A/N: Well, there isn't much for me to say. Please review and tell me what you think. Also, thanks to my awesome beta, Aventine Hill.

o…By: Acacia Thorn…o

Heroes…who needed them?

There they were in all their glory, soaking up attention that wasn't even theirs. Did they do anything? No! But somehow they get all the fame. Books are written about them, legends are passed about them; they're everything.

Well, I didn't need those heroes. I could take care of myself; I have been taking care of myself.

"Oh, it was riveting," they would say, "it was all up to me!"

Only fools would believe that. And there are a lot of fools.

Nobody thought about those who actually gave blood to aid this hero, nobody thought about how this hero really came out victorious. They find their hero and that's it; they don't give a second glance to the people who're rotting there, bruised and lost and waiting.

I had been there when it had happened. I didn't know where I was or who I belonged to; I was an empty shadow, freely manipulated.

I had run away to have a place; instead, I lost everything. I was young and foolish; I didn't know what was beyond the posters and promises of acceptance. I didn't know about the blood, the loss, the emptiness it all brought. And I had paid the price for it.

"You'll be the best," they had told me. "Your name can carry on."

They never got the chance to finish their sentence. Perhaps they thought it was too painful for me to bear, but it didn't matter to me. I would've liked to know the truth before I ran. That way, maybe I would've been the hero. Maybe it would've been me on their shoulders, my name being chanted throughout crowds.

They should've said that I could be famous—if I was someone; if I was claimed. Who would want to worship the child of no one?

But they didn't tell me, and so I left. I was searching for something, I remember. But I didn't know what. I had arrived there in pieces, begging for a place to stay and rest. They had accepted me in, but nothing changed. I was still nonexistent.

The bitterness that had welled inside me boiled to the surface then; it came in waves of hatred and flashes of agony. I only saw red. I drank blood and I danced on ashes; even some of the other nobodies were scared of me. I was a monster. Killing brought me pleasure. It made me feel like I was on top, like I was important.

They said they loved me for that. They loved the animal that had escaped its cage; they didn't love me. I knew that, but it was such a new feeling…to be wanted. Wanted—me! It was almost unrealistic. I killed more people; I hurt more people; all because I wanted to feel like that forever.

That blood stained me forever, and it hurt somewhere deep inside, but the monster was too great. It took over completely.

I was one of the first, you know, one of the first to fall victim. I was there to watch as more and more came, just like me, and met their inner animals. Some, I think, were even worse than me, but I don't think they wanted it. I could see them fighting, and it made me think: What good am I? I didn't even have the courage to face myself. The emptiness had returned, and I became hollow once more, simply a marionette on broken strings.

Right after the largest wave of new recruits came, we were marched to some place I knew. I couldn't tell you where it was; everything was a blur. But I had been there before. I just knew it.

They told us there would be war and nothing else. They told us to go on and kill like usual.

Like usual.

How long had it been? I didn't know. Everything was a blur, but suddenly there was an axe settling firmly down on my chest. Years of guilt were building on me, weighing me down. I had crumpled at first, but I fought my way up. I had been a killer from birth—that I was sure of, so why should I be defeated by some emotion? Guilt was only a barrier from my goals.

What goals? It all seemed to make sense then; why not now?

I went on, determined to be recognized, to win this battle. They had said that the enemy was not strong; my question was: Who was the enemy?

My answer had not been expected.

I saw so many faces, familiar and unfamiliar, all set into masks of stone. The few I knew were older and wizened with war, and those I didn't were youthful and round-faced, though they too were grave. It broke what little heart I had left, but I showed no emotion. The others around me seemed to get angrier, gripping their spears tightly and glaring with all their force. I could see their monsters reawaken, as if called upon.

I had beaten my monster back.

We were careful and practiced, almost by habit. I knew I was moving, but to where, I didn't think about. I only followed and didn't question, though I winced every time I saw another one fall, be it on our side or theirs.

Then it happened.

It was on a bridge; I wasn't sure which. I was stationed with another demigod on my side. We were ahead of the actual army, just to scout out the battlefield, nothing more. Arrows were flying everywhere; our archers were no match. I didn't know whether to be grateful or annoyed.

One struck me in the arm. I called out to my comrade, but with one look at his eyes I knew he wouldn't help. He was like me: cold and selfish. He fled and hid, right after another arrow got me in the back. I fell to the ground.

There was a loud screech that filled the air, and I pulled my knees up to my chest and covered my ears. The cut in my back deepened with the movement, letting another shear of agony ripple up my spine.

They thought I had died, but they were wrong. I still felt the battle thrashing around me, sending vibrations through my skull and hot surges of pain throughout my body. The air was thick with loss. The noises steadily softened and the air chilled. Night had fallen.

These are my last thoughts; these are my regrets. I lay here, immobile, settled on the cold stone. It is not a pleasant experience.

I see nothing but black, and I know. I know that there is no more for me, nothing left of me but the lives I have taken.

I don't have the chance to tell them I am sorry, and even that is not enough. I only wish that they could hear these thoughts and know that I had never meant for it to be.

The black consumes me.

Fin