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apostateIt came to him suddenly that his actions of late came from his sense he was a danger to those around him. He wanted to protect them, and he had no idea why. He was curious about how they felt and why, but even that was not something he should concern himself with, either. When had he begun to worry? When had he begun to consider anything? It was the photograph he'd been given. He could not understand what it meant then, and he wasn't sure if he knew the answer now. Perhaps there was none.
The fact of the matter was his recent behavior had been unlike anyone he was pretending to be, and even less like who he really was. It scared him somewhere in himself, somewhere where something lay he wanted to forget and embrace and never ever forget. He wanted to protect it, he wanted to hide it away so nobody could discover it and realize he who had been without weakness of any kind had become the weakest and most vulnerable of all. He wanted no reminders of who he was or who he had been. If he ignored it, perhaps even he could change. Perhaps it would hold off the inevitable-- that as a monster, he had no business thinking his presence was needed or wanted or anything but destructive. If he really cared about them, he'd disappear from their lives, from their home. That was it, then. He hated them. That's why he couldn't forget them, that's why their faces stuck in his mind and gave him a feeling he wanted to last. Anger and hatred were familiar, were comfortable, were feelings he had always sought and enjoyed. His blood flowed faster when he was angry, when he destroyed. That was his purpose, after all.
He knew in reality that what he felt was different than that. It was enjoyable, but his blood and time didn't flow as fast and he found himself smiling. Something such as himself never smiled, never had any reason to make any expression.
The fact of the matter was his recent behavior had been unlike anyone he was pretending to be, and even less like who he really was. It scared him somewhere in himself, somewhere where something lay he wanted to forget and embrace and never ever forget. He wanted to protect it, he wanted to hide it away so nobody could discover it and realize he who had been without weakness of any kind had become the weakest and most vulnerable of all. He wanted no reminders of who he was or who he had been. If he ignored it, perhaps even he could change. Perhaps it would hold off the inevitable-- that as a monster, he had no business thinking his presence was needed or wanted or anything but destructive. If he really cared about them, he'd disappear from their lives, from their home. That was it, then. He hated them. That's why he couldn't forget them, that's why their faces stuck in his mind and gave him a feeling he wanted to last. Anger and hatred were familiar, were comfortable, were feelings he had always sought and enjoyed. His blood flowed faster when he was angry, when he destroyed. That was his purpose, after all.
He knew in reality that what he felt was different than that. It was enjoyable, but his blood and time didn't flow as fast and he found himself smiling. Something such as himself never smiled, never had any reason to make any expression.