever since Kaia and Nurse 3A were somehow completely stripped bare around her, and I don't know how it happened. She got in, and then she broke up with me. It hit me, and hit me hard. The ideal, the Icon of the Man in Black; the reality of what I envisioned all those years ago has come true; and only now do I realise that it's the biggest detriment to my life.

But as they say, life goes on. I soldiered on with things as per usual and pretended I wasn't affected at all, even though I could feel my life coming apart. Even though I felt sick to my stomach at even the thought of her. Because I was affected, more so than I realised.

Early October, I was out patrolling around Leederville having just come directly from a work function in the area. There's a carpark just outside the Hip-e Club and niche bar that's pretty large and pretty desolate at times. I was on my way home having had a successful night of patrolling when I heard a muffled yell from the far end of the car park. There's a small skate park nearby and it seemed to be coming from there. I jogged up and vaulted over the fence to see a group of three huge guys surrounding one smaller guy, two of the group holding the smaller one firmly. The size didn't bother me, it never does because most larger guys don't know how to use their size. I began running towards them. The ringleader had a knife and was mid lunge when I yelled across the skatepark at them. Barely flinching, he drove the knife home into the victim's abdomen and then turned to face me. I didn't stop and ran straight into him, jumping and driving my knee into his chest. But he was a big guy, and although he grunted, and cartwheeled back somewhat, it was clear that he wasn't as hurt or as winded as he should have been.

I turned and threw a lightening punch at his face, intending to break his nose, and he caught my fist. He laughed and twisted my hand back, not breaking my wrist, but not coming too far from it either. Knife still in hand, he stabbed me three times, side, abdomen, and shoulder. Then he kicked me, and I fell over, onto all fours. Briefly I had a flash of a memory of me in Roost bar in almost exactly the same position. Before I could get up, he kicked me swiftly four or five times in the chest, then once in the face.

The entire encounter couldn't have taken much more than 6 or 7 seconds. They didn't even say anything. I was still struggling to get to my feet and attempting some sort of feeble grasp at the ringleaders legs when they casually and matter-of-factly frisked me for a wallet then walked off, cackling.

'Who w's thet *******?'

'Aww... jus' saam faakin prick.' I heard before I passed out. I woke up in hospital early the next morning and struggled to remember the events of the night before. My wounds had been treated and were bandaged, but still painful. As I looked around, I saw that I'd been put in a bed beside the other victim from the last night. He was still sleeping, but had a visitor beside him, a girl of maybe 17 years old. Blond and pale, she looked over as I moved.

'The police said they found you two together?'

I nodded and croaked out a yes.

She frowned and looked me over. 'Do you know my brother?' I shook my head. She opened her mouth to say something else, but was interrupted by the police walking in. Understandably they had a few questions about the night before. 'What was I doing there', 'Did I know the other victim', 'Did I get a look at the attackers' etc. I answered as best I could, but at that point (and even now) my memory of the night is a little hazy.

After answering questions from the police, we were left to ourselves. The girl looked at me again, 'I'm not sure if my brother is going to make it. They got him good.' She looked down at the ground, her eyes growing distant momentarily, then back to me, focussed and alert, 'You're dressed all in black.' Not an accusation, not a loaded comment, just... a statement of fact. I drifted back to sleep and when I woke again they were both gone.

I've avoided thinking about that night properly. I mean I've thought about it, but I haven't addressed what happened. Not properly. Since then, it feels as though I've been in a state of arrested development. As though life has been going on around me in a blur of motion while I’m standing still. I felt... no, I feel... completely and utterly powerless. Even with everything that's happened in my life, I don't think I've ever felt so completely ineffectual or impotent. One guy, and he took me apart in a matter of seconds. I feel completely divested of everything that makes me... me. And I don't know how to get back to my old self. The façade remains unbroken and untarnished. Outwardly, no-one has any idea what is going on with me. But internally… I don’t even know who or what I am anymore. My life up until now has been defined by the Man in Black. Take that away and what’s left?

Where do I go from here?

 

[RodtheMan]

Long time lurker, first time poster. I just wanted to say this is one of the best stories I've ever read. I remember I started reading it about 9 years ago, if not earlier. Would've loved to see how this would have ended, but nonetheless, I feel like this should be stickied. Classic, classic take on superhero fiction. Thank you for this story and for the years. Reading this brings back some nostalgia for me.

 

[breadtalk]

That was cool. Iv'e never read anything like that. A superhero diary man thats freaking brilliant. BUt i hate you, cause you thought of it first!
j/k. Thats was dam goood but one thing. He's a teenage superhero but yet no parents? no siblings? were's the family?

