My ex didn’t like my fanfic character. She thought he was annoying.
Just to be clear, that’s not why we broke up. There were other reasons that had nothing to do with my writing, though I do admit I was envious of her own writing skills.
But her attitude toward my character didn’t help the insecurity that had already been sprouting. I was doubting my ability to tell his story. And that insecurity only grew as I began to write one false start after another.
And I want to make it clear that I’m not blaming her for my inability to write. That blame rests squarely on me. I think what happened was that she had insight that I didn’t. She saw something wrong that I couldn’t. And I didn’t know what to do with this information.
You see, she disliked the qualities of my character that I was most interested in. And I believe the reason she disliked my character is because I didn’t have the skill to write a story that serviced his personality.
I think it’s because I was writing a story about trauma and anxiety without realizing it was about trauma and anxiety. Yet I was also trying to shoehorn that character into a Campbellian nightmare of a hero’s journey.
Mine was a character so fearful and anxious that he became just a collection of desires that he never pursued. He didn’t have goals. He didn’t have agency. He didn’t make things happen; rather, things happened to him. It wasn’t until I finally gave him something he wanted (and actually worked toward) that I started getting positive feedback about my character.
I had a plan for him from the beginning. His journey was mapped out. But I realized too late that he didn’t have the right personality for that kind of journey. And by too late, I mean right before I started typing this blog.
It might seem strange that this character has stayed with me for so long. Maybe I should have let it go long ago. But not unlike a relationship, I think parts of a story tend to remain with you long after it ends. So here I am reflecting on a character separated from me by over 20 years, trying to understand what went wrong, trying to believe that I have more insight now than I did then.
Part of the problem with writing a story about trauma without realizing it is that the problem is always present but never addressed. In my inexperience, I believed that the problem was something else. I had created a character who needed to deal with anxiety and fear of abandonment, but within a framework of also needing to defeat the bad guys. But after defeating the bad guys, his actual everyday problems still remained. Whatever satisfaction came with defeating the bad guys was undercut by the fact that my character had not grown. I had created an unsatisfying reading experience without resolution.
And part of this problem was that neither he nor I recognized what his actual problems were. I was too inexperienced to write stories about mental health.
Could I do a better job today? I don’t doubt it. But I don’t think I have the same drive to tell his story today as I did back then. Which is a shame. He deserved better.
Monday, June 8, 2020
Analysis: The Gift of Fear, Chapter 1
I wanted to overcome fear.
That’s what I was hoping to get out of this book. But that’s not what this book is about.
This book is about how to use fear as a reliable tool.
I was looking for pointers on how to have more courage to pursue my dreams or talk to girls. This book was more concerned with protecting ourselves from violence. So naturally, when I read this some years ago, I was concerned that this wasn’t the right book for me.
But I think it does offer me a different perspective on fear, one that I often ignore. Fear isn’t just that thing that keeps me from following my dreams or talking to girls. Fear has a purpose. Fear exists to keep us alive.
But in order for fear to be useful to us, we must be able to accurately read situations and signals that might pose a threat to us. One thing that can prevent a clear reading of situations is anxiety.
Anxiety, as I see it, comes from misinterpreting the stakes of a situation. Any situation, no matter how insignificant, can feel like a life or death situation. In many of these situations, where our lives are not actually, literally on the line, fear is not the ally it is designed to be. Anxiety is fear without purpose.
The book, however, makes it clear why we need fear and how to use it. It is a tool and an ally.
Perhaps as I read this book for the second time, I can try to understand the situations where fear is required, and therefore better understand the situations where fear is not. Sort of like getting a sense of my own life by filling in all the space around it.
Each of the examples in this book is terrifying in one way or another. Feelings of helplessness. Feelings of shame because we failed to read the situation correctly. Feelings of being reduced to animal instincts and not knowing whether those instincts will save us or get us killed. But the book posits that we actually have all the skills we need. We are always receiving signals. We just have to learn how to listen to them and to trust our instincts.
I don’t know how this will help me pursue my dreams or talk to girls. But there is knowledge and insight here, and it can’t hurt to have some more knowledge and insight.
