People walk over others to get what they want.
And I'm no different; I don't know why, but the way Greg tied his tie so shortly always pissed me off.
"Yo, George, Greg's handing out leaflets for his geeky comic club"
The blond youth donned a medium, blonde central parting, blue eyes, a defining jawline and wore the same untucked white shirt, black blazer and trousers that George had, the only difference being that George was still wearing his red and grey striped tie.
You could call him the group leader—trying to get all his mates involved.
Not for them.
For his own image.
The youth's name was Harry Rosedale, he was the standard popular kid, sporty, extroverted and from a rich family.
George hated what Harry had become: the tormenting, the stepping on others, always wanting to become the centre of attention. But George also hated the idea of being an outcast, so he went along. He even stepped on others himself.
Greg was a prime example.
Your average run-of-the-mill high school student—a good kid. He wore thick, round glasses that made his eyes appear larger, and was a little on the chubby side—he wasn't into sports the way we were. He had other hobbies. Anime. And unfortunately, Harry thought anime was for kids. So Harry ripped up his little leaflets—others followed.
George included.
Sometimes George wished he could punch Harry.
But what good will that do?
He'd just become the next Greg.
But maybe that would've been for the best. What if George had just thrown away his naive hunger for social acceptance? Instead, focusing on trying to be the best person he could possibly be?
What did he do instead?
He wasted his days. No goals. No intentions. They were doing nothing with their lives—self-conscious cowards using others to hide the hatred they held for themselves. What's more, they didn't try to do anything to fix it. What would they be, twenty years from now?
Losers.
There was a day—a specific point in time—in which everything changed. George was handed an opportunity.
A reason to exist.
The bell rang.
"Remember everyone," the chemistry teacher yelled, hanging his white lab coat over the back of his chair, "the bonds test is next Thursday. Have a look over the material…"
George wasn't listening—one headphone was already in. He already clocked out a while ago. His foot tapped against the floor. Chasing the beat.
In the corridors, footsteps tapped against the vinyl flooring. George left the chemistry lab—greeted by a familiar face.
"Hey, George," it was Harry, "You're eighteen, aren't you?"
"Yeah, why?"
The two walked. Entered a door into a set of stairs—walked down.
"My parents are out for the weekend, so I'm throwing a party tomorrow—"
Harry's birthday was a couple of days before—on Tuesday—so the party was a late celebration. He couldn't throw it with his parents there. They'd go mad.
"—and because you're eighteen, Imma need you to get some drinks."
"Me?"
"Not just you, I've got Ben and Jacob getting some as well. I'm also getting some as well.
George stopped—looked at him, one brow raised. Harry met his gaze.
"What?" he asked, "Obviously, only those who are eighteen can buy alcohol"
"So what," George chuckled, "we're enabling underaged drinking?"
"Oh, who cares?" Harry waved his hand, "In a couple months, they'll all be eighteen anyway."
"Hmm," George placed a hand on his chin, "I wonder how that defence would go down in court."
"Come on, George, you only have an eighteenth birthday party once."
"Yeah, I'll get some, don't worry."
Harry bumped his arm with his fist. A warm smile curled on his face.
"That's why you're my brother, George. I'll come with."
The two advanced through the maze of halls. Approached the exit.
"Hey, Harry… Hey George," a girl, Sophie, greeted the two of them. She turned back to Harry, "So a couple others and I are going town, you wanna come?"
"Nah, can't, me and George are busy right now, maybe some other time."
Harry walked off, leaving Sophie staring at the space he left behind him. George quickly followed.
"God, I hate her," Harry said, "she's such a beg, isn't she?"
George snorted—forced.
"Definitely."
The air had a chill to it that tickled the inside of George's nose—winter was coming. He hated winter. The streets had started to become empty. It's only a suburb, but even during summer, you'd see people filling the streets—just wanting to get out of the house. Now they wanted to stay in them. George hated that.
