Fall ‘21 Fiction
Troy Ashcroft
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Another Sleepless Night
Torvold sat, slumped in the soil solitarily taking in the rhythmic crackles and occasional sizzles of his campfire, hypnotized by the hues of crimson and amber as they danced together atop the smoldering logs. The ominous echo of a horned owls’ jeer drifted into his ear, followed by the snap of a light twig and ruffle of dead leaves in near distance. Nothing with too much weight on it, a squirrel or chipmunk he thought to himself. His gaze remained fixated and unblinking on the flames as he sipped from his flask. The dim light revealed his unkempt face, covered in days, or perhaps weeks of grime accompanied by various scars, scrapes, and bruises.
The sun had vanished hours ago, and each time Torvold felt the darkness creep in a little too closely he just threw on another log. The flames kept it away and the smell of smoke kept his mind present, away from past mistakes, and former failures. Each individual scar painted his battle-hardened body a constant reminder of past sins that will never wash away. He gripped the hilt of his sword and pursed his lips; his mind was starting to wander again.
From his peripheral, he caught a shadow – darker than the rest – lurking on the outskirts of camp. His intense gaze remained unwavering, fixated upon the flames. “What do you want?” he grumbled, his tone gruff and irritated. From the darkness a figure revealed itself. Twice Torvold’s height but perhaps nearly half his weight and almost without shape, as if it were comprised of shadow itself. Its limbs lanky and unsettling accompanied by two perfectly circular eyes, void in color and emotion. Perhaps most daunting of all was its ceaseless and menacing smile, disproportionately large for any face and lined with eerily straight, ivory teeth.
“Torvy…” Its voice was gravelly, like the final low defeated mumbles of a dying animal. “Why can’t I surprise you anymore?” It spoke lingering on the ends of each word like the smoke from the campfire cusping the nocturnal dew.
“It’s getting old,” Torvold responded, shortly.
“I don’t come visit you that often, do I?”
“Every goddamn night.”
“I worry about you Torvy. You’re so… sad,” its smile grew, dripping with derisiveness.
A long pause soon morphed into deafening silence from the surrounding night and began to close in on Torvold.
“Remember the first night we met?” the Stranger sneered.
“No.”
“I think you do,” the Stranger snickered “it was the night…”
“Shut. Up,” but as much as he tried, he couldn’t suppress the images resurfacing of a gravely wounded young man, his angelic blonde hair caked with mud. His soft boyish face gazing up at him with bright emerald-green eyes, recently devoid of life. His gentle hand as it fell limp from embracing Torvold’s face, splashing into the blood tainted muck beneath them as Torvold held the boy he had sworn to protect, in his arms for the final time.
A “pop” and “sizzle” sounded as log dropped deeper into the fire, kicking up a flurry of embers.
“Owyn died!”
Torvold felt the blood in his face flush and boil over, he gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might shatter. Swift as lightning he was on his feet, sword drawn and pressed to the Stranger’s neck, his steely gaze locked with its child-like glee. A low sinister cackle escaped the Stranger’s lips.
“Oh Torvy, how many times must we do this dance?” Its eyes now met Torvold’s staring directly into his, as if peering into his very soul “You know you can’t kill me” it bellowed with an arrogant, low growl. With a sigh, Torvold sheathed his blade and returned to his seat in the dirt, and his gaze back to the campfire.
“What was so special about that brat anyway? You’ve killed tons of people!”
Torvold couldn’t help but recall repressed memories of a simpler past, before this war. A young boy bounding through a field of goldenrod and dandelions. The seeds drifting on the wind behind him, getting caught in his golden, shoulder-length hair. The warm rays of sunlight illuminating those emerald eyes that so perfectly conveyed Owyn’s infectious hope and determination, something so lost, and so foreign to Torvold now. He was such a gentle child. I never should have left to become a soldier in the first place!
“He shouldn’t have been there…”
“Ah, yes. Torvold the role model!” the Stranger added in jest.
Torvold couldn’t bring himself to respond.
The Stranger sauntered closer towards the fire and inspected it briefly. Its elongated fingers poised upon its chin in a thought-provoking manner.
“So why kill all those people Torvy?”
Why? It was a question he never burdened himself with. Once he sullied his blade, he moved on. There was no use in dwelling on the past.
“Revenge.”
“So, those soldiers you killed, was it their fault your little buddy died?”
“No.”
“Oh, right. He ended up being a defector himself, didn’t he?” the Stranger declared with a poorly shrouded sense of amusement.
Those words cut deep, and Torvold’s mind drifted to the night when he and his company had orders to eradicate a rebel encampment, they were to wait until dark and launch a surprise attack. Sword drawn, he danced through a sea of enemies, drowning out the pained screams of foes and comrades alike, reflexively and violently slashing and stabbing anything that moved within his field of view. He felt nothing for those he killed, this was his job, he was just the tool. His blood-fueled frenzy continued until a gentle, yet familiar gasp ejected him from his trance.
