The Maverick

A hero dressed in holely jeans and scuffed shoes. A wanderer flung amidist a cruel ocean of normalcy. Where's he from? She doesn't know. His identity is pinned to his sleeve, yet she doesn't understand. A false dream, a reality spun of glass and the clicking of keys. Save it to a hard drive. She looks up. His hair has fallen across his face, casting a shadow across one eye. Bitter laughter, half-formed sentences, and constant struggle. One who lives versus the one who exists. Her hand shakes. She shuts her eyes. Focus. Focus. Focus. The secret goes with her. Shut out amongst dusty pages and dead ideas. Bullets to the heart, bullets to the flesh. The keys click faster, with an unspoken urgency that screams through the dead end she's at. Where's he going? A destination. A journey. A road to nowhere. He's cold, dead, lost. Doomed to wander. Doomed to know. Focus. Focus. Focus. Crumpled papers scattered across the floor, like white flowers picked before their time. Twisted thoughts, stories with no end. Help him someone screams. Free him. She can't. Words force themselves out of her mind. Hope. A four letter word. She laughs. Hope can't help him, only she can. She is hope. There is no hope. She is nothing. She is everything. The creater, the destroyer. Focus. Focus. Focus. A companion, a friend. Give him one. Creater, destroyer. Help him. Her eyes squeeze shut. Her hands frame each side of her face. Focus. Focus. Focus. Pain pounds in her head. Make it stop. Set him free. His eyes bore into hers from the page. A peircing blue. No, gray. Like a puddle on the street. Her fingers move of their own will. Words. Sentences. A page slips from her hand. Hits the floor. Set him free. Let him go. Focus. Focus. Focus. Step back. Tell him. Keep the secret. He knows. Set him free.