As the two walked, George thought of a million things to say to Harry. However, the issue was knowing whether he should say those things. His brain scrambled. He thought of a simple question.
"Hey, Harry," Harry turned to face him straight away, "we'll be graduating soon, so what are you planning to do after High School?"
He raised a brow.
"It's only November."
"Yeah… you're right…"
There was a moment of silence.
"Hey, George, you've been quiet recently. Something wrong?"
"What?" George's head shot up. He let out a giggle, curling his lips into an awkward smile, "What are you talking about?"
Harry slung his arm around George.
"We've been friends for a long time, George. You know you can talk to me if something's wrong. No matter what, you'll always be my brother."
George's lips curled—real this time.
"yeah…"
"By the way, I'm probably just gonna end up working at the company my dad works at, Rio Media. You?"
"I don't know… University?"
They grabbed the drinks and went their separate ways, fist-bumping as they parted. But George wasn't quite ready to go home just yet. He went to a local park. George sat buried in a cold metal bench, hands tucked in his pockets, legs stretched straight out. In his ears were headphones, playing melancholic indie music. He blew—hot breath formed clouds in the air.
He heard the sound of a pencil scraping against a sheet of paper. He looked to his left. A guy—same age as George—was sitting on the opposite side of the bench. Drawing.
George took one headphone out.
"What you drawing?"
"Huh?" He shot over to George, "Oh…err…nothing."
He squirmed—he must not have noticed George sitting there.
"Don't be embarrassed, I like to draw a bit myself."
George shuffled closer. Peeked over the boy's shoulder.
Panels divided the pages. In those panels were figures, moving, fighting, talking. The drawings were good.
"You draw manga?' George asked.
"Yeah…"
"Mind if I do a quick sketch?"
"S-sure."
The boy handed George the pencil. He rolled it between his fingers. Then drew. His hands danced along the page, bringing it to life. He sketched the face of a woman, eyes dark but glistening. Hair flowing around her face.
"Wow, you're good," the boy's eyes traced his hands gliding along the page.
"Thanks."
Suddenly, the phone in George's pocket rang, urging him out of the pages. He pulled the phone out—read the name.
Mum.
Beep.
"Hello?"
"George," the gentle voice spoke through the phone, "dinner'll be ready soon. Get your butt over here."
"Alright, I'm just at the park, I'm on my way now."
"Alright, George. Love you, bye."
"Bye."
He slipped the phone back in his pocket—waved to the boy.
"It's nice to meet you, what's your name by the way?"
"Joseph."
"See you later, Joseph."
"See you."
The evening passed—then the next day.
It was now the evening—the evening of the party.
It was a full house—seventy or so. It seemed like the whole neighbourhood was crammed into one large colonial home.
George held a can of beer in his hand—his throat still burned from the last few.
"Hey, G-George," Harry slurred as he slung his arm over George's shoulder, "yo, man. Issreally good to see y…ou man."
"How many have you had?" George giggled.
"We had… shots in the ki…tchen"
"Shots already?"
"Mate… issa party."
"A party… that just started… like an hour ago. But hey, glad you're enjoying yourself, man. Happy birthday."
They wrapped in a manly embrace. Love, from one brother to another.
"I'm going outside for a bit," George announced, patting Harry on the shoulder, "I'll chat to you in a bit."
He headed through the kitchen, squeezing through the bodies who stuffed themselves in there in groups. Walked out the back door and leaned against the wall.
He let out a big sigh.
"It's hot as hell in there," he mumbled.
He took a large swig from his can—lowered it back down. As he looked up to the sky, George began to realise that the drinks were having an effect already—everything was already painted in that drunk filter. Everything was blurry, but with thick outlines.
He brushed his hand through his hair.
"Hey, George." A man walked up to him and leaned up against the wall, cigarette in hand.
"Hey, Ben."
