The Beast

All the time it stares at me. All the time, out of sight, lurking in the dark, where none dare venture, hidden amongst the crowd of strangers, staring blankly and oblivious into the devices they carry in their spasmic hands. All the time, I barely overhear the whispers, like a maddening drone, drowned in the noise of regular days. All the time, I feel its presence near me, hiding behind my back, hiding just out of reach behind the mirror, from which an estranged face grins a hollow, uncanny smile towards that which ought to be me. I feel it hunting me from within the people I meet and talk to, ready, all the time, to take the final, fatal prance, should my attention and composition but falter and collapse.

None shall tell of the form, nature or origin of this silent, shadow-ridden hunter. Dare they not say? Are they all blind, deaf and devoid of the primal instinct that should warn them from the hidden terrors of the world, ready to snatch the life from their hollow corpses in the blink of an eye? Or are they right to shove aside my warnings and pleas, treating my ever keener senses, and the horror they ensue, as nothing but the ravings of one gone mad? For none dare talk of it. I know the shape of the shadowy, hate-ridden hunter. I hear his cry. I feel its drawing nearer, but not yet its readiness, to strike its final blow.

Joke is on him - I hear the blasphemous words crisp and clear, muttered under the howling and creaking of the subway. I hear its hateful insults spoken, not from an undefinable void between the planes - I hear it in the words of men, glancing terror-stricken through the crowd. I see it in the wide eyes of women, seemingly casually studying my every move. I feel the beasts claws, probing and scratching at my very sol, whenever this predator attempts to get past my mental defenses calling eldritch names and references, to weaken my mind.

I am not mad. For how could my faculties and senses be so clear? I am not mad. I must not fall for the hunters call. I must not fall for its deceiving smile, its false disinterest, for its foul words. Call me a raving, mad person, but I know the truth. I know the ways of this beast, using my peers to bring me down. It cannot tell me what I am. It cannot tell me, I'm a man. It cannot tell me, how I ought to look. I am not mad. I shall not tremble and bow before the pressure, violence and hate of this beast called social convention. I am an echo in a quiet room, a bastion of light in the creeping dark. Neither man, nor woman, neither he, nor she.

Call me mad, fall for the beast, bow to its will. I shall hunt you down. I shall face your hate, your horror and pain, lurking amidst the crowds of strangers, shouting 'neath the noise of day and torturing my mind while falling into a dreamless, merciless sleep. Call me mad. And should my time come to an end, I shall face the the beasts final blow with the pride and dignity of the thousands of others hunting it down, for I will have done my part. Stay strong, fellow Enbys, and do not bow before the beast.

Story, Psychological Horror