Mystic. That is what they had labeled him. He snorted at the term. It sounded striking no doubt but tame. Very domesticated. So completely unlike him. They thought he dabbled in the black arts and made deals with the devil. That he had sold his soul to Satan. They were unaware of the fact that he did not need the help of scented candles and pentagons to seek the devil. He lived within his soul under tightly bound chains constantly fighting looking for an escape, an outlet. Today was the day he will come out. He looked down at the crowd from his vantage point. The shadows engulfed his form welcoming him as one of their own.
They had surrounded his place with torches, pitchforks, crosses and holy water. His nose picked up a particularly pungent smell. Garlic. Strings of it, in fact. They had brought food to kill him with. The idea was ridiculously hilarious. If killing his beast was so easy, he would have ended this cursed existence eons ago. He could sense the fear rolling off the crowd in waves. They were petrified, their instincts warning them to flee. But as insipid humans were prone to do, they ignored it.
Self-belief. It was the predominant passion driving these people. This certainty in one's ability existed in all species. Every being on the planet believed themselves to be superior. Ants looking for food were certain they would not get trampled. Rats scurrying out of their burrows were certain they would not get preyed on. That they can avoid the eyes of the slayer in the skies. Deer at water holes were certain they can outrun the swift footed predator. Self-belief was how every species existed and carried on with their lives. Only none of them were foolish enough to ignore their instincts. In humans, self-belief transformed into that destructive over confidence that resulted in their doom.
His eyes scanned the crowd and estimated a casualty of around 200 people. It would take him approximately twenty minutes to run through all of them. His mind calculated with detached precision on the best way to attack that involved the least bloodshed. He would stage it as an earthquake later. He had lived among this people for sixteen years and he tried to summon some empathy, pity. Nothing happened. His heart remained the same dark void of the past 150 years.
He was a mere Xerox of his former self. There used to be happy times. He did not remember it vividly. More like a dream from a dream. But once upon a time probably an eternity ago he used to feel. His life had color, not all of them happy, but they were there. But now his life was a Xerox colored in black and white. The town would be painted in red today and he would not be able to see it. His body tensed getting ready for the kill hoping probably this time he would feel something.
P.S- YOU ARE FREE TO IMAGINE THIS ON WHOEVER YOU WANT. Go ahead and throw the rotten tomatoes. No eggs though, i am on a diet.😛
Arjun
Anupamaa
