It May Take A Battleground

.:It May Take A Battleground:.

I thought I'd finally found somewhere,

where I was needed, but

I was left alone, again.

I thought I was where I was suppose to be—

and maybe I was, but

I didn't think it was suppose to end like this.

Were heroes not suppose to have a happy ending?

Was I a hero?

What did a hero do, that I didn't?

I was alone, again, now.

They left me, turned on me—

just like everyone, everything else.

Where could I go?

I thought I'd finally found somewhere,

that I was wanted, but,

apparently, I wasn't. Hadn't been.

Maybe no one wanted me.

Maybe I wasn't supposed to be there at all.

I was unwanted? It seemed so;

they hated me, for some reason—

and I just don't understand anything,

anymore.

Maybe I was supposed to leave, perhaps.

I'd done what they wanted, what was asked of me,

what felt right, what needed to be done.

Now...

I thought I'd finally found somewhere,

that I belonged, but—

Maybe, perhaps, I don't belong anywhere at all.

. . .

I was five when a demon stole my mother's face.

It wasn't quick—it was more of a gradual process, I suppose, but it happened. And I saw it.

My mother was the most wonderful person in the world. She cared for me, took care of me, loved me. She worked at a candy shop, and always—always—brought me home a bag of samples on the weekends that we could share together. They were always blue, my favorite color. When she cooked my dinner, she made it a habit of making at least one dish blue at all times. When she placed the food in front of me, she always gave me a small, gentle smile and said I'd get a bedtime story as long as I finished my vegetables. I didn't mind—the vegetables didn't taste as bad as the other kids were convinced they were, and my mom was just looking out for me, keeping me healthy. That gave me a warm feeling in my chest—she always cared. When I first started school, she'd always make time in the afternoons—even when she was busy—to help me with y homework, and teach me some extra things. Those at-home lessons aided me in moving ahead of the other children, much to their envy, but I didn't really care all that much about my grades—I only sought to do well since it would please her, and make her happy. When I was scared, or hurt, she always made me feel better. She always gave me those small smiles full of love. When I did something from, she never snapped at me—she only gave me a disappointed look, took me by the hands, looked me in the eyes and told me what I did wrong—then she told me to try my best not to do it again, and that it made her very sad. I always listened, since I never wanted to see that disappointed gaze again—it didn't suit my mother, she was suppose to be happy and full of love.