Before Torvold stood the very boy he had sworn to protect, his angelic golden blond hair caked in mud and his soft face showcasing a pained smile. All Torvold could do was blink in disbelief as Owyn collapsed clutching his ribs, his hand drenched in scarlet as a pool formed beneath him. Torvold quickly rushed over, kneeling in the mud to embrace him. Their eyes met and though neither could speak, Owyn gently reached up to embrace Torvold’s face, leaving a light streak of blood. He smiled and whispered “I’m sorry” before the light in his beautiful emerald eyes faded, his hand falling and splashing into the puddle beneath them.
“Isn’t it ironic?”
“Stop.”
“The entire time you thought you were avenging your friend, you were actually…”
“I said stop...”
“Killing his comrades!”
Torvold’s ears flushed once more, his fists balled tightly but he knew this was what the Stranger wanted, this was its game. His heart pounded and his ears rang, the world began to spin; he was losing control. He hated it; he was always the one in control. He let his actions decide for themselves his entire life, it defined him.
“Do I bother you Torvy?”
An involuntary faint smirk crept across Torvold’s face, an obvious question.
“What’s more important? Duty or love?” the Stranger pressed.
“You already know my answer.”
“Do you regret your decision?”
Decision!? The word echoed around inside Torvold’s mind while he remained silent, a scowl on his face. He was sick of this game. Sick of the Stranger. Sick of the torment he faced night after night. He wished it were as simple as everything else. He wished he could just kill it and make it go away. He had tried, but each time his blade never seemed to make contact; it was as if trying to cut smoke.
The Stranger sighed, “It looks like you still haven’t learned a thing Torvy.”
The sunrise began to peek over the mountaintops and illuminate the shade. Daybreak was upon them.
“I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow night then,” the Stranger sneered, and just as soon as it appeared, it was gone, vanishing into the forest without a sound.
Torvold buried his head in his arms and sobbed. The bags beneath his eyes intensified and his tears descended like lead droplets from his bloodshot eyes. No relief came from the Stranger’s departure, not this time nor the last. He had long ceased wondering when the torment would end. With a deep, drawn-out breath he stood, and collected himself. He kicked the earth onto his campfire, snuffing the flames and gathering his belongings, readying himself to continue his journey after yet another, sleepless night.
Troy was born and raised in the coastal state of Maine. He is a current Sophomore in the English department. Troy primarily enjoys writing fantasy narratives along with magical realism and historical fiction pieces. When he’s not writing fiction you can almost always catch him musing about Dungeons and Dragons, or hanging out with his best bud, Bear the “supermutt”.
Dylan Perry
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My Stop
Ian walked into the elevator.
He managed to just barely squeeze into it's crowded walls. After reaching past the few people ahead of him, he managed to push the button for his floor and with a satisfying ding, the elevator door closed with a soft thud. As the elevator slowly rose, it was silent except for the quiet noises of the elevator's gears. No one dared make a noise.
12 seconds passed. The elevator stopped at the third floor, it's doors opened, and two little boys shuffled out without a word. A woman on the elevator called out to them. Ian pushed a button and the metal doors closed tightly. The woman was silent. The elevator once again began to rise.
37 seconds passed. The elevator stopped. The doors opened. An old man walked inside. "Floor 43 please" he said with a cough. Ian smiled. The doors closed. The elevator once again began to rise.
21 seconds passed. The elevator stopped at the 19th floor. A young man walked out of the elevator. Ian wondered if the man might write a story for him. The thought made him giggle. The doors closed. The elevator once again began to rise.
1 minute and 16 seconds passed. The elevator stopped at the 36th floor. The doors opened. The woman who called out to the boys earlier was dragged out of the elevator by police officiers who waited at the door. The doors closed. The elevator once again began to rise.
17 seconds passed. The elevator stopped at Floor 43. The doors opened, but the old man had simply faded away before he could make it to his floor. Ian almost pitied the old bastard. The doors closed. The elevator once again began to rise.
12 minutes passed. The elevator stopped at Floor 225. The doors opened. A man sprinted out of the elevator. Ian looked down to see a tiny toy car move to his foot. It stopped. The door of the toy car opened. A little tiny clown came out of the car. Then another. Ian couldn't contain his laughter. Then, just as a third little clown began to walk out of the car, Ian fiercely stomped his foot down on the little clowns and their little toy car. Then he stomped again. Then again. Then again. Then again. Then again. Then again. Then again. Then again. Then again. Then again. Finally, he stopped. As a tiny puddle of blood formed at his feet, Ian casually turned his head to the man and woman remaining on the elevator and with a laugh he said, "Fuckin' clowns am I right?" The woman winced. The man tried his best to muffle his scream. Ian bent down and picked up the shattered metal that was the toy car and carefully placed it in his left pocket. The doors closed. The elevator once again began to rise.
