Page 8 of Monstrous

Part of me wants to ditch work entirely and stay home to see if me tossing away those pills will help with the sketching, too. How will it feel to draw without having to force it? I can’t remember the last time my imagination flowed without effort to make the pieces fit together.

I want to see if the side effects are gone entirely and the magic of my art returns.

A larger part of me worries at what I will get down on paper at last. Will it be the same as before? When I filled up book after book of drawings of that demon and the three shadows I often sense at the periphery of my consciousness?

I’m not sure, but a giant-sized part of me is intrigued by the possibilities.

It’s been so long since I’ve walked around without a constant haze of numbness…picture what I can do with the full might of my artistic, disturbing brain. Clear and unhindered andready!

Sounds like a dream.

And, of course, thinking about dreams takes me right back to last night.

As much as the pills had helped me, they’d also given me a few more issues to deal with. Or at least a few more concerns to try and clamber over. Maybe being normal is overrated, I muse as I pull on my “bank gear”—pressed linen pants and a button-up shirt. Maybe being myself will be okay now, because I’ve had time to process. I’ve grown.

Haven’t I?

Sometimes I’m not really sure.

I’d love to rip the buttons right off and be done with this, but me forcing myself to draw won’t pay the bills.

My mind flashes back to my nighttime adventures on my way out the door and a flush begins at my cheeks and crawls down my neck. Well…if those kinds of dreams are what I can have without the pills…it’s worth the risk.

Right?

ChapterThree

There is nothing glamorous about working at a bank. In fact, it actually kinda sucks.

There is nothing fun or exciting about manning the teller station and handling angry, impatient customers on the daily. Having to explain that checks bouncing and overdrafts aren’tmyfault—as much as they wish they were—gets a bit old after a while.

Know how many times I’ve had someone scream in my face? Too many to count.

Why do I keep doing it?

Repetition.

It gives me enough time to draw on the weekends and evenings and I can go through the motions without too much though, especially on those extra foggy days. I also really like my customers for the most part, because in a small branch like the one where I work, you see the same faces multiple times a week. You get to know people. You make connections. You start conversations.

Still, there’s no excitement.

Today is a special occasion only because the feeling of eyes on my back follows me from my apartment. The sensation of being watched hounds me from the bedroom to work until it’s uncomfortable. I reach behind me trying to scratch that place between my shoulder blades like the sensation has caused an actual itch.

And no matter how often I turn around, I don’t catch anyone looking at me. That freaks me out the most.

I’m constantly jumping, checking the corners for anything suspicious. Finding nothing and making myself feel worse, in a way, because at least if I saw something suspicious the niggling sensation may be a little more valid.

As it is, I’m going out of my mind. Is it a lack of sleep?

The two other girls behind the counter greet me warmly. They cycle through the same questions about my weekend and how I’ve been. Great, fine, thank you for asking.You seem a little jumpy, they say.

I shake my head and end up fiddling with the sterling silver chain I wear with Walker’s class ring at the end. Nope, I’m fine, everything is fine.

Fine is the theme of the day, darling.

My coworkers continue to ask me questions as the day wears on. One of them, a girl named Krista, actually pulls me aside to ask if I’m all right because she can tell I’m a little off.

I might appreciate her concern more if it didn’t feel like she knows I dumped my pills last night. The longer she stares at me, waiting for an answer, the more awkward I get until I’m shifting from foot-to-foot thinking through a million possible excuses.

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