I call for help, but no one hears me. Few people could ever hear me. Even then they didn't care. I've called for help for so many years, trapped behind a facade that no one though to look behind.
They all saw what they wanted to. People are trapped behind an illusion of their own making. Seeing what they want to see, what they expect to see; nothing more, nothing less.
So I created a mask, giving them what they wanted. No one suspected that is was fake, the mask became perfect. To Perfect. It molded to my face so tightly I couldn't take it off. No one saw the person screaming beneath the skillfully crafted facade.
The rage, the calm, the emotions; all an act that I wish could end. But no one stopped to think.
Why? Why was he the perfect little scapegoat, the perfect one to praise, to raise on an unreachable pedestal just to knock it out from beneath him. Why?
Because he had no other choice. He was to far gone, Trapped in the mind of someone he had created. He's forced to play along, even if things have gone to far. Farther than they were ever ment to. But he couldn't stop now.
Even when he stood on the battlefield, staring into the eyes of his enemy.
Even when he saw his own reflected back at him.