"we make our own monsters, then fear them for what they us about ourselves"
- Mike Carey

I DID NOT believe it.

Not. One. Bit.

The words I heard? They were all lies, formed from hatred and fear and utter perplexity—for they all lacked knowledge of Jake, the real Jake Warrens: the man who they claimed to be a monster, but really was an angel. They made these words from the barren pits within their heart, where merciless actions slumbered and cruelty brewed—where animosity festered and crawled up their throats, sprouting words of venom from their lips as a smile tugged at the corner of their mouth. They didn't mean it—they couldn't mean it. Lies. It was all lies: no good, paltry, pitiful lies.

But if I believed that so, then why were my hands shaking?

Why did I feel such fear?

Why did I stare at George, at Mollie, with disbelief, although my eyes held perplexity.

Held deception.

Perhaps I had been deceived—my mind forged to see him as something good. Perhaps I was manipulated—crafted and wielded into a tool of empathy, something to use and throw away. George's words, and Mollie's, indicated such things. The honesty that rested in their eyes, the sorrow and sympathy that etched their very being was unbelievably noticeable, and even if I tried I could not miss it. I could not miss the soft rubbing on my back from Mollie's hand, nor could I miss the constant Sorry, Miss Lorette from George. I could not miss the stumbling of my footing, nor the twist and turns my mind took me in as it tried to escape the perplexing maze of deception.

Oh, what a fool I was.

Ironic it was at my adamancy to reject society's thoughts, and yet my fear was created from it. The newspaper that sat in my hands was wrinkled, tossed and torn by myself in distress, and on the front paper it held a sketch of Jake Warrens. They did him no justice, but I doubted they cared; arms protruding from a monstrous body, face contorted into that of an alien shape, and eyes bloodshot and maniacal—a crazed smile etched onto scarred skin. And apart of me did not know whether or not this fear was a product of pure rage, or the genuine feeling of my heart aching. My chest hurt—it churned melancholy, craving fresh air, craving happiness, craving an escape.

Just like Jake has said in my dreams.

"They said he did it all with no mercy. They said. . ." Mollie's voice trailed off, pity residing on her face. Blonde curls cascaded down the sides of her rounded face, eyes wide with concern. She paused, checking to see if I was okay, before continuing. "They say he killed like a madman, smiling throughout it all. I—I can't imagine the suffering you're going through, Maddy, I really can't. I tried to stop you from helpin—"

"Save your pity." And although confidence is what I wished to emit, I'm sure it was nothing short of utter sadness. My throat was sore, eyes bloodshot and hair askew. I looked as though I needed pity, no doubt, and I truly did—but I did not want it. Not now. Not in the future. Never. "What else did they say." I look at Mollie, and then at George, who'd said that a lady shouldn't hear such things. I didn't care for his opinion. "Tell me what they said."

George swallowed, eyes darting across the room uncomfortably. A wind picked up from the open windows, an eerie coldness sweeping the room. Even though the sky was ripe with summer, autumn leaves flew into the room and nestled comfortably. "They said he ripped apart their bodies piece by piece, taking the enemies weapons and killing them in front of comrades. They said his anger was unrivalled—that they'd never seen such a sight in all their years."

"The last resort." I spoke, although my voice was distant. Somewhere else. Perhaps it was in the land of my dreams, where souls of the damned were free. "It makes sense. Their last resort to kill all those that opposed them before nuking everyone." I guessed, and I was sure it was correct. The silence that filled the room told me so.

"I would have told you sooner, but I was not allowed. Nobody was allowed. It was everyone's secret." Mollie spoke soothingly, rubbing my back. Her hands were cold to the touch.

"Everyone but me." I sighed, shaking my head. "Quite disappointing, really." A pause, and then, "is that all they said?" Mollie and George shared a look, as though afraid to tell me the truth. "What? What is it?"

"A-at the end of the battle," George swallowed heavily, releasing a ragged sigh. His breathing grew heavy, eyes frantic and hands fidgeting with the pocket of his clothing. His hair was drenched with sweat, and it looked as though he had not slept a bit. I doubted anyone apart from myself had. "He ... He lined up everyone that was left—the enemies—and shot them all. Ten people died instantly. Some lived for a second more—maybe even two or three—before their bodies stopped moving. And then, he cried." George met my eyes. "He cried."

"No-one had seen anything like it, Maddy." Mollie spoke, although it sounded muffled under the beating of my own heart, which had filled my ears. It drowned out any sound apart from my heavy breathing and the pulling of the dangling thread that clung to my skirts. "The monster crying—"

"He is not a monster." My voice was small, caught in my throat.

"Jake Warrens crying." Mollie corrected herself, playing with the curls that bounced against her shoulders. "They said it was a sight to see. He screamed, dropped the gun and he kept muttering something." She looked at me. "Your name."

And perhaps it was the utter twisting of my heart that made me do such a thing, or the intense throbbing of my head, but I laughed; and it was no ordinary laugh. It was not a laugh of daisies, of lone daffodils and swaying trees. Of little children running, of innocence and ignorant and all that is blissful—no. It was the laugh of pain—something sadistic, almost, mutilated by anguish that was thought to be unrivalled, impossible. And here I was, laughing—laughing, whilst tears coated my face, and drenched the dress I wore.

If he'd died, would I be less in pain? Would I feel less guilt?

A killer.

Was that title worse than a monster?

I didn't have time to think about it, time to dry the tears that were destined to stay wet. They coated my skin like clothing, their touch soft like velvet and slippery like silk. They eased the chapped texture of my lips, soothed the sore skin of my eyes and dropped from the tip of my nose. It cleaned the stains of my dressing, washed the dust from the floor and eased the gushing wind.

But it caused me great pain.

Such unrivalled pain.

And before I could gasp for breath—could desert the pitiful eyes of George, or run from the concerned gaze of Mollie—I heard a voice, soft and innocent.

"Amandine?" Clueless, perplexed—like a child seeing someone they loved cry for the first time. It was misleading. The man who spoke those words was a killer. He was no child, no figure of innocence. He, and I used he because the words Jake Warrens caused unbearable pain, was not the man I knew. I did not know a killer.

But then again, wasn't George a killer?

Wasn't Mollie's fiancé a killer?

All this time, I'd been surrounded by killers. Perhaps they were the real monsters. Perhaps that is why I sit unfazed by their actions, and fazed by Jake's.

I'd learnt to believe that he was not a monster.

Was I wrong?