People loved them. They always fawned over them. I was no different.
Their brooding silence as they stood back in the corner. Their mysterious aura adorned by a black coat. They were always so smart. Always so cold and calculating.
Always wrapped in the heart wrenching back story of tragedy.
I wanted to be them. They were so cool.
I knew they were fiction, that the stories were made up. But I still admired them.
Those self sufficient loners who drop in to help the hero every now and then; the hero who in turn teaches them what it's like not to be alone. The way they walked. The way they talked.
Their eerie strength built upon a dwindling will to survive so that they never needed anyone. But then they began to learn. It was such a beautiful story.
One day I realized that I admired them never because I wanted to be them. I admired them because I was always one of them.
My story is so perfect. So perfect like in all those stories.
Brooding silence as I stood back in the corner. A mysterious aura adorned by a black coat. Always so smart. Always so cold hearted and calculated.
Always wrapped in the heart wrenching back story of mind numbing isolation, abuse, and hate which had pushed me time and time again to question sanity.
And it hurt. It hurt so much.
Now I know where I made my mistake.
It was fiction. All those people I admired, all my heroes I looked up to - all their stories - it was all just stupid fiction.
It will never be my story. I know I'll never have a friend.
Because those heroes who jump in to pull people like me out of our icy pit of despair and teach us that we are not alone - they're all fiction too.