14 hours passed. The elevator stopped at the 2,942nd floor. The doors did not open. The man and woman looked at each other nervously. Ian frowned and knocked on the wall. Several seconds passed in silence. Then, there was a gentle rumbling noise. The metal doors of the elevator parted slightly and with a wet, slimy sound, a mass of meat slowly began to seep into the elevator. It came slowly and only a little at a time through the crack in the doors but eventually, it had completely spread itself around the walls and roof of the elevator. The man and woman screamed in horror while Ian seemed mildly amused. "Which floor?" The meat oozed. Ian pressed a floor. The elevator once again began to rise.
3 days passed. Ian was beginning to lose his patience. The meat rumbled. Then suddenly, it reached out from it's walls and grabbed the woman. She barely managed to scream before it had already wrapped itself around her and made a loud crunch. The meat continued moving up and down around her as if chewing as the cracking noise went on and with a final gulp, it moved back into it's place on the walls. The man screamed in horror but didn't dare move. Then, the meat started to bubble on it's surface. After a moment, the bubbles stopped popping until they were hundreds of small meat colored golf balls along it's surface. The color drained away into white and the balls completely turned, revealing hundreds of little eyeballs along the meat. Every single eyeball turned to the man as he broke down on the floor. Ian began laughing wildly. The man curled up into a ball and stammered in between sobs. "N-n-nothing here m-makes sense." Still cackling, Ian got on his knees and moved to the man until his face was only a few inches apart. "Isn't it wonderful?!" He laughed. Ian was about to pull something out of his right pocket to give to the man until he felt the elevator suddenly stop. The doors slowly began to open. Ian grinned. "Oopsy. Looks like this is my stop." He began to stand. The sobbing man looked out to Ian's floor. All he could see was the inside of another elevator. Ian looked to the meat. "Have fun." The meat began to move. The man began to scream. Ian walked into the elevator.
Home Early
Characters:
Michael- City Manager and Council Member of Major City. Veronica’s Husband. Early 30’s
Veronica- Secretary at a business. Michael’s wife. Late 20’s
Setting:
Living room of their apartment home. 2nd Floor.
Time:
Wednesday. 6:03 PM. 1963
Fades in to Michael sitting on the couch (L shaped couch). A bottle of whisky is next to the couch. His head held in his hands, he has something tucked behind him. Veronica is now coming home from grocery shopping for dinner. As she walks in with two bags in her hand, she closes the door behind her. Michael sits up straight. Veronica turns away from the door.
Veronica:
Oh! You scared me there for a second!
Michael:
Sorry.
Veronica:
Your meeting ended early today?
Michael:
There was a mistake with scheduling so it got moved to tomorrow.
Veronica:
That’s great! You can help me out with cooking then.
(She begins walking to the kitchen)
Michael:
What’s on the menu?
Veronica:
(She calls back as she enters the kitchen)
Your favorite!
Michael:
Oh? What’s the occasion?
Veronica:
(Inside kitchen, unpacking the groceries)
I’ve got some exciting news!
Michael:
(Mumbling under his breath) I’m sure you do.
Veronica:
(Still in the kitchen, didn’t hear what he said)
What ‘id you say?
Michael:
(Sigh) Could you come over? We need to have a talk.
Veronica:
(Walks out of the kitchen and back into the living room)
What’s wrong, hon?
(Sits on other side of the couch closer to window)
Michael:
Do you love me?
Veronica:
(smiling) I married you, didn’t I?
Michael:
…
Veronica:
(Her face goes serious. She looks Michael in the eyes)
Of course I love you, Michael.
Michael:
Words can’t describe how much I wish I could believe you.
Veronica:
What? What are you talking ab—
Michael:
(Interrupting after “you”) I wish you had cleaned the house today.
Veronica:
(Semi-laughing) What?!
Michael:
(Raising his voice) Don’t laugh at me!
Veronica:
(Raising her voice) What the hell’s gotten into you?
I’ve been at work, when could I have even cleaned?
Michael:
Oh, work, huh? I bet that’s just been keeping you real busy, hasn’t it?
Veronica:
What are you trying to say?
Michael:
I got home early and I found the house was still dirty.
Veronica:
Well I’m sorry I couldn’t tell my boss that I needed the day off because apparently you were going home early today!
The house isn’t even dirty!
Michael:
I came home early and thought you’d be thrilled if I cleaned up today.
Make things easier for you
Veronica:
So what’s the problem?!
Michael:
(Laughs) What’s the problem? How about you explain to me the problem? What the hell is this?!
(Michael pulls something out from behind where he sits and throws them to the ground. They are several documents that had gone missing from his office as well as citizenship papers and 2 passports with pictures of Veronica on them. Her name is different on all of them. Michael stands up.)
You wanna explain to me why I found all this taped underneath your bed stand while I was cleaning, Veronica?!
Veronica:
That’s not—
Michael:
Oh sorry maybe I should call you something else, let’s see.
(Glances down at the files)
Oh how about Lisa? Ooo no, I think Susan fits you alot better!
Veronica:
Listen to me, Michael, this isn’t what it looks like.
Michael:
Oh really? Because to me, it REALLY looks like you’ve been using me for YEARS to steal information for the god damn KGB! But go right ahead, give me your explanation!
Veronica:
I… Look, it’s...
