[ Heroes is a short story I had written on a previous website, and thought for it to be a well-written story, so I published it here. ]
You are nothing to be fantasized about. You are a mortal, with flaws. You have pain and pleasure, given to you only with gratitude to be given back. You have no secret identity, your face isn't plastered on the cover of newspapers, drawing attention to all people. You aren't perfect, you aren't anything super or heroic for everyone to crave about. You aren't something served on a silver platter, something to be passed around and stared at with greed or envy. You are just a human. Sitting at a desk. In a grey little place. With a grey computer.
The town you live in is called New Hills, recently adopted by Mayor Timothy. He likes to be greedy, to grapple at money and coins, to smile with his few teeth. He is a terrible mayor. New Hills isn't very common to one's mind, as it isn't thought about from other people, nor is it recognized when a bunch of tourists pull away from that bending, cobbled lane in an aged taxi. Gaping with these large, annoying eyes.
The skies are mostly patterned with grey clouds, covering its blue hue. Rain comes down in a relentless sheet, pounding at the brick walls of buildings, of the glass covered in a dust. You wake up every morning to the damn rain, with the curtains pulled back because no light has an effort to come through that one, tiny glass space. You don't even have enough money to afford some special clothing embroidered with sparkles and that fake gems.
Why are these things even to be bothered about, anyway? No one cares that you can't wear those special boots all the people are exaggerating about, saying that they deliver the most softest comfort to the soles of your feet. You believe that they are just like any other boot. What's the difference?
These aren't important topics to rant about anyway. You should to back to your work. The papers too, don't forget the papers. The ink splattered across its surface like some party you hadn't attended. A party for throwing ink on paper. It would have been fun. All of the other parties were the focal point of alcoholic beverages. You don't favor alcohol. You can't forget the papers, because their you go again, thinking about all the other things.
New Hills is a weird place, with the brick walls, the dusty windows, the cobbled streets. It is like a London bistro, with out the incessant congestion of sweat from other people and the smell of elderly perfume. Cars rarely decorate the streets. Most people prefer travel by their own feet, or a bike. A bike that's rusted. No one can get anything decent in New Hills. Except Mayor Timothy, he needs everything.
You wish some hero would come. A hero, possibly, with some red cape, and a blue latex suit. To rescue you from work. Your gray work, the gray skies. Your graying personality, deemed useless by all the other popular people that crawl around. Greedy for passion and power. Mayor Timothy must be rubbing off on all of them.
So here is the major thing everyone wants to know, everyone wants to find out, because it affects them so damn much that they can't even put any effort into anything they wish to do. Work has ended, so you have left, you walk to your apartment in the rain, and sit at the foot of your bed. The television has some weird religious news topic on. You dislike them, because they waste your precious ranting time.
The people want to know, why are you so quiet? So alone, so uncomfortable with yourself, with the strange town you live amongst in this strange state. You rarely talk, no verbal command coming out of those chapped lips. You just sit. You just stare. You don't do anything except think or maybe mutter a few syllables once in a while.
Here is the plot twist, the answer, everyone is so expectant of. You are a normal human. No one thinks that. With a normal life. No one thinks that. You question yourself every time you say something, every movement, every action. Everybody thinks that. You developed yourself in a fantasy, an endless dream tormented with demons and that damn Mayor Timothy. You are still waiting for something so unnatural to give this person's life to become more decent? Let me add something, something vague and cute, to make everything sound like it is okay, because you are imperfect, since imperfect people deserve some respect.
You sit on the porch every morning, staring at the sun, because of your insomnia and depression and anxiety. You fear the demons will come once more, and your fantasies will end, because they run around squealing and screeching. Being their annoying little selves.
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