That’s what I was hoping to get out of this book. But that’s not what this book is about.
This book is about how to use fear as a reliable tool.
I was looking for pointers on how to have more courage to pursue my dreams or talk to girls. This book was more concerned with protecting ourselves from violence. So naturally, when I read this some years ago, I was concerned that this wasn’t the right book for me.
But I think it does offer me a different perspective on fear, one that I often ignore. Fear isn’t just that thing that keeps me from following my dreams or talking to girls. Fear has a purpose. Fear exists to keep us alive.
But in order for fear to be useful to us, we must be able to accurately read situations and signals that might pose a threat to us. One thing that can prevent a clear reading of situations is anxiety.
Anxiety, as I see it, comes from misinterpreting the stakes of a situation. Any situation, no matter how insignificant, can feel like a life or death situation. In many of these situations, where our lives are not actually, literally on the line, fear is not the ally it is designed to be. Anxiety is fear without purpose.
The book, however, makes it clear why we need fear and how to use it. It is a tool and an ally.
Perhaps as I read this book for the second time, I can try to understand the situations where fear is required, and therefore better understand the situations where fear is not. Sort of like getting a sense of my own life by filling in all the space around it.
Each of the examples in this book is terrifying in one way or another. Feelings of helplessness. Feelings of shame because we failed to read the situation correctly. Feelings of being reduced to animal instincts and not knowing whether those instincts will save us or get us killed. But the book posits that we actually have all the skills we need. We are always receiving signals. We just have to learn how to listen to them and to trust our instincts.
I don’t know how this will help me pursue my dreams or talk to girls. But there is knowledge and insight here, and it can’t hurt to have some more knowledge and insight.
Thursday, June 4, 2020
The Gift of "The Gift of Fear"
I have a friend who occasionally sends me self-help books. I try not to take it personally.
With my low self-esteem, it’s easy for me to conclude that she sends me these books because she sees there is something wrong with me. She’s trying to fix me.
But I don’t think that’s the truth. That’s just my low self-esteem.
In reality, we have known each other for a long time, and she knows that I worry about myself a lot. She knows all about the low self-esteem. She knows I struggle with anxiety and doubt. She knows I’m interested in working on myself and that I struggle to find effective ways to do so.
So she sends me self-help books. And I try not to take it personally.
One of the books she sent me was The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker. It was a very good book about what it means when we feel afraid, about how fear can be an important message that we should listen to and understand, rather than something that should be fought and suppressed.
I completely misread this book.
I think it was a combination of my well-established low self-esteem along with some internalized sexism that led me to believe that this book’s target demographic was women. Most of the situations in the book were women-centric. The women were the protagonists and the men were the antagonists. So instead of reading the book to gain an understanding of my own relationship with fear, I read the book to gain an understanding of my own relationship with women.
That’s right, I identified with the “villains.”
Reading one example after another led me (and my low self-esteem) to link them to isolated incidents in my life where the Venn diagram of ME and PROBLEMATIC MALE overlapped. I read the entire book and concluded that I was actually a lot more like PROBLEMATIC MALE than I realized.
My low self-esteem weaponized a self-help book against me.
When I told my friend what I had “learned” from the book, she was visibly frustrated with me. I think from her perspective my misreading of the book was almost willful and stubborn. She was probably right.
Or maybe I’m just projecting. It takes a certain amount of stubbornness to cling to a certain way of thinking.
The thing about low self-esteem is that it actually takes a lot of work. You’re expending energy looking for reasons to dislike yourself, to put yourself down. And the worst part is, you’re lying to yourself. In reality, you’re not that bad.
So it’s in recognition of my warped perspective that I would like to reread The Gift of Fear. I want to go through it chapter by chapter and share my thoughts in this blog. And I’d like to do a better job of reading than I did before.
I wasn’t meant to identify with the problematic men in the book. I was meant to identify with the ones who were dealing with fear. Ironically, my own insecurities—my own fear—got in the way of this. So this time, I’ll do what I should have done before. I’ll identify with the women.
