Through words

Chapter 1

Hello darling, I'm Elijah. Allow me to show you my life, from here on out.

I'm walking down the street, limping like the Penguin. I can see the people staring at me, staring like I've grown giant bat wings. I sicken them, don't I. I sicken all of them. They don't even try to hide it. I see the sneers curling at their lips and whispered words rolling off their tongues and into their friend's ears. My eyes, believe it or not, were once bright and eager to swallow the sights into their depths. Now they're ringed with bags and shiners from those who spite me.

They don't see a happy world; they see a fearful crowd of people who despise their owner for God knows why. They've lost their glimmer and now shine emptily, like a doll. I've become a withered corpse of who I used to be.

The women recoil and their children weep at the sight of me. Were my clothes always this bloody? Have I killed someone? Am I wounded? I hear the word "murderer", and my heart fills with dread. This is how they all see me.

And what do I do that frightens them, exactly? Unless the blood on my clothes isn't mine, unless I have killed someone, I don't believe I've done anything. And yet you all make a path through the crowd for me, as though I'm a hot bar of iron that could scald them, should they touch me.

Oh! I know what I've been doing to this world. I torture everyone simply with the act of being. I bet they'd throw a birthday party at my funeral, with clowns and balloons. The birth of a new era, without me around to ruin it. I want so badly to tell them all everything.

Of course, this is just my thoughts. I don't know why I keep on with this; none of them can hear what I'm thinking. Well, no one except you, darling. You're really special and you'll be mine, but that's another story, let's take it easy.

I'm too afraid to speak with people, but with you, darling, it's just... different. I haven't spoken in the years following my transition to psychopathy. My throat is caked with empty air. When I'm alone in my secluded abode, I just think, I just think about you or I draw in my notebook, mostly self portraits of me before and after.

I study my mirror for the after portrait, and a slightly weathered photo of me for the before portrait. Often times I stare at the old photo and the mirror, comparing the two faces; the differences are terribly striking. In my old photo, I had neatly combed and short clipped black hair, bright eyes and a smile that greeted every new thing with enthusiasm. My clothes were neat and the wrinkles were ironed out. Once I had laughed ruefuly at how lucky the old me was. He had a long time before he became this me yet. My reflection, however, is a story all its own.