The Monster's Plaything

He was any other as he walked the streets looking for an escape, searching for the dream, the prize.
Just as she was seeking the same.

When their paths crossed, with this crisscrossing of the past and the similarities, it brought them closer.
She fit right in with the attention shown so needing to be loved. Oh god he could love her, with what he almost had been groomed to become.


What is love when one sees it as violence or as put downs stealing the souls worth...

What is love as told by the mother who swears of it being her fault, the alcoholic father who punched that reality into her, as he watched, learned.

What is love from a father who shows it with well placed controlling and defeating words, the mother who allows it to happen, as someone had to be the blame.
She was that perfect, stupid...


The first time he hit her he cried, promising afterward of never again...

That first time as she took that fist, rationalized deserving it...

In time she became nothing more then his plaything, and he became her monster.