With my low self-esteem, it’s easy for me to conclude that she sends me these books because she sees there is something wrong with me. She’s trying to fix me.
But I don’t think that’s the truth. That’s just my low self-esteem.
In reality, we have known each other for a long time, and she knows that I worry about myself a lot. She knows all about the low self-esteem. She knows I struggle with anxiety and doubt. She knows I’m interested in working on myself and that I struggle to find effective ways to do so.
So she sends me self-help books. And I try not to take it personally.
One of the books she sent me was The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker. It was a very good book about what it means when we feel afraid, about how fear can be an important message that we should listen to and understand, rather than something that should be fought and suppressed.
I completely misread this book.
I think it was a combination of my well-established low self-esteem along with some internalized sexism that led me to believe that this book’s target demographic was women. Most of the situations in the book were women-centric. The women were the protagonists and the men were the antagonists. So instead of reading the book to gain an understanding of my own relationship with fear, I read the book to gain an understanding of my own relationship with women.
That’s right, I identified with the “villains.”
Reading one example after another led me (and my low self-esteem) to link them to isolated incidents in my life where the Venn diagram of ME and PROBLEMATIC MALE overlapped. I read the entire book and concluded that I was actually a lot more like PROBLEMATIC MALE than I realized.
My low self-esteem weaponized a self-help book against me.
When I told my friend what I had “learned” from the book, she was visibly frustrated with me. I think from her perspective my misreading of the book was almost willful and stubborn. She was probably right.
Or maybe I’m just projecting. It takes a certain amount of stubbornness to cling to a certain way of thinking.
The thing about low self-esteem is that it actually takes a lot of work. You’re expending energy looking for reasons to dislike yourself, to put yourself down. And the worst part is, you’re lying to yourself. In reality, you’re not that bad.
So it’s in recognition of my warped perspective that I would like to reread The Gift of Fear. I want to go through it chapter by chapter and share my thoughts in this blog. And I’d like to do a better job of reading than I did before.
I wasn’t meant to identify with the problematic men in the book. I was meant to identify with the ones who were dealing with fear. Ironically, my own insecurities—my own fear—got in the way of this. So this time, I’ll do what I should have done before. I’ll identify with the women.
Sunday, May 31, 2020
Success = Failure
I need to give myself permission to write. More specifically, I need to give myself permission to write badly.
I think I would be happier if I wrote more. And I think I would become a better writer if I allowed myself to write badly from time to time.
Few things have made me as happy as writing. It doesn’t happen every time I write. Just sometimes, when I’m really into it.
But I’m afraid of failing. And because of that, I often will refuse to try.
If you have ever been held back by fear, I think you know the feeling. You want something so hard that your heart aches. Then over time you grow numb. Then over more time you forget.
But the pain of wanting never really goes away. It still cries out for what it wants. It never stopped. You just stopped listening to it.
If failure is the only thing preventing me from experiencing the delirious, creative joy of writing, then I give myself permission to fail.
When I learn how to fail, then I can learn to have fun. Then I can learn to experiment and create.
Then I can write.
I think I would be happier if I wrote more. And I think I would become a better writer if I allowed myself to write badly from time to time.
Few things have made me as happy as writing. It doesn’t happen every time I write. Just sometimes, when I’m really into it.
But I’m afraid of failing. And because of that, I often will refuse to try.
If you have ever been held back by fear, I think you know the feeling. You want something so hard that your heart aches. Then over time you grow numb. Then over more time you forget.
But the pain of wanting never really goes away. It still cries out for what it wants. It never stopped. You just stopped listening to it.
If failure is the only thing preventing me from experiencing the delirious, creative joy of writing, then I give myself permission to fail.
When I learn how to fail, then I can learn to have fun. Then I can learn to experiment and create.
Then I can write.
Sunday, January 12, 2020
That time when Solo happened
From a year ago:
Solo is on Netflix.
In many ways, it is the opposite of The Last Jedi. Where TLJ attempted to subvert expectations and wound up upsetting many fans, Solo is all fan service. Yet somehow it still manages to be mediocre as a Star Wars movie.
