above all (m×m) ✔

10) monsters

part two
t w o  s e c r e t s

"I will remember the kisses, our lips raw with love, and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me."

 – Charles Bukowski –

10) monsters

The world can't simply be divided into black and white. Not even the worst of us, the ones we do not hesitate to call evil, are all bad. Even the purest, the kindest and the most caring have selfishness and enmity in them. No bad thing is only bad or a good thing so flawlessly good, if you view all of its sides. Realizing this will help us navigate our lives in the world with all its shades and colors.

Yet, some people and things are better than the others. Some things are right and acceptable, whereas some remain unforgivable. There are things we can't forgive and things we can, but who draws the line? Who can deem a deed inexcusable, a person a bad one?

Every story needs a villain, a monster to blame for all that goes wrong. Treyton wasn't a monster. He was a dreamer, an idealist, a person in love with the idea of love. Everything he had ever done, he had done out of love. Could a monster love so fiercely? To caress a lover in the bleak hours of the night ever so gently? To see overwhelming beauty in the world?

Monsters didn't read poetry or listen to classical music, they couldn't quote Dante or Oscar Wilde by heart. They didn't wear organic cotton, sleep in silk sheets, stargaze or cry during a sad movie. Treyton wasn't a monster.

Fury flamed in his chest, as he leafed through the pages. He gripped the back of the sketchbook so harshly his knuckles turned white, his hold of the pages almost rough enough to tear. He wanted to rip it apart, ruin every single picture created by those delicate hands. To spread the shreds around the floor, to stomp over them. To ruin everything He had made.

He, out of all people, should have understood what neglect and abuse could do to a child. That sometimes those children grew up to be angry, to follow the only example their parents had ever shown them. That didn't make them monsters. That didn't make them violent or abusive or obsessive. No, Treyton wasn't a monster. 

They just needed someone to blame.

Besides, they made it so easy that Treyron didn't even have to obsess over it. He only had an old Facebook account, which He never posted to anymore and His posts and pictures were only visible to His friends. He wasn't on Instagram, which He must have arrogantly thought to keep Him safe. Yet, it only took a few clicks to find His sister and friends' accounts. 

That weasel, that parasite, had posted a picture of them. His arm was so casually around His middle and the grin on his lips so jubilant it made Treyton want to throw up. It only took a few more clicks to find where and when the picture was taken. The idiot was stupid enough to post his every move and take videos of his friends, even as he was supposed to be some sort of a celebrity. 

In the end, Treyton only tore off one of the sketches. The affection radiating from those careful, detailed lines and shadows was simply too much to bear. It was a waste of talent, anyway. Wasn't it a cruel turn of fate that He had put His love in a drawing of someone else, when He had once spoken so easily about forever? 

Had it all been nothing more than a lie? He, out of all people, should have known not to tell lies like that.

He had known that each passing second Treyton felt like there was a scream brewing inside his chest, a scream that refused to come out. He had known that that scream sometimes filled his head with a red, furious haze, and He said He understood. Until one day, He didn't.