Death Glare

She walks past the table of faces she knows all too well. This familiar territory feels musky with judgment and the twisted, fabricated opinions of the majority. To be different is a crime; to be independent is frowned upon; to seek a higher meaning and comprehension of life is blasphemy. In her reality, the concept of individuality has been burned and buried, along with any shred of self that may have survived the harsh doctrines of this plastic society. The eyeballs in the sockets of the faces at the table pan slowly as she passes by – behind and within them, nothing but empty shells and heartless, soulless, uncalled-for incrimination. With a single death glare, volumes are spoken about the senders and their intents towards the receiver. The darkest corners of their auras are revealed within a split second – recognition of the individuals not necessary. She averts her eyes and carries on, yet their malice pierces her stingingly in the back nonetheless. Their hatred burrows deep into her spine and sends molten electricity through her veins. Their spite is now visible, its effects the adverse symptoms of jealously and fear. She continues. Self is self, and she will never cease to be herself. Hatred is the vehicle of the insecure, and it will soon feel just as old and worn out as the outdated and overused setting. They will succumb to their own poison, and karma will do the cleanup. She walks. She doesn’t turn around, and she doesn’t look back. She knows these faces too well, and she knows this place too well. But of all the things she knows, she knows who she is and where she’s going. They do not belong in her future, so she silently thanks them for shaping her past. The corners of her lips upturn and her demeanor lightens. Every death glare received is sent out into the universe as an offering of humanity’s finest moments; this is what too many have become. She sees it as it is, and she affirms self. Everything will be fine.

It goes on.