The Other Side

    In a way, it was always going to come to this. I mean, seriously, what else was going to happen? Was I going to ride off into the sunset on a white horse, the girl of my dreams with her arms around me, victorious?
    I'm the villain of the story, after all. And as that damn hero has always said, "Good always wins!"
    Like this struggle was just black and white. 
    The pain has dulled now, as long as I don't move it shouldn't come back. I wonder if the hero of the story knows that while he didn't deal the blow that killed me, he's murdered me all the same. 
    Eh, it doesn't matter now. He'll go back to his girl and his friends, and they'll cheer the fact that I'm gone, never to be seen again. I wonder how many will know I'm dead. That a fall would kill someone.
    Wait -- is that her? The girl I couldn't win? Did she finally get sick of goody two shoes? I can't see her face. But it has to be her, dressed in white and pale blue. The dress I made for her. She looks good in it. She never wore it before, he didn't like it. He liked her dressed in vibrant colors that always washed her out. She should wear paler shades, like an angel. 
    If anyone is good in this world, it is her. Not me, and certainly not him. He of delusions of being a hero.
    She kneels beside me and lays her cool hand on my forehead. She says something, but the words are jumbled, and it doesn't matter. She's here with me, and not with him. I reach up for her, and her hand moves to intercept mine. It is smooth, delicate, and perfect. 
    She pulls me up to sitting, and her mere presence erases any pain I could feel from my injuries. Perhaps she is truly an angel, to heal all my hurts. After all, even being a villain, all I've ever done was to try and make things better. And wasn't it? People always had work, always had food, and if it wasn't the best there was, at least there was something. What will their "hero" offer them now? The freedom to starve, to freeze in the cold without shelter?
    Oh, my angel, you know better. You've come to save me, to save them all. You know what must be done. You are the best there is, white in a sea of black and grey. 
    And, as everyone knows, good always wins, always triumphs. 
    We rise together, to fly out of the canyon he pushed me into -- and he did push, no matter what he will tell his friends of crumbling rocks and reaching out to try and save me. What else were those hands for? What would he try and save me for? He is not good, no matter what he tells himself and others. No matter what he lies. 
    At least I never lied about being good. I tried to better the world, and that cannot be done without sacrifice. No omelets without breaking eggs, and all that. 
    We are flying, the angel and I. She smiles at me. 
    What?
    I am falling, the hero's face before me, wide eyed and open mouthed. I can see the innocence in them. Pain spreads through my body, warm wetness covers my chest. 
    I want the angel. Where did she go?
    I was only trying to make things better. Why did you hate me? Why did you leave me?
    Don't go. I'm lonely.