Are you afraid of monsters? When I was young I used to be. Nameless things with fangs, lurking in the dark just beyond the reach of light. Biding it’s time for the adults to leave. As you shake under the blankets, a long gnarly finger creeps out, gripping the edges of the door. It grins at you, a pair of yellow eyes glinting malevolently, dripping blood from it’s rotten teeth. It makes you feel like your heart will burst from the horror of it, but no sound comes out from your throat: you’re left mouthing screams like a fish out of water.
As I grew up I realised that monsters were only what I made them out to be. They had no more power over me when I woke up from a nightmare.
Little did I know that as a grown woman I would face my childhood horrors again. One that walked with human skin.
The monster walks with a thousand faces.
He might be your neighbour, the seemingly ordinary Joe. He might be that good-looking stranger you exchange glances with at the grocery store, unaware that underneath that smile lurks something unimaginable. And that’s what makes the whole thing more terrifying. Monsters in nightmares fade away in the daylight, but true monsters, the ones that can really hurt us, prowl the streets at all times. They are everywhere. They are everyone.
A seemingly innocent walk out in the park turned into a trip to hell. Before I knew it a heavy hand clasped over my mouth, muffling my screams. Dragged me into the bushes.Every stab felt like slivers of broken glass. I didn’t even have the small mercy of blacking out until everything was over.
They never found my monster. Like a nightmare, he was gone. I woke up, but the nightmare has never ended since.
9 months. 9 months of physical agony borne ; pain that will last for a lifetime. The seed he implanted throbbed inside me, it’s steady rhythmic pounding in tandem to each heartbeat. Within my swollen belly, I fed the monster’s spawn. This monster was hate. It is a wretched thing of flesh and bone. It repulsed me that I carried a piece of him growing within me, writhing in my womb, waiting for it’s time.
How could I stand to hold it when I shudder at the mere thought that when I look into it’s eyes, I would see his eyes staring back at me? The cruel yellow eyes glinting in the closet.
And yet I had not the heart to kill something that has my own blood running through it’s veins.
But life always has other plans for us.
The first time I laid my eyes on the bloody, wailing figure the nurse was cradling in her arms, something else sparked within me, an emotion I never felt would be possible to feel again. It was love. Love for my child. He had my blood, and he had my eyes.
Till this day, they have never caught my monster. But I have learned to live with that night of horror, because there is something else that lights up the dawn. my little son. He has brought hope to me when things were darkest.
I live for his smile.
Believe or not, I actually started out writing about Hitler and the Holocaust. Somehow it just morphed into a story about rape. It’s true what my creative writing teacher said, sometimes you just have to let your thoughts flow. You’d be surprised by what might actually turn out. Incidentally, the main idea behind both stories revolved around Hate. Hate is like the unborn child conceived from rape – unwanted, unclean. Hatred and anger damages both our mind and body. It’s like a virus – eats away at you. Which is why a major teaching of many religions is to forgive. That’s not always easy to do though. If you were in the character’s shoes above, would you be able to let go and move on?
I haven’t been writing. Work is not an excuse. I’ve just been effing lazy.
“It would be awesome if they invented a chill pill.”
“It’s called anti-depressants.”