I didn't choose you. I just took one look at you and then—there was just no turning back.
- unknown

THEY WERE TAUGHT from the callow age to not smile at him, or dare to look at him. Straight ahead, the teachers would say as he walked past, eyes almost pleading for normality, but he knew that he'd never get it. Straight ahead, and avert your gaze. Nightmares bloom when we look upon mankind's monsters. He'd gotten used to it though—the neglect, resentment and disgust that graced people's eyes when they looked upon him. A relatively mundane monster. That is what he was to the eyes of the innocent. A war machine. A man without a heart.

Often, when the winter winds would chime in and he was ordered to stand guard by the lanky, oak tree, he would ponder on what it would be like to have a normal life. To let go of a gun for once, to blend in with a crowd, like watercolours merging together and creating something beautiful. Not hated, or seen with enmity as he was, but ... loved. Idolised. Wanted. Framed. Alas, as quick as those thoughts graced his mind, they went, alongside the winter breeze, and his post at the oak tree—lanky, and slowly breaking.

Some people thought it a shame that he did not know how to write. His body was not crafted for such delicacy, and it looked abnormal when he wielded a pen, much like an elderly woman wielding a sword or a gun: they weight would bring her down, and make her fall. He did not suit the pen and paper, with his massive stature and lumbering legs. Much more for war—much more of a soldier—just like he was made for. To fight, to wield a gun and die an honoured monster.

The word monster in his title never disappearing.

There were times when the summer would roll in, and he would sit by the balcony—of a virulent white, glistening in the blazing sun—and stare down to all those ordinary people who smiled, who sang and danced and splashed one another with nothing but bliss clouding their thoughts. He would watch them, and be fuelled with envy—but never anger. Never hatred, or loathing or a want for revenge. Not even when he was yelled at by the Major, spat on by the residents of his dilapidated city or screamed at by weeping women, whose sons had died and demanded that he was at fault. Not the enemy, but him.

Because he was a monster.

A man without a heart.

Who deemed more fitting than he?

I think it was the people, the innocent citizens, that were the monsters. They say he was crafted for war—and that I would never try to argue with—but even such people could learn to indulge in delicacy, and thrive in simplicity. Normalcy. A chance—I believed that he needed a chance in life, and I intended to give him it. I did not care about being shunned by my family, it deemed the least important thing. All I felt a need to do was accept him—let him see that he was never a monster. Never a cruel soldier. A war machine. I was fairly confident in my judgement of him, especially when I had walked past his dresser and attempted to place the overly large clothing in the first draw, which was almost out of my reach. He had moved to help me, lifted the clothing from my hands and placed it in the draw, and then resumed his place at the balcony, looking down with a heart wrenching envy.

It was then, as the sun glistened and trickled through the chiffon silk curtains—which were flailing in the light summer breeze—that I saw his face, and I was certain that the title of monster did not suit him. Had never suited him.

Cuts, no doubt from the war, grazed his cheek, and appeared fresh under the protruding stubble that was rough on his jaw. The skin that grazed him was of a fair and even colouring, his cheeks glistening with a tinted red and flickered with freckles, a crooked nose centring his face. Eyes of a startling amber faced me and with intent did they stare, analysing my emotions. Looking for fear—I could tell he was, for I doubted any mundane had been so close to him and unflinching. I was the first, and presumably the last. I could only guess that much.

His eyes were crooked on his face, only slightly shut and with a scar slicing through it. A permanent reminder of what he was no doubt, and it was that scar that made him seem monstrous to people. A demon mark, straight from the depths of hell. I thought it a blessing from the angels, but I had only muttered that to him under my breath, and when he'd heard it he resumed walking away to the balcony in a calm and collected matter. Not monstrous at all. Not wild and untamed.

And upon his head sat a buzzed cut, prickly and with the keen edge. It was of a deep umber, and in the sunlight it appeared a startling ginger, almost. Peculiar he was indeed, but not a monster. No different in mannerisms than any other gent that I had met.

He helped me. Assisted me, and then went back to his seat and ignored my presence. I wondered if he thought that I walked into his chambers for the simple sake of seeing his face, and telling the tale of the monster to all those who lived in town. I hope that presumption went away the next day, in which I walked into his chambers once more, and placed the clothing on the chair that time, wishing not to disturb him from his slumber.

The man without a heart.

How ironic.

He seemed fairly alive to me.