This is a short story/poem i wrote the other day, i hope you a'll enjoy it.

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NO HERO

 

                He stood, waiting for the train to pass.  On the other side of the tracks was his destination.  It was the place were he and all of his friends hung out.  An arcade that allowed them to just relax, talk, and play cards.  For four years he would go there to be with his friends.  He always had fun with them, they made him laugh.

He felt the cold metal of the gun in his pocket.  He always suspected, but was to naïve` to see the truth.  He would just tell himself he was being paranoid.  Until he couldn’t hide any longer. 

He stood, waiting for the train to pass.  On the other side was where he was going.  He wanted to see his suspected friends.  The “friends” that made fun of him, treated him like dirt, and then acted like nothing was wrong and everything was fine.  They would laugh at him, when he though they were laughing with him.

He felt the cold metal of the gun in his pocket.  Not all of them hated him; he knew that, some of them were his friends.  He also knew that those few weren’t going to be there today.  They were safe.

He stood, waiting for the train to pass.  For four years he thought they liked him, he was wrong.  He watched the train as it passed, he would read the graffiti on the train.  The train sped by, he looked towards the end, and it was still a ways off.

He felt the cold metal of the gun in his pocket.  Suddenly he thought about his heroes, the comic book superheroes he had always idolized, the Supermen, the Spider-men, the Captain Marvels.  He always looked up to those heroes, the ones that said you could accomplish anything.  How he wished he had superpowers, then they would have liked him.

He stood, waiting for the train to pass.  What would those heroes have done in his situation?  All he knew for sure was that he wasn’t a superhero, he never would be one. 

He felt the cold metal of the gun in his pocket.  He cried.  He screamed.  And he knew the one thing he had always known.  Even though he would never be a superhero, didn’t mean he couldn’t still act like one.

He no longer stood waiting for the train to pass.  He no longer felt the cold metal of the gun in his pocket.  He walked away, back to his car.  He was no hero, but he could always dream.