Ben slipped the cigarette into his mouth. Pulled a lighter out of his pocket. Click. The end lit up as he inhaled. He exhaled—smoke bloomed in the cold air.
He raised the cigarette to George. George raised his hand, shaking his head.
"You seen Harry?" Ben asked as he took another puff.
"Yeah…" George took a sip from his beer, "he's fucked."
Ben snorted. Brushed his hand through his curly mullet, "Tell me about it. By the way, you two seem close… how'd it all start?"
George gathered the memories in a deep breath.
"Been friends for almost as long as I can remember… we used to be in the same football club as kids. We were unstoppable: I was the creator, he was the finisher. Ever since then, we've always been friends." A gentle smile curled on George's lips.
"What do you think of him now…? What he's… become?"
George swallowed. It took him a while to respond.
"I don't… It's… I don't hate him, it's just…"
"He's a selfish, arrogant prick?"
"Well… yeah… but he's also my best friend…"
George stared at his feet, kicking the soil below.
"People change," Ben gave a final message, patting George's shoulder. He put the cigarette out—tossed it on the floor—then headed back inside.
George stood there for a moment—took a final swig from his can—then went back inside.
Squeezing back through the kitchen, he opened the fridge door. Reached for another can.
"Wassat? issat a bag? did'you bring a fucking bag to a party?"
Sounded like Harry was getting involved in other people's business again.
George let go of the can—shut the fridge. Let's see what this is all about, then, he thought.
There were others who had the same idea, all crowded around the entrance to the living room. George forced a deep gulp down his throat—alcohol residue burned—then forced his way through. Once he was through, he stopped.
Stared in shock.
What's… he… doing here?
"Gimme that bag."
The kid tried to resist, but Harry tore the bag from his hands. Harry held the bag up.
"No!" The kid yelled.
Harry flipped the bag, and the contents fell out. A sketchbook hit the floor with a smack, bouncing back up. The pages turned in the air: pages upon pages of manga panels.
George's gut twisted into knots.
Harry snorted—burst out laughing.
He picked the book up from the floor. Scrolled through the pages.
"Drawing comics? What are ya? Twelve?!"
He chuckled; others around him followed. The kid's face flushed. As he tried to get the book back, Harry stepped back—others laughed.
George took a step closer.
"George?" The kid, eyes glossy, called out.
Joseph…
Harry turned, one brow raised, mouth still curled—teeth revealed.
"George, know this kid?"
"I… er…" A boulder was stuck in George's throat. He swallowed it down, "er…" pointless.
Harry took a stride towards George, scrolling through the pages of the sketch book. He stopped on one page in particular. His shoulders jumped. He snorted.
"Dude… look at this one."
He turned the book towards George. A woman. Eyes dark but glistening. Hair flowing around her face. The same woman George drew at the park.
George's fists clenched.
"Drawing his own little girlfriends."
"Give the book back, Harry," George mumbled.
"Whaddid ya say?" He responded, still looking through the pages.
"Give the book back!" he repeated—louder.
"Relax man, only havin a laugh," He patted George's shoulder, "Don't worry, I'll give it back,"
He turned and stepped over to Joseph, who couldn't look him in the eyes.
He held the book open in front in two hands. Pulled. The screech of pages tearing pierced George's ears. Almost blocking out the sound of his grinding teeth.
Harry chucked the pieces onto the defeated Joseph. Watched as the pieces bounced from his chest and drifted down to the floor.
"Hmph," Harry turned, bearing a wide grin.
George launched in.
Pow!
Knuckles cracked against jawbone with a wet, meaty thud that echoed louder than the music.
Harry's head snapped sideways. Teeth clacked together. A bright spray of spit and blood arced from his split lip.
His knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the table, palm slapping wood. The beer bottles rattled.
The room went dead quiet.
Harry touched his jaw. Fingers came away red.
His head darted back, eyes bulging under inverted brows.
"G-George?"
George's hand throbbed—knuckles red and swollen.
