"I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses." - Nietzsche

I have no where else to go to say what I must say. These words are so desperate to be freed from their solace prison that i can hardly breathe at times.

My marriage has become a place of war and desolation, even as my child blossoms. He is beautiful. Strong. A spirit, lent flesh and blood from my lust and loins. I do not know how to feel towards him, or what I "should" expect to feel. He cries, and it exhausts me. When he cannot be soothed, I feel irritation stir inside me, slowly smoldering into something more severe. When I feed him, when he plays with my fingers and smiles at me, I just follow the motions. I smile, I coo. I pet him and hold him, and display him with the same "pride" as i've seen everyone do. But I don't know what to feel. I should correct that, and say it simply; I don't know how to feel.

Does it matter that I want to feel something? That I study his face, memorizing his expressions and his smile, desperately searching for some hint, or clue? Or is that simply not enough? What curse is this burden, then, to give me the power to copulate, to procreate, yet render me incapable of but the base animalistic emotions towards my seed? For so long, the cold, hard logic was God in my kingdom. The chaos, my careful lies and perfect gloves were my pride and joy. So what is this feeling, then? How can I feel empty, when there was NOTHING ever there?

It is so infuriating. I have spent his entire life trying to understand what I am going through. How to process this. Three months, and all I have to show for it are gouges in my wedding band, some scars, and memories of mistakes that i've made. Memories of decisions that I now second-guess. Decisions that mean literally nothing to me, as simple as deciding on what I want for dinner, are now haunting my dreams. Words and phrases, such as "on principle" are slowly becoming dangerous barbs, and my sides are now home to hundreds of them, each drawing tiny pinpricks of blood.

My wife was once like me. Or at the very least, she was a good enough actress to convince me she was. Pregnancy and the hormonal onslaught that her body suffered over those nine months took their toll. She remembered how to cry. How to "love." How to feel. And so, while I watched her grow, watched my son growing inside of her, I began to watch the woman that was my true mate, slowly transition into something else. I suppose some would say, grow into something more than just a creature like me. Her "feelings" towards me changed, subtly at first, slowly burning into something beyond our mutually beneficial coexistance. She loves me now, and hates me.

I thought that having pets would help her. I hoped that if we brought two domesticated people into our lives, two people that know what we are, what we are capable of, she would remember what she was. What we were... What I am. And so, I moved us into a home with two of the best "cattle" I've ever had in my life. Two people who are dependant on us for their social needs, as well as their financial needs. Two people who take care of the home, and handle the mundane affairs, leaving the primal tasks to us. I defend our home, and I defend our interests, to the death as necessary. Our "otherworldy" business ventures and shadow world investments are managed and maintained by the hand beneath the glove, and they both know that. Accept that. And yet, even having these two "pets" did not sway her.

She told me, back before she became human, that she always won. That she would always win. And so, now, more than a year later, here I am, at a near loss of words. My carefully constructed world goes on around me, without any need from me for it to maintain its steady orbit. My son slumbers blissfully, and my bed is missing half of its usual occupancy. My wife would rather sleep with my son, away from his monstrous father. And the monster sits here, chipping away at the tempest raging in his core, one paltry word at a time, spilling his soul onto paper to be viewed by complete strangers.

What have I become? And worse still, what will I be when the dust settles? Who will be there with me? I know that I will survive this, because that is what I do. But is it worth it if she is not here for the ride?

Ironic that my own lot in life should now coincide with all of those whom I have walked on. My own struggles and toils, parallel to those of my victims. It is so easy to manipulate people to my whims, but I am learning just how hard it is to convince anyone that I can be more than a monster... Especially myself.