- it is rare to read a story like that and it is more rare for a guy to have a diary.

 

[Rambo, John J]

24th August 2015

I maybe mentioned a while ago about reading an article on change. Practically every cell in our body has a 10 year regenerative cycle. Cells die and get renewed constantly within our body. Our skin, lungs, heart, blood cells, brain cells, all of them. They serve their function until age catches up with them. Then they die and are replaced by a successor. Regenerated. Renewed. Reborn. Philosophically, it could be argued that (for the most part) you are quite literally a different person than who you were 10 years ago. A lot of people find comfort in this. A new chance. An opportunity to let go of the past and embrace the future, free of the mental shackles or constraints we've imposed upon ourselves..

I however, find nothing comforting in this new, '10 year later' version of me. This 'new' Marty is perhaps even more angry and bitter than his predecessor. Angry at the life I chose, angry at this self-appointed crusade and sense of obligation, angry at those around me; but mostly angry at myself. And my choices.

I've not written in this in close to 3 years - I think that's the longest stretch. I find it difficult to write in it even now. Apart from a few instances, I haven't been out as the Man in Black for about that long, and I've slowly and deliberately cut contact with my old allies. I don't think they would recognise the person I've become. I don't want them to. I want them to forget that I ever existed. I don't ever want to have to look any of them in the face again or to think about that period of my life anymore. For me it's best if it... fades into obscurity. The way I wish I could.

I've had emails, texts and phonecalls from my allies over the past few years. Frequent at first, but gradually becoming more and more sporadic as I acknowledged none of them. How can I, when I daren't tell them the truth about me. Their supposed hero, their leader.

Harvey Dent said it best, 'You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.'

I compare my life at times to fiction; to that of a story. And now it seems that that comparison has never been more apt, or the above quote more true.

Because three years ago, in December of 2012, The Man in Black became a murderer.

 

[Rambo, John J]

18th September 2015

Murderer.

I thought that writing that down would be cathartic, but it's not. I feel the exact same. Hollow. Numb. Joyless. I don't even feel particularly guilty anymore. There was a period directly afterwards where I felt everything acutely. I was constantly fearful and on edge. I had panic attacks for no reason at all, and found myself crying at random times. But after a few months, I buried the guilt, shame and anger as I have so many times before. And now, I don't feel much of anything, except perhaps some faint echo of regret and sadness. I just feel empty.

You're probably wondering exactly what happened, and it's perhaps that which has kept me from writing in this. My inability to face up to my greatest failure. But I've been hiding for long enough, and it's not that I feel any sort of remorse, or a need to confess, but I sense that it's perhaps time to divest myself of this before I move forward. I need to tell someone, even if it’s just you dear reader. I can’t tell anyone in my normal life. Just one more lie on top of the others, right?

Ever since that day in early October in 2012, on which I woke up in hospital, I was not myself. After an all too short recovery period, I went back to patrolling. Up until that night I had been, for the most part, able to conduct my nightly patrols with relative good humour and constraint. But afterwards, I adopted an irrational, savage, 'punch first, ask questions later', approach, borne out of fear and anger. In some way, I think at the time I felt as though I had to redeem myself, or my reputation, and I set about criminals that I encountered with extreme prejudice. I'm certain I broke more than a few bones - of people who were perhaps undeserving of such brutality.

One stiflingly hot, sticky night, I had been patrolling around the fringes of the Northbridge and Mt Lawley areas and had stayed out much later than I normally do. I was feeling tired and very irritable - more so than usual - most probably due to dehydration and I was angry and pissed off, and just wanted to go home and sleep, so I decided to cut through a few of the side streets between Leederville and Northbridge. I was halfway up Carr Street, when I spotted a small group ahead of me, once again, several large drunken guys harassing a couple of skinny, hipster teenage-looking kids. I could sense trouble brewing, and eager to mete out punishment, I all but sprinted up to them. Close up, I could see that the gang of bullies was no older than the small group they were harassing, although they were much larger. I put the average age at around 23/ 24. In my minds eye, I saw the leader of the gang as a stand-in for the one that had hospitalised me a few months previous. Without hesitating I jumped in, fists flying and legs kicking.

