Monsters Underneath our Beds
  • Reads 5,034
  • Votes 198
  • Parts 5
  • Time 1h 40m
  • Reads 5,034
  • Votes 198
  • Parts 5
  • Time 1h 40m
Ongoing, First published Jul 11, 2013
We've stopped looking for monsters underneath our beds, and started looking for them in our heads.
I'm done. I'm done with the pain, the name calling, the laughs, the being pushed around, the crying. I'm just done. I've bottled up my emotions long enough. No one knows. I scream in the dark and no one hears. I cry in the corner and no one sees. I put on a fake smile and do my work and tell everyone that I'm fine, that I am perfect when inside I'm broken. I can't be fixed. No one can fix me. I am too far gone. I have made my choice and there is no going back now. No, oops I didn't mean to do that. Redo. I will kill myself because I am broken and no one cares. And so tonight the blood will run free. It will escape this prison of skin and be free.
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Echo of the Past

30 parts Complete Mature

A few months ago, I bought a mug with gold gilt. On sale. Not a gift either nor because of an occasion to remember by it. Just plain, pretty mug for 15PLN. I drank my coffee from it since. I spat loose tea leaves into it. It never felt particularly significant. An ordinary object. Only when I lost it, I realised its true value. I sat comfortably at my desk one evening. Looking at my phone, I reached to take my song-text notebook. Trivial situation. My clumsy fingers were unable to avoid the mug. They allowed it to topple over, to slip from the desktop. Even though I did not see the split-second occurrence, I felt the pressure of unease. My head painted the trajectory of the fall on its own, the shattering, spillage. The loss. For a millisecond I still had hope, that I would be able to catch the mug, that I would be able to avoid what was about to happen. But I knew I was headed for failure. I don't have any superpowers. I only scalded my fingers. I looked at the mug's new shape for a long while, at the shattered pieces. At the spilling liquid. Our adventure came to an end. Irrevocably. I won't be drinking coffee from it anymore, nor spit tea leaves into it. Well. I shouldn't be sad, it was just a regular mug, just like thousands of others. I grew to like it, it kept me company throughout hundreds of warm drinks. I lost it. I hate this feeling the most. In the moment when I am losing something, I stop in my tracks, I hold my breath. It is always a very intense moment. A short one, but one that gives me the tight unpleasant feeling in my stomach. The feeling of loss is always accompanied by hope. Silly and naïve. Making me believe so strongly, that I can make it. That I will still be able to catch the mug mid-flight. When the feeling is entering the body, crawling into me I realise, how important it was to me. Whether it's Nivan or a stupid mug with gold gilt.