What's it like to be me

Fiction Friday: Pick a mythical person or creature (e.g., Santa, Thor, Easter Bunny), and explain through dialogue, essay, or anything else, why they are unhappy with their job or position in life.

Over the clouds and into the blue sky, I fly. Though it's only Tuesday, the muscles in my arms are weak. And yet I have to do this today. The 747 is in trouble. I knew the moment I heard the the plane make those awful sounds. Even from thousands of miles away. I was busy trying to write a story about a family and their tragic loss of their father in a car accident - which as I find out wasn't an accident. Good thing I type fast.

There's the plane. The enormous size did not scare me. I knew I could do. Wish I didn't have to. If only they had check the plane more thoroughly before take off. Are they trying to keep me in the 'saving-people' business? Looking at the plane, I felt a sudden urge to yell at them for being careless. Just like humans to be in a rush. I move closer to the plane and signal the pilots hello. I smile casually and pretend there is nothing to worry about. I move to the side of the plane and begin to life it up, high above my shoulders. Going back down to the ground, I search for an empty field. There on the left, a farm. The green grass shine brightly in the afternoon sunlight.

The plane took up almost the entire field, landing on the corn crops. I had no choice but to leave them there. My only job was putting them safety somewhere, not to do all the work for them. If I do then what would be the purpose of their existent? Father told me not to interfere but I felt otherwise and yet I did try my best not to do all the work for them. If I can save them, then I will. Who knows what my purpose is? My earth parents had been really good to me, taught me to be useful and never do anyone harm. I should always try my best even if no one knows it.

I wave goodbye at the faces in the window and fly up into the sky. I can hear their voices talking all at once. It was a good sound to hear but once again, no face to face talking, no close contacts. I know better than to stick around. All those reports questioning me, one in particular would have a field day if she knew who I was. To her I was just a reporter who has good manners with an awkward, clumsy way of behaving.

Pain shoot through my arms as I land at my apartment roof. Saving people is one thing but try doing my other job as a normal human being - is another thing. It's a harder job. I'm pretending, and yet a part of me is not. Yes, I like writing and telling other people's stories. But it never get any notice. The part of me that is out saving people - that's the part that gets notice. How I wish I can just be myself. You know, save a couple of people and then do a report on "why the police corruption went unnoticed" - the kind of human interest stories that I like to write. Saving people can put a strain on myself, even if myself consist of two people. One part of me loves doing it, the other parts of me wish I wouldn't be able to do it. You might say I have a multiple-personality complex. Somehow things just kind of work out and I always end up where I was before - a hero to some and a ordinary guy to others.

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