I've been using a new word to describe films I am not content with. "Inoffensive." When I call a film inoffensive, what I'm saying is not that it is particularly good or bad--not that I liked or disliked it. Mainly I am saying that the film took no real risks, didn't offer anything new, didn't make a good case for its own existence. (Unless it's a Transformers movie, for which "inoffensive" is the highest compliment I can give this Bay-tortured franchise.)
Solo was a Star Wars movie that I neither wanted nor asked for, especially from the fan fiction studios at Disney. But then, I didn't ask for Rogue One, and I wound up liking that hasty little movie (or at least liking some moments in it).
Star Wars needs to have memorable "Holy Shit" moments. It gets harder to include those moments in this era of advanced CGI. Frankly, audiences are harder to impress. That's why the story needs to be better now than ever before. (Our emotions. Our emotions.)
Today, Star Wars couldn't get away with a prequel trilogy. (Some might say that it didn't before.) Hell, today Star Wars couldn't get away with Return of the Jedi, which I now acknowledge was not good Star Wars--merely mediocre Star Wars with a few awesome moments.
And I'll admit it--I've grown to be something of a snob about this sort of thing. You know, geeky things. I am continually frustrated when things don't turn out to be the best possible versions of themselves. After all, life is full of disappointment. What's the point of escapism if it just brings further disappointment?
But I know that making a film is no small undertaking. So many things can go wrong. It's a miracle that anything likable makes it into the final product.
So when I express disappointment in a film, I try to keep it focused on the story--not on the people who made the film. Not the actors.
In the past, even Star Wars movies I disliked had one or two moments I liked to revisit. The Darth Maul fight. The Coruscant chase. Order 66.
The Force Awakens didn't have such a moment for me. There was nothing for me to revisit, because the entire movie was a "revisiting" of the original Star Wars. The Last Jedi, at least, had one such moment--the reappearance of Yoda. Rogue One had the Darth Vader moment at the end, and I liked the big battle on Scariff. Solo...
Solo had a bunch of references to things I liked, but not a whole lot of actual things I liked. But it wasn't bad. It had its charms. It was just... forgettable. Mediocre.
Inoffensive.
Solo is on Netflix.
In many ways, it is the opposite of The Last Jedi. Where TLJ attempted to subvert expectations and wound up upsetting many fans, Solo is all fan service. Yet somehow it still manages to be mediocre as a Star Wars movie.
I've been using a new word to describe films I am not content with. "Inoffensive." When I call a film inoffensive, what I'm saying is not that it is particularly good or bad--not that I liked or disliked it. Mainly I am saying that the film took no real risks, didn't offer anything new, didn't make a good case for its own existence. (Unless it's a Transformers movie, for which "inoffensive" is the highest compliment I can give this Bay-tortured franchise.)
Solo was a Star Wars movie that I neither wanted nor asked for, especially from the fan fiction studios at Disney. But then, I didn't ask for Rogue One, and I wound up liking that hasty little movie (or at least liking some moments in it).
Star Wars needs to have memorable "Holy Shit" moments. It gets harder to include those moments in this era of advanced CGI. Frankly, audiences are harder to impress. That's why the story needs to be better now than ever before. (Our emotions. Our emotions.)
Today, Star Wars couldn't get away with a prequel trilogy. (Some might say that it didn't before.) Hell, today Star Wars couldn't get away with Return of the Jedi, which I now acknowledge was not good Star Wars--merely mediocre Star Wars with a few awesome moments.
And I'll admit it--I've grown to be something of a snob about this sort of thing. You know, geeky things. I am continually frustrated when things don't turn out to be the best possible versions of themselves. After all, life is full of disappointment. What's the point of escapism if it just brings further disappointment?
But I know that making a film is no small undertaking. So many things can go wrong. It's a miracle that anything likable makes it into the final product.
So when I express disappointment in a film, I try to keep it focused on the story--not on the people who made the film. Not the actors.
