I should laugh more.

But I lost that a long time ago.

I lost that gaiety with my faith.

Its long, monotonous wails that rack me, shaking my emaciated form like a weathervane in a gale. I cry, not because of how pale I am. I don't cry for all the dead family I've seen wandering like air headed fools through the square, not even when I watched them gore and devour my dog, the little animal's guts still painting their faces in a macabre masquerade. Who they were pretending to be, however, eludes me. I don't cry because of that. I don't even cry for the bumbling idiots, insane enough to believe the military propaganda pronouncing "Safe Havens" and "Evacuations."

I don't cry for fools.

I don't even cry for myself, though I guess I should do. I don't cry because of how I've been treated. I'm a scapegoat, you see. Fate's own sacrificial lamb. I don't cry because of some huge system of theatrics that my life is; I'm obviously some kind of diabolical obstacle for some wretched hero. I am no novice to the Greek and Roman myths, you always have a monster for the hero to overcome. Funny. The dreaded irony of it; that the skin of a monster is encasing the soul of an innocent. The hilarity of the situation. That the hero will blunder through the stages anyway, hack the monster to pieces anyway, and die in a ditch somewhere anyway. It's sick. But damn funny. Its only perspective that grants humanity, abomination and innocence, after all.

They're all rather abstract, in reality.

But I don't cry because of any of that. I don't cry because I'm a deformed cretin. If you cry, it's usually a selfish thing. You ball your eyes out for things you've lost or things you never had. Worthless moments, why cry about things I've never had? I don't cry about anything silly like that. I don't even cry when those bright things run around me, muttering like I can't hear, slithering around like I can't see, cracking their boom-sticks and waving long shining blades. They all mutter and sweat, and if I could, I'd laugh at them.

It's just so funny.

As if I would. Wasting my time on creatures unable to listen.

That's why I cry. Nobody listens. Call it psychology if you want, give me some imposed humanity before you'll decide to cut me in half, set me on fire, shoot at me with your boom-stick. I cry not because of what I've lost, and not because of the monster I evolved into. Well, the new type of monster, anyway.

I cry because you don't get it.

You'll wander your big halls, pick up worthless boxes full of food that you'll hum and err at before you throw it away. You'll squander your lives; play pretend as if you're really living. Wasting what others would kill for. And I'll still be here, kneeling in an alley in what I would guess to be guts and brains. Sobbing what is left of a heart out. Not because I envy you, don't be obtuse, and definitely not because I hate my life. Not because I loved what I had, and not because I lost what I had. I'll be kneeling in human remains, crying like a little damned girl. Not because I hate you. Not because I hate me.

I'll be crying because you're not here, because you don't get it, because you can't see the funny, because you're not suffering with me, simpering in agony like I am.

I'm here, and you're still there. Bright and healthy. And still not listening.