The Monster

Supernatural monsters do not exist. Nothing hides under the bed or waits for you in the closet. There are no weird, clawed creatures trying to drown small children in the ocean. There is never a haunted house with furry little things expecting you.

Monsters like that? Those are not monsters. The monsters you speak of are fictional ideas originated from children's stories and camp fire tales.

The real monsters know you. They know every one of your strengths, weaknesses, and even your breaking point. And they make sure you suffer the most terrible pains imaginable. Monsters won't kill you. Monsters curse you by making you bear unforgettable, unspeakable memories and then let you live long enough to tell them.

And anyone with a personal monster knows that there's no escape.

-----

The crumpled letter lay on the desk pathetically, immediately drawing my attention. I was in my boring bedroom, hiding from the morning and my parents for as long as possible. The only reason I got out of my bed was because of the smell of freshly brewing coffee lightly tickling my nose and urging me to pay it a visit. But the letter on the desk sat there, for no reason at all. I carefully peeled the paper open and read the scribbled letters.

Dearest Charlie,
Today is the day our fun begins. Emma would tell you all about it, but it seems her ability to communicate has been stripped from her; Let's just say she came across an old friend who wasn't too happy.
Love,
Your favourite monster

I stared at the messy handwriting for a ridiculously long amount of time. Anyone who sent this had to be insane. I crumpled the letter up and trashed it. I had better things to think about than the creepy letters that not only threatened Emma, but gave even me the jitters. I couldn't dwell on that. I had plans today.

But as soon as I made it to the breakfast table, I knew I wouldn't be going anywhere.

My family stood around the table with grim faces. My older sister wiped a tear stealthily, obviously trying to hide her fear, and my mother was closing her eyes tightly, either praying or in deep thought. The only one who had it together was my dad. His hands clasped each other as they sat on the table, a bit fidgety, but nothing too extremely cry babyish. My father never cried. Only at funerals, and once at the Grand Canyon. And another time when he was seven years old and hit by a bus.

"Dad?" I asked uneasily. "What's going on? Is everything okay?"

Sure, that last question was obviously a stupid one to ask, but you never knew what was going on when it came to my mother and sister. After all, it could've been that time of the month again for both of them.

"Sit down, Charlotte," my dad gestured to a chair. I slid into it with reluctant anticipation. Something bad had happened, and it had to do with me. Great.

My mind traced to the letter I had received. Nausea crept into my stomach as I realized what was going on.

Tears burned in my eyes and I couldn't control them. I really wanted to punch myself in the face for revealing the fear that weighed on me.

Stop it, Charlotte. Your acting ridiculous.

I needed to be optimistic and think for the best. My pessimistic thoughts and emotions would crush me if I didnt have control over them.