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My Monster


Dear Monster,

I threw away my favorite sweater, the one you took off that night. At least, I think you took it off. I don’t remember much. It was heather grey and it hung in all the right places. Back then, I didn’t have any of the right words for what happened that night. It would take me years to realize I was doing something intuitive. Those clothes were now contaminated, and I wanted to get rid of the evidence. I wanted all the icky feelings to go away and the clothes I had on that night where a physical reminder. I wanted to get as far away from that night as I could.

I once saw two ducks mating. I was standing in the middle of a Christmas tree farm when I spotted them. Rooted to where I stood, I couldn’t move, and neither could the female duck. I remember her squawking a lot, flapping her wings frantically before finally going quiet. She became still. Afterwards, she waddled over to a nearby puddle, splashed herself with water and shivered all over. I think my heart broke into a thousand pieces that day. It’s instinctive to want to wash away the pain, the shame. I remember I too jumped in the shower the next morning, after you dropped me off. I tried my hardest to hold onto reality in the front seat of your truck, my mind rapidly slipping away. The whole world was spinning, and it wasn’t just because I was hungover. I paced around my house asking out loud, “What just happened? How could I let this happen? Did that really just happen?”. See, I had a boyfriend at the time. Albeit an abusive one who was already doing the same thing to me, although I didn’t know it-but I was already spoken for. The only thing I could wrap my head around that day was cheating. I wanted to believe that I had cheated. Maybe a subconscious cry to get me out of an abusive relationship. What I couldn’t wrap my mind around was rape. Friends aren’t supposed to rape their friends. So, it had to be something else. I had to believe that I had cheated, because if I didn’t, I don’t know that I would have made it. I just kept talking to myself out loud. Maybe I wanted to make sure that I was still there.

I remember turning on the TV and The Truman Show was playing, some sort of sick dual-layered inception happening on the screen and in real time. I could not make out what was real and what wasn’t. This was the beginning. My brain laying a foundation for a path I’d walk, almost constantly, for years. What’s real? I can’t trust what’s real. I can’t trust my brain. I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t understand what just happened. How did I get here? I would lie awake at night, wondering how I could possibly keep this from my boyfriend. I believed myself a horrible person. I made it my fault. I shouldn’t have talked to you that night. I shouldn’t have drank so much. I shouldn’t have even gone to the party. I didn’t want to have to give up my relationship for this horrible thing that had happened, but the effort it took to stay in it was slowly killing me. I could feel my brain working overtime, practically splitting me in two. My mind drifted to books, a much safer world for me, and I think of how Voldemort must have felt when he split his soul seven times. Certainly, a part of me died that night, the essence left in the sweater that was on its’ way to becoming forgotten. I only remember two things. First, you’d asked me what would happen if you kissed me. Then darkness. The second thing is me opening my eyes and you’re already on top of me. The smell of your laundry detergent still makes my stomach drop.


I was your friend

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