From the Eyes of the Beast: Grendel's Descent into Infamy.

It is suggested that you read the Anglo-Saxon epic "Beowulf" before you read this short story, as this was written as a branch-off assignment for my Literature 12 class, expressing part of the story from the eyes of the epic's antagonist: the creature known as Grendel. It is written from my own unique creative perspective, which one should note before delving into it, and does not reflect the form, nor any truth the original story contains. I hope all that decide to read, will enjoy.

Dark within the underground cavern that Grendel called home, the sounds of celebration, privilege, and camaraderie echoed back-and-fourth along the slimy walls, slipping unintentionally from the great hall of Herot not far above.

In it, the Danes celebrated, blissfully unaware of the beast and his envy, which was slowly transforming into short fits of violent rage. He wanted revenge. It was not fair that they may celebrate above, while Grendel was too hideous a creature to be respected, let alone included, by King Hrothgar’s “great” legion of warriors. It was not within the dark enclaves of his home, but instead inside the dark enclaves of his mind that Grendel finally resolved on revenge. Should he perish in the process, which he knew to be an impossible occurrence considering his immunity to the blades of man, he would be incapable of loss, as he had nothing. No friends, no pleasures, no material joys, and no loved ones, save for his mother, who he felt stuck between loathing and loving. His life was no blessing, and as far as he saw it, these ‘warriors’ above him deserved no blessings either.

He was also hungry. He was hungrier than he had ever been. He lacked a true diet. All he ever feasted upon was the unsatisfactory flesh of wildlife, which was scarce among the seemingly perpetual frost of the winter months. Tonight, he would dine on the warriors of Herot.

When darkness dropped, Grendel went up to the great hall, wondering what the warriors would do in that hall when their drinking was done. He found them sprawled in sleep, suspecting nothing, their dreams undisturbed. Grendel’s thoughts became tainted with rage and starvation. It was then and there in the darkness that he snatched up thirty men, smashed them unknowing in their beds, and ran out with their bodies, neglecting to realize the blood dripping in a trail behind him, while also slipping like tears of burgundy down his hairy back.

Grendel was a professional killer. He had been alive for over 9,000 years, or so he had calculated during his long intervals of solitude. His mother, too, despite his many wishes to the contrary, was also seemingly immortal in being. She had tagged alongside him ever since finding him once again during their more civilized days in the now decrepit Mesopotamia. Grendel had realized, however, that she may very well not be his mother. He had not seen his true mother since childbirth, and even those images were of a blurred, color-coated and partially imaginary origin. Much of his past had become overwhelming in the small details, and as such, many of his previous knowledge’s had been pushed from his mind by what one might title ‘successor’ memories. The original and required memories had been deluded over time, and there were moments when he questioned their very existences. He vaguely remembered being a philosopher at one time living in ancient Greece. During what he perceived as a political purging of philosophical culture, he fled to his mother’s family estate.

From there, he fled northwest towards Gaul and the barbarian states. It was at this point that he ceased to tend to his appearance… especially his abnormal outcroppings of hair. It was strange… he remembered a time when such hair was normal, and not socially questioned.

Hauling the pile of dead men from his shoulder to the floor of his cave, he smiled in self-serving delight. This evil, he realized, had now become his ecstasy… his reason to live.

Long gone were his days of philosophical endeavor, or his soldiering in service of a state that was not his own. Long gone were his one hundred year adventures, his sexual frustrations, and his true appreciation of emotion. Emotion had poisoned him, and degraded him to the state he was now in. He had become sick of living long ago, yet had always feared seeking death. It was why he now turned the tables on fate, and brought death to others for his own twisted enjoyment, and his quest for self-preservation despite it all.

As he chewed on the bones of one his Danish victims, his well-attuned intuition tingled.
He would soon have a shot at well-deserved death. But his mother must not know.

Perhaps he would finally meet his match.