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Who is it?

Who is that dark figure who walks amongst the field of the dead, bodies riddled with holes, still screaming and fighting as it steals their medals and guns? Who’s that robbed creature who waits by a dying man’s bedside table, just itching to let its bony, white fingers roam free in his pockets? Who is that wispy shadow whose hands close firmly around pennies wrought from the feeble fingers of the friendless, of the homeless, of the penniless?

Who is that dark figure who rips flesh from bone with razor teeth, slurping down a wild beast, a king of the land, within seconds? Who is that robbed creature who slinks into stores, leaving with armfuls of a sticky substance, a sweet substance, a sugary substance? Who is that wispy shadow that slips into children’s minds, making them whine and beg, only to be left sobbing when the tasty morsel that had been bestowed upon their fingertips was ripped away by the unknown?

Who is that dark figure who stands before a mirror, one polished to a gleam that reflects a pure vision of horror in the moonlit night? Who is that robbed creature whose days are spent fretting about, clawing at its face cloaked by a powder blanket so thick, the being below has drowned in its folds? Who is that wispy shadow whose mouth forms knives that bury themselves deep in anyone around as they shoot from the pillar of disgust towards all those far below it?

Who is that dark figure whose eyes glow with malice that it wields with the cruel detachment of an executioner? Who is that robbed creature who crashes through walls on its never ending path of destruction, sweeping men, women, and children down into the flaming pits of its hate? Who is that wispy shadow whose hands, curled into bloody bludgeons, swing into an innocent’s face, knocking her weary form to the ground as the eternal storm swallows her soul in its mouth ringed by malice?
Who is that dark figure whose hands are stained with the crystal cut rubies of an heiress, with the strands of pearls slipped over a headless stump, with the gory remains of a once stunning actress? Who is that robbed creature who was never good enough, who is never good enough, not when compared to the others, the now dead others? Who is that wispy shadow whose nails scratch away at a mirror that reflects the horrible truth, that she is prettier, he is stronger, she is richer, he is smarter?
Who is that dark figure whose limp form lays draped over a couch arm, a figure so still, you could almost swear it was dead? Who is that robbed creature whose words echo through a long empty house, calling, pleading, begging for someone to fetch it that remote, that beer, that life that is just too far away? Who is that wispy shadow that lies at the base of a bed, too tired to reach up, too weak to pull, too lazy to call for help because those cushions were just too high, too soft, too beautiful for it to move even its mouth?
Who is that dark figure whose tongue flicks out to stroke the dry and chapped lips of the tied up body below it, the corpse in the corner, the shell on the sofa? Who is that robbed creature whose eyes twinkle brightly as it chases a frightened girl, words like a loaded gun spilling from its lips, urging her to just stop in play, to stop and give in, to stop and pull the trigger? Who is that wispy shadow who dips into the sticky drinks lining the bar at a club, trembling under the force of the bass, drowning under the sea of sweat, chocking on the almost tangible need flowing through the veins of the dance floor?
Who is that dark figure? Who is that robbed creature? Who is that wispy shadow?
You want to know. The curiosity is overwhelming. You reach out, and pull off its hood.
You scream.
It is not the monster you expected. It is not the demon you anticipated.
It is you.
It is man.



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