Michael:
(Quieter now, holding back tears)
I always thought to myself how funny it was that we ended up together.
How we just bumped into each other at some random art gallery by chance.. How it must’ve just been fate, huh. But now I’ve gotta ask. Was it all really some big coincidence?
Veronica:
…
Michael:
(Screaming) ANSWER ME!
Veronica:
No, Michael. It wasn’t an accident. I had meant for us to meet that day.
Michael:
Then you’d marry me and use me for information.
Veronica:
(On the verge of tears. Shaking her head)
Yeah.
Michael:
(Sits back down on the couch)
All these years, and you were just using me.
Veronica:
(Crying now)
I love you, Michael. I mean that.
Michael:
I’m not going to let you manipulate me anymore, Veronica.
Veronica:
(Still crying) It might have been a mission at first, but I love you. It doesn’t have to be like this. We can go back. Things can still be ok.
(Veronica reaches for Michael’s hand. He pulls away from her)
Michael:
It’s over, Veronica. You really think I can trust you after this?
Veronica:
(In between sobs) What about the baby, Michael?
(There’s a moment of silence)
Michael:
What did you just say?
Veronica:
(Still crying) I’m pregnant, Michael
Michael:
(Sits back in a stunned silence. It looks as if all the energy drains out from him) Veronica, you need to go.
Veronica:
But wh-
Michael:
You need to run! NOW!
(Michael lifts up his coat, revealing a wiretap wrapped around his stomache around him. He begins crying. Veronica stands up quickly)
I’m so sorry, Veronica.
(Outside, someone bangs on the door.. The door bursts open and three men in suits rush in with guns pointed at Veronica.)
Person in suit:
FBI! You’re under arrest! Don’t move or we’ll sh-
(Without a moment of hesitation, Veronica jumps over the couch and crashes through the glass window)
Hailing from New Windsor in Orange County and a graduate of Newburgh Free Academy, Dylan Perry is an aspiring writer. When he's not writing, he enjoys drawing, playing video games, reading books, and watching shows and movies. Someday he hopes to create works of fiction that will positively impact others just as much as they have to him.
Reagan Boera
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The Ticking Time Bomb
At first, it was very faint. I could hardly hear. It happened periodically. It never fully consumed my thoughts. It was in the background, easy to ignore and push aside. But then the repetition started. Wake up, 6:45 am, get the bus, 7:45 am, first-class 8:15 am, get the bus 2:15 pm, home 2:30 pm, homework from 2:45 pm - 5 pm, dinner with family 5:15 pm, dance class 7 pm - 9 pm, 11 pm sleep. Again and again and again 180 days a year. The addition of club meetings, doctor’s appointments, weekends spent doing projects, or just lying in bed all day trying to recuperate from the week, never truly catching up on sleep. One hundred eighty days a year for two and a half years straight; again and again and again. Not enough time to think, to cry, to laugh, to be angry. That is when it started to get louder and more frequent, harder to push aside and ignore. But I was determined; I always found a way; covering my ears, listening to wight noise, blasting music, whatever I could do to drown it out, and it worked. But those “solutions” were temporary. It all just got buried deep inside and stayed there.
My whole future was riding on the outcome of four years worth of grades, club activities, volunteer work, and extracurriculars. That was my concern; that was my priority, and it came before anything else. Less than ninety percent simply was not good enough. Anything less than an “A,” and you are a failure. These rules were not beginning enforced by my parents or my teachers. The ticking only stopped when I got good grades. But it always came back, and the only way to stop it again was to get the grades, go to the clubs, become the club president, to do well in dance. Anything just to make it stop. But the more and more I did, the faster it came back, the closer it got, the more it echoed. It became deafening and paralyzing—the ticking.
November of my Junior year of high school, it happened. The ticking came to an end, and then the ticking time bomb exploded. I woke up at 6:45 am; it was dark out, pitch black the moon was hardly shinning. It was frigid in my room; my parents had not turned on the heat. My piercing alarm goes off, and I wake up like every other day, feeling like there were one thousand pounds on top of me, holding me down to my bed. I wanted nothing more than ten more minutes of sleep, of rest, of quiet. I dragged myself out of bed into the painful cold air and got ready for the day. At 7:40 am, I brace myself for the walk to the bus stop. I packed my book bag, put on my jacket, and threw on my hood. Then like every other morning, I yelled up to my parent’s room, “bye, mom and dad, love you.” The breeze was making the trees, which had hardly any leaves sway. The street lights were still on, and the world was silent. I stood at the bus stop alone at the same corner I have stood since I was five years old. It was all too familiar, yet I dreaded it every morning. I stood by the street sign waiting for my yellow school bus to come; you could hear it from a mile away. It shatters the silence as it approaches and comes to a stop. The doors opened with the same squeak; I walked up the three stairs, said good morning to my bus driver, and sat in the same spot. Twenty minutes of bumps being thrown around turns and squeals, screeches, and stops. At 8:05 am, we finally arrived at school. Then it starts; it fades in, the ticking. This day it was louder than ever before and closer than ever before. It was hard to think about anything else. It consumed my thoughts.
