#personality-wise

.

.

.

.

.

It was at that moment that I knew I had to run. Sweet little Nicholas had been fucked with for far too long, and that stinging sensation on his face that left his eye black and blue was the final straw. It was in the moment that I fought back, against someone who'd fought off so many before, I held my damn ground against that sorry excuse of a father of mine and fucked off for good.

I ran, I ran so fast the wind whipped at my quills. My glasses fell off when I dashed through and broke the window, and I didn't look back as I sped into the trees. I heard the sounds of 'em yelling at me. He was enraged. He was 'the peoples' hero'. He'd hurt me. My mother called for me too. I didn't miss her yellow quills. She'd been just as bad, she'd wanted me to be less than I was, she wanted me to reduce myself to a fool, blindly following those damn Elites and their ideals which left out myself and everyone else alongside me from their 'perfect' world. They wanted to make me into a 'hero'. They wanted to make me into a government pawn.

Oh, I'd show 'em 'heroism', I'd fuckin show 'em what they created.

But at the time, I could only run. Trippin' on sticks 'n rocks, runnin' from the distant sirens that screamed into the afternoon air. It was growing dim, the sky darkening above me. I was alone, and I realized that I'd soon be fighting tooth-and-nail ta keep myself alive.

Was I ever truly alive, before? I can't really say I had been. Poor little Nich'las was always fearin' for his life, back then. He never got to enjoy what he shoulda enjoyed, and he learned fast that no kid got to enjoy what every kid should. He always shed green everywhere from fear, his fringe covering his eyes, he was always such a nervous kid. A little geek too, he wanted to be like the others at school, the ones so cool and popular, but he didn't give a shit 'bout sports or anything like that. His dad didn't like that. His dad also didn't like how easily he cried, and he cried at everything too. Little fuckin' crybaby, the kid was, huh? Eyes always watering about ta burst like a dam, his dad hated it. His dad yelled at him for it. Slapped him, too. That shit hurt like a bitch.

Some 'hero' he is. Piece of fuckin shit, pickin' on a child, and not any child but his OWN child. Y'know, I'll see him again some day, and I'll make him eat my fuckin' fists for what he did to a once-defenseless little kid like me.

It was that day that I ran that Nicholas was nothin', he was dead, and in his place was a kid who'd become a scourge to the city he lived in, a scourge to the kin he left behind, a scourge to the government who HATED powerful bastards opposing them...

And I was proud of it. Bein' such a problem to 'em. Those fuckwads deserved it. I let it become part of me, I let myself take that character because I LIKED it. And I still like it. I'd have ditched this name long ago if I didn't.

But I like it. And it sounds cool.

And I can't wait for the time I get to fuck them up for good, ending their shitty reign on this dying world, even if no one can be saved in the end of it all. At least they won't get out of it with any satisfaction.

.

.

.

So why do the tears still fall? Why do I wanna stay here, when my world needs me to finish what is started? Why can't I find the strength to leave this place?

Why do they stick by me, despite the problems I've caused? Why do they show me forgiveness when for years, I'd been nothing but a nuisance? An idiot teenager, struggling to get a grip on his situation, on the fact that his world and everyone he'd found companionship in was now alone, and he was stuck with this idealized version of himself seemingly mocking him every moment?

I'm not meant to be here, yet I can't get myself to find a way to leave. I don't want to go.