His name was Alfred F. Jones. He was godly, an image of magnificence who cleverly climbed his way to the top. He was feared, he was loved - Alfred F. Jones was both a monster and an angel. Oh, how I loved him. How I admired this man who saw worlds crumple at his feet, the taste of world domination familiar on his tongue. Opportunities lined themselves before him, eager and waiting. This man was built up so strongly that he was invincible. And oh, how I loved Alfred F. Jones.
There was a certain way with which Alfred approached the world. He was robust and composed with a powerful swagger in his step. He woke up in the morning, sipped coffee coolly, and tapped his fingers against the table. He was always alone, but never was he lonely. The man was too great to feel such a disgusting, weak emotion. He was a king of high order, not a peasant, and I appreciated each step he took and the smile with which he did so.
Now I, I'm nothing of the sort. I'm crumpled. I'm weak. I'm pathetic. I'm a piteous piece of trash who is lucky to have so much as a leaky roof above his head. I'm living in darkness, but Alfred? He was bathed in light.
There had only been one man before Alfred who had been as brilliant and radiant as he. Arthur Kirkland, who had sat down with him and taught him how to read and write, was once an image of glory. And I admired him, more than I could ever admire Alfred - more than I could ever admire myself. Arthur had not only been a savior, but he had been my savior. He had transformed me in to a true image of grandeur and as a child, everything that he was, I aspired to be. Arthur had never lived in an empty apartment with rain dripping from a cracked seam in the ceiling. Arthur never retired to the corner and curled into himself in the middle of the night. Arthur was strong. Perhaps not as strong as his younger brother, but Alfred feels like an illusion now. Sometimes I wonder if there is truly anything left of Alfred F. Jones.
I stare vacantly into the darkness, my body trembling and the cold devouring me. I am numb. I wonder who I am and who Alfred is. I wonder what it's like to be so glorious and then I wonder why it is that I can no longer remember who I was before I was so befallen. I know who I am now, though. I am a ghost of myself. I am missing. No, I am missed by no one on this blessed planet and I know exactly why.
I made a mistake.
I write it on my skin when I finally am able to grasp a pen. My fingers quiver whenever I do it, so the letters seem to stumble as I believe my words would if I tried to vocalize it. They're jagged and illegible, but I know exactly what they spell.
I cannot afford drugs or alcohol. The liquor would feel like a silken cure seeping through my veins. Perhaps, for a moment, I would remember how amazing it felt to be myself. But there is a punishment that comes from defeat. It's the message written twelve times, bolded, circled, and underlined on my arm, displaying every flaw in my being with only two words.
The door to this room, the only room in the apartment, creaks when he pushes the door open. I look up tiredly - my neck hurts when I do so - and catch his gaze once he steps in. He wonders why it's so plain. He wonders if anyone lives here at all. He thinks he has the wrong address, but then he looks to his right and sees me, shrouded in darkness in the corner of the room. I watch his mouth open, then close, and I look at him. His shirt is buttoned up to the top and there is not so much as a misplaced crease in his shirt. A tie hangs from his neck and he starts, "Alfred." His green eyes dart over me. Arthur is glorious.
The light coming from the hallway casts a defined shadow across his features and he repeats, "Alfred, I've been meaning to come and see you." I lean my head to the side and my skull presses against the wall. It hurts a little, but that is from the headache that has had my brain stinging for a few hours. "Alfie, I'm so sorry." He's so close that I can hear his breath. Arthur does not stand as he talks to me. He crouches closer so that his breathing is louder and I don't even have to look up to see his eyes, so I look at them now. His eyes are so green and warm, unlike the cold water that drips onto my floor. I'm no longer shaking.
"Alfred, come stay with me. Let's go home."
"No." I have not spoken for a long time. So long that I cannot even count back on my fingers the days. My voice is strained and I try to ignore how feeble the word is.
"Why not?"
I want to escape. Pressure piles onto my chest and my throat grows tight as I manage, "Why are you even here, Arthur?" I hurt. My hero is standing before me and I'm clawing for a way out. I do not deserve his kindness and it takes no more than a moment's thought to recognize this. I am Alfred F. Jones. I am nothing. "Do you pity me or something?" I scramble to my feet and feel a numbness reside in my chest. I am crying. "I get it. I was wrong! I'm an idiot! I'm disgusting! I'm worthless!" I'm shouting. When I steal a glance at him, the look in his eyes maims me. I want to climb up the wall and jump over his head and leave but all I can do is let myself fall so that my shoulder slams against the wall, hand pressed against the plaster.
I know when he sees it. Before I remember and rip my arm away, he sees it.
LEAVING ARTHUR
 He rips me from the wall and he holds me. Arthur hugs me and sits on the ground with me leaning against him. He runs his hand over my hair. I am Alfred F. Jones again, but not the godlike creature I once was. I'm the little boy who aspires to be Arthur Kirkland, and he holds me and holds me and holds me.