No one knows what it's like to be me.

People look at me- not my face, not even really me; and they see red. They see arrogance, pride, and disregard in that red.

They don't see my blue eyes, or my emotions- they see what they want to see.

And I hate it.

If there is one thing to learn, it would be ignorance. But no, I've never been able to do that- not with this red mass on my head. I hate it. Damn it, its human nature to judge, but sometimes it goes too far.

They see me smoking, cigarette lit and burning bright as I take a long drag, lounging on some surface. They see me as ignorant. I am anything but ignorant. I'm not striving to smoke my lungs out. If anything, I'm trying to keep them healthy.

They see me smoking, relaxed, and ignorant; but nobody-not even my closest friend, has seen me stressed, fumbling with the Zippo and pack, shaking all over as I choke back a sob. Not as I become a nervous wreck, not as I bang my head against the plastered-over walls… none of them have.

They see me as the bad guy. While little mister Oxymoron and misses Perfect Angel go off skipping into the sunlight, they see me as that long, serpentine shadow that claws across the earth behind them. They don't see me as a guardian angel- as a hero in my own rights. They see me as an annoying flea behind their ears- a tick in their scalp; Just another problem to be dealt with.

So, I'm the villain.

I'm the firey redhead striving to be the bad boy- cigs, rattail, beer, and women. But they don't see the eyes behind this wall- this façade I helped them build. They don't see the photograph of my brother- the motorcyclist. The motorcyclist with the rattail. The motorcyclist that died on September, nine years ago, on his little brother's birthday.

They don't see the almost-anorexia; the lack of anything in the kitchens. All they see is the damned villain, striving to do nothing more than ruin their perfect little relationship.

They see me snogging some random girl in the streets. They don't see me flirting with suspects. Buying alcohol to loosen their tongues. Sure- I'll drink once in a while- it's to be expected… But it's all they ever see- the things that make me the "Bad Guy." They see me kick puppies- but they don't see me kicking them out of the way of an oncoming vehicle.

They see me stalking innocent-looking young women. They don't see me stalking a mass-murdering widow of the streets.

In the end, I had nothing to do with their screwed-up tragic ending. Not me. Not the villain.

The side-actor, the one they were striving to hunt down, the one we were trying to keep them away from? They found him. He was a lunatic.

He was the one we were trying to keep them away from. And they find him anyways. And he kills little Miss Perfect.

So… Does that still make me the bad guy? For failing in my mission to keep them away from their demise?

Yes.

Apparently it does. But I don't care.

I lost that with my respect for them- with my sympathy.

I guess that makes me the villain, now… doesn't it?

My apathy… Makes me the one thing I despise…

So damn it all, but don't give me the respect I crave- need-… Deserve. Just call me the villain. Maybe one day you'll all see how wrong you all are, but for now, I can deal.

I can deal the aces and jokers just as easily as any vagabond runt.

Throw it at me- I'll take it like a mangy, emaciated dog. Like you want- no, expect me to.