Epitome of a Hero Complex
Alfred F Jones.
How would I begin to describe this man?
He was loud; that’s the first thing I remember about him. He was loud, but he was thoughtful. Bright enough to shine in anyone’s darkest places, but had a soft enough glow that it would never hurt your eyes. He was smart, but never shoved it down people’s throats like some people did. He knew he was better than most, but never passed up a chance to help someone.
But he was an idiot, a fool. A damned fool that flew too high and never stopped to think about himself for a moment. And he was annoying. Always better than everyone else, always too nice and caring and giving.
But that didn’t stop me. He grabbed my attention first. I wanted what he could give, but I didn’t care about him. He was useful to me, you know?
And I wanted to hate him. God, I tried to hate him and how easily he spoke to others and how bright and natural his smile was and how easy and light his laugh was. But I couldn’t. And against my better judgement, I let myself get pulled into his web of light.
But I didn’t know it would end like it did. I found myself to love him. Every day it got harder and harder to hide myself from his all-knowing gaze and preserve what we had. Eventually he asked me about it, and, thinking back, I believe he already knew the answer, but just wanted me to say it out loud. Cheeky bastard. But I said it anyways. I couldn’t lie to him, even though I tried sometimes.
And when I finally admitted it, the look on his face held more emotion than I think I’ll feel in a lifetime. That in itself almost killed me then and there.
And I wish it had. Because when I had to watch it happen to him, when I watched him get sick and slowly be unable to do any of the things he loved; that is far worse than whatever death would offer me.
The worst day of my life was when the light left it, and again I hated him. I hated him for doing this to me. For leaving without me. Leaving me behind.
And you know, I think about him every day. More and more as time goes on. I’m getting weaker too; I can feel it in my body and see it in my people. Everything is different without him. Everything is far too quiet for my liking.
Because Alfred- the United States of America- was the very definition of goodness. The epitome of a hero complex, if you will.