Heroes, owned by Tim Kring.

The Road not Taken, by Robert Frost.

Missing Scene from "Four Months Ago".

He looked at her with utter hatred. Eyes locking on her unweilding eyes. She knew far more then she was letting on, He knew this for certain. He understood fully that she was feeding him half lies, and he did not fight her.

He was disguised with her for these half lies, but even worse He was disguised himself. How could he have fallen into her plan so perfectly? How had she managed to get him wrapped around her little finger? If he just would have stopped and thought about what was really going on. If only he had listened, really listened to his brother.

It was too late for all that now, and all he had left was her. Her and all her half lies. He couldn't stand her anymore. He hated the fact that he was even the same pool of genetic water as her. He hated himself more, He was so much like her. The genetic gifts of layering deception on thick and make it seem real was passed down to him.

"Go Away." He snarled with intensity then turned back to the window. His eyes scanning the distance in some hope that he may see his brother on the horizon. He felt her approach him quietly from behind, and felt her hand on his back in a caring sympathy.

"He's gone, You must accept that as I have." She told him softly. He turned his head away and closed his eyes in disbelief. If she wasn't going to leave him alone, He would walk away from her. He stepped towards the door, picking up the pace to an almost jog. He paused just for a second at the door, not even looking back.

"Don't follow me." He growled in a low tone, and continued on his way. He needed out of this confined place. He was feeling claustrophobic suddenly, needing the fresh air, needing to be outside, needing to be amungst the clouds where he always had been destined to be.

Climbing two floors he reached the roof, and took several deep breaths. Sighing in relief, the feeling of being locked up was gone. He let a small smile leak out onto his lips as he felt the wind on his unscathed skin.

He now stand at the crossroads of his life. On the one hand he could accept that his brother had been wrong and he was really dead. That the remains of his body had been carried away in the light breeze that cold night in November. That his ashes were untraceable and had been scattered along the New York skyline. He would then have to set up a formal funeral with an empty casket, and have to lie to his children about how their uncle died. He would also have to move on with life. His political career was finished, but he could still easily return to being a defense attorney.

On the other hand he could still hope that his brother was amungst the living. That was almost a more terrifying thought. If his brother had indeed survived the blast, why hadn't he returned? Where was he? Was he dying in some foreign place? Many nights in that bed he occupied for three months he dreamt of his brother somewhere in the distance, calling his name, crying for help, but he couldn't reach him. He would always wake in a pant or even worse crying.

This road also carried the fact that his wife would most certainly leave him, taking his children with her. His mother had convinced her that he was suffering from major depression, like his father and brother before him. That had been the secret lie to cover up the even more far fetched truth. He had tried to tell her, explaining the events from the last year under new light. She fooled him into thinking she believed him, but it was later when he realized she was just being nice. Nice is what you are to a person who was as injuried as He had been. He came to realize this when she started coming less.

She had been unable to look him in the eyes directly, her visits had been short, and they mostly talked about their children. Eventually she stopped coming. His mother lied and said she had been really busy watching over the kids and all of this. He knew the truth, the truth that she did not want to see him in such a state. That it hurt her to see him in such pain, or haze that more often then not he didn't no which side was up because of the drugs or the pain. He wasn't a sight to behold either, physical evidence was as clear as day, and would most likely be ever-lasting, even with the skin grafts, He would not looked like the man she married, not any more.

Then the morning came, when he awoke with no pain, no haze. A slight buzz from the unneeded drugs, and stiffness in his body, sure, he had been laying in a bed for three months, who would not be stiff. He then saw himself in the mirror, the monster's outward appearance gone, his skin unscathed. He caressed his own face to make sure, make sure he wasn't dreaming. He wasn't, and that was when he knew he had to make his choice.

One road is accepting his death and moving on. The other still hoping he was still out there, waiting to be rescued, or trying to make it back to him. Both roads were dark and filled with more emotional obstacles then he bare to face. It came down to one question: Did he trust his brother enough to dare to hope?

He moved over to the edge of the roof and sat down. He glanced over the edge and saw people and cars roaring down below. An updraft hit his face, the cold air blowing his hair back and causing him to close his eyes. The memory of his brother sitting on the roof edge came back to him. He had just wanted to grab his brother and bring him home. He had been forced to admit to the truth of their abilities. What choice did he have? His brother was being irrational, and it was the only choice before both of them would get injuried from the stunt. He looked back to the door he just emerged from and stared at it as if it held the answer to his question. Obviously it didn't, much to his dismay.

He found himself thinking about a Robert Frost poem after a moment:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, Long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim.

Because It was grassy, and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step and trodden black

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence;

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

He realized only then that he had already chosen his road. He chose the road without much after thought, as the traveler in that poem, He saw the other path with much clarity, but instead took this path on the hopes of saving his brother. He sighed dramatically, maybe he chose wrong. Maybe if he had let his brother destroy, he would have survived.

He feared he would never know if he had made the right choice in the end. Had he chosen the right path? Had he done right by his brother? Was it worth this anguish he found himself in? Was it fate that he survived? Was it fate that he survived to see another day?

He had been right when he said He was nothing without his brother behind him. All he could do now is set down the course he had chosen for himself, and hang onto his waning hope. His waning hope that his brother was alive and would return and let himself rest in peace.

END