Page 2 of Dirty Monsters

His name was fitting because he sure as hell reminded me of the story of Cain and Abel from the Bible. The bad brother.

He'd play his tricks, his debauchery, his lude comments. But it wasn't until I woke up to his fingers inside me one night that I realized how much pleasure he gained from torturing me.

Bile crept up the back of my throat and threatened to suffocate me. I tried to swallow hard, but it didn't help.

I was dirty, with his fingers in me. Blackened—no longer pure and innocent. I'd been stamped with a disgusting label. I felt his nails scrape along my insides, and each time he painfully stroked in and out, I gagged in repulsion.

I wanted to scream for help. To scream for death because maybe it'd be easier. But whenever I opened my mouth, no words escaped. They were lodged around the sludge in my throat. I remembered his breath hot against my skin as he asked me if I liked it.

He was a sick bastard. I hated him. I twisted, trying to get away, but he held me down, his rancid breath hot in my face as he laughed at me.

I knew he was a monster before, but that moment proved just how far his "mental illness" reached and would take him. What depths of deprivation he would fall to.

No one could tell me he was misunderstood because I wouldn't believe them. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he enjoyed it.

He'd ruined me. Smeared my invisible self like the blood on the wall across from me and left me bleeding out on the inside.

Afterward, I had laid facedown on my bed, breathing heavily. My eyes clamped shut, refusing to see the satisfied smirk flash across his face from making me feel like trash.

His weight lifted from the bed, and his shoes crept across the floor. I heard the door open before he spoke again.

"Tell anyone about this, and next time, it'll be worse."

A shiver tore through my body, and sobs wracked me again and again. I laid there for an hour, hoping and praying he wouldn't materialize again to finish his threat.

When I finally lifted myself off the bed, I trekked my way to the bathroom. I needed to wash him off before I ripped my flesh from my bones. I quickly stripped and threw my clothes in the trash. Turning on the shower, I gazed at myself in the mirror. Tears streaked my face, leaving marks on my cheeks. Black and blue marks were starting to litter my arm from where he'd held me down so I couldn't get away.

Not wanting to see anymore, I turned away and stepped into the shower, letting the horror slide down the drain along with my heart and soul. Even for such a young girl, I wanted death.

Craved it.

So with nothing left to lose, I did what I needed to do. I opened my mouth, and words spewed like vomit, carelessly to the ground. I'd spoken my first truth, and it was ugly. Breaking my silence liberated me. I felt like I could do anything I wanted, but it also scared me. I'd been silent for so long, I wondered if finally speaking would take all that I had away. A truth damaging enough to ruin a life.

Would it come back to haunt me?

Being physically and mentally abused by my monster wasn't enough, but threatening to take me from this world, even though it was shitty, scared me to my very core. It was then I realized I didn't want to die. Even after all the times I mused about it, what I really wanted was relief.

My parents blamed themselves for what had happened. If word ever got out that their adopted son physically assaulted their only daughter or, worse, threatened to kill her, it'd certainly be a scandal.

A shame on the family name.

A smear of blood on an otherwise perfect outside view of my family.

As a result, they both had to leave, and like my parents, I blamed them both.

You know the thing people don't tell you about monsters? They never really go away. They feed off the chaos and fear as it consumes all your thoughts and every breath.

For me, their presence might have disappeared from my life in the daytime, but when the night came, the memories haunted me as if they were still there.

When I closed my eyes to the rest of the world, chaos ensued. Creepy-crawly creatures with little-to-no hair and zero teeth invaded the tiny recesses of my mind.

Sleep was meant to be restful, a time to give your body the boost of energy it needed to traverse another day. In my case, it never came. So I kept my eyes wide open to ensure the monsters didn't visit me in my dreams.

I probably should've seen a therapist. Someone to talk to about my feelings. But what would I say? I didn't have the words for what happened to me. I was so young then, but even as an adult, I didn't have the words.

It'd been ten years since the assault happened. I was no longer a little girl, yet I battled with those monsters daily.

It'd been three years since I left my parents' house for the last time. Although the monsters left when I was eleven, I thought leaving that house would bring me relief.

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