He looked down at it.
Then at Harry.
"Fuck you."
He turned.
Walked through the frozen crowd.
Pushed open the front door.
Harry's voice chased him.
"George! Wait… come on—"
The door slammed shut behind him.
Cold air hit his face like a slap.
Rain followed shortly.
His feet pounded, launching water droplets up into the air.
He stopped. Glowed under the streetlight—raindrops twinkling on his face. Under the light, he stared at the familiar bench—the same one from earlier.
He walked towards it.
Turned.
Sat.
Hunched down.
The night sky cried down on him from above. Stars muted by the suburban lights.
Everything felt numb.
Then the voice came.
HOW DOES IT FEEL, GEORGE?
George flew forward—his skull was going to burst. The voice was deep, like a thousand voices talking in sync.
HOW LONG HAVE YOU WANTED TO DO THAT?
"ARGHH…" George's teeth ached from the force of being ground together—nothing compared to the drilling in his skull, "Who… who are you?"
SOMEONE WHO HAS BEEN OBSERVING YOU FOR SOME TIME NOW.
"What… why?"
I SEE POTENTIAL IN YOU, GEORGE.
YOU CAN DO GREAT THINGS IN LIFE.
BUT YOU'VE BEEN HOLDING YOURSELF BACK.
"What… Harry?"
NOT JUST THAT…
LET ME ASK YOU A QUESTION.
HOW DID IT FEEL, TO PUNCH HARRY?
"Great."
The voice chuckled in George's mind.
THAT'S HOW IT FEELS TO TAKE CONTROL OF YOUR LIFE.
I CAN GIVE YOU MORE OF THAT FEELING.
"Really?"
YES GEORGE.
I CAN GIVE YOU POWER.
POWER TO DO ANYTHING YOUR HEART DESIRES.
WOULD YOU LIKE THAT?
George thought for a moment, hands digging into his temples. There was nothing left for him now that everything with Harry was over.
What does he possibly have to lose?
"Yes."
VERY WELL, GEORGE.
ENJOY THEM.
Everything hurt.
It was like lava filled his insides, then leaked from his pores. Purple light enveloped. Seeped from every inch of skin, wrapping him in a blanket of sapphire.
Everything felt so clear now. His arms dropped to his sides, falling as if weights dragged them down on a rope.
The floor felt optional. He left it behind.
The city felt optional. He left it behind.
He flew.
And flew.
And flew.
It didn't matter where. Anywhere would do.
He was entering a world.
A world completely new.
The air seemed to bend around him, making no effort to resist him.
He dropped. The sea passed below.
He lowered his arm. Finger tips skimmed along the surface. water sprayed in a V—all in one long line.
Land approached.
He lifted swiftly.
The land was much different to home. It was dryer. Grass dried out by constant rays from the sun.
It was a new continent.
He slowed down.
"Where am I?"
He scoured the horizon, trying to find a landmark. But something else caught his eye: a light.
Drifting closer, it became easier to tell that it was a vehicle of some kind—A ship. Floating about an apartment block's height above the surface, it shone a light down. A beam. The beam was locked on a person, a black man with a large, muscular build.
"What the hell is going on?"
After a long moment of silence, a sound started to build up—high-pitched, like the sound of an alarm, but alien. Two lights began to pulse from either side of the ship.
The man raised his hands, slowly. Turned, slowly. George just realised that he was seeing everything in slow motion.
He had to do something.
But what?
He has power now, but how does he use it?
Fuck it.
He moved—rammed straight into the ship.
Crash!
Chunks rained down below. George stopped—looked at his hand. Glowing purple, like a ghost in human form.
"That's it. From now on, I'll use this power for good. I'll stop using others for my own personal gain."
He closed his eyes.
The world slowly returned: the moon, space, the fleet.
He rose—debris rolled off of him.
He gazed at the fleet—still waiting.
"I won't let you destroy my world."