The Monster Was Never Under the Bed

I can’t be fixed. I’ve come to terms with that. I wasn’t broken, I just wasn’t made right. No ones fault. Not mine. Not my family’s. Not even God. If he is still up there. If he ever was.

I’m just here. A misfortune placed on myself and this world simultaneously.

A festering, pulsing tumor in my mother’s womb, which then became a shrieking, writhing imp that my parents forced themselves to love. It’s been two decades since then. How much suffering have I caused in such a meager lifespan? How much suffering will I bring in my wake?

I hurt myself because it makes me feel like I’m bringing about some small justice to the world. But nothing will compensate for the things my loved ones have lost to me.

I’m scared. I feel like there’s something in me. There always was something in me. I just didn’t realize it until I gained the skills to process what these urges were. Angry, vindictive urges. Revenge for a slight that has not yet happened.

I thought if I stayed in place, didn’t move, didn’t poison the world, I’d do no harm to anyone. But people are not islands. The slightest twitch, the smallest shift of the weight can bring about an earthquake. And even still, something still burns inside. Magma bubbling, igneous rock stewing, waiting to be birth from the land in a fiery display.

I don’t even know why I’m telling any of you this. It’s not like you can see it. Hell, my family can’t even see it. But I do. How can I not. I look at it in the mirror. Every single day.

I’m scared. Either I’m going insane or I’m on to something. I don’t know which one scares me more. Does it really matter though? Real or imaginary: monsters are just as deadly all the same.