Beast

beastI am a horrible man. A terrible man beneath the calm waves of human demeanor. A violent son of a bitch, an ax carrying card member of your worst fucking nightmare. Yes, your nightmare because I’m looking at you and there’s no place to run, no escape till death freezes the blood in your veins, quiets your heart and turns your thoughts to mine.

And the worst of it, you’re nothing special. You just happen to belong to the beast, this beast, and I’ll do with you as I please.

There was a time, a time far past when I was human. A husband, a father, a brother or sister, it doesn’t matter because when the human hit the pavement and the blood splatted like projectile puke with tiny little fragrant pieces of body parts splaying, washing my face, I was reborn under the bright, burning sun.

The first time, the fear was paralyzing and I couldn’t do it. As much as I wanted to, I had to, I could not. I sat down before their pitiful bound souls and took sorrow on them, staring at the bright green duct tape I had plastered over their mouths. I became lost in my thoughts, were they married, did they have children or were they only friends?

I wanted to know. I reached out toward the fat women and pulled the duct tape off and she recoiled in fear. I wanted to soothe her fears, let her know I understood, that everything would be alright, that I was not going to give in to temptation. That soon she would be, free. That women managed to find a semblance of courage but it was not the found courage that paid for her life. She did not understand me, or anything about me and she spit in my face with her new faith, and drooling, she demanded to know what I was going to do.

She demanded!

And then her bravado waned and was replaced with tears. Tears that mixed with her drool  as she called me out for what I was. She murmured a simple word, beast. She named me and it cost her.

I paused in hearing the word, finally understanding and I did what I was meant to do. I carried the weight of the hammer across her face. Not in a violent, hard and impulsive manner but soft and generous, enough to split open her face and watch her reaction as well that of her friend who squirmed under the oppressive weight of foresight. I took my time, alternating the hammer between them, all soft blows to various parts of their body. I gave them time, and plenty of it, to beg, to repent, to cry, to hurt, to question, and to pray. They mostly cried. And hurt. And with each blow, I matured, I understood more about who I was.

I was asked once by a young man, a man that had been handsome, why I hated him, as if it was hate that drove my passion. I caressed his beaten face that I had pummeled with my bare hands and ran a soothing palm over his stained chest, then drew an outline of a happy face, there on his chest, with his own blood as I smiled at him. Him, I let die in peace because he was a handsome young man that reminded me of someone I had once known, a long time ago.

I am not driven by hate or love, fear is non existent for neither god nor devil have no need of me. Whereas I am driven by need, by desire, by the story the stars have written across the blackness of night and the sun that burns flesh from that story. I am God and you are mine.

Mine as I set here, across from you, watching your mouth chew the fat killing steak you cooked while you dream a life of love and comfort, of family and friends, unaware, oblivious and ignorant of the beast.

That is your mistake.


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