In the past, even Star Wars movies I disliked had one or two moments I liked to revisit. The Darth Maul fight. The Coruscant chase. Order 66.
The Force Awakens didn't have such a moment for me. There was nothing for me to revisit, because the entire movie was a "revisiting" of the original Star Wars. The Last Jedi, at least, had one such moment--the reappearance of Yoda. Rogue One had the Darth Vader moment at the end, and I liked the big battle on Scariff. Solo...
Solo had a bunch of references to things I liked, but not a whole lot of actual things I liked. But it wasn't bad. It had its charms. It was just... forgettable. Mediocre.
Inoffensive.
Friday, January 10, 2020
The value of stories
Sometimes, I forget the value of stories. What I need from them.
Stories can be great. They can make me feel more in touch with humanity, with myself.
They can also be not-so-great. They can feel empty and shallow.
The most disappointing stories are the ones that promise me everything I want but fail to deliver. But even more disappointing than those are the ones that give me exactly what I think I want, only for me to realize that wasn’t what I wanted at all.
Sometimes it feels like a story exists for the sole purpose of selling me something. To strengthen a brand, for instance. (Capitalism and art can coexist, but there are low points.)
My favorite stories aren’t actually *my* stories. But they *feel* like they were written just for me. But because I connect with them—because I relate to them—so strongly, I take “ownership” of them, which leads to other problems.
I think it is wrongheaded for fans to think, “I need this story to be for *me*.” It doesn’t feel right to me for fans to shape and bend someone else’s story to their will.
When I was a more avid reader of comics (I’ve grown more selective in my old age), I couldn’t understand the people who kept talking about the books they hated. To me the answer was simple: “Stop reading those books. Read something else.”
But they had a different attitude. They considered themselves huge fans of those books, therefore the books were somehow obligated to give them the experience they desired. The fact that they didn’t—or couldn’t—was a show of “disrespect” to fans.
This strikes me as a kind of intellectual laziness. The fan is no longer putting in the work to search the world for the art that speaks to them. They expect the art to be handed to them on a silver platter.
No. We, the fans, need to do the work. We need to keep looking. Because it is very likely that we will grow dissatisfied with what we have. We will reach a point where our favorite thing has nothing left to give us. And we need to be okay with that. We cannot be resentful, because that leads to toxic behavior.
We found great art before, we can find it again.
And if we can’t find it, then we need to make it.
Stories can be great. They can make me feel more in touch with humanity, with myself.
They can also be not-so-great. They can feel empty and shallow.
The most disappointing stories are the ones that promise me everything I want but fail to deliver. But even more disappointing than those are the ones that give me exactly what I think I want, only for me to realize that wasn’t what I wanted at all.
Sometimes it feels like a story exists for the sole purpose of selling me something. To strengthen a brand, for instance. (Capitalism and art can coexist, but there are low points.)
My favorite stories aren’t actually *my* stories. But they *feel* like they were written just for me. But because I connect with them—because I relate to them—so strongly, I take “ownership” of them, which leads to other problems.
I think it is wrongheaded for fans to think, “I need this story to be for *me*.” It doesn’t feel right to me for fans to shape and bend someone else’s story to their will.
When I was a more avid reader of comics (I’ve grown more selective in my old age), I couldn’t understand the people who kept talking about the books they hated. To me the answer was simple: “Stop reading those books. Read something else.”
But they had a different attitude. They considered themselves huge fans of those books, therefore the books were somehow obligated to give them the experience they desired. The fact that they didn’t—or couldn’t—was a show of “disrespect” to fans.
This strikes me as a kind of intellectual laziness. The fan is no longer putting in the work to search the world for the art that speaks to them. They expect the art to be handed to them on a silver platter.
No. We, the fans, need to do the work. We need to keep looking. Because it is very likely that we will grow dissatisfied with what we have. We will reach a point where our favorite thing has nothing left to give us. And we need to be okay with that. We cannot be resentful, because that leads to toxic behavior.
We found great art before, we can find it again.
And if we can’t find it, then we need to make it.
