Beauty And The Monster He Made

Chapter One

POV

POV....

Point of view of .... Who?

Sorry, I don't exactly have a name to give you. Details like names are lost on someone like me. My past is a complete blur where I have view of the bigger picture, but the details of who I am gets lost in the haze. I know, it frustrates me too.

But what I can give you is I have a point of view. I tend to recognise myself in the faces of the people I pass by.

I am the sadness suppressed behind a smile. I am the smile in the midst of violence. I'm the laugh behind a cruel joke. I am the bitter taste on the tongues of people when gazing upon other peoples' happiness. I am the numbing weight on my chest when I have no idea why I'm upset. I'm the shy child that hides behind the legs of parents when I don't want to socialize. I'm the wound tight coil in people's chests when they're frustrated. I'm also the little shit that throws tantrums in the middle of a mall.

I recognise myself in about every emotion most people reject, along with the god who cursed me.

But what do I enjoy doing? Internally monologuing to myself as though I'm talking to another person. It fulfils my 'need to socialise' quota.

My other hobby is just flat out pranking anyone who is misfortunate enough to be around whenever I'm able to influence the mortal realm.

Currently, two pairs of eyes following the BS I spray paint on the wall of a random alleyway, watching as though witnessing a mystical omen from the gods. One pair of eyes belong to a man who shakes like a leaf in the wind, unable to wrap his head around the 'how' of how this picture is being drawn.

The second is the cold, dead and black eyes of a Buta ghost, her eyes neck bent to the side in an unnatural angle and body black and white like an old photograph. She's in the same boat as this man who's she decided to haunt, not having a clue where the spray paint is coming from.

Before staring it in utter confusion, she'd been hobbling after the oblivious man, eyes hungry for the unresolved misery radiating off her victim's being. There is no short supply in the slums of India where we are. I always gravitate back here no matter how far I wander.

I count the seconds in my head until the mortal man screams, unable to handle witnessing something that defies logic, the man takes off and while the Buta ghost wails and hobbles after him.

"He lasted five seconds longer than the last guy," I comment, impressed while also feeling rejected.

Then I look at the painting and grin, remembering why they ran away from me. I've proudly drawn just the most terrifying puppy I've ever seen with an elongated jaw and an impossible number of teeth.

Now this is art.

I grin and go back to drawing cryptic alien-looking symbols in the hopes it will make freak someone out. But I can't say this is more fun than haunting the ghosts in mansion walls. The ghosts there are stuck in the places they haunt, but the people around here just scream in horror and run away.

When I've chosen to pursue street art, I expected my invisible form to trigger much more terror, mass exorcisms, maybe even people trying to call in ghost hunters, news crews, and get me famous—just some form of drama to sit back and enjoy. But even the man-eating ghosts here run away.

If only this place had more foot traffic. I just never thought anyone would ever respond to my messages, or that I would be waiting so long for my current pen pal to write another one.