View of the Window

Some stories have stories beneath them. They have layers and each layer appeals to a different person. Each layer tells something different about the story, and offers new perspectives to allow a person to view things through different eyes, in a different light.
The room was dark and dusty, filling the air with a sort of ancient quality that carries with it an atmosphere of fear, for mystery bears fear and antiquity bears mystery. The single window allowed the light of the moon to stand against the wall, to stand against the darkness. In sunlight, or in a lit room, one often avoids the darkness out of fear. But where darkness is prominent, a person will avoid the light. I, knowing this, wait in the shadows.
I suppose you would call me a monster. People tend to think that we kill out of anger, out of vengeance, out of insanity. That we kill out of cold blood. That we kill "innocent" people because we are killers, plain and simple. We have no real feelings, no real thoughts, no real mysteries. We have no reason to kill, we just act. We have no past, no future. We have nothing and we are nothing. We�re not real because we�re not real people. We are monsters, and that's the way it will stay.
But what people think are all lies. People rarely think about the truth, and when they happen to get into a conversation about it, their mind shuts down. People are nothing but machines of lies.
I am not a monster, you just label me that. I have a story, you just don�t listen. I have thoughts and feelings, you just ignore them. I have everything you have. I think everything you think. The only thing that separates you and me, is that I have more than you have because I think more than you think.
In the corner, I have my secrets. I have my illusions. My reality and such. Because I am a person. Like you and unlike you. And as you walked away from the window�s eerie light, towards the shadows where I lay in wait, I took all that you thought you loved, all that you thought you needed, all that you thought was real, all that you thought was right, and I crushed it by crushing you, the temple of those beliefs. The only reason what you believed was real, was because you were real. And the only reason you were real, was because what you believed was real. But I killed you, and now nothing you ever said matters to anyone. You�re dead.
There are some stories with morals. They teach you the qualities to live an ideal life. There are some stories with meanings. They show you how to view the world around you. There are some stories with layers. They offer new perspectives on viewing life and the world around you. This is not one of those stories. Nothing we say matters. I�m only real because I talk and think that someone�s listening. I�m not a monster. I�m not even real...