I sit behind my window, all day, all night. I rarely sleep, I don't like to eat, and I never cry. Although I feel the normal human emotions, I very rarely display them. Why bother? No one's watching me, no one cares if I cry, or laugh, or kick and scream. Once a day I get food pushed under the door by the only person who knows I'm alive. But she's never seen my face. I hear her knock softly on the door, then her sweet voice,
"Sir? May I get you something else? Would… would you like me to air out your room?"
To which my answer is always the same. I grunt, I slam a book, a vase, a chair, anything heavy, against the door, and yell at her for being helpful, for being nice. For trying to reach out to me. Because it's not me she wants to help. She wants to help herself, to tell herself she's done a good thing, she's helped someone less fortunate, she's seen the man with the face of leather, the black eyes staring out from a tangled mess of scars, and burns, and hatred.
Sometimes I pause a second before flinging my emotions at that door, and wonder if I should let her in, wonder if maybe this time it might be different. But then I'm always reminded of the taunts and stares of the times before, and I fling the book harder than ever, and her gasps are a little bit louder, and I know that soon the time will come when she won't return.
I'm not a monster, I'm just a human being gone wrong. I was normal once, a happy, smiling, ticking time bomb waiting to go off. I have experienced love; I have been one half of that couple that cannot feel the rain. Sometimes I allow myself to remember her, the long hair that smelled faintly of apple, the soft hands, the laughing blue eyes… but then I remember her screams as the car slid across the ice, and the long hair whipping across my face, blinding me, and the tree rushing up to meet the windshield. Her hands, bleeding, clutching mine painfully, the whimpers, her laughing blue eyes turning cold and lifeless, and the burning pain as the fire ate up the car.
And then when I wake up, I'm in a hospital bed, suffocating white bandages covering my face. The nurse is staring at me, and her voice echoes through my mind "there will be some scarring…" and I wonder why they bothered to pull me out of the wreckage.
I go home, and try to live a normal life, as if I can just jump back in and expect everything to be the same as it was before I became a walking horror movie. And I scare children, dogs howl when I walk past and people whisper, gasp, or worse, pretend they don't notice. So I buy a house with a large attic, and live up there, and I stare out the window, and watch the normal people below, and the only pleasure in my life is the knowledge that no one down there knows I'm up here.
And I watch.