The hand on his shoulder

The hand on his shoulder; the hand on this shell of a boy that turned out to be a shell of my own, or maybe just a name; the name of a man turned man turned man turned man turned hero, and in the end being a hero never mattered because I couldn’t save myself.

And I was like, “I can do it, I can get outta here, for the hand on my shoulder has nothing to do with it,” and for three seconds I knew pure joy, until I realized it was only the noise of flowing through a lot of grief and fear after seeing his face.

I finally understand that I am a God of fools and jokes and petty games, a hero of nothing more than disaster and loss. Can you imagine that?

Saving everything by destroying it before anyone else can? Holding your heart in your own hand and squeezing it until it stops beating, all because you’re too afraid to give yourself the chance to breathe.

I can. His hand is on my shoulder and it’s too loose too cold too inhuman, and I don’t need any superpowers to discern that. He doesn’t need any superpowers to know that I am not what I used to be, that my heart is no longer on my sleeve or in my chest; that it is instead under my foot and bleeding. That I’m holding my breath and waiting for him to go.

Author's Note

Another predictive text piece that I tweaked.

Reviews

[emptyinkwell]

What resonated with me the most is the line "and in the end being a hero never mattered because I couldn’t save myself". It is so sad that in our pursuit to make a difference in the lives of another, we forget to appease our own.