Demons

This is for the lost. This is for the lonely. This is for the misunderstood. A story of someone who wanders the streets, looking for purpose.

Demons

It’s hard when the world hates you.  During the nights, when I stare up into that never ending abyss, I let my fake smile fall.  I let my masks go, my walls tumble, my shields disappear.  I let my tears come.  I let my anguish triumph.  ‘I don’t need them!’  I want to shout, ‘Any of them!’.  But I do, so, so badly.  I need them to smile at me the way they smile at each other.  I need them to stop flinching away when I laugh, to stop avoiding my eyes.  Eyes are the windows to the soul, and they cannot bear to see what is written in mine.  The strangers in the streets turn away from me.  I don’t need their approval.  I don’t want it!  I don’t crave it!  I... I don’t wonder... what it would feel like to be loved.  I don’t need love.  I don’t admit how much it hurts every time they turn away.  How much it burns when they look at me with accusing eyes.  I want to scream at them, ‘Stop looking at me!  I haven’t done anything wrong!’  I don’t though.  It wouldn’t stop them.  I hate how they are so willing to acknowledge my sins, my faults, my mistakes, but cannot confront their own.  I’ve done good too!  I’ve done good.... 

All I want is for someone to notice me.  To admit that I’m HUMAN.  To look into my eyes and not flinch away in denied guilt for the pain they see there.  To ignore the smile I’m always wearing- like a permanent, painted fixture, and look at all the cracks in the mask- not the whole.  To realize that I’m tired of playing the clown to the world- smiling and laughing through humiliation and pain, and that for one I want to be the hero.  The person that everyone likes.  Who can act vulnerable and still be strong instead of the other way around.  Who has someone to rely on.  Something to protect.  Something to fight for.  I used to fight for something... I know I did- but my reason went away a long time ago.  My purpose fled with it.  Now I just fight for fighting.  Hiding under the thin veneer of helping, huddling under my shoddy excuse of justification.  Losing myself in the steady pounding of fists and feet, as constant as the sound of rain.  Feeling only the dull thud of flesh on flesh or the stinging burn of a pulled knife.  Till water runs with red and I’m the only one left standing.  Broken and hurt the same way I am inside, but now where everyone can see.  They call me monster.  They call me demon.  I wonder at that.  I am strong so I am evil.  I have a temper so I am dangerous.  I am different so I must be feared.  Yet... I have never hurt someone who didn’t hurt someone else.  I have never broken someone beyond the physical, beyond what can heal.  I have never turned away from a cry for help.  I have never taken advantage of someone weaker than me.  I have never taken advantage of something weaker than me.  I do not cause pain for pleasure.  I do not put my needs above others.  I do not force others into doing what I want.  I do hurt people who have done all of the above.  I do fight without cause.  Or, perhaps, a cause I have forgotten.  And still, I am the monster.  I am the demon.  Not the man who beats his wife.  Not the stranger who turns away from a scene of pain and desperation.  Not the girl who just drove a kid to suicide with a cruel remark.  Not the teacher who saw it happen and let it go.  They call me a demon.  I don’t believe in demons.  Why would we need demons when people are so much worse?

Author's Note

Is this too repetitive? Some of it feels unnecessary but I don't want to take anything out...

Reviews

[rodrigogour]

I think this is perfect the way it is. Raw honesty, unfiltered human emotions. I felt your pain and your desire to find a reason to keep on fighting, for the sake of believing in something or someone. It looks like you've lost hope in the world, but your words transmit your need to find it again.
Nicely done :)