What is a monster?
Is it the thing that devours…Or the thing that decides what deserves to be devoured?
What is a monster?
Is it claws and fangs, soaked in blood beneath a moonless sky— a beast that devours a village to feed its starving young— Is it a monster? Or a parent?
Or is it the mind that sees the world differently… too sharply… too clearly? The mind that oversaw the slaughter of thousands to protect a future where millions may thrive— Is he a monster? Or a savior?
They tell stories, don't they?
Of creatures in the dark.
Of things that lurk beneath beds, inside forests, behind ruined walls.
Things that consume flesh. Things that gamble with lives. Things that charm and slip into bonds. Things that watch and wear faces.
That is the easy answer.
That is the answer given to children.
But the question will continue to linger.
Because the true answer is never as clean as people pretend it is.
What is a monster?
Action… or intent?
A soldier marches into war.
He burns a village because he was told it would end the conflict faster.
Because fewer would die in the long run.
He does not hate the people he kills.
He does not even know their names.
He tells himself it is necessary.
He tells himself it is right.
Is he a monster?
Or is it the man who smiles, feeds the hungry, shelters the weak— yet behind closed doors moves pieces on a board no one else can see?
He ruins lives quietly.
Carefully.
Not out of rage… but for ambition.
For control.
For a future only he believes in.
Is he a monster?
Or perhaps—
Perhaps it is simpler.
Perhaps a monster is not what one does…
…but what one is seen to be.
History is filled with monsters.
Or so they say.
Men who burned cities in the name of peace.
Leaders who crushed nations in the name of unity.
Figures who believed—truly believed—that what they were doing was necessary.
That they were right.
That they were just.
Do you think they saw themselves as monsters?
No.
They saw themselves as saviors.
As visionaries.
As the only ones willing to do what others could not.
And perhaps that is the most dangerous kind of monster of all—
The one who does not know.
But then again…
What of those who do?
What of the man who saves a life…
…and cannot sleep because of the one he did not save?
What of the woman who smiles in daylight…
…but hears the echoes of her choices that brought tears when the world goes quiet?
They are not called monsters.
They are called heroes.
Or survivors.
Or simply… people.
And yet—
They feel it.
Don't they?
That creeping weight.
That quiet voice that asks, again and again—
"What have you done? You monster!"
What is a monster?
The one the world condemns… or the one who condemns themselves?
And then—
There is something even more unsettling.
The idea that monstrosity is not discovered…
…but assigned.
It is easy, you see.
So very easy—
To take one person…
Eugh! Look at him!
Pull them from the crowd…
Can you see him! Disgusting!
Strip them of context, of history, of sacrifice—
I heard what he did. He is evil, horrible, cruel... He is...
And name them as not like the rest.
But as a monster
...a Monster
Monster.
It is a convenient word.
A useful word.
A word that allows the many to stand above the one.
To justify.
Look at everything he did!
To erase.
We have to get rid of him!
After all—
If they are a monster…
Then what was done to them must have been necessary.
Right?
History does not begin with monsters.
It creates them.
No tyrant rose alone.
No destroyer acted without cause.
There were always hands behind them.
Voices that whispered.
She hurt me. He touched me. They did this to me!
Crowds that cheered.
Thank you. She deserved justice. They will never be able to harm us anymore.
Systems that needed them.
No one else would have done it. Thank you.
Because monsters—
Real monsters—
Do the things others will not.
They make the impossible choices.
They carry the weight no one else wants.
They stain their hands so others can pretend theirs are clean.
And when it is over—
When the work is done—
When there is nothing left to burn, nothing left to break—
Those same voices turn.
They point.
How could you...
They condemn.
You went to far, no human would have done this...
They cleanse themselves with outrage.
I never said you should do this...
And they call it justice.
You have to be stopped...
Witch hunts, they used to say.
As if those witches appeared from nowhere.
As if no one had handed them the fire and ingredients in the first place.
So tell me—
What is a monster?
Is it born…
or made?
Nature…
or nurture?
Is it something that exists within us from the beginning—
A dormant thing waiting for the right moment to awaken?
Or is it carved into us, piece by piece—
By the world, by circumstance, by necessity?
…
No.
That question is wrong.
The truth is far simpler.
Far uglier.
Everyone is a monster.
Some just haven't been given a reason yet.
Some hide it better.
Some bury it deeper.
Some dress it in pretty words and noble intentions.
But it is there.
Waiting.
Watching.
And those who rise above the rest—
Those who change the world, who shape it, who break it—
They are not the ones without monsters.
They are the ones who are not afraid of them.
Who embrace it.
Who wield it.
Who become it.
…
I used to wonder which kind I was.
The unaware…
The unwilling…
Or the condemned.
I used to tell myself I was none of them.
That I was different.
That I stood apart.
I was wrong.
I am a monster.
Not because the world says so.
Not because of what I have done.
But because I know.
Because I see it.
Because I understand it.
Because I no longer pretend it isn't there.
And perhaps—
That is the only difference that truly matters.
…
If you are hearing this…
Or reading this…
Or somehow standing at the edge of what remains of my story—
Then you should know something.
This is not a tale of good and evil.
This is not a story of heroes and villains.
This is a story of monsters.
Of how they are made.
Of how they rise.
Of how they fall.
And of one in particular…
Me.
…
At least now—
I am no longer afraid to admit it.
And soon—
Very soon—
You will understand why.