The Writers Voice
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I do not know
where to begin ...
I suppose I should start at the beginning - that's
traditional I would say ...
My early childhood is foggy. I remember being
loved, being in a big house with my parents. I
remember happiness, comfort, excitement, seeing the
world through fresh eyes. I suppose we all have
such memories. I believe that they become more
delightful with every year that distances us from
them. The nature of nostalgia.
Then the Change. That's how I came to view it,
change with a capital "C". Something happened to
change me forever. One minute everything was happy,
the next I was forced out on to the street with
nothing. I can no longer remember my parent's
faces. Just their eyes - once full of love and
care, now filled with horror and disgust. The most
painful part of the Change - that extreme shift of
The physical effects of the Change were bad enough.
My bones warped and twisted, my skin grew taut and
then hung loose, the agony was excruciating.
Finally, it was over.
My parent's revulsion continued far longer than my
body's suffering. They could not understand how
this ... creature ... could be their child. I was
now neither son nor daughter but merely an "it",
not any way connected with the family at all.
I suppose they must have named me something, but
somehow I forgot. My voice was an early casualty in
the Change, all I could manage was a watery gurgle.
I couldn't share my name with others, so I lost it.
I kept away from people normally, all I received
were thrown stones, beatings and derision.
Just the hate they showed was pain enough.
I could always feel the distance separating us as
tangible as a stone wall. We were now a breed
apart. I was once human but now, no longer. They
had ostracized me from species "Homo Sapiens".
When you are different, you are not understood.
What people do not understand, they fear. What they
fear, they hate. What they hate, they destroy.
The casual cruelty which normal, everyday people
show towards beings not in their own group is
indescribable. Beings of such limitless love that
choose to give so much hate.
They just hate me for being me.
I'd like to join them, be one of the beautiful
people, but obviously I can't. I don't feel that I
think any differently to them, except if anyone,
even someone more loathsome than I, would be my
friend, it would make me so very happy.
But the beautiful people can afford to discard
friends at a whim - they don't appreciate that what
they reject some of us dream of in vain.
I do not understand. The beautiful people have
everything, but they still resent me, even though I
have nothing. What do they want from me?
It makes no sense. Seeing things objectively,
looking from the outside in, I see people preying
upon each other like animals. Yet animals would
never have such hatred, such venom for their own
kind. Humans are the only species that kill each
other for no concrete purpose. We destroy each
other over ideals, emotions or merely a whim.
A human being could be described as a beast that
can ignore its true nature and follow the
intoxicating piping of free will. Free will to
commit horrendous crimes upon their own species and
other forms of life.
As I had been rejected by humanity, I would reject
humanity in turn. Discard the trappings of my
former species and adopt a new breed. I would have
purity of purpose, purity of essence, if not purity
In this "dog-eat-dog" world that humans had
created, a perversion of the natural order, I would
be the ultimate predator. To these twisted
mockeries of hunters in the concrete jungle I would
be justice without mercy.
I am no longer human. I am a beast. The Beast. I
shall cultivate a beautiful garden in the heart of
the corrupt city. If the humans try and stop me, I
shall say "You are not my kind. I am not bound by
your foolish, petty laws."
I hunted and slew those who would prey upon those
weaker than themselves. As I matured I grew
stronger and more skilled, but I was never truly
seen by my prey and my flock. I kept myself a
shadow, a dream. Or more appropriately, a
Those I saved lived happily, the evil had been
repulsed, I was forever vigilant. I had protected
my children from danger. It sounds arrogant, but I
considered myself above them. Instead of a poor,
broken, malformed human, I was now the Beast, the
perfect protector, champion of the weak.
Then ... I thought all the changes were over, but
things never stay the same. Unfortunately, the more
things change, the more they stay the same.
I saw her, beset by snarling jackals of humanity,
sniffing and yelping their cruel cries. I bounded
between them and their prey, scattering them as a
tiger cowing curs. But the dogs of law had heard
the prey's keening, they saw a predator and barked
defiance at the beast that was me, entering their
territory. Unheeding of the damage that may have
been caused, steel mosquitoes whined through the
air, seeking to feast upon the blood they craved. I
did not let a single one of them bite into the
prey's flesh, they bit deep into my hide, black
blood soaking into the cold ground.
