I didn't have the energy to move. The despair and self-loathing were like weights pressing down on me from all directions. I was so alone. I didn't belong anywhere. Many people had these thoughts. Everyone felt at some time that they didn't belong, that they were unimportant and unloved. So what made my situation different?

The simple fact that it was true. I really didn't belong anywhere. I heard once of a family that felt they didn't belong because they were bi-racial, so they were unwelcome among the blacks as well as the whites. That was a long time ago, and now such problems were inconsequential, but those children did belong. They belonged together, they belonged in that family, and they belonged on Midgard.

I had no family. I was not Asgardian, and yet I was not Johtun either. I was nothing but a pest. No one loved me. My foolish brother was blinded by duty: you were supposed to love your brother. My father hated me, my mother hated me, my only friend, Tony, hated me, no matter how much they denied it.

I had no place. I should have been left to die like all the other weak Johtuns. I wasn't accepted by my true father, why should anyone else accept me?

My one talent, magic, was useless and looked down upon. I thought I could do amazing things with it, but it didn't matter how many foes I vanquished, how many lives I saved, the fact that I had used magic to do so made it a crime.

I have called myself 'smart' on more than one occasion, but I was not even that. I was stupid to think that I could ever be anything but a nuisance. I was foolish to think that wisdom and magic would hold any sort of credit on Asgard. I would have been better off an unlearned weakling that was incapable of lifting a goblet than as a sorcerer.

I was not strong, not attractive, and not powerful like Thor. Oh, all my problems would be solved if I were anything like Thor. He was perfect. Perhaps that was the way it was meant to be. Everything must have an opposite, and so I existed, to balance the perfection that was Thor. Anyway, I couldn't distinguish which was more extreme; Thor's perfection or my atrocity.

I hated myself, and yet, I was the most selfish person in existence. So, why not? Why couldn't I end this life like I so wanted to? The only thing that would be any problem was Thor having to pick up the pieces of my death. If I was so selfish, I shouldn't care about him and just do what I've wanted to do for so long.

On the other hand, if I were not so selfish, I would have to die anyway, to appease all creatures ever to exist. It only made sense; only good could come from my death. So, why didn't I do it? Was I afraid? Just like me to be afraid of death! I was weak and pathetic! My life's choices were based on knowledge and logic, and here I stood in the face of reason, afraid!

I dug the knife in as far as I possibly could. It hurt so bad I started shaking violently. Just a little longer. Blood stained the sheets, dark and wet, and I looked down at the cuts on my arm. I didn't even remember moving on to the other arm. It was horrible, but it was a small price to pay. It was almost over. Almost . . .