Let's play a game called how much of BTVS
can I write into my English assignments
before someone realizes.
Disclaimer: Everything goes to it's rightful owners.
"Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy."
-F. Scott Fitzgerald
I'm not a hero.
These are the words that taint his mind, even as his sword saves a young woman's life, even as she tells him that he's her hero, even as he tells her that it was nothing, really.
I'm not a hero.
These are the words that he will tell himself as he sits in darkness, wide awake, but telling himself that maybe this is all a nightmare, that he will wake up and that none of this will be real, that he won't be a monster, that he'll be okay.
I'll never be okay.
This is what he tells himself as he sits on the couch, laughing at their jokes, making comments that drip with sarcasm, making references to inside jokes and eating day old chinese food that was heated up in a dying microwave only moments before. Even as his friends sit down beside him, even as they laugh about their day's adventures and as they all act amazed that they got out alive.
I didn't get out alive.
These are the words that weigh against his conscience, making him want to curl in on himself in utter hopelessness, a sort of anger suffocating him. How could he call this getting out alive if he feels so broken inside? How did they get out alive?
I didn't save them.
Of course they didn't get out alive, and he knows it's his fault, it's all his fault, and he aches inside because they were counting on him, they were counting on him and he let them down. They might seem alive but they're just as dead as him.
I let them down.
He let them down, and they should hate him, they should hate him so much. So why don't they hate him? He let them die, he watched them die, and it's as if his own hands are stained crimson with their blood. It's as if he watched numbly as the bullets left the gun and entered their chests-worse-it's as if he pulled the trigger.
I can't survive.
It's as if a bullet entered his own chest as they died, as if he's watching his own chest be stained with an ugly, unnatural red color. It hurts. It just hurts so much and he doesn't know why he doesn't know what to do. What is he supposed to do?
What am I supposed to do?
Is he supposed to let them fight their own battles? Should he just leave, step out of their lives, or will he fail them again? Is he supposed to tell them how much his own chest aches? Is he supposed to tell them that he's so dead, so dead inside that he can't breathe?
I'm not a hero.
This is what he tells himself as he grips a sword in his hands, eyes flashing, blood coating his face.
I'm not a hero.
This is what he tells himself as he takes a bullet for his closest friend in the world. He tells himself this, even though he did it without thinking.
I'm not a hero.
This is what he tells himself as he keeps forcing himself to his feet despite how hopeless he is, just because there's someone out there who needs him.
I'm not a hero.
The rain pours and his chest pounds and he's gasping for air and he can't tell where the pain is coming from anymore, but he somehow manages to smile.
An old enemy, but now perhaps a friend steps into place at his side.
"I want the dragon."
(And he still tells himself he's not a hero.)