People have always feared me. That is one thing I know. They keep their distance. "It's something in the eyes," they say. A trait left by only the most extreme violence. 

Maybe, they're right.

When I look in the mirror, sometimes I think I can see it, this thing they speak of. It's not something you can pinpoint exactly. No. It's slipperier than that. It's more a feeling. A hollowness. A blackness. A pit instead of pupils. A narrowing-in-on instead of dilation. There's an aching look to them, a resounding echo. A ghost of pain. A haunting in an iris.

An imprint. 

So I stare, and I stare. Gazing into the mirror. Trying to grasp at this thing, trying to get ahold of it. Then, just as I'm about to reach it, it slips out of range. It slips further and further until I think I've imagined it entirely. 

But, I know that it must be there because people fear me. 

People fear me for my size and my stance, and my pitiful eyes. People fear me for my name and my reputation. For the stories passed from one tongue to the next. But, they're all wrong. 

Not wrong to fear me. No. They should. 

But, they fear for all the wrong reasons. 

It's not revenge I seek. It's not a sick, satisfying game I play. It's not because I'm a monster in a man. These things are all explainable. Sometimes, even excusable. Relatable. But, they're all wrong.

I just want to watch the world burn. 

Why? 

Because, I'm angry. I'm angry at the world for daring to exist. I'm angry at the daylight. Angry at the moon. Angry that the winds pass through trees, and the leaves fall, and the snow buries, and the numbers change, and it all repeats.

I'm angry at the non-angry. I'm angry at the smiles. Angry at the blind and even more so, at those who see.

I'm angry that these things exist. Angry at the things that don't.

But, most of all, I'm angry for being born.

What's your excuse?