On this particular November day, I was getting back three tests and taking one. Good grades were the thing that silenced the ticking. I was looking forward to the relief and having my headspace back. Unfortunately, I only passed one out of those three tests, and I passed the test with seventy-five percent. Never in my life has my head been so filled with the ticking. It made my heart race; I was nauseous and hardly able to focus enough to talk. I got those three failing grades back at the beginning of the day. The test I was taking that day was last period. It was my physics honors test. I sat down in my chair and could barely read the words on the paper. I was shaking, my heart was pounding, and all I could hear was the deafening ticking. I did not finish the test.
Get the bus at 2:15. Sit in the same seat. Get off the bus. Walk home. Go up to your room and cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. I cannot breathe. Why am I so stupid? Why am I so dumb? Why can I do nothing right? Why do I try? The ticking was so loud. Then it happened. The ticking time bomb exploded. I never thought it would. I always thought I would be able to drown it out. The thing about a time bomb is it has a timer. The time will eventually run out. You can ignore it as much as you want, but it will ultimately explode. I was curled up on my floor in the corner of my room, and I saw it. It was so vivid, so real. It was a flat white room, and there were two of me. They were me, but I was completely disconnected from them. I had a birds-eye view of the room. There was peace between the two of me for a moment, then it began. I saw myself charge me and then, with feral ferocity, rip, tear, hit, punch, scratch, bit, and kick the other me. She kept going and going; until I could not get up, and blood was dripping from my nose, ears, and eyes. I had broken ribs, and it was hard to breathe. The me that was attacking me was vicious and unapologetic. As I writhed in pain in the fetal position, there was also me relishing in the glory. I opened my eyes after this scene occurred in my head and I was terrified. Terrified because I was relieved after, I believed I had gotten what I deserved. I wanted it to be real.
Why this day out of all days? I do not know; that is the thing about the ticking time bomb. You never know how much time it has. You never know when it is going to go off. If you ignore it, you can not stop it. You are only denying your reality. No one would expect a single unarmored person to go in and try and disarm a bomb. You need to call the fucking bomb squad.
I sat there stunned for a moment. Not sure what to do in the aftermath. Then, like I was five years old, my only thought was I wanted my Mom. So with all the strength I could muster, my shaking voice called down the hall, “Mom, Mom, can you come up here.” When she finally got to my room after what felt like an eternity, I explained. I kept it short and sweet, not going into details. But I asked for help. Help to clean and put back together the pieces after the explosion.
Reagan Boera is a freshman at U Albany; embracing all the experiences that come along with this new stage of her life. She is a double major in psychology and human development with aspirations to obtain a masters in School Psychology. Future goal is to work with children helping them navigate their academic journey. Reagan is a resident of Pearl River NY in Rockland County and a proud graduate of Nanuet Senior High School.
Kai Blokhuis
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A Monster’s Guide to Personhood
Part 1: Introduction
Author’s Greeting
So you’ve become a monster and severed your connections to society. This is not an uncommon occurrence, and if you’re reading this guide, then it’s likely that you or someone that you know has experienced this. My first piece of advice for you is this: remember that you are not alone.
Call this a memoir if you’d like. A guidebook. A poetry collection. But whatever it may be to you, I hope that it is above all helpful. In the pages that follow, you will find my personal collection of important writings. Through my own experiences, I hope to provide insight on the Becoming of a monster and the re-learning of how to be a Person in your new state (being a Monster is, after all, very different from being a Not-Person). From the symptoms that I went through week by week to the process of recovery, this guide is both deeply private and ultimately, hopefully, a sign for others like me: one way or another, everything will be okay.
Part 2: Signs & Symptoms
Week I – Monday, 5:46 PM
Peach Daydream Tea
It starts with the teeth.
You will be alone in your house on a weeknight with a kettle boiling on the stove. You are making your favourite tea, because it’s been a long time since you’ve had your favourite tea. It’s called “Peach Daydream,” though you’re not sure why anyone would ever daydream about peaches when there are far more interesting things to daydream about. Like an argument that you would have won if you’d had more time to think of a comeback. Or the way that a barista spelled your name right even though the spelling is a little weird, and how pleasantly surprised you were by something so mundane. Or the fact that it’s been a while since you’ve talked to that one friend, and what if they think you hate them, and what if they hate you, and—
You realize that you are the kind of person who would daydream about peaches if you could. Because peaches are far less stressful to daydream about than anything like that.
You will only half-notice that the kettle is close to boiling, because now you’re daydreaming about Not-Peaches. And maybe this is why you like Peach Daydream tea: if you cannot think about peaches, then at least it will warm your hands while you think about Not-Peaches. For people like you, tea is seldom a beverage; it’s company. However briefly, it’s something to attend to, and when you start thinking about Not-Peaches, you can take a small sip – bitter, because you steeped it for too long and didn’t put in enough honey – and you can think for a moment about how gentle the world could be if you thought more about peaches.
