Farewell to Man: The Coming of the Beast

There, in the mirror of the world, stood a man, but not just any man. No, this was not a figure who could be easily forgotten. His face was a dissonant melody, a symphony of scars tearing at his dermis, each stigma telling a story sadder than the last.

He had a hump, an imposing protuberance that deformed his back, that condemned him to stare at the ground rather than the sky, to bear the weight of the world on his hunched shoulders. His limbs, twisted and awkward, were reminiscent of a sculpture deformed by a drunken sculptor, moving gracelessly, uncoordinated, adding to the awe his figure inspired.

But if you dared to lose yourself in the labyrinth of his face, if you dared to navigate between the reefs of his scars, you could find two rare jewels: his eyes. Despite the brutality of her appearance, her eyes shone with a gleam of intelligence, an almost disturbing humanity. They were wells of desire, the silent call of a soul begging to be recognized not as a monster, but as a man. A man born into a body not made for this world, not made to be loved.

This man, for all his hideousness, was no monster on the inside. Yet he wandered in a world that saw only his deformed exterior, a world that refused to see the soul behind the mask. His presence aroused fear and disgust, murmurs rose as he passed, glances fled, doors closed. Yet he was anything but the monster they thought he was.

He was gentle, sensitive, a tender soul trapped in an armor of terror. His gestures, despite their clumsiness, were full of delicacy, as if they wanted to compensate for the ugliness they wore on the outside. His eyes, those very eyes that shone with intelligence, were always seeking to give, to understand, to love. They were like beacons in a sea of desolation, like distress signals sent out in the hope of an echo.

And yet, the echo never came. The man was alone. Isolated. Ostracized by a society that saw only his monstrosity, a society that feared what it didn't understand. His existence was a constant solitude, a silent agony, the sad price to pay for a world that refused to accept what was different, what was unique, what was him.

"What a farce," he thought, "All my life, I've sought to be loved, to be understood. And for what? To be rejected, despised, forgotten. If the world doesn't want the man, it'll get the monster. The monster it created, the monster it fears."

A bitter laugh arose deep inside him. "I fought, I tried to prove my worth, to show my gentleness, my humanity. But for what? For frightened looks? For whispers behind my back? For doors closing in my path?"

His anger grew, fueled by every suffering, every humiliation, every rejection. "I'm tired of fighting, tired of looking for acceptance that doesn't exist. If the monster is all they see, then the monster, I will be."

A sigh escaped his lips. "I wasn't asking for much. Just a little understanding, a little love. But it seems the world only gives love to those who are like it. And I'm different. I'm unique. I am... me."

He could feel the transformation taking place inside him. "The gentle man, the sensitive man, is dead. There's no room for him anymore. This world was not made for the gentle, for the sensitive. It was made for monsters, for beasts."

And as the beast took control, a gleam of sadness crossed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I became the monster you feared. I'm sorry I wasn't the man I should have been."

And with those final thoughts, the man faded away, giving way to the beast he'd always refused to be. "Farewell," he murmured, "Farewell to the man I was. Hello to the beast I am."