Page 3 of Monstrous

Nightmares that to this day leave me no choice but to draw the demon’s picture over and over until I have every feature perfectly captured on paper. Not only Darkness, but the creatures I see when I close my eyes. Three of them standing tall and strong and bathed in shadows, the protectors I thought I sensed that night and whose voices became louder and louder until I lost the ability to ignore them.

Okay, well, I’ve drawn them every day except today. Plainly. I’ve been trying my hardest; nothing is working.

Today there is only the smug asshole stick figure staring at me, taunting me—

My hand is saved from a near beating by the insistent buzzing of my phone, and with an exhale, I press the screen to answer the call. Saved by the call.

“Mari, honey, how are you holding up?”

My mother’s soothing voice is a balm to my nerves. Bringing me down from the ledge I hadn’t even realized I was clinging to. Wow. Had Mom known I needed the intervention?

“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “I’m trying to draw. Doesn’t seem to be working though. I’m trying to fill up the pages of the book you got me for my birthday and I’m sorry to tell you, they’re all still blank. These last few weeks have been a little weird and today it’s just not happening.”

Mom sighs. “Well, I’m worried about you. I know what today means to you, so no wonder you’re finding it impossible to concentrate.”

“Nah, it’s okay. Today has nothing to do with this block,” I argue. Sure, and elephants fly to the moon.

“Did you remember to take your pills?”

I glance over at the half empty bottle and shake my head, knowing Mom can’t see the motion. “I sure did.”

She’ll believe the lie. Or maybe not. At this point I’m not really concerned about what she thinks.

She’s been nagging me daily about living on my own because she’s seen me at my worst. And I get it, I do. Because who do you think held me during my breakdowns? After the hibernation period, of course, when I hadn’t been in a place to let anyone in my apartment for a few months, she’d started calling every hour. Finally, she took out the big guns and threatened to have the fire department beat down the door to let her in.

I believed her. I’d be stupid not to.

I went to stay with Mom for a few weeks and let her hold me through the crying fits. Through the visions and hallucinations and memories.

Mom has been here for me every step of this long and arduous journey and she’s a worrier by nature, too.

I’d let her talk me into going to a doctor for an official diagnosis, because I wasn’t able to dig myself out of the depression. I also wasn’t able to banish the voices from my head; voices that never sounded like me. The pills definitely do help keep those voices away, ones whispering dark but enchanting things inside my head, desires so deep I can’t even recognize them until I hear them out loud.

But those kinds of thoughts are crazy, so everyone says, and society doesn’t want a crazy person walking around talking to themselves.

The pills have improved my mental state. Until now. They are the wall keeping the voices in my head at bay. I don’t have a clue what the pills are or the side effects as long as they help, and so far, I haven’t had any complaints outside of the occasional low-level headache.

And the numbness.

Some days it’s like fighting through a wall of fog and fuzz, trying to push ahead to get something, anything, done.

You take a backseat to your life just hoping that whoever has control is going to steer you in the right direction. Or maybe not. Maybe you only pretend to care because deep down the apathy and numbness is intoxicating. You play along because it’s expected of you. Not because you really feel it.

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve been skipping days?” Mom replies with a light laugh.

“I’m not skipping days,” I say instantly. “Trust me.”

Okay, she’s called me on my bullshit. It’s a mom’s sixth sense kind of deal where she can always tell what’s really going on. She’s got a real connection to her niggle, the kind most people just write off or ignore. She just always seems to be in the know about the things I would rather keep hidden.

I’ve skipped a few days this week. So what? It’s not a big deal. I feel absolutely fine. No joke.

“Honey, those pills are helping you. Please remember to take them. I’m sure I sound like a broken record—”

“You do,” I interrupt hotly.

“I’m just worried about you,” she says with a soft sigh. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come over and spend the next couple of days with you? It’s only a short drive. I’d really love to see you and I’ve been trying hard to give you the space you want but…I miss you. I’m worried about you.”

“I’m great, Mom. There’s really no need for you to worry yourself into a nervous breakdown. I mean, any more than you already have.” I miss her too, but I’d drawn up a boundary in asking her to keep her distance for a while.

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