Truth would be mangled into a lie if I were to say my monster doesn’t exist past my imagination but I’d rather not make it anymore real by giving it a name. It doesn’t live like the storybook monsters, hiding in my closet or beneath my bed, scratching and moving around in the dark of night, keeping my eyes pried open with terror until they burn from lack of blinking. No, this one is different. I can’t walk out of the house and leave it behind. I’ve never seen it, just hear it’s coarse whispers resounding through my head. I never feel it’s physical presence, only the lingering sensation of being followed, my movements that of a puppet’s, unable to change direction or actions. I can never be rid of it, no matter what I do or say because doing so would be ridding myself of a part of me. I can see the monster, I do see it, I just don’t want to admit that that is what’s staring back at me when I look into the mirror. It feeds off my emotions and memories, creating a sense of emptiness inside me until I’ll swallow myself up in my own black hole. It forces me to distance myself from my family and friends. Retreating to my place of privacy, I sit alone, listening to it whisper in it’s rotten tongue. I can’t drowned it out but I can’t stand to listen to it tapping against my head any longer. The sounds grow louder and blur together, creating a sickening twist of acoustic noise, unable to be hushed even by my agonized screams for mercy, until I long for nothing but silence, even if obtained through death. These bouts of obstreperous noise sometimes last all night. It only quiets down when I’m at my worst, as if it wants to trick me into thinking this incomprehensible suffering is over, before it starts up again, clicking its teeth against the inside of my skull and murmuring it’s foul gibberish. No matter how loud it’s whispers get, the words remain inaudible. It feels almost as though if I were to strain I could comprehend a word or two but, despite this theory, I have never tried as I have never wanted to know what awful words it utters. I feel as though if I could understand those words, they would be forever ruined for me as I would only think of them as oozing from the mouth of my very own monster. I hate what I see when I look at myself, its almost as though I can see it’s glinty eyes peering out from my own, the corners of them curved up as if it was smiling it’s sadistic grin. It hisses and whispers to me simultaneously while it runs it’s decaying claws along my skull, peeling my flesh away as it hushedly sings it’s repulsive lullaby, sending pain shooting through my every bone and leaving me crying on the floor as if I were a child. My ears ringing, I try to think happy thoughts but the only thing that remains in my head is the useless remains of what I used to be, just enough of them to remind me that my life used to be happy. I used to feel as if I had a soul and now I watch it slip away, little by little, everyday. Some facts in life are difficult to accept, others are impossible. Sometimes we spend our whole lives trying to disprove what others tell us to be true and many times, we are able to talk ourselves into believing our own lies. I, for one, have been very consistent with that, always telling myself what I want to hear and believing it as if it came from a lamb’s mouth. But this time, no matter what I say, it doesn’t matter because I can’t hear my own thoughts over the rumbling of my darker self. So I guess that leaves one option, I have to admit it. I have to admit that I, the once innocent child, am what I fear most. I am what I’m trying to be rid of. I have become the monster that I feared throughout all my childhood. I am what hides under the bed and in your closet but once you get older, I will be what hides inside your head. I am the monster now. - Panda
Posted on: Wed, 31 Dec 2014 23:05:17 +0000
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