Perhaps it was the suddenness of my appearance, or maybe it was my general pugilistic attitude, but the gang backed off warily, looking about to see if there were any more would be assailants. When it became apparent that it was just me, they regrouped and bunched around us, hulking together as one, cutting off any escape. The leader reached out a hand that, under any other circumstances, could have been considered a friendly gesture, but knowing better, I batted it away with lightening speed. Confused then angry, he swiped at me. A lumbering punch that I easily dodged. Becoming more and more frustrated, he began punching blindly. Fast punches, but still slow and plodding as far as I was concerned. I countered a few and dodged others, and he began to grunt and growl with anger, his punches becoming more erratic and furious. He leaned back to deliver a powerful haymaker, and, spotting an opening, I moved in towards him and struck at his face. I’ll never forget the hollow, crunching sound as the heel of my palm connected with his nose. Even thinking about it now, I’m reminded of the sound that damp twigs and branches make as you walk over them on a forest floor. Not quite a dry, sharp crack, more… organic. Pulpy. The sound of something dying.

The leader howled once, sharply, then fell down forward, lifeless. I remember the next while as a blur. Someone, I don’t know who, phoned the ambulance and police, both of whom arrived promptly. The gang member I’d punched was gently laid on a stretcher and hoisted into the ambulance and taken away, although I could see that the paramedics already considered him a corpse. The police questioned us and took statements and contact details, but no-one, including myself, was arrested on the scene.

The thing of it is, when the police arrived and took statements, they were already siding with me. The group I had been defending told them of how I jumped in and rescued them. This was corroborated by the statements of the attacking gang. I had jumped in, defending the hipster kids with no regard for my own safety. The leader was an animal, he was out of control. Who knows what he might have done had I not intervened. Truth be told - I was a hero.

The court heard the same story and its decision was that my punch was just a random fluke, an amateurish lashing out in self defence. There was no way the average layperson could know that a strike to the nose at just that angle and with just that amount of force would drive the bone back into the brain. But I’m not the average layperson. I knew. In my heart of hearts I knew, and still I deliberately ignored the impulse to control my rage. In that moment, I had one overriding, primal instinct. I knew what I was doing. And that; is the sickening, horrifying truth.

Some evenings I'll go out for a walk. The city is pleasant with walkable streets, cycle lanes, and good weather and to be honest, I just don't like sitting at home alone, thinking. I want to be around other people. Even if it's apart from them. So I go out and just walk the streets. It's winter here now, and although I've adjusted to the climate and consider it 'cold' at nighttime, it's nothing like the sharp, biting chill of back home in Belfast. In summertime it can get stiflingly hot, and I find myself carrying a water bottle to swig on. But walking the streets in winter is nice. Calming. I’ll walk past couples strolling, young families, small groups of friends. Some of them look at me as I walk past. Some of those will nod and smile in acknowledgement. I’ll nod and smile back, but it’s an empty gesture. The social bond I might have once felt towards others has been severed. I thought I knew what it meant to be alone, but now there truly is a tangible divide between myself and everyone else I see around me. Now, I truly know what it means to be alone.

I look at myself in the mirror now and I wonder who it is I’ve become. All my supposed morals and righteous behaviour. This high regard in which I held myself, and it’s all a lie. All this time I thought I was the good guy, the unrelenting, unwavering, faultless hero; but that’s not the case, not at all. What’s the saying? You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain. It seems I’ve lived long enough.

I still go out on patrol now and then, but it feels empty. Fake. Hypocritical. What business do I have helping others, when I so casually ended a life and escaped punishment? A simplistic worldview maintains that good people don't do bad things, and bad people don't do good things. The truth is a bit more complicated than that though. I thought for the longest time that I was the good guy. But am I a good person who's done bad things, or am I a bad person who's tried to do good things? Does it even matter anymore?

 

[Rambo, John J]

13th October 2015

There is a moment in life. A moment when everything you are or ever have been changes. You feel the rush tingle down your spine and you shudder. Partly from fear, but partly in anticipation. You are, for once, on the cusp of something new. You shudder and you feel the feel your pulse in your head as change overwhelms you.

I remember that rush when I was questioned by the Police. I felt almost giddy. I didn't tell a lie, but I didn't tell the whole truth either.

In the weeks after my fatal attack, I was overcome with guilt and I revisited the Police station, with the intention of revising my statement. The officer I reported to brought me into the interview room and took my statement, his expression growing more and more disbelieving as I told him everything. Gerard, my training, the Milkybar Man, Kaia, nurse 3A, my mentor; everything. After an hour or so of me talking, he held up his hand and excused himself, looking at me with a frown. He left the room for a few minutes and then came back, accompanied by a younger officer. Someone round about my own age. The younger officer positioned herself near the door, looking at me with what seemed like concern, as the original interviewing officer sat down opposite me. He reviewed the notes he'd taken as I'd spoken and asked, 'Can you tell my fellow officer here everything that you've just told me?' I nodded, and repeated virtually everything again, leaving out minor, inconsequential details for the sake of expediency.

