He walked around with a false sense of purpose, rarely giving away the vulnerable soul that hid within his ruthless body; garishly performing the act of a hero.
Roaming the halls of what was filled with his minions, the ‘yes men’ who followed along whatever he regurgitated.
He would compensate for his lack of understanding of the English language by making an attractive secretary follow him wherever he went, asking her to speak on his behalf as he believed it would be disingenuous of him to not speak his mother tongue; one of lies and obscenities.
The abuse he would lay down upon people for his lack of self-worth and understanding, berating the most brilliant of minds into meandering strategies of his paranoid mind’s formation.
Burning bridges, torturing and tearing at the very seams of the relationships that had helped him conquer the mountain of where he now once stood.
Had he forgotten that standing at the mountain is the weakest of positions?
For the enemies could see exactly where he stood, at the pinnacle of his stubbornness — denying to every look down, as it showed weakness.
He’d come to believe the fog which clogged his view of the land on which the mountain stood was one of safety, that the fog would provide shelter to him if his enemies ever dared to scale the mountain of hubris.
At the highest of peaks, the most impossible of tasks is the delusion to believe one is now invincible. For failing to see what lies beneath is not a blessing, but a curse.
A curse of not knowing where the attack could come from.
For the enemies, as they would slowly scale up the mountain from all sides; he would laugh at their attempts, though he could barely see.
Failing to acknowledge the simplest of fact, he had nowhere to go once his adversaries did reach the peak.
“If I should fall from grace”, he would say, “I shall be remembered as the man who stood bravely on this mountain’s peak, witness to the world which lay decay”.
Little did he understand, the fruits that lay bare beneath had served their purpose whilst he so foolishly stood still in cold, lonely, misery.
“You must suffer, you ungrateful souls”, he would say, to a family that had once adored the man that he was, only now a mere hollow soul with nothing but hatred of the world he had once hoped to save.
Somewhere along his journey, he’d forgotten every hero falls from grace.
As does every man who let hatred cloud his judgement of his own disdain.