2 views
The Monster
We think of monsters as something or someone that exist far away.
Monsters are the antagonists of someone else’s story.
They exist in the bowels of old mine shafts, or epic mountain ranges. They are ancient and incomprehensible. They are haunted houses or things that go bump in the night.
But they can come in any shape or form.
My monster lives beneath the shiny kitchen sink of my brand new condo. The building is a new development. By God, what did they build on top of?
She comes out whenever I’m not looking. I hear the cupboard doors open and close. She eats the kale out of my fridge. She takes every avocado I buy. One night she left a knife on the night stand by my bed when I ran out of lemon juice. Now I buy it in bulk.
With quiet malice, she leaves positive affirmations taped to my bathroom mirror. “The Devil Dotes Upon You” claims one. “Carve the eyes of non believers - you can do it!” encourages another. I am trapped between appreciating her faith in me and just screaming in terror.
She leaves long, matted strands of bloodied hair in my drains. The last plumber won’t speak of what he saw when he went into the bath tub alone with an auger. He’s never been the same since and neither has my shower curtain.
I never see her face but sometimes when I lie on my bed and face the west wall of my room I feel her climb into bed beside me. She doesn’t emanate warmth so much as a muggy heat that makes me think of a hot, wet, cavern. My sweat soaks the sheets.
When I dream I can hear her whispering quietly in the back of my mind. Her forked tongue flickers around the boundaries of my sanity, like an infernal salamander marking her territory.
The last time I whispered a prayer asking the Virgin Mary to aid me she smashed every dish in the kitchen, every light fixture, every trinket. I think she keyed my car. I had an ex-girlfriend who did that once, too.
Once I caught a glimpse of her from the corner of my eye, but I don’t know what I saw. My mind went blank with revulsion. I don’t know if I blacked out or if I hallucinated but all I remember is the sensation of falling between here and there, of being pushed through a crack in reality and crushed towards the other side of Something. The only way I can describe the sensation is that it was like a human hand picking up an octopus and squishing it through a tiny opening in its aquarium to try and force it outside. And I was the octopus.
I woke up covered in piss, blood, and vomit. I found a half melted iced coffee on the kitchen counter with a note in her hand writing that read “sorry”. I still get nose bleeds when I try too hard to remember what happened.
She leaves me flowers sometimes and I’m too scared to throw them away. They’re all dried out and hanging in the dining room.
I don’t think my monster will let me move out.
© All Rights Reserved
Monsters are the antagonists of someone else’s story.
They exist in the bowels of old mine shafts, or epic mountain ranges. They are ancient and incomprehensible. They are haunted houses or things that go bump in the night.
But they can come in any shape or form.
My monster lives beneath the shiny kitchen sink of my brand new condo. The building is a new development. By God, what did they build on top of?
She comes out whenever I’m not looking. I hear the cupboard doors open and close. She eats the kale out of my fridge. She takes every avocado I buy. One night she left a knife on the night stand by my bed when I ran out of lemon juice. Now I buy it in bulk.
With quiet malice, she leaves positive affirmations taped to my bathroom mirror. “The Devil Dotes Upon You” claims one. “Carve the eyes of non believers - you can do it!” encourages another. I am trapped between appreciating her faith in me and just screaming in terror.
She leaves long, matted strands of bloodied hair in my drains. The last plumber won’t speak of what he saw when he went into the bath tub alone with an auger. He’s never been the same since and neither has my shower curtain.
I never see her face but sometimes when I lie on my bed and face the west wall of my room I feel her climb into bed beside me. She doesn’t emanate warmth so much as a muggy heat that makes me think of a hot, wet, cavern. My sweat soaks the sheets.
When I dream I can hear her whispering quietly in the back of my mind. Her forked tongue flickers around the boundaries of my sanity, like an infernal salamander marking her territory.
The last time I whispered a prayer asking the Virgin Mary to aid me she smashed every dish in the kitchen, every light fixture, every trinket. I think she keyed my car. I had an ex-girlfriend who did that once, too.
Once I caught a glimpse of her from the corner of my eye, but I don’t know what I saw. My mind went blank with revulsion. I don’t know if I blacked out or if I hallucinated but all I remember is the sensation of falling between here and there, of being pushed through a crack in reality and crushed towards the other side of Something. The only way I can describe the sensation is that it was like a human hand picking up an octopus and squishing it through a tiny opening in its aquarium to try and force it outside. And I was the octopus.
I woke up covered in piss, blood, and vomit. I found a half melted iced coffee on the kitchen counter with a note in her hand writing that read “sorry”. I still get nose bleeds when I try too hard to remember what happened.
She leaves me flowers sometimes and I’m too scared to throw them away. They’re all dried out and hanging in the dining room.
I don’t think my monster will let me move out.
© All Rights Reserved
