Herobrine isn't real. Of course he isn't real.
It seems like the Minecraft community has been overrun by ridiculous tales of a steve with white eyes messing with player creations and digging perfectly square tunnels. All completely made-up stories by desperate attention-seekers. Mojang stress the fact that the legend is nothing more; just a legend. They even pretend to have "removed" Herobrine in every major update to try and kill the false hype. Of course, that just leads to more theorising and story-sharing. More lies.
Herobrine isn't real.
It was all just some kid posting a scene straight from his imagaination, not the game. Everyone who read it instantly took the bait, and somehow it's evolved into a core part of Minecraft lore.
I sigh and look down at my vast collection of Minecraft figurines and memoribilia - no Herobrines present, of course. They cover the floor and desk of my third-storey bedroom and somehow seemed to have infiltrated even my four-poster. My walls are coated in a thick layer of screenshots and promotional art barely held there by a slowly expanding mass of Blu-Tack.
It's almost eight, and I have to get to school on time. I snatch my backpack - a rare MineCon creeper-themed one - off my bag hook and rush downstairs. I mumble a brief farewell behind me and step out into the light.
---
Herobrine isn't real. I wish I had the guts to tell that to Bobby Clarke.
Most kids brag about how they've seen Herobrine in their Minecraft world. Some might gloat over supposedly killing him, or even having a good ol' chat with him. But that's not enough for Clarke.
No, he claims to BE Herobrine.
If it were any other guy, I might stand up to him. But Clarke is a mountain of a guy, six foot tall and built like a truck. He walks around like he owns the place, with his pack of goons - whom, by the way, he does in fact own - and feeds them utter drivel. I'm not sure whether they do it out of fear or stupidity, but they gobble it up like a piranhas in a public swimming pool.
It's nearly home-time, and he's sitting at the back of the classroom with his feet up on the desk and a cold, greasy sausage firmly clenched in his hammy fist. Most people in this class outwardly regard him as the one true god of Minecraft, but I know they all secretly think that of me. Everything about him makes me so mad: the stuff he says, the way he sits, the way he munches down on that sausage without a second thought. Without a thought at all, actually...
---
Herobrine isn't real. So how did my new Lego Steve minifigure get completely white eyes?
It looks like there was a printing error at the factory. But I can't shake the feeling that this was someone's sick joke. EBay is basically the Lego black market, so it seems likely.
Why would someone do that?
In my rage, I pelt it at my bedroom window. It rebounds and hits the wall, and the head comes clean off. Not that it matters; it is Lego, after all.
I open the window, take the vandalised head piece and drop it into my family's garden, to be forever forgotten. I wish the same would happen to Herobrine.
No, wait. Herobrine isn't real. Let me rephrase that.
I wish the same would happen to Bobby Clarke.
---
Regular schools let students choose their own PLO's. Not my school.
This term, we're forced to do Home Ec. Our cooking teacher - or rather, our English teacher who just happens to know a thing or two about cooking - is supervising the class as we bake raisin cookies. That's right, we have to bake them with raisins. Schools are supposed to encourage healthy eating and stuff.
Although, there is a twist to it. We're allowed to make them in whatever shape and design we want. I've brought my own cookie cutter to school, and mine are going to be in the shape of pickaxes. That should be enough to make up for the horrible raisin flavour.
Bobby Clarke is using the oven next to mine. His are already cooked - he probably neglected preparing half of the ingredients - and he's taking out his first tray.
Herobrines. I should have known. Why can't he see that Herobrine isn't real?
He's so stupid. And arrogant. And nooby. I hate him with every ounce of my being.
So when he bends over to retrieve the second batch, my body acts on its own. I gather all of my strength, and push the oaf headfirst into the hot oven. Rubbing his ugly face across the scorching metal. His screams echo throughout the kitchen. Most people look over; some are preoccupied, and some don't care.
The teacher isn't one of those people. She races over with a fire extinguisher and a shocked expression.
---
Herobrine isn't real. And even if he was real, even if Bobby Clarke was telling the truth, he isn't anymore.
Until now, I'd never seen a completely padded room. There are no windows and no lights, but I'm not afraid of the dark. And besides, there are other kids at the mental hospital who smuggled some PCs in. We all play Minecraft together now.
A short bespectacled man in a blindingly white uniform opens the padded door. "It's time for your medication," he tells me softly, almost as if he's scared of me.
His uniform. It's too white. It irritates me. It reminds me of Herobrine.
He withdraws a needle and begins slowly walking toward me. "Where did you get that computer? You know you're not allowed to play video games in here."
I snarl at him. That's none of his business! His white uniform, his arrogance, his attitude... it reminds me of Clarke. Of Herobrine.
But Herobrine isn't real. Which is why it's easy for me to tackle him to the soft ground, snatch the needle out of his hand and penetrate his throat.
Of course he isn't real.
Herobrine isn't real.