Short Story Deux: Yours Truly

September 29, 2017

Short Story Deux: Yours Truly

2. Yours Truly

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Dear Hero,

You might tear this letter up or flush it down a toilet, but if you are reading this, I hope you will hear me out. Now that these pleasantries are over, it is time for me to have a little soliloquy of my own.

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I was born in a small suburb, lived in that tiny forgotten town, and will probably go back there to see my parents for Thanksgiving (yes, even proclaimed bad guys eat turkey with their parents). Why am I telling you my life story? You will know soon enough.

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I wasn't a troubled kid— my parents loved me and I was a fairly good student in school. At least, that's what everyone in the school thought, right? Nerd William couldn't possibly have a trouble in the world because he was a little goody boy who did good in school. I was that goody boy in the Sahara Desert of troubled persons. Do you know the word “mob mentality?” Oxford dictionaries describe it as a noun— the alias being herd mentality. As you have learned in English with Ms. Stanford, a noun is a word that identifies a class of people, places, or things. The word noun always meant just being there, just a name. Unmoving.

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It's easy to define it if you are the one doing it. It’s just a psychological term, like an overhyped version of peer pressure. When you are on the receiving end, things become less like things and more of an ongoing action you can't move. Psychological terms become bruises, peer pressure leads to hateful whispers, and a noun that describes a state of mind becomes a verb.

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What do you do now, hero? You save the day, you save the world, you can save your damsel in distress but you couldn't stand up for a goody boy who was always pushed to the floor. You couldn't save me. No, you didn't save me. I know you don't remember, but if you somehow get an inkling of regret, focus on that. Because you will need it.

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You were my friend, if I am allowed to call you that now. I remember having those conversations, about plotting to become superheroes and save the day and get the pretty girl in the process. Comic books were our only escape out of the reality where we were lucky if we saved enough money for ice cream. Did I think for one second you were going to stay? To be honest, I expected us to part ways when we decide our futures and which college to go into; I do not consider myself to be much of a dreamer. But you left sooner than I expected. You left faster than I wanted. But it didn't matter what I wanted, you wanted something and you were willing to crush anything in the process, even your own friend. You were always a person who pushed himself, to challenge himself. Every Saturday, we would have an arm wrestling competition, just two unpopular people pitted against each other to determine his strength and worth. You always won, why wouldn't you?

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But I was never a match, I was never a challenge. So you moved on to bigger and better things. You were always capable of being popular, it must have been such a blow to your ego each and every minute of your life to be held back by a loser with glasses. No more conversations about superheroes, no more debating about ice cream money.

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Whatever thoughts I had, I had no one to say them to. So when I was pushed down to the ground, there was no hand swooping into my vision to help me up; no savior. I lay on the ground, alone and there was no more strength in my legs to support my body. To be dramatic, I was a beached whale. To be realistic, I waited.

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After school, I waited. Waited on the floor for your hand to help me up, with a pat on my back, and offering yourself as a listener, listening to my angers. There was only a hand in my imagination, coming closer and closer towards me before whisking away. Where there were words, I heard only empty air. When people beat me up, I saw you watching. I knew you did, even as you pretended to look at the ground. I knew you were in a hurry to forget about me, so I helped you. I transferred elsewhere— I should have done it a long time ago, but this time, there was no worry of someone missing me as a friend.

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I looked at a comic book only one time afterwards. The ending scene, where the strong hero swoops into the clouds, among the excited shouts of the people. I realized that those excited shouts meant nothing good as accolades. Other kids also shouted in excitement when they saw someone shove me to the floor, or when someone thought of a witty insult against me. Don't think I am just blaming you so I can seem like an innocent person. I'm not. I was never and never will be a good person. But despite everything, you are a hero who saves. I am someone who only gives people peril. I am telling you this because you always saw everything in black and white; and villains are always painted in a specific way. Comic books aren't always two specific spectrums, you know that. It's the colors that fascinate us and draw us into the story.