Thursday, January 2, 2020
Gargoyles Fanfic: "Rose"
It felt like he had been asleep for ages. He was in the clock tower. Or was it the castle? He was asleep in bed. Or was he a statue? He was a man. Or was he a gargoyle?
Everything else seemed normal. The gargoyles shed their stone skin, roaring, eyes ablaze. Elisa was already there, telling them about the Pack, or Dr. Sevarius, or Thailog, or Xanatos. It all seemed so very far away now, like a dream.
“You’re starting to notice.”
He turned around. The man before him had blonde hair, glasses, and a stony demeanor to match his stone hand. But even disoriented, he could tell that the man did not belong here.
“What’s happening? Is this some kind of trick?”
The man adjusted his glasses. “That would be out of character. What do you remember?”
“I remember… running. Fighting. Pain.” His eyes darkened. “It was all I knew. I thought it would never end.”
“When did it end?”
“When I found them.” He turned to them. Goliath. Elisa. Hudson. Brooklyn. Broadway. Lexington. Bronx. Angela. “I felt safe with them. For a while. But I think some part of me never stopped running. Never stopped looking over my shoulder.”
“Despite your power?”
“Power?” he laughed. “What is power? Just another problem. Another complication. Another thing to be afraid of.” He stared at his hand. Once they had been sealed in metal to mask his true nature. He was meant to look human after all. Claws would have been a dead giveaway.
“That power saved your life on numerous occasions.”
“It did,” he conceded. “It was an advantage. But it was also a crutch. It made me a target. It made me dangerous. It made me an enemy. I never wanted to fight. I only ever wanted to be safe.”
“Maybe that was too much to hope for.”
“Maybe it was. Maybe I should have been grateful. I had strength. I was programmed to fight. I even had magic. But none of it felt like it was really mine. It felt like… like a layer of stone skin protecting the flesh underneath.” He stared at his hand, his talon. “Like it was given to me on a whim. I started to wonder. What was underneath all of that? What was so precious that it needed so many layers of protection?”
“Perhaps nothing.”
He looked at the man. He could sense no malice. “Perhaps. When I was… made… I was designed to be a tool. I was never meant to think for myself. All they cared about was making a weapon. They didn’t intend for anything to be underneath all those flashy abilities. I was actually kind of glad to be rid of my powers. Afraid. But kind of glad.” He got a faraway look in his eyes. “Like I was getting closer to finding the real me.”
He looked once again at the ones who took him in. They seemed farther away now, even though none of them had moved.
“But there never was a real me.” It was not a question, but he waited for the other to respond.
“No,” he said. “There never was.”
He stood silently with this revelation. And then he nodded. “So what was I, then? An illusion?”
“Something like that.”
He looked over his shoulder. “Will they remember?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “In dreams.”
“Was there a point to any of this?”
“I suspect someone was curious. They wanted to see what would happen. You were made to satisfy that curiosity. But this was never really your home. You were always just a visitor. Some part of you must have known this.”
He nodded. “It was a good dream. Strange but good.” He hesitated. “Can I… Can I say goodbye before I go?”
“I’m sorry. You are already gone. You have been gone for a while.”
He looked over his shoulder. They were far away now. Talking about patrolling. Saving the city from Demona. Reading Shakespeare. Fighting. Loving. Living.
It comforted him to know that they would go on, even without him.
“Are you ready?”
He laughed quietly. “How could anyone be ready?”
“Then it’s time to go.”
“Wait,” he said. “There is another—one whose life is bound to mine. Will she be okay?”
The other man stared at him.
“I guess it doesn’t matter if none of it was real.”
“Yes, none of it was real.” The other man then did something rare for him. He smiled. “But I never said it didn’t matter.”
* * *
He had been given one final gift. It was just a dream, but somehow that made it more precious.
He was looking down at the city, passing by overhead. Goliath was there, Elisa in his arms. Hudson was there too. And Brooklyn. Broadway. Lexington. Bronx. Angela.
And her.
Her hand was in his. When everything else melted away, he could still feel her hand and see her smile. She was still there when the city faded. She was still there when his friends faded. She was still there when he had forgotten his own name.
