They’re all afraid of me.
I feel it. I see it in the way they stop talking when I walk through the door. The way they look at me out of the corners of their eyes the entire time. The audible sigh of relief when I leave the room.
All of them are like me, but at the same time they’re very unlike me. Maybe it’s because they’re slighter in build. Younger. They’re more normal.
Maybe it’s because they don’t carry around this feeling of deformity, the sense of abnormality that drove the masses away from Hyde. The soul can sense the paranormal. Maybe that’s why they’re afraid.
Maybe they see through my carefully selected blue eyes and blond hair, my well-chosen features and form. Maybe the eyes of their souls can see the truth — that all of that is simply a plaster, a cloak to hide the monster beneath. Maybe they know that I’m just a well-dressed version of fiction’s most horrible creation. That this time Dr. Frankenstein simply chose his materials more carefully.
Or maybe it’s just because they look at me and see a potential savior, and a potential tyrant. A potential Hercules, a potential Hyde. A potential this, a potential that…an endless supply of contradicting options stream to fill in the gaps. A hero or a monster, a savior or a demon, a loyal slave or a cruel master. An unstoppable force for good, or an unstoppable force for evil.
But how can I blame them?
I’m afraid of me, too.