When I finished, the older officer turned to the younger and from the glance they exchanged, I intuited a previously agreed response. The younger one, who hadn't taken her eyes off me as I'd spoken, frowned thoughtfully. 'Tell me Martin,' She said, 'are you on any medication?'

As fuzzy as my brain was at the time, I divined instantly the ultimate intent of what she was driving at, and what her final question would be, and I answered deliberately, looking at her openly, 'No, I'm not depressed. I'm not on any medication. And I'm not crazy. This is the truth.'

The younger Policewoman rubbed the area around her upper lip and frowned even more. 'You understand what it is you're telling us, yes?' As an afterthought she added, 'Or rather, what you're confessing to?'

I nodded. 'I know.'

She looked at the older cop. 'Can you give us any more details about your, ah, 'superheroism', back home?'

I sighed and reiterated what I'd already told them, adding in smaller details as I felt appropriate. As I talked, the older cop picked up his smartphone and began playing with it, occasionally showing the screen to his partner. Their expressions were inscrutable. As I talked, the younger cop pulled up a chair to the desk and began taking notes, probing me for details here and there, every now and then looking at the phone in her partner's hand. As I finished (for the third time) she reviewed her notes.

'So.' She looked up from her notes, 'You claim to be a superhero from Belfast. You've been operating from around 2000, you dress in Black, and you have a...' she looked at her partner who smirked nastily, '...a league of shadows group of followers, that you've trained, and who now operate in various cities across the world. And now you think you murdered a person in Perth. That about cover it?'

I sighed. 'Look. I know it sounds...'

'Oh come off it mate!' cried the older cop. He stood up and pushed his chair back, looking at the younger partner, 'I've heard enough I think. Someone's been watching too much netflix. Thinks he's Daredevil.' He bent down over the desk, scowling at me, 'Look mate, I know you feel guilty because someone died after you punched them, but don't waste our time.' He walked over to the door, 'If you're guilty, the court'll decide soon enough anyway.' He scoffed a humourless laugh as he opened the door and walked out; 'Bloody 'Daredevil''.

I leaned back in my chair, then noticed that the older cop had left his phone in the room. 'Look. I can prove it!' I gestured towards the phone, 'Google me, there'll be stories about me in Belfast. They go back about 10 years.'

The female cop cocked an eyebrow, 'About the 'Man in Black'?'

I nodded. 'Yeah! There were plenty of stories about me. Just google me and you'll see.'

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. 'Martin. What do you think we've been doing for the past thirty minutes?'

Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow, 'What?'

'We've been looking for the past thirty minutes here on this very phone. There's nothing. The 'Man in Black' doesn't exist, outside of Johnny Cash, a few movies and a few Stephen King books. There's certainly never been any mention online of a 'Man in Black superhero' from Belfast.' She shrugged, almost apologetically.

'But that's impossi...' my mind raced furiously. My mentor. Only he would have the resources to remove my digital footprint from the internet. I thought frantically, 'Ok, so not on the internet. But you can phone, can't you? There'll be radio stations, DJ's, TV shows, news reports...'

'Of what? Of something that we can't even find a trace of on the internet? Martin, do you realise how crazy that sounds?'

I sagged in defeat and she leaned forward, speaking quietly, kindly. 'Martin.' I looked up at the change in tone of her voice. 'Are you absolutely sure you're not on medication?'

Crestfallen, I looked at her and shook my head. 'No. I'm not on anything.'

'I know this must be a very traumatic time of life for you. You punched someone and they died. But you're not accused of murder. It was an accident. Don't you understand, you're a hero. You saved those kids, and you did it with no regards as to your own safety.' She gave a wry laugh, 'But that doesn't mean you have to let it go to your head.'

I studied the floor, unanswering.

'Look. As far as we're concerned, your statement has been updated, but given the earlier statements by you and all the witnesses; combined with everything you've just said, we're going to advise you to seek counselling. Nothing more. Yet. This has clearly been a stressful time.'

I looked up. 'That's it? I come in here and confess to murder and you tell me 'hey, it's fine, you had a bad day??'

She looked at me. 'Well if you really want, we can send you to Graylands.' Now she was looking at me carefully. I supposed that she was perhaps a mental health counsellor of some sorts herself.