Week I – Tuesday, 2:08 AM
Body, I
It starts with the teeth, but this time, you notice.
You’re standing in your bathroom, awake and upset about it. The chill of the tiles on your bare feet bites into your skin, like your home is as vindictive as you are. In your bedroom across the hall is the tea that you’ve failed to drink and the bed that you’ve failed to sleep in and the computer that you’ve failed to shut off. So you stand in the bathroom and you stare at the mirror, at the cruel tyrant that is your own uncooperative body.
For the first time, you notice it – the Monster. You see your lip curl in the way that it always does when something is upsetting you. You see a flash of fangs that have never before been there. You nearly forget that you are angry; you’ve already forgotten why. Gnawed-short nails pry open cracked lips — quickly, feverishly, as if the vision is fleeting.
You wish, in retrospect, that it was. Because now you’re standing in the cold white bathroom with its cold white lights staring at the cold white glint of teeth that have never before known a keenness like this. And you’re just thinking, Damn, how am I going to hide this? And you’re thinking, What excuses can I make?
Telling the truth is out of the question. People would say that you’ve never shown signs of having fangs before. People would ask if you plan on sprouting claws, too. People would think you’re sick. Some people would even welcome you, but you would see how they flinched away every time you smiled with those cold white fangs. And so, telling the truth is out of the question.
Week I – Tuesday, 8:16 AM through Week IV – Tuesday, 5:00 PM
It Was No Dream
On Tuesday you will call in sick. On Wednesday you will feel guilty for it and decide to go to work even though you are not well, even though you are transforming. Didn’t Kafka have a story like this? You will feel pity for Gregor Samsa, even though you never thought that he seemed like a very sympathetic character when you first read
“The Metamorphosis.” You wonder, if this were a story and not a life, would people pity you? Are you sympathetic enough? Have you been written as deserving of love?
You are no longer sure if you want to be. If you were ever worth anything good – if you ever held enough of a place in someone’s heart – then you would still have someone to disappoint. Right now, at least, it is only you.
You go to work today. You will go to work the next day. You will spend weeks this way – at first you file down your teeth, until they start to grow back too quickly and you are running to the bathroom every two hours to file them again. Unsustainable.
Then you begin to yank them out. You get used to the tang of blood in your mouth and the uprooting of a part of yourself, over and over until the hurt is ritual and you are its devout practitioner.
Hardly three weeks go by before you find yourself gaunt and scarred. You can nearly pinpoint the second that you realized that this was no way to live – defanged, desensitized, disgraced. You make your choice, then: you will go to work the next day. You will smile at passers-by. You will speak with your work friends. You will perform as you always do, only this time you will do it whole.
Week IV – Monday, 5:48 PM
Fired (For Some Reason)
You have received a letter from your boss. You do not remember what it said. Something like “we need to cut your hours” or “your behaviour was unacceptable” or “we’ll have to lay certain people off” or “we don’t think you’d be happy here anymore” or “take some time off for yourself” or “don’t show your face here again” and it all just means that everyone thinks you’ve gotten too comfortable with your fangs. There is nothing that people hate more than a monster who takes pride in its fangs.
Week IV – Tuesday, 10:53 PM
Body, II
Once you have felt the sting of Otherhood, there is nowhere to go but here: the bathroom, four walls ready to burst outwards from all of the thoughts that you’re filling the space with. Red is already spattered over your hands, your hair, your sink – blood or maybe cheap dye or maybe both. You have decided that you will make a mess of yourself; there’s no use in being a beautiful monster.
So, gloveless, you comb the crimson through your hair. It is easier to part with a point, so you unsheathe claws that you didn’t know you had; the tear of talons through skin is more release than pain.
Tomorrow you will see yourself a wretched thing. You will curse yourself for this indulgence, look back on the moment that your humanity slipped through your fingers along with the last untouched lock of hair as you stained it red. But tonight, you will howl at the moon, finally released. Tonight, you are transformed.
Week IV – Wednesday, 6:26 AM
Body, III – Or: The Natural Conclusion of The Body
You wish for the time when it was only the teeth.
Something stands in the mirror watching you like a stalking beast. You do not see who you once were behind those eyes. You’re not sure if you ever will again. You’re not sure if you want to. Maybe this happened overnight; maybe you’ve been like this for weeks.
Have you lost yourself? Have you saved yourself? Have you killed yourself? Does the distinction matter?
The teeth were the easiest part. You had trouble, at first, with navigating them. You had to change some things around – the way you laughed, how you sipped your tea, who you spoke to. But after a time you found them useful. It came easier to you – to speak in low growls, to flash your fangs to defend yourself. After a time, you found that
the teeth were the one part of your body that loved you. After a time, you began to love them back.
Maybe that was where you fucked up. You showed the Monster that it was okay to come in— no, that’s not quite right, because you are the Monster. You showed yourself that it was okay to be the Monster. “It’s not doing anyone else harm” and “it can be useful, I guess” and “it makes me feel safe” and now you’re standing in the mirror staring at a chimera. Broken-glass teeth and razor-edge talons and blazing-sun eyes and a body of spines and sharp edges and matted fur. You well up and overflow. Tears. Blood. You are a twisted, oozing thing.
