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Fiction, Short Fiction
My hero, His Heroin
by: Jim Jones
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live life in the dark? Will light ever reach his heart? I cannot say for sure, but when we were children, the light seemed to follow him everywhere he went. It would radiate form him like so me pornographic movie. I was the one living in the dark. I didnít know then that the light would be the demise of my hero.
Yes, My hero. Where did you go? I surely must know. Did that light take you away from me? I surely must know. It was when I was a teenager that the light had shown to me. It was then that I was confused on why the light had passed me by. It was then that my hero found his way of life. Even though it was a secret then, I have found out since that this was a secret to behold. I had never knew that this was the secret that my mother never wanted to see, even though it was staring at her like she where the target of some kind of assassination. And she was. She was the target of an assassination. The assassination that my brother had pulled the trigger on. Maybe not in the truest sense, yet an assassination just the same. It was the assassination of her heart. And I have felt her pain myself.
Never knowing who or what my hero was rescuing. It was me!!! Yes me. It was me that he was trying to rescue. Or. Did he even give a shit about me? Maybe it was his own heart that he was trying to rescue. Yes. It must have been. He has never thought of the consequences when it came to my heart. It was there for his taking. To do with as he pleased. Yes, I was a teenager at the time, and he was my hero. Unknowing it at the time, he was the wrong kind of hero. He still played upon my heart as I saw him hang with his pals. I made friends with them too. And now I can see that they were just using me. Yes, see it now. Now I know that I was just a trumpet in his band. Being played as the music rolled on and his sleeves rolled up. Yes, Now I see. I was the needle in his vein. I was the juice that filled his soul. I was the deadly disease as he lived his life of heroism. I was the vein that popped every time a bad batch would come his way. Yes. Now I see.
I could never go back to those days as for they have disappeared forever. And the holding that held him for so long has tightened itís grip on him. Some say that there is a point of no return. But there is one. I know there. There has too be one. A point. A point where enough was too much where the path of glory strives in his heart, even though I am twenty seven now I feel sixty with his heroism. I feel that he saved me from his destiny. But if I could I would trade his life for mine. Yes. It was him that saved my life. I just wish that I could save his. He is my hero, and heroin is his life.