I looked down again. 'No. It's fine. I guess... maybe you're right. I haven't been sleeping very well lately.'

She took my hand. 'Look. You understand that it was self-defence, don't you? I know you feel guilty. But sometimes these things happen. You feel like you need to be punished for what you did. But it doesn't always work like that. There'll be a court case for what it's worth, but I don't think you'll be sent to jail, and in the meantime, before the trial, I personally want you to undergo counselling. For your own sake if nothing else.'

I hesitated briefly, then nodded. 'Can I go now?'

She nodded, then brought me to the door. 'If we need anything, we'll be in touch. But remember what I said about counselling.'

I nodded, 'Thanks'. I turned and walked home.

Like I said, the court case came and went, I was found to be not guilty and that was that. I forwent the offer of counselling; preferring instead to keep things to myself. I suppose you could say that I just shut down for a bit. I've always been good at that. I've existed the past few years, but I don't think I've really been living. I waver constantly between doing the right or wrong thing, between being the good guy or bad; but ultimately, most times I don't even really seem to care. Like I said before, I've been out a few times on patrol, but it feels like an empty gesture, a remnant from a previous life.

I look at myself in the mirror and I see a person who quite literally got away with murder. How can I possibly call myself good after that? It doesn't matter how many people I help now, or how many attacks I prevent, nothing can ever redeem me from what I've done. So why even bother trying?

 

[Rambo, John J]

22nd October 2015

In the end, as I've said before, I suppose it just comes down to choice. You don't have to forget your past actions, you don't even have to accept them; but ultimately, you have to decide how you choose to carry them. Are they an anchor? Holding you down, forcing you to live each day with invisible, unconquerable burdens? Or are they a necklace? A symbol, a delicate reminder that even though your past is littered with questionable actions, they don't define you; they're separate from you. And they don't control your actions in the here and now.

For so long now, I've let my past actions control me. Deep down I've known this, but I suppose it seemed right. Deserved. After what I'd done, I deserved to sink lower than I ever have been. And I deserved to feel as bad as I've been feeling. Today however, I caught a glimpse of the person I used to be.

As I often do when I'm feeling particularly despondent, I went out for a run after work. I'll get home and change quickly, pick a playlist on the iPod and all but sprint for an hour or so. Immediately after the events of 2012, I completely gave up on my health and my fitness. I just didn't care about myself at all, and wallowed for a year or so, letting my body turn soft and incapable. One day though, I just started jogging again, and although it still takes a lot of motivation and self-talk to force myself out there, I've now gotten myself back to the stage where I can run for an hour or so without being completely winded.

I go down Cambridge Street, turn left onto Stockport Street and follow that to Lake Monger Reserve. I'll do a few laps of the lake, then go back home the way I came. All in, its perhaps 10-15 kilometres, depending on how many laps I do, and I've gotten accustomed to jogging past familiar faces. People out walking their dogs, playing with their kids in the swing parks or attending one of the many outdoor fitness group classes. I usually have the headphones in though, and I generally try not to acknowledge anyone, no matter how familiar or friendly they seem. It was almost dark by the time I decided I'd worked up enough of a sweat, and I made my way home along Lake Monger Drive; a busy, traffic heavy, four-lane arterial route. At this time of the evening, it's quiet enough, but that only means that people drive faster along it than they should.

I was jogging slowly through one of the car parks that buffer the lake and the main road, this one being at the worst bend in the road, and I noticed a young family under the softly glowing street lights preparing to leave. The dad (around my age, perhaps slightly younger) was loading the pram into the car while the mum talked distractedly on her mobile phone. She was laughing and alternating between looking out at the lights on the lake, and looking down at the baby at her feet, who was happily gurgling away to itself. Behind her were two kids, a boy and girl, both blond, both around 4 or 5 years old. Twins perhaps. They were playing with a football while the father struggled with the pram, the light cast by the street lights creating shadows which hampered his efforts to see what he was doing. The reason I noticed the family, was because the father looked like... well, looked like the man I'd killed.

In my darkest moments, I had entertained the thought that not only I deprived a mother and father of their child, or a sibling of their brother; but also a child of their father. That thought had haunted me until I did some background checking and discovered that the only thing he'd left behind in this world was an abused ex-girlfriend. I'd like to say that alleviated my guilt somewhat, but that would be a lie.

The father loading the pram looked so much like him though, that I was caught up again in this line of thinking. I looked at the two kids, the girl with her ponytail and the boy with curly, unruly hair and wondered what if?

