| heroics |
"The problem with being a hero is that you don't have time to save everyone. Or you just don't want to."
He growled at the sight of his dishelved mother. She was a fucking mess, passed out on the couch, her hair dirty, yellowing teeth arranged into a smile. She was drunk. As usual.
Seven bottles. He could barely stand two, ironic considering his mother sure as hell wasn't a lightweight.
Sighing he looped his arms through hers struggling to lift himself (and her) up the stairs. Her breath stunk of vodka, while the scent of beer lingered upon her clothes.
A daily routine, it was. Him finding his mother on the couch, and having to take her upstairs.
He liked to think of himself as a hero- someone who helped others. But, in fact he was quite the opposite. He deserved every ounce of shit being placed on his shoulders. Every single fucking ounce. He was the reason his mother was like this. He was the reason his father was dead.
So yes, he strongly believed. Not in God. But in karma. For why else would he be in this situation if it weren't for karma? His sister, a prodigal violinist, his brother, a famous actor, and him, a jobless 32 year old.
What he didn't realize that it wasn't just a thought- him being a hero- it was a fact. He had given up his scholarship, so there would be room for his sister in Juliard. He had taken hours every day of every week to help his brother prepare for plays.
He was a true hero- even if he didn't realize it.
"Heroes are the ones afraid to let go of the past, becuase if they do they become fearful. Fearful of the fact that they might make the same mistakes. Again."
