"A lie doesn't become truth, wrong doesn't become right and evil doesn't become good, just because it's accepted by a majority."
- rick warren

DAYS PASSED BY since the encounter with Jake, his writing improving the faintest amount. Legible it was not, but the formation of each curve had become more prominent, his o's no longer resembling distorted squiggles. I only saw him at night, and when the sun arose; more often was he being called to the Major, his skill and talent, they called it, needed in the field. And so, since a part of me wished to see him more often, and take in his peculiar mannerisms, I watched him from the side of the field, where I tended to soldiers in need of refreshments.

It was clear why they called him a monster—in the sense that his arms moved at an abnormal pace, and it did not strain him to carry even the heaviest equipment. With clarity, he'd made a clean shot across the field, his hands wielding the gun with such efficiency and lack of mercy that it did make one wonder whether or not he could be worth human attention. His face—blank, like an unpainted canvas. No colours of light masked the very canvas, no merging of two unmatched substances that created something different, and yet beautiful. He was blank. Emotionless. Merciless. Brutal, and without patience.

And then there was the swing of his weapon, the glint of it in the sunlight that only the foe of his allies would see. A clean cut, the summer sun no long visible on its marred frame for it was decorated with the speckles of blood, done by his hand—but not his command, although he had obeyed. Ruthless—a cut with such clarity, such hatred.

The man without a heart.

I could see it now.

So clearly.

And yet, some part of me rejected the thought. A passionate want to reject society's untruthful and repulsive view—it filled my being, clouding my mind of the doubt that once filled it. A monster he was not. I had made up my mind about that.

Now, it was my turn to make him believe it.

Whether or not he'd known I was watching was not made known to me. Only that he had not come to me after his work on the field, and a permanent scowl graced his face. The scar was distorted upon his eye, the amber flicking with an immense enmity—one in which made my heart skip a beat, although I wished for him not to see it. His heart would ache at the sight, and the only thing—in his eyes—that made me different to all the others would be gone. I did not wish to reap him of his only friend. Clenched fists rested by his side as he lumbered into his chambers, not bothering to say a hello to me as he usually did. All the happiness which he usually held was gone, replaced with an intense hatred. A deep seated animosity.

What had caused it, I hadn't a clue.

That same night, he had not bothered to come to my chambers. Was it something I had done? Had caused?—I did not know, but knew that pondering on it would do no good. I contemplated the idea of greeting him in the dead of night: would it be logical? A fit of anger he could be in, or he could be gently resting, and wish not to be disturbed. Maybe my interaction with him had caused his hatred, and the scowl that resided on his face. Apologise—that is what I was going to do. So, as I stepped from under the rugged sheets and onto the cold floor, I walked the lonely corridors, his warmth no longer there to guide me in the dark.

—

Holes.

Several fist shaped holes.

Right there. In the wall. The intricate, hand-pained design ruined by an act of rage. As simple as it was, his act, it had a painful outcome; I couldn't bare to stare at it more. And it was not just one hole, but many, littered without care across his chambers. From where the bathroom began to the balcony, they etched the very walls as though it was a caveman painting telling history. He'd destroyed every bit of the wall, and with it the chairs, his desk and even the bed. Every bit of normalcy in his room. Gone. Destroyed.

And then it occurred it me: every bit of normalcy in his room. Gone.

It was intended. Meant—and it held a purpose. A lack of normalcy. The mark of a monster. Someone without mercy, without humility and a sense of morality.

He'd done it out of rage.

Sitting by the balcony was him, his buzzed hair allowing the harsh winds of winters breeze in summer times to fly through his scalp, grazing the tip of his forehead. Cold—he immersed himself in it, numbed the feeling of humanity's words and closed his eyes to all around him.

I could not see the monster in him.

I could never see it, but now, now it all seemed clearer. With clarity.

I did wonder when he would break—if the words ever got to him. Such words of cruelty, toxic to the heart and soul and mind. They break a person slowly, internally tormenting them until the shatter, and their anger becomes a spectacle.

Monster.

A man without a heart.

I could not see those titles—those words. All I could see was a broken human, who needed to release something within him: a rage.

As quietly as I had entered, I left the room, shutting the door behind me. Whether or not he'd taken in my presence was not voiced, but when I appeared the next day to place his breakfast on the floor (due to the broken table), I found it fixed, and with it the holes in the wall.

Once more, he was asleep.

Peacefully.