I love them; I really do. Every face that smiles when they see me, every person who asks me to sign a poster or take a picture. My fans are such amazing people. And it's why I work so hard for them. I don't mean the movies, or the pictures, no, I mean those days I lock myself in my room, and turn off my phone. The days I sit in the corner of the room hugging my knees and holding on with every last drop of will power, so they never see, so they never know.
You see, there is a part of me, a not so small part of me that I hate... that I can never accept. We aren't really even the same person. No, I refuse to believe he is me. All I want to do is make people smile, help them and offer my friendship, but him? He'd watch the world burn for a laugh.
I let him out, sometimes, and only a little, because if I didn't I would never be able to hold him back. He comes out only when I let him, and I prefer it that way. He took on a name of his own after the first shoot, and from there he embodied the name.
Loki. That's what he calls himself, and he's taken to envisioning the world at our feet. His feet! His! Never mine.
Sometimes little things leak over. His thoughts, the images in his mind, the legions bowing at our feet, it's women at our beck and call. I think he's forgotten this body is as mortal as those he would seek to enslave.
And I can't get help, because then they would know my shame. My brilliant beautiful fans would know what a monster I am. It's that thought that makes me hold on, and pray and beg and sometimes scream that I will hold on. 'I will hold on!' Because what else do I have?
And then sometimes, he gets out, like right this moment, the very reason I'm pounding at the back of my own mind, trying to take back control of my own body, and as he stands, the very posture of our mortal shell has changed, and though I can see from our eyes, he's the one looking out, dressing, turning on the phone and then, after he's tied on his shoes, he walks to the mirror and looks at himself and sees me, broken, weeping, struggling against the weight that brings me to my knees and he smiles.
"You will never be strong enough Tom, just give up." He says and my voice comes out, but it is twisted, sinister. And some days I fight, I scream and I tear my way to the surface, and other times... He's right.