The Monster

When the haze clears what do you see?

When the din dies down what do you hear?

When the pain subsides what do you feel?

In my mind it never does…

Have you heard of the monster that lives in the castle? Up on the hill, trapping any and all wayfarers?It kills everything that breathes. It kills babies and children.It is to be feared and reviled.

Ever wondered what such a creature would think?What it sees? Hears?Feels?

All it see are ghosts bygone shrouded in the mist. People it had met,ones it had trusted morphing into monsters. A wisp of a girl and in the blink of an eye, fangs and claws and blood- lust in her eyes. And it run. Trapped in a labyrinth of its own making. It run, over brambles underfoot over broken shards drawing pinpricks of blood from its bare feet. Twigs scouring against its arms, its face as it tries to escape through the wilderness only to confront apparitions that continue to haunt. Ghouls summoned into existence by the smell of fear, predators, scavengers on the lookout for any sign of weakness, waiting to pounce, to tear it limb from limb, to feast on its blood, to suck the very soul out of its dead decomposing corpse. How do you fight hatred and resentment personified? Petty ambition that doesn’t care how many lives it treads underfoot or grounds to dust?

The clamor inside its head never dies down. There is no respite from accusatory voices – “Not enough”,”Incompetent”, “Worthless”, “Fraud”, “Addict”,”Spineless”, “Snitch”, “Sycophant”. The revulsion poisons everything it touches. It grows in dark corners, feeding off of insecurities, and spreads like a virulent plague until it twists everything that was good and noble into any weapon that comes to hand. Blame has to be laid at someones feet and who better than the monster in the dilapidated castle cowering from the mobs with flaming torches? It is so very easy to believe that that wretched creature is responsible, because then you would never has to confront the monster within. Ignorance truly is bliss, for who would want to introspect and when it is all too easy to point fingers at the poor creature already half dead from its own guilt? Would they ever stop to wonder whether in their hatred they have choked any remnants of humanity left in it? And among the smoke and fire the shouts never cease.

And all it feels is pain- soul searing pain, fire coursing through its veins, choking on its cries.