But even that was okay. He didn’t need a name.
He was a gargoyle.
Everything else seemed normal. The gargoyles shed their stone skin, roaring, eyes ablaze. Elisa was already there, telling them about the Pack, or Dr. Sevarius, or Thailog, or Xanatos. It all seemed so very far away now, like a dream.
“You’re starting to notice.”
He turned around. The man before him had blonde hair, glasses, and a stony demeanor to match his stone hand. But even disoriented, he could tell that the man did not belong here.
“What’s happening? Is this some kind of trick?”
The man adjusted his glasses. “That would be out of character. What do you remember?”
“I remember… running. Fighting. Pain.” His eyes darkened. “It was all I knew. I thought it would never end.”
“When did it end?”
“When I found them.” He turned to them. Goliath. Elisa. Hudson. Brooklyn. Broadway. Lexington. Bronx. Angela. “I felt safe with them. For a while. But I think some part of me never stopped running. Never stopped looking over my shoulder.”
“Despite your power?”
“Power?” he laughed. “What is power? Just another problem. Another complication. Another thing to be afraid of.” He stared at his hand. Once they had been sealed in metal to mask his true nature. He was meant to look human after all. Claws would have been a dead giveaway.
“That power saved your life on numerous occasions.”
“It did,” he conceded. “It was an advantage. But it was also a crutch. It made me a target. It made me dangerous. It made me an enemy. I never wanted to fight. I only ever wanted to be safe.”
“Maybe that was too much to hope for.”
“Maybe it was. Maybe I should have been grateful. I had strength. I was programmed to fight. I even had magic. But none of it felt like it was really mine. It felt like… like a layer of stone skin protecting the flesh underneath.” He stared at his hand, his talon. “Like it was given to me on a whim. I started to wonder. What was underneath all of that? What was so precious that it needed so many layers of protection?”
“Perhaps nothing.”
He looked at the man. He could sense no malice. “Perhaps. When I was… made… I was designed to be a tool. I was never meant to think for myself. All they cared about was making a weapon. They didn’t intend for anything to be underneath all those flashy abilities. I was actually kind of glad to be rid of my powers. Afraid. But kind of glad.” He got a faraway look in his eyes. “Like I was getting closer to finding the real me.”
He looked once again at the ones who took him in. They seemed farther away now, even though none of them had moved.
“But there never was a real me.” It was not a question, but he waited for the other to respond.
“No,” he said. “There never was.”
He stood silently with this revelation. And then he nodded. “So what was I, then? An illusion?”
“Something like that.”
He looked over his shoulder. “Will they remember?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “In dreams.”
“Was there a point to any of this?”
“I suspect someone was curious. They wanted to see what would happen. You were made to satisfy that curiosity. But this was never really your home. You were always just a visitor. Some part of you must have known this.”
He nodded. “It was a good dream. Strange but good.” He hesitated. “Can I… Can I say goodbye before I go?”
“I’m sorry. You are already gone. You have been gone for a while.”
He looked over his shoulder. They were far away now. Talking about patrolling. Saving the city from Demona. Reading Shakespeare. Fighting. Loving. Living.
It comforted him to know that they would go on, even without him.
“Are you ready?”
He laughed quietly. “How could anyone be ready?”
“Then it’s time to go.”
“Wait,” he said. “There is another—one whose life is bound to mine. Will she be okay?”
The other man stared at him.
“I guess it doesn’t matter if none of it was real.”
“Yes, none of it was real.” The other man then did something rare for him. He smiled. “But I never said it didn’t matter.”
* * *
He had been given one final gift. It was just a dream, but somehow that made it more precious.
He was looking down at the city, passing by overhead. Goliath was there, Elisa in his arms. Hudson was there too. And Brooklyn. Broadway. Lexington. Bronx. Angela.
And her.
Her hand was in his. When everything else melted away, he could still feel her hand and see her smile. She was still there when the city faded. She was still there when his friends faded. She was still there when he had forgotten his own name.
But even that was okay. He didn’t need a name.
He was a gargoyle.
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