You think about dying, and who you would be if you cut your own heart out right here, standing on the cold tile watching the light leave those burning eyes. They’re entirely foreign; they’re more You than you’ve ever been before. You decide that you would probably be remembered as something you’re not – you aren’t sure what you’re Not anymore, but you fear it all the same.
So you search for a place between living and dying. You settle on hiding. Week IV – Wednesday, 10:27 AM
How You Came to Haunt Your Own House
And so you hide. You become a Haunting, dormant in a bedroom dressed for someone that is no longer you.
You hide away because it is simpler than, “We’ll figure this out.”
You hide away because it is gentler than, “I’m a monster now.”
You hide away because it is crueler than, “I’m sorry.” Sometimes, when you are hurt enough, you allow yourself a small act of spite such as this: the savage retribution of not diluting your own emotions for others’ sake. The barbed-wire bite of allowing yourself to take up space.
You turn off all of the lights before you retreat into yourself. For the last time, you water the plants that you have cared for in place of your own body; you open a window so that the rain might keep them alive in your absence. You stare into the mirror long and hard.
Then you smash it into a hundred jagged pieces, and you stare again. You see you, furious. You, bloodied. You, fragmented. It’s easier to believe that you deserve this when nobody tried to save you from yourself. And now you are a monster in the dark, which is really where you’ve always heard monsters belong, except you’re so lonely and so afraid that you’re beginning to think that was a lie. But you’ve already decided to be a Monster, so you will learn to live like one.
This is how you came to haunt your own house.
Part 3: Treatment
You will excuse the shift in perspective. This isn’t another entry, it’s a request from me (the author) to you (the reader). Excuse the “I” and “me” and the fact that you are being addressed as someone apart from this narrative. Excuse the fact that I have been sitting in front of these pages for weeks not knowing how to tell you what the treatment is.
I thought of writing all about the community around you, the way that the woman at the grocery store told you that you were very kind and the way that your favourite barista at that little coffee shop stopped writing the name that they’d memorized on your cup of coffee because you no longer recognized names at all. I thought of writing about the great, lumbering Monster that you couldn’t tear your eyes from because of their confidence and beauty and the small Almost-Monster that thought you were an inspiration just for existing when you didn’t know that there was anything remarkable about you at all.
I couldn’t. These small interactions help, they really do. But they will never be enough on their own. Eventually, you will meet others who will See you as you are and cherish it. Some will be Monsters. Some will not. All of them will love and be loved by you. None of them will be a cure.
That part will be up to you.
Part 4: Recovery
Week ??? -- Day ???
There will be no single, defining moment where you decide to regain your personhood. It is another transformation in itself, just as painful as the first. It is a worship – love and spite and self-preservation all at once.
You will haunt your house. You will drag yourself through your routines, baring teeth and dripping venom and bleeding the last of your humanity into the carpet. You will curse your body and you will curse the world for hating Monsters and you will curse it
for making you hate yourself and you will curse yourself for hating so much and so fiercely. You will be a vile thing.
But you do grow tired of being wretched. Too many days of baring your fangs will only leave you wanting, parched and sore. You wake, you bare your fangs, you hide, you bleed. Wake, bare fangs, hide, bleed. You have cut your teeth on cruelty; you have supped and subsisted on its rottenness. You have grown bored of the taste.
Personhood is love is fury, so you will care violently and see which part of you dies first – the Once-Human or the Monster.
Week ??? – Friday, 10:00 PM
Body I, Anew
You decide that you will imagine yourself holy. Over and over you wring out the damp washcloth and take it gently to your face, scarred by the weeks or months or years of taking every ugly emotion and turning it inwards, owning it as your own transgression. Your anger has been a wild beast brought inside, left to tear it all down in a cage called Home.
Your body is a temple whose devout lie worm-eaten; your body is the moss covered statue silhouetted by stained-glass sunlight; your body is the oblation on the altar squirming with maggots; your body is the creak of the front door as a wanderer finds shelter from the rain; your body is the wanderer looking to a forgotten religion and finding no meaning there; your body is God in a nonbeliever’s eyes, free from having to be any more than a Maybe.
So you will hallow yourself on your terms. You will make your body sacred only to you. You will fold your hand around the washcloth like it’s a rosary. Wring it out, watch the water run red. Rinse it off. Bring it to your face. Flash your fangs and delight in the sabre-toothed smile.
Week I, Anew – Saturday, 8:05 AM
Incarnate
Step out of your house, consecrated, and bask in strangers’ gazes. You love God and you killed God and you are God and everybody here knows one of your secrets, but only ever one.
You Love. You love boundlessly. You will never be human again, and maybe you never really were. The world would not let you forget it if you wanted to, but you don’t want to anymore. You will water your plants and scrub the bloodstains from the carpet. You will sweep up the glass shards on the bathroom floor and buy yourself a new mirror – all the better to admire your fangs with.
