65. Hiding Under The Bed

Once there lived a Man.

But this Man was not a man. He was a monster. He was bitter and full of hatred, hatred of himself and of the world around him. He looked onto a summer's day and saw no beauty in the warm glow, no laughter in the gentle breeze. He gazed instead upon plots and whispers against him. He gazed upon the bitterness and jealousy that he was blind to in his own heart.

This Man had a wife, whom he loved, but could not love. He did not love in the way one should love, in the way a healthy person loves. No, this Man loved with a selfish love, with a possessive love. He could not believe that his wife stayed true to him, he would scream at her and throw things around her. He did not hit her, but with the white rage that spilled from his eyes, he would not notice if he did. She was scared of this Man.

But this Man was not always like this. There were times of peace, when he thought he knew happiness. When he would play a facade around his life, when he would laugh with her and she would think him happy. But the anger was always there, always waiting.

This Man and his wife had two children, a boy and a girl. This Man loved his children the same way he loved his wife - with a jealous, angry zeal. He would find himself infuriated when they showed their mother love, he would think they thought better of her than of him. He would scream at the mother in front of his children, the boy too young to understand it all, the girl just old enough to know this was wrong, but too scared to question it. She would cry with her mother, both living in fear.

On one evening, while the mother was putting the children to bed, this Man chased her around the house, yelling at her, throwing things around her, hitting walls and spilling blind white hatred from his eyes. The mother tried to calm him so the boy could sleep. And the boy, to the shock of the mother, told the deaf ears of this Man "Leave my mommy alone, you monster."

It was then the wife decided to run. And run she did, taking her children with her. She told this Man what she did, she told him where she was, but she did not tell him of her fear. Because then he would abuse it.

The daughter grew sick, deadly sick and the man still could only think of his wife, that she had left him, that she had probably cheated on him, and he accused her of this in front of the dying daughter. This was the final straw for the quavering wife. Wife she would be no more.

And Man he was no more.

This Man had a series of strokes, which changed his black and cold heart. It warmed him, it made him confront his mortality, and he swore to be better. But as he regained his health, the black heart of the man grew cold once more, now verbally lashing his new wife and her children. The daughter grew to see what this Man really was and swore to protect his new wife, in whom she found a second, stronger mother. The son, to the sadness of all but the father, was turning into a clone of his father. Both dive into their depression and drag those around them down. Both manipulate those around them for their own good. Both shed the skin that once was Man, but now lays an empty shell.

There was once a Man. Now, there is only a Monster. Waiting in the dark.