Grendel

I am Grendel. That is the name they cursed me with. It means many things: storm, sand, destruction. Those are not the meanings I accept. Those words mean nothing to me. My name means wretched, unaccepted, hated. To me, those words mean everything.
The cruel people of Herot do not understand me. They mock the ones conceived into the lineage of Cain. They pretend we are cursed by the mark God bestowed upon Cain so many years ago. They cry out to God with our false crimes, begging him to punish and destroy us. They dare to tell him that we are vengefully opposing his every will. How long can they lie to their creator?
I lie at the bottom of this deep lake, begging for unending sleep. I feel as if I might drown in all the hatred of Herot. Although it is I and my kind that look like the monsters, I must concede that they are the true monsters. Yes, I believe the worst kind of monsters are those that do not look like one, for they can deceive with beauty and char until it is far too late to save oneself. That is how they have ensnared so many of my kind. That is how they control so many of my kind.
At night I walk the moors and ponder to release my agony. I pray to the one that is called great and holy. I pray for him to make me beautiful, so maybe the Herots would accept me and maybe I would not feel so lonely. I look up to the glistening stars with envy then I look at my reflection in the black water. The silver moon illuminates my scars and blemishes. My skin looks so imperfect and flawed. I stare at it with unending scorn. Silently, I weep.
My shrieking breaks through the deep silence. I feel the harsh, jagged stone tear open my back before I hear the yells of the farmers. They probably decided to take a late walk to reflect on their own miserable days. I suppose they were trying to get away from their imaginary fear of my kind. With one last brutish yell, I swiftly flee as the tears flow like an endless river.
The next evening is full of merry songs from the halls of Herot. Their songs portray beautiful and perfect heroes with flawless lives. I wonder as I listen if that could really exist. The new Christians sing of a wonderful peace with no more pain or suffering. I believe they call it heaven. I try to imagine heaven and the world in which God resides. I whisper a prayer and hope he hears my secret wonders.
Soon they begin the tales of my kind. They state more lies. There is a new edition to the tale tonight. The farmers I met yesterday speak that I now haunt the moors late at night. I cannot take this anymore. I cry out. I scream loud enough for the whole world to hear me. The earth around me shakes in fear of my rage. Tonight their words have gone too far to forget.
As the world sleeps, I approach my feared destination. Under the cover of a deep fog, I sneak into their lovely city. I am careful not to make a sound. I slip past the city gates unnoticed, my mind filled with wonder.
I pass many windows and stop to look inside. I see the innocent children dream and wonder what is filling their mind. I pass angry farmers that worry about trivial crops and shallowly desire nothing more from their life except to survive. I gaze upon beautiful women within another form of slavery, one in which they must play a loathed role. These people are so much like me. We struggle with the same problems, yet, instead of relating and showing kindness, they become the oppressing tormentors. I do not understand. I suppose I never will and try to forget, but my mind will not let me forget tonight.
I reach the grand hall filled with haunting echoes of their falsehood. I see their people sleep peacefully after their drunken slander. Watching them dream fills me with rage. Their actions are unfair. I grow tired of hiding in the shadows and crying myself to sleep while they do not care about their sins. I feel betrayed by their God, the one who is supposed to protect the innocent and punish the immoral. For a moment, I wonder what would happen if I took punishment into my own hands.
Suddenly, the cruel words of their songs flood my conscious thought. The dissonant songs possess me. My mind is contaminated with sinister thoughts. I feel my face turn into a twisted smile against my will. The sound of a wicked laughter escapes my lips. Chills rise up my spine as I grab the men nearest to me. Before they have time to awaken, I tear them apart.
All of the feelings of misery vanish as their bodies lie lifeless in my hands. I am not remorseful. I have no guilt as I think the color of their blood is the loveliest color in the world. I laugh again as I see their comrades scurry for their weapons. I grew numb to the pain they bring long ago. More fall to my hands as my euphoria rises. I gather up my treasured pieces of my victims and then leave.
Causing my tormentors misery became an addiction. I would do anything to get the high if destroying their lives. The people of Herot cower in fear as I visit them night after night. I no longer fear, I no longer cry, I no longer run. I cannot control myself once I reach the city gates. I must carry out my task for it is my curse. I become transformed into someone who finally has control of his life when I touch their precious bodies. The cycle remains and will remain. I will not rest until Herot is destroyed and it’s sinful people breathe no more.

Written on September 29, 2008