The Monsters Inside Us

Monsters Inside Us

Everyone has a monster in their life. Some seem to tower over a feeble frame, feeding off your world while others prey in the shadows, thin and deformed as they dash away, glimpses in every mirror so brief you have to blink twice just to be sure of what was seen. They fall asleep sometimes, for days, weeks, months...but can be awakened by a sight or a sound. Or a touch. They wait in silence, waiting for your most private moment, when you're laid so bare and helpless before they're upon you, knocking you flat on your ass over and over until you can't tell your head from the ground, beating and kicking relentlessly as you struggle to stand until forced to lay down and accept it. Accept that it is all there is, all that there will be, and once it's done it leaves you shattered all over again, bleeding and begging, giving you just enough time to heal so it can keep clawing at your hope and feed on your every downfall in its vicious cycle.

It does not care about your tears. It doesn't care about your every prayer, every call for help, every yearning for mommy and daddy, doesn't care when the sounds of screaming pervade the walls as you sit in fear and wait for the pain, for the torture to begin as the pounding from the locked door shakes the frame. It watches in delight and laughs as every now and then the door falls open, or the lock is magically undone, and the punishment is dealt swiftly, the beating and kicking and a flurry of fists upon your bare skin as you let out terrified yelps, knowing that there is no helping hand or soothing words to assuage the pain. Even then, even when the beating stops and you shiver in whimpered silence at your own bruised flesh, even then they aren't done.

They kick you in the gut, strike you in the head with their words, the words that tear your flesh apart and flay your muscles, exposing the bone to which they crunch and grind with a mortar and pestle, concocting each statement as you flinch with every word, vile and masterfully designed to keep shredding your soul as they leave, the monster by your side raging in its damning laughter as you sit and wait for sleep, or maybe even for death. It's what they told you, the punisher and the monster, driving the words and the thoughts into your heart with nails, the hammer relentlessly ringing as it pierces the exposed ribs, blood flying as the words circle throughout your entire body, slowing you like a poison that you'll never be clean of, a sickness that refuses to yield.

The job is done. It had to be a job, right? It takes dedication to hone such violence, wield such hate, and smirk as you thoroughly mush and pound the good from someone so innocent. To take away the innocence, the youth, the good in the world of hatred...isn't that nothing short of a masterpiece? Paint the picture with the base colors on the palette - fear, dread, hatred, loathing - and then add the details, the minute features that elevate the portrait from a bad experience to a lifetime of horror and shame. If it weren't so malicious and devastating, it would merit the applause of a colosseum, caught in a trance of reverence, behold! The mighty connoisseur of our pain, our nightmares, our silence and long-reserved words, and finally, the tears that fell because we knew no one else would ever understand our pain. It was unimportant, especially when we weren't the only ones, weren't the only ones with pain. Those who made such a public display of how terrible life had treated them, such minor inconveniences nailing our mouths shut as we looked on in disgust. We know true pain, and we stand too ashamed to even utter what they can't possibly comprehend.

Of course, the world doesn't stop to give a damn about us. A few false sympathies here and there, shallow crying in pity instead of vengeance, instead of understanding and comradery, just an empty vessel of validation that grants you attention one moment, and is gone like a wisp within a few days, moving on to more recent, more dramatic topics than yours could ever hope to be. So you return to the room where the lock is not your savior, the sheets which aren't your protector, and the screams that still echo off the walls, soaked in your weakness and shame. So much shame. Shame at being so vulnerable. Shame for the sounds you made, or the pleading screams for them to stop, to leave you alone, you were sorry, you didn't want them to hurt you please. Shame for lying broken on the ground, letting the words punch you in the face as you stayed silent and took it.

At this point, life continues on its merry forward march, and you bounce right along, happy, content, showing everyone exactly what they need to see because, of course, if you aren't happy, then that means they need to be concerned. Involved. These "friends" turning your most terrible, private moments into a display as they spread the word, pity flowing in your direction in every glance as the silken web shakes with the activity of ignorance. So you stay quiet and smile. For the camera. For the world. Not even daring for a moment to share that maybe, just maybe things aren't quite right, that someone needs to look into what happens behind closed doors forced open. You exchange the fists for fist bumps, the bruises for pats on the back, the screams for laughter, the words...the words for more positive alternatives. Nothing is wrong, and you pretend so hard, imagine it so deeply, you believe it, and always upon returning to the empty room filled with silence, the mask falls away and the fist bumps and laughter is replaced by a numbness so severe, you nearly collapse on the way to the bed.

It continues, the cycle that never ends with the words and the pain, the memories of your suffering projected everywhere you look, having to face the punisher daily and acting as if they hadn't done anything wrong, that you were clearly the one at fault and needed to apologize, hands trembling as you stumble over your words in fear of another beating. They brush you off with a threat, pushing past you as no more than a pebble caught in a rushing stream, of no purpose but to fulfill their private vindictive pleasures. Alcohol, pills, open windows, busy streets, knives...an assortment of primal urges rising to use them all, dash away existence to fragmented pieces of planned attempts, feigned happiness forgotten within the hour as you turn your mind to what the voices say, the monster and the punisher, conspiring as they stand tall and call you less than human, deserving of every ass-beating and cruel manipulative ploy. Guilty and condemned to die alone, die painfully, no jury or representation for repentance or justice.


Late one night, talking on the phone with a friend, the urge rises suddenly, out of the blue and with no preconceived notions earlier that evening. You maintain the level stature of your voice as you continue to joke and jibe, making your way to the kitchen to the serrated steak knives that glisten under the light as you begin to unsheathe one, glancing around before making it back to your room quietly. You tell them goodbye, you'll talk to them later, jovially ending the call as you turn towards the blade held coolly in your hand, fingering the individual edges as you jostle the handle within your palm a few times before you turn it to the soft flesh of your wrist. Each light stroke sends pain flaring down your arm, each razor bristle creating the smallest scratches as you begin to desire for more. The strokes get faster, more urgent, scratches getting deeper and deeper as you slightly hold back, resist the temptation to cut into the meat of your arm, relishing the pain as it quenches the aching numbness in your chest, filling the gnawing void with feeling, with pain that brought peace. Brought a sick twisted form of happiness as the knife began to sprint a marathon, no longer your arm but a hunk of useless skin to take out your anger, your worthlessness on.

Turtlenecks, long sleeve shirts, and jackets become your best friend, hiding the damage as you continue to pretend to a populace ignorant of your robbed security, attempting to hide your startled jumps and yelps at unexpected touches, innocent hugs or hands on your shoulder momentarily turning into bruised flesh as your breath begins to spasm, looking behind you only to realize it's a familiar face. You laugh, brushing it off as being easily startled, no one the wiser to the fear that remains in your eyes as you walk away, still chuckling to keep up the facade of a normal interaction. This is the life we live, not because we chose it, not because we deserve it, but perhaps so we can find each other and begin to stand strong in our pain, because we know it intimately. We know it so intimately that we could replicate it flawlessly, flinching at the invisible pain that can't be healed so simply, the monsters that reside in the shadows or in the open mingling and drunk with the agony of our experiences.

The monsters that plague us from the inside out.