[Part VIII] Duality

He takes off the mask that he wears for everyone else. He places it across the hallway, in a room that he keeps for dressing. Then he walks down the hallway towards a candle-lit room. Its not a room for reminisces, nor a room for inspiration. The room is set for a very dark ritual, one that he goes through once in awhile.

He starts by looking up to the ceiling, where there are marks of burnt wood and many candles stuck to the wall. They are not lit, but instead the have had their wax melted upon the mints where the flames were supposed to burn. They inspire an undisclosed tantrum, something kept hidden well beyond the faces of other people. He then removes a huge piece of log from a cupboard. He shifts it into the center of the room, and stares it down as if it were his mortal enemy.

His eyes transfixed upon the wooden log, as if he was going to commit murder, a murder which would be more terrible than death itself. His eyes told a story of rage, not something even a hangman would want to see. Then he starts. He pounds the log. Again, and again. He pounds it harder and harder with each strike. His fists turn a bright crimson red and they start to bruise. But he continues. Harder and harder, faster and faster. It is as if there was a drum beating, carrying with it a rhythm that echoes across the room. The resonance of the clashing sound waves shakes the room. Then he starts roaring at the top of his voice. His first clenched even tighter, now a dark shade of blue, he pounds the log with even greater force.

He hates the world for making him this way. He hates each and every person for making him feel this way. He hates the blood that runs through his veins. He hates the heart pounding inside him. He hates the way people think. He hates the wilderness and its misery. He hates himself for having to be alive. He hates whoever gave him this existence. He hates everything, everyone and himself for believing it.

He hits harder, harder and harder! By the time he tires, there is a small pool of bloody on the floor and his fists drip with blood. The pain is refreshing. It is cleansing. He feels every drop of it. He savors it as it flows with every new drop of blood. His heart makes it flow through his entire frame, hammering with each beat, giving him new fodder for more and more hatred.

But if only there were a cure for his broken heart...