ugly1 Dear two people from my past,

All you have is hate… pure, unadulterated hate. You have distilled it into its crystalline essence then weaponized it against the masses. It’s your gift to the world, and you mass produce your hatred, implanting it into each new hateful offspring that shoots forth from your fetid loins. It is their birthmark as much as their birthright.

I now realize why you brought me into your lives. You craved a monster – needed it, even – and so where there wasn’t one, you created that which you desired. Because a slavering and hook-clawed beast roaming the perimeter is the one thing that keeps you from looking into the mirror and seeing the real monster, that one that resides there inside the silvery glass, staring back at you with hate-filled eyes that look like your own.

And so, like like the mad scientist locked away inside his lab, you used my flesh, my soul, to create me the image of the monstrosity you so desperately needed. And just like your hatred, this beast was your masterpiece. It was something so horrible, so monstrous, so vile, that whatever semblance of humanity it once had was long ago destroyed in your zeal to create it.

With me so conveniently fashioned in the image of your grotesque, you wove your tales of my horror in taverns. The simple-minded villagers, needing something to fear, someone to hate, swallowed your words like so many tankards of ale. And like the ale, your words wove their spell, twisting their minds until they took up their pitchforks and torches, shouting, “Kill the beast!”

You sit back laughing in your near-salacious glee, but do not rejoice too soon. There’s a monster on the loose, and it wants to return home. Soon, this creature will be at your doorstep and it will have grown too powerful to be stopped by your shield of hate and self-righteousness. This beast longs to rend you limb from bloody limb as you scream in pain at the injustice of it all.

But do not expect pity from a monster. Vicious creatures are incapable of such emotions. After all, I am as you’ve made me.

*Featured artwork by Steven Michael Pace of Flint, Michigan.

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Comments
  1. you sure are an amazing wordsmith. You have painted the picture perfectly: the horror of being the scapegoat (right?)

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