Kill Your Heroes {standalone}

I am not arrogant; I am confident. My parents tell me all the time to get myself together, to figure out what I want and to go for it, but I can never quite convince myself. I always seem to find an excuse or an obstacle to throw in my own path, and then I sit back and watches as my world crumbles around me. That’s how I want it, in ruins that fall at my feet, with no one being left behind to tell the tale. There will be nothing left besides rubble and dust, and I will stand at the center of it all. Some say it’s morbid, others say it’s dramatic, and in no way do I disagree. I have to come to accept nothing less than that which is over the top, because in my opinion, it suits me. It suits me from the way I walk to the way I sleep. It didn’t always, however, and for the longest time I had hidden my actions under the bed, locked away where no one could find them.

The dark void beneath my bed was in fact, stuffed with things from the past and present, but they weren’t quite the deep, horrid secrets I wished they were. I wanted something exciting, and I wanted it on a day to day basis. I want to wake up every single morning and be faced with a situation that could be my last. But even more than that, I want something that requires me to be brave. Not so much a fairytale or a quest, but something that fell within the realms of realism. I want an adventure within reality, something that twists the rules of the book, or better yet, rewrites them entirely.

I’m going to do that one day. Rewrite the book of rules that have been set aside for children to scrutinize page by page. I’m going to tear that book page by page, word by word. I will mark through each line, replacing it with what truths I have only found to be accurate. It puzzles me why adults get to write a book for children, for they didn’t know how I thought or what words crossed the boundaries from my brain to my tongue. Sometimes I meant for them to seep through, but every once and I slipped. Which really, isn’t that surprising, considering most of the people I know describe me as outspoken anyway.

But, back to the book. It will be long, with small print and a leather cover. It’ll have my name on the front, along with whatever I decide to name it (to be determined at a later date of course). I won’t really have anyone to dedicate it to but myself, since my parents don’t really get the credit for the information that fills its pages. They have taught me nothing but what not to do with myself, so I guess, in a way, they have taught me something (I still won’t include it, for it will most likely take away from the point I am trying to prove).

I’m not sure how many chapters there will be, or how many pages I will be able to count. All I know is that it will be full as it’s supposed to be, no more; no less. Each word will be mine and mine alone. I talk about books like they are something I love, but in reality, it couldn’t be further from the truth. My parents had read stories and tales to me from the day I was born, but I’m sure, even then, I resented them as much as I do now. I dislike the fiction behind them, the way they teach kids that anything is possible. When you step out into the world, you do not get met with a beautiful world full of heroes, no, you step into a world full of villains. Yes, some of them appear to be nothing more than wonderful, with goals set in the skies and humility that could feed a million. But they, like most, have pulled the wool over our eyes, and the only thing they wait on now is for night to strike so they can come in for the kill. That’s why I want to write this book, so that not adults, but other kids, kids like me, know that the people they surround themselves with are nothing but wolves, and we are sheep.

I refuse to be played in the way that others are, and the only response I’ve ever gotten to this is that I will change my opinions when I am older, but I doubt it. Eventually, I will be nothing more than the adults I despise, and then, what will I do? Will I write another one of these books, another manual for kids who have grown up on how not to be a wolf? I don’t want to be a wolf; I don’t want to pull the wool over a child’s eyes. But isn’t it inevitable? Won’t we all one day become the thing we don’t want to become? Maybe I’ll never read my kid a fairytale or trick him into thinking the world’s full of heroes. It’s not my fault if he can’t accept it.

This is not my book. This is not my story. But it is a beginning. It’s the prologue to what is going to be nothing less than an adventure. It’s an adventure that will lead me further into the world than I ever planned to go, but I guess that’s okay. It’ll teach me to distinguish sheep from wolves, and villains from heroes.