what's montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
   nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
   belonging to a man. o, be some other name!
   what's in a name? that which we call a rose
   by any other name would smell as sweet.
what does it mean to have a guilty mind? letâs start with a confession.
you hate him because everything he says is witty, his words are always laced with sarcasm. but he would flash you that smile and itâs almost creepy. creepy only because itâs endearing in the same way. as if heâs telling you, thereâs no harm to any of it. underneath, there were plenty. he had the mechanics of a smile right straight out of his manual, but he'd seem more authentic whenever he didn't try to feign a smile in his preserved face that looked well under his actual age.Â
inadequate to handle emotions. emotionally crippled. void of sentiment. something about him was artificial. clinical.
keeping fit had always been an obsession of his. long runs on the beach, daily workouts, a healthy diet. he would preach about red meat. don't eat red meat. red meat, red meat. he's never spotted with a drink either despite his peers deep into the occupational feature. most everything about him screams, âiâm not who you want to hang with.â heâs simple at best. you wouldnât even suspect he has his own secrets even when youâre aware everyone does. nothing about him draws your attention because heâs open. or is he? not exactly. itâs all part of the act. you wonât know him unless you were behind his eyes, absorbed into his perspective, convinced of his justice. if youâve said just now, âthereâs no way iâm anything like himâ, think again.
show me a person whoâs never encountered a mosquito, preparing to pierce its tube-like mouthpart into oneâs skin and didnât take pleasure in squashing the fly in self defense. tell me youâve never found a kind of grim joy in every fresh blood stain youâve left on your skin, on your walls, wherever else they may have sat still before taking you as their prey. if you can, iâll tell you the conclusion to this story. give up yet? now tell me youâre not similar in any way. if you canât, youâre in. feel free to read through in shared confidence.
take a boy; a fifteen year old boy who didn't know how to stop. or rather, if he ever could. a numeric threshold in terms of the number of victims, and an element of time; a period of cooling off in between and spree spanning over years. take all three and you get cold blood, inside and out. crimson pooling thickly on the carpet. going back, were they victims at all? heâs ruthless, thatâs for sure, but if there was one thing his late foster father had left him in a world so cruel, it was to separate the cleansing execution of moral justice from the persisting evil that leaks from numbed slaughter. to this day he follows the code; his only means of a moral compass and the gateway to his yearning to connect.
as a way to control the demon inside, he went after the guilty whenever the law couldnât do anything about it. he has eyes everywhere. once someone falls into that condition, itâs over. he takes them and he keeps them down. good or bad? the lines are blurred. he makes sure no innocent is harmed. on top of that, he rids the world of malevolence. thatâs justice to him. doesnât that sound like a continued success in fulfilling a heroic destiny? doesnât that give you the security that what lurks around, threatening your very life for reasons selfish and impure is decreasing in the surface of normalcy? we do want him to fulfill his destiny, donât we?