It was only because I was looking intently at them, that I saw what happened next. A mis-throw by the boy caused the ball to bounce past his sister and into the road. She instinctively turned to run after it and, somehow just knowing that there was a car approaching, I changed direction and sprinted flat-out towards her. I bolted past the parents, catching only glimpses of both of them as I blurred past, so focussed was I on the girl, and out into the road. I scooped up the girl under one arm and dived forward, not really hearing the screech of tires, or seeing the petrified look on the mothers face as her phone dropped to the ground. All I was aware of was the girl in my arms and the thought that if I had been working out more, I would have had the strength to dive onto the relative safety of the dividing barrier in the centre of the road.

I landed roughly on my left side, half on the barrier, half on the road, and rolled onto my back, holding the girl against my chest, preventing her from hitting the ground. The entire event, from the ball going into the road to me lying on the dividing barrier in the middle, couldn't have taken more than a few seconds. Everything was still. I looked back and saw the side of the oncoming car, now stopped, no more than a foot away. If I'd not jumped as far, we both would have been pancakes. Still holding her closely, I sat up and examined her. 'Are you ok? Did you get hurt?'

She started crying softly, and I became aware of the mother shrieking hysterically. 'Lucy!! Oh my God!!!'
Both her and the father sprinted over to where we were, the mother lifting the girl away and back to the car park. The driver of the oncoming car honked his horn, then drove away. The father aimed an ineffectual kick at the car as it sped off, then turned to join his family. Breathing heavily, I stood up and examined the tear in my running top. I could already feel the adrenaline beginning to fade and the dull ache of what is now some serious road rash kicking in.

'Is she ok?' I asked uncertainly, terrified for a moment that maybe she'd gotten hurt as I picked her up. But the father nodded his head.

'Thanks to you, yeah.' It's weird, the way we were talking, it was almost as though nothing had happened. We were calm and polite, almost as though exchanging pleasantries. We could have been talking about the weather. The girl, Lucy, was still crying softly, and, perhaps not wanting to be left out, her brother joined in. The mum and dad knelt down and hugged them both tightly.

'I'm glad.' I nodded, and made as though to continue on my run.

'Wait,' the mum said softly. She walked over to me and all of a sudden began crying, talking stiltedly through juddering, gasping sobs, 'You... you saved her. I was... on the phone and... I... I wasn't paying attention and you... you were there and you... picked her up and you saved her! You saved her! I don't know what we'd have done if you hadn't been there! I don't know... how we can ever... thank... thank...' She broke off and leaned against me, embracing me as I fought back the urge to cry as well. The dad walked over to us, having made sure the kids were safely in the car and he joined the hug. We didn't say anything. Didn't need to. We broke apart and I looked at the tears running down her cheeks and the glistening in his eyes that mirrored my own.

'Glad I was here,' I whispered hoarsely, then turned and walked away for a short distance before resuming my jog.

I jogged a short distance towards home, along the footpath beside the road, far enough away from the car park and other people before stopping and leaning over, supporting my hands on my knees and breathing deep, gasping breaths. I sucked air in in huge gulps through my nose and breathed out slowly through my mouth, trying to settle the churning in the pit of my stomach. I was bent double, staring at the ground for a good few minutes when I became aware of the sound of an idling car. I looked up and saw a car parked on the road beside me, hazard lights blinking softly. How long had it been there? Inside was the family, the mother and father both looking out with concern and gratitude. The back door opened and the girl, Lucy, slipped out. She came over to me and hugged me. 'You're my hero!' She whispered. Then she got back in the car and they drove off, the mother and her daughter pressing their hands against the windows and looking back until they were gone from view.

I jogged slowly home, and it was only when I'd let myself in the front door that I allowed myself to collapse on the ground in tears. I cried more than I ever have in my life. I cried for the way I didn't three years ago, I cried that I'd been able to save the girl tonight, and I cried because, well, sometimes crying is all you can do.

And then I started writing in this. I can feel the pain in my side growing stronger, and I have plenty of grit and gravel to extract from my body, and I know that every movement tomorrow will be agonising, but for the first time in three years, I actually feel alive.

What I did three years ago can't be undone. I know that. But that doesn't mean I have to let it rule my life forever. I'll take things slowly, a day at a time. I can't help everyone, and I will make mistakes. But if I keep trying, and if I'm able to help even just one person, it'll be worth it. Not just for them, but also for me. Maybe... just maybe, the Man In Black has returned.