Kalush
04-07-06, 07:51 AM
Solo Quest
Note: Only this post will be in first person. Others will be posted in third.
Hooded green eyes peeked out beneath half lids to stare at the mystery before them. The hasty glances of puzzlement had long turned into contempt. Their subject was young. She was beautiful. She was terrifying.
They were staring at me again.
No one ever grows accustomed to looks of hatred and condemnation. If you are ever told that, they are lying. It is never easy. Over time it will pass and become more tolerable Then there will be that one comment, that one slicing pain, that grips you in the horror of its power. There is power in words. It is such a power that when spoken often enough it becomes truth.
My being a demon had long since become truth.
It seems such a little thing, doesn’t it? Age? Nothing anyone considers unless they believe themselves to be too old or too young. It is not something to be fretted about constantly, nor is it something to become obsessed with. Throughout the course of ones’ life there may be times where what they are experiencing is known as a type of “life crisis” as they suddenly come to terms with their age and their head first rush towards Death. These people are frightened of being old, afraid of dying and afraid of what God may await the end of their journey. I have seen this happen to many people, none of which I considered to be good. But then, what right does a demon have to make judgement?
No, I have never had such a problem. Old age never frightened me away from living in the time I have now. I never appreciated my years less simply because they were fewer than before. To be perfectly honest, who can actually say they used their time here wisely? Who has taken the sum of their life with few or no regrets and said, “My life had meaning for those that come after me”? Only fools believe they lived to full potential. I am not a hypocrite; I believe I have flitted my time away just as well, though to my great credit I have acknowledged that fact.
I was not always so...dreary. I had spirit, once. I had life, once. I even had joy. Yet these things seem to have dwindled over the years. When I turned 21, I was ambitious and high-spirited. When I turned 21 again I was no less disheartened. The next year in my 21st year I began to look confused and unsure. In my tenth year of 21, I was hated. In those first few years there were excuses made for me. “She has grown too well”, they would say, or perhaps “She’ll regret this youth in a few years.” Sometime in later years, the excuses changed into something more condemning, more cursed. “Consorts with demons, that one.” “Don’t get too close; that one’s half-wild.” “Feral beast.” “Drinks the blood of our children to keep her cursed face!” “We ought to be rid of her pollution and taint.”
These were just words. Words with meaning, yes, but they never did anything about their fears. The fear that I would hurt them outweighed the fear they held for their children. More time passed and the words settled to a dull ache that was never quite there but never quite gone. Not a comfort, but something of a routine so well known I had given it little thought anymore. I wish I could say that eventually things settled down and the words dwindled to nothing and I was allowed to live my life.
But they were still staring at me.
It was enough.
Nothing keeps me here.
I don’t think I’ll stay.
They watched as I walked. I watched right back. I wanted them to remember my face, to ingrain it into their mind so perhaps one day, a very long time from now, they may look deeper than flesh. There would be pity for them in my eyes if I ever returned. Pity that they were so busy looking at me that they were never able to look at themselves. I wonder if these people, so much older and yet so much younger would ever live outside their ignorance. But it didn’t matter. There was nothing for me here and nothing to keep me rooted to their hatred. I am not a martyr.
Note: Only this post will be in first person. Others will be posted in third.
Hooded green eyes peeked out beneath half lids to stare at the mystery before them. The hasty glances of puzzlement had long turned into contempt. Their subject was young. She was beautiful. She was terrifying.
They were staring at me again.
No one ever grows accustomed to looks of hatred and condemnation. If you are ever told that, they are lying. It is never easy. Over time it will pass and become more tolerable Then there will be that one comment, that one slicing pain, that grips you in the horror of its power. There is power in words. It is such a power that when spoken often enough it becomes truth.
My being a demon had long since become truth.
It seems such a little thing, doesn’t it? Age? Nothing anyone considers unless they believe themselves to be too old or too young. It is not something to be fretted about constantly, nor is it something to become obsessed with. Throughout the course of ones’ life there may be times where what they are experiencing is known as a type of “life crisis” as they suddenly come to terms with their age and their head first rush towards Death. These people are frightened of being old, afraid of dying and afraid of what God may await the end of their journey. I have seen this happen to many people, none of which I considered to be good. But then, what right does a demon have to make judgement?
No, I have never had such a problem. Old age never frightened me away from living in the time I have now. I never appreciated my years less simply because they were fewer than before. To be perfectly honest, who can actually say they used their time here wisely? Who has taken the sum of their life with few or no regrets and said, “My life had meaning for those that come after me”? Only fools believe they lived to full potential. I am not a hypocrite; I believe I have flitted my time away just as well, though to my great credit I have acknowledged that fact.
I was not always so...dreary. I had spirit, once. I had life, once. I even had joy. Yet these things seem to have dwindled over the years. When I turned 21, I was ambitious and high-spirited. When I turned 21 again I was no less disheartened. The next year in my 21st year I began to look confused and unsure. In my tenth year of 21, I was hated. In those first few years there were excuses made for me. “She has grown too well”, they would say, or perhaps “She’ll regret this youth in a few years.” Sometime in later years, the excuses changed into something more condemning, more cursed. “Consorts with demons, that one.” “Don’t get too close; that one’s half-wild.” “Feral beast.” “Drinks the blood of our children to keep her cursed face!” “We ought to be rid of her pollution and taint.”
These were just words. Words with meaning, yes, but they never did anything about their fears. The fear that I would hurt them outweighed the fear they held for their children. More time passed and the words settled to a dull ache that was never quite there but never quite gone. Not a comfort, but something of a routine so well known I had given it little thought anymore. I wish I could say that eventually things settled down and the words dwindled to nothing and I was allowed to live my life.
But they were still staring at me.
It was enough.
Nothing keeps me here.
I don’t think I’ll stay.
They watched as I walked. I watched right back. I wanted them to remember my face, to ingrain it into their mind so perhaps one day, a very long time from now, they may look deeper than flesh. There would be pity for them in my eyes if I ever returned. Pity that they were so busy looking at me that they were never able to look at themselves. I wonder if these people, so much older and yet so much younger would ever live outside their ignorance. But it didn’t matter. There was nothing for me here and nothing to keep me rooted to their hatred. I am not a martyr.