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Being in a skin not meant for you can lead to an interesting path in life, if one could call this a life to begin with. Born on an idea, Brutus began his life weak, carried by the summer breeze. The idea of him began to grow. A one off thought spun into ideas shared between friends, and Brutus would grow. Those ideas would be spun into rumors, and Brutus would grow again. Those rumors then took on a life of their own, fear turning rumors into local folktales as the townspeople would speak in hushed voices about the thing in the forest. That shadow behind the trees, the feeling of something watching you, the idea you aren't alone. That's Brutus, the idea of him, growing stronger and stronger.
But what is a life if it's built on the fear of those who believe you exist in the first place? For one, it's lonely. Terribly so, that tiny bug would grow. A beetle he would become, watching from the trees as campers, trespassers, and others of all walks of life would traverse through these ever changing woodlands. They were terrified of something they couldn't even see, something so tiny, you would miss him if you blinked.
But one day, Brutus had an idea of his own. Maybe if he looked more like them, he would fit in. And so, Brutus grew once more. The beetle was now the size of a small child, still an insect as he struggled to comprehend why humans looked the way they did. Their limbs were straight and free flowing, his were jointed and bent in. He was covered in a hard exo skeleton, while humans were covered in soft skin. How did they do it?
Any human that had the unfortunate luck of coming across Brutus would flee from him before he could get a chance to properly study them. Why did they always run? It's not like Brutus was violent, only curious. But that would change when one day, he would meet a child who stayed long enough to help him. A little girl who wasn't afraid of a bug, but who was fascinated instead. Cheeks red and her overalls dirty from constant play, she stayed. The more he watched her, the more Brutus began to mimic her. Bent arms began to straighten. A hard shell was slowly replaced with something soft and smooth, and bit by bit, he was slowly reaching his goal.
In an unfortunate turn of events, his friend simply stopped showing up. She never returned to the forest, which put Brutus at a loss. Not only had he lost the only up close reference he had, but now, he was lonely once more, left to his own devices and stuck in a form that unnerved even the wildlife around him. Not quite a bug, but not quite a boy. And as Brutus was left alone, something began to grow inside of him. Resentment.
Back to watching human travelers from afar, Brutus would watch as these beings tread on and disrespected the land that gave him life. His home. They sullied it, polluted it with litter and sickness. Men in coats and hats who would come to chase after and hunt the defenseless wild life, taking their skins and leaving the rest behind to rot and be reclaimed by the earth underneath them. It wasn't right, seeing the carcass of lives wasted by the selfishness of man.
These men would find Brutus one day. Armed with items he recognized as weapons, long rifles and the such. Some already had a bag of games they'd claimed for themselves. They looked at Brutus, and they did not see a boy, nor did they see a bug. To them, Brutus was an exotic enigma. One that would look perfect above their mantle.
Brutus doesn't know what exactly happened, his memory fogs beyond that point. But once he was done, his hands were wet with the blood of the men that now laid lifeless around him. He could feel the same wetness fall from his face. All he could taste and all he could smell was something metallic. Something sweet. The fear frozen onto the men's face is what Brutus recalls most vividly. He looked at their faces and then touched his own. His skin was full now, his eyes black and sunken like that of those underneath. His face was full and his hair began to grow coarse and brittle, matted even, but his skin lacked the warmth of the little girl who remained in the back of his mind from those many moons ago.
Brutus understood now. He wasn't violent, only wanted to protect his home. He would continue to watch any newcomers from afar, slowly but surely fine tuning his appearance as he grew tall enough to loom. He couldn't fully comprehend what he had done to those unfortunate enough to try and charge him, but occasionally, he would find one of these humans to have something large enough to keep him covered. Clothes he would learn were vital for anyone wanting to be human. He never took much. Shoes here, a coat there, enough to protect him when the nights grew cold. And when he was hungry, that's when his memory seemed to dull. He would find himself with gaps in his mind, unable to recall entire days. The only thing that resonated was the heavy smell of metal.
Older now, the wind taken form no longer cared for humans. They were an inconvenience at best and a nuisance at worst. Over time, he explored his appearance. What worked best? He tried to mimic the women who came around on occasion, but that didn't satisfy him. The form of a man was unsatisfactory itself, and exploring anything in between left him with more questions than answers. Who was he? What was he? Was his skin truly his own anymore?
Lost and disillusioned with the world, Brutus began to aimlessly wander. For days he would walk the seemingly endless valley, hoping that if he kept moving, maybe he would stop thinking. And then, something happened. Another human would cross his path, a human who showed him no fear but seemed to match his exhaustion. The little girl, now grown, had returned. But why? Why would she come back to him now when he was this? Did she recognize him? Could she feel the rot beneath his skin?
The girl just as before showed him nothing but compassion, unaware of the steps he'd taken to achieve his “human” look. His eyes were a bit too big, smile a bit too wide, his teeth a bit too much. But she looked past it in the desire to simply have a friend.
While Brutus was surprised to see the girl again, and eventually fell into a routine with her once she broke his streak of mindless travel, he found himself still stuck in a predicament. What was he? He wasn’t the tiny beetle he had first grown up as, nor was he the creature that took its first sinful bite into skin. He was a monster. No, no. Monsters are better than him. Monsters know they exist.
Anyone who didn't run from Brutus looked past him instead, believing him to not be there at all. He was only as real as people wanted him to be. And that revelation is what broke the little sanity he had left. Brutus wasn't one for emotions, but for the first time in his make believe existence, the being felt close to weeping.
After a lifetime of uncertainty, Brutus would collapse. The weight of his consciousness, if he had one, bore down heavily as the girl would find him underneath an old oak. She would come to his side, silent but trying to help him, making an attempt to give him what little comfort he could use. And that is when Brutus would take her hand. Her skin was warm and soft against the cold shell that was his own. This girl, this woman who had kept her patience with him for so long, that showed him unbridled love. He couldn't comprehend why a human would show something like him such tender care. Every other human would flee in terror, strike with irrational wrath, or look at him in disgusted awe. A thought crossed his mind. Maybe.... maybe this girl wasn't human herself, and gave her heart to him in an attempt to ease a pain she could know all too well. The longer he looked at her, the sooner he came to the realization. She was never human to begin with either. In a move of solidarity, when her hand squeezed his own, that in the end is what moved Brutus to crack through his own heart and mind and look into her eyes with sadness in his own.
“Please, my friend.”
“Take my hand and hold me. Tell me I exist, that I am not just a husk. Remind me that I am real, that I am alive, Angel.”