Knowing that she was still in danger if she
remained here, I lifted her tenderly and took
flight, dogs baying at our heels as I loped along
Arriving at my hidden den, I laid her still, but
living form carefully on soft, clean rags. I
gathered food and water for her return to the
waking world, for when she would arise from the
shock of her ordeal.
She awoke, I saw the fear in her eyes, in her
scrabbling limbs, her huddling form. I tried to
console her as best I could, offered her the meal I
had prepared for her.
I was the predator, and she was acting still as
prey. I tried to think as part of humanity once
again; it was distant, alien to me now.
I had an idea!
As she suspiciously took the food from me, I opened
up my secret vault within my den, brought forth my
writings and offered them to her, never seen before
by human eyes.
It seems that all creatures need to express
themselves, and with no voice I had expressed my
feelings in the only medium I had left. I had
written many things, written them for myself, not
meant for the world that had disowned me.
She slowly read them and with their comprehension
came a gradual gamut from terror to sadness. My
tortured pieces had touched something within her;
she knew now that I was a fellow creature, a
creature in pain.
I could see warm compassion in her eyes now, as she
read more and more.
And then, she spoke to me! I was overcome with joy
that she would see me as a person, a human whom
even I had left for dead on the road of Time.
She spoke of my work, spoke of what she saw in it,
what she saw of me in it, my pain.
Communication was laborious, I had to "speak" to
her through gestures and writing short messages in
the dust with fingers that had long been
transformed into wicked claws.
She went on to tell me of herself, her life, her
desires of the future. She responded to my
questions and comments; not always agreeing with
each other. We saw the world through different
eyes; they did not always align, but we both
delighted in the similarities.
I felt something awaken within me, something I had
thought would never return. I had been a creature
of despair, a creature of justice, a creature of
havoc. Now as this half-remembered essence welled
out from my soul, I could feel that I was also a
creature of love.
Black ice of fear froze a shell around my inferno
heart, I was terrified of revealing these feelings
to her, of what her reaction might be. I could not
live through her scorn or disgust; I thought that I
could trap my love within my heart, never risking
myself to the possibility of further pain.
But if my life of torment had taught me one thing,
it was that fear chained love. Fear of my
appearance had stopped people from even showing me
the slightest sliver of sympathy. I would not let
my fear suppress what I felt.
Therefore I opened my heart to her, let loose the
torrent of love bursting forth in one massive
As she read my declaration I anxiously waited for
her response. Her eyes lifted, and I looked
intently within those windows of her soul.
My futile hope dashed, my love was greeted with
sadness and pity. She could not return the love.
As if I were not tortured enough! I had brought
this upon myself - such things were unattainable
for a monster such as I. I had hoped against hope
to be wrong in my cynicism, attitudes that the
world had literally beaten into my hideous hide.
The cold voice of Reason told the truth: such a
thing was impossible. I had listened to the na´ve
voice of Passion, emotion before logic, and had
paid the price of pain.
Forsaking my humanity once again, I let loose a
mighty howl, the cry of an animal in agony, tears
disrupting the final message in the dust forever.
She fled; crying, rivulets of terror running down
her features. I felt her pain, and knew that I had
inflicted it. To have harmed the one I cherished so
dearly brought another wave of suffering.
Exhausted, I just lay there unmoving, for days I
think, consumed by loss and drowning in apathy.
Then a white dove entered my gloom. It was a
letter, there was only person who knew where I
laired. Leaping on it hungrily, I eagerly read it,
desperately hoping for something to indicate that I
had been wrong, that everything was right.
A foolish hope.
But as I read the message again, I saw something
which had been hidden from my eyes in my pain.
She accepted me as a person.
Maybe the fear was still there. But I was human to
her, not the beast.
She still wanted to communicate with me, even after
the pain I had caused her. She had given me a
return address and wrote that she avidly awaited a
Now we have a thriving conversation going on,
travelling through words on paper. I have sent her
more of my work; she encourages me and assists me
where she can. We are both happy with what we
Gentle reader, you hold one of my works in your
hands. Chances are, you received it from the one I
love, or whomever you received it from had obtained
it from her, ad infinitum. Perhaps you can
understand why I love her so much to this day.
This is not meant to be a tragedy, but an
expression of the wonder of Life. True, I have not
received love, but I have received acceptance. I
say to you: do not take that for granted.
In this world of prejudice, avarice and neglect, to
be accepted by someone as a person is precious
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