My shadows of hope

He sits in the shadows, spinning his tendrils carefully. This particular human has been very helpful to him. No point in ruining him by being careless and leaving him a ruined hulk of a man. His tendrils are deeply entrenched in the puppet's brain stem. He has come too far to fail now. All his machinations have been towards this moment, this point in time. He has foreseen every eventuality, every possible angle, every possible......... Angle. Every angle, but the obvious one. Oh hell. The glow seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. The angel softly settles down, without even disturbing the dust in the dirty alleyway. Her eyes never leave his, even as he redoubles his efforts to maintain the tendrils moving in the pattern he wants them to. She is, for now, someone else's problem. That someone else, a certain Mr. Haldwell, is currently perched about 20 feet higher than the angle. He is perfectly hidden in the shadows. He is as much a part of them as they are of him. ...

And so came the great blow from unexpected quarter. Right before the throne of the usurper. And our wandering hero was laid low by betrayal. And that heart, which no man nor monster nor spell could shake. Was shattered into pieces. And he knew his defeat was upon him. But he raised himself upon his feet to look his betrayer in the eyes. And asked, "Why?". She had no answer, no rebuttal. No tale of woe, with his death as the price. No compulsion, no tricks of the mind laid upon her, to force this action. "Why?", he asked again, in plaintive voice and broken speech. Gibbering as a child, scolded by his matrem. Holding hand to bleeding head and reeling mind. "We could have had it all! My goal was in sight. You could have been queen! All of mine could be yours! Why? Why then this betrayal?", he cried. "Because it had to be so. Because I wish not to reign as anyone's queen. Because I am my own person. And my freedom is dearer to me than any...

I was born into a long line of assassins. Not just any assassins, mind you. My family were snipers for as long as anyone remembers. We were proud of our ancestors who had elevated sniping into an art form. And, for as long as I can remember, I always wanted to be a sniper too. Even before I knew what it meant. And seeing my happiness at being a sniper’s son, my father always assumed that I would be a great sniper too. But fate had other plans. You see, all kids go to school and they mix with a great deal of people and get taught how to handle many, many weapons. And no one can control what kinds of weapons get taught in school. I hoped and hoped and tried and tried to be a good sniper. But I was not my father, or my mother, or anyone from my family. I had not their patience or their steely fortitude. I had not my cousin’s trajectory mapping or my uncle’s natural ability to compensate for high winds. I struggled with my feelings of inadequacy and had resigned myself to being a medio...

Some wars are fought on the ground, and some battles rage in the air. But who fights those battles that are being fought in my head. Who loses and who wins these battles that no one else but me will see. What is the outcome? Who are the victims? When the enemy inside me is me. A lot of blood and a lot of thought a lot of time wasted in ash and drought. I drink the bitter wine of a fool's mission gone to hell and gone all wrong. This pain and anger, this hurt and misery. It starts to seep from mind to body. I cannot hurt anymore. I refuse to. Need another scapegoat to talk to. Need to unload, need to unwind. Need to blow the cordite off my mind. Need to find a different kind of war. I need to defuse this high strung bomb.

We did it. We won. So it must be a little confusing for you, as to why I am doing this. "Hey big guy. I need you to turn this boat around." I hear your voice over the intercom. I can see your face so clearly. Tony did a really good job on these quinjets. The display is crystal clear. I can almost touch your face. But instead, I turn the display off. No one can track the quinjet in stealth mode. You see, Nat, I am a monster. I hurt people and I am famous for it. I see people with merchandise, celebrating this hero. And yet, I am no hero. I am rage, I am anger, I am hate personified. And the more I fight, the angrier I get, until I am unstoppable. Except that is, until you come out of the smoke and the haze and say, "Hey big guy. Sun's getting real low." But today, it almost didn't work. I knew something was off. The other guy, he wanted to hurt someone, anyone. Even you, just because you were there. I can't do that to you Nat. I just can't...

They said love was the answer to the questions I was asking. They said if I loved them, I would do what they were asking. They said I was free, to do as I pleased. But I wasn't free at all. Was I. They said I should listen To their wisdom from the ages. But it hasn't aged well. Has it? I wish I could find The answers in my own mind. But the night is dark. And no stars light my way. I should listen to them I think. They mean me well I know this. But the truth, she is shattered. And no one but me can see. That she bleeds. From a hundred million lies. And only I, among the apathetic mob, Only I can really see the pain in her dying eyes. She is almost gone from this world Her every breath stolen from time. But she still believes that we Will one day unite. And throw away these shackles These hollow trinkets This mad grab for fortune and fame. That we will heal her. One day. I can't bear to see her suffering. And so I close my eyes. I do not open them again ...

Round and round we go C'est la vie. C'est la vie. Chained together by inner fears. Doomed,  Never to be truly free. Always with fear and hate each step we take. Each step further from our humanity. Bang. Bang. The tools of our hate speak. C'est la vie. C'est la vie.

Can't we please dance again? Just once again maybe. One last song, holding hands under the stars. As the candles begin to go out and the stars go to sleep. Can't I please have this one last dance? As the band all lay down and rest their weary heads. As the night begins to fray and out peeks a new day. And before my night dies and your day is born. Can't I just have one, last dance? -- Jonnalagadda Rajeev

Mr. John, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you enough. I didn't see how this life was getting to be too much. How your shoulders drooped from the strain you were under. How your mind started to come apart. One thread at a time. And how you were less and less present in your own picture. How you had seemed to fade into the background. And no amount of light could ever penetrate the gloom you wore as a blanket, too young to wear a shroud. Mr.John, what was it? How could I not see that you just werent' able to cope. With what life was sending your way. How you were becoming deaf to everyone who said that it would get better. Eventually. And one day, you were gone. Never to be seen again. Or remembered. Except as a picture on someone's wall. I wish I could see you again. I wish I could have stopped you. I miss you so much Mr. John. Now that you are forever gone. -- Jonnalagadda Rajeev