You Killed. Your fangs are not there only to be admired. The venom acts fast and you have always been a little quick to lash out. You grew fangs and claws and fur, but never a rattle to warn Them. For that, They would have to see your face, and what god would want to meet your eyes? You ate your god and They left a bitter taste.
You Are. You let Wanderers take shelter in you, bury their faces in your warm fur. Let the rain roll off of your back as they stand dry beneath you. Tell them of your transformation, of how much of the pain came from being alone in it. Show your teeth proudly when they notice their own starting to lengthen, and bandage their hands when they shatter their mirrors, and let them hide if they need to but always come to water their plants for them.
Raise your head up, Holy Beast, and be a triptych.
Kai is a junior anthropology major/psychology minor and long-time recreational writer interested in topics of horror and identity. While the piece “A Monster’s Guide to Personhood” began as a class project, it quickly turned into something far more personal. It is the hope of the author that the spirit of otherness and of embracing oneself will resonate with readers.
Tom Toad
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Thursday
In th’ morn, Asked Nora if she’d like to compan’ith on a bike trip. She agreed immediately.
O noon, th’ kids gather’d on th’ commons and Rallied up th' troops. Head count: eight. With a good look at th'm andan idea of th'ir physicharacter, Mapp’d a route about th' camp in my dome. Led th'm to th' sicklebarn and gave th'm th' low down. Bikes unrack’d, seats tight, rubber pump’d.
Nora peak’d roun th' open gress shoutin off ‘howdy, howdy’--a phrase she’d scrapp’d from th' only scrap scrappier thanner ot th' camp. She took up a velochipedal as th' kids rodedown th' rampartonto th' gravel ere told th'm to circlespect th'ir bikes. Brakes, gearses, check. Allright, allonzee.
Th' pack mowdown’d to th' Bald Mountain Rd beacon. On arvalon, Recogized th' missing caboose. Nora. A Lad.
Told th' kids to stay put an’ Jutted back up th' road. Th'y haddon made it furlong yond th' barn. Laduas wobbling on his biklik man riding thru washing winds. He naysavaypa ride.
Norandeye termin’d to teach Lad to ride. Th' road to Bald Mountain Rd is a downward slope, gantz fr pedalgogging. Erry thirty feet, Lad was ending up in th' bushes. He told me heus nervous steering. Told him Steering, don’t let’s even think about it. Th' bike pines to fly straight, pedal on, th' bike will do th' work, you don’t even need to hold th' handlebars.
We touched down on th’ Bald Mountain Rd within 30-30 foot increments. Nora took th' rest of th' troop on ahead. Stuck with Lad, determined. th' ride down th' old dirt road provided more obstacles to th' lad, but heus learning--slowly. Tried erry trick Could think of. Erry trick my fath'r’d yoos’d on me. It’d seemed we’d hit a ceiling.
Fathoms from th' Rock, Nora an’ th' pack came back down th' trail toward us. She’d taken th'm to Bedora Rock and th'y were on th'ir way back now. Turned Lad roun an’ we started again. Heus doing better wittin th' pack. Believe he got into th' sink or swim mentality in th' presence of nine experienced riders advancing.
Have you tried talking to him? Nora asked me.
Course, think ’m just hoohowlin, wavin m’arms an’ makin monkey noises? No, Meant talk t’im bout something sides how to ride th'
damned thing.
Think y’ve got something th're.
We rode on. Norandeye qeer’d’im on his family and gairmeacha. Heus getterbetter thout even thinking about it. Nora took th' kids on ahead, but we’eren’t far behind. Back on Long Pond Road, Lad got it. Ius whooping and cheering so loud th' kitchen could hear. T was nothintim now.
Th're’s time left, let’s take em Trout, she said. Sounds good t’me. On th' way Trout, nother lad fubar’d’is bicycle. Chain mark’d an lodged twain th' 01 gear and th' ubb. Norandeye bit an’ fought an’ tore wittit, no budge. Gave th’ lad my own and Nora took th' pack away again. Hoofed th' bike up th' mainance barn. Chip and Wrench’d’er back to perfection pliers.
Flew out find th'm again, caught th'm on th'ir way back andahl rode back, rerack’d bikes in th' shed, and Told th' kids to beat it and wait fr th' saynahorn.
Norandeye went to supervise th' flesh pit an’ declare peak fun when nessary.
’m sorry fr dragging yout here.
No’ords o’pology from you. ’d a great time.
Did neponymat waywere in fr such a disastrous trip.
’m curs’d fr bike trips. You remember Travis?
Yep. Feel bad yad take karo th' kids fr me, but th'n ’m grateful you wer’eer frit.
Don’t. ’d a great time.
Th're stood we, cover’d head-toe in dirt and grease and grime, legs beat up with th' scars of munts in th' woods an’ befriended by a few new ones, an’ Thought it were th' best biking trip ’d’ver led. Co-led.
Th' bell rang and we turn’d ward th' mess hall.
Lookit how filthy we’er. Said.
Yup.