Illustration by Hannah Rivera
Monster
One should not ask why there are monsters. But rather, how are monsters born? How does one make a monster?
Well, to make a monster...it's quite simple. First, you must take something innocent, something pure- then simply feed it the sweet saccharine taste of hate. Feed it ridicule. Perhaps, even an ounce of betrayal. Then lastly, and most importantly...pain.
Then all that is left is a soul poisoned by the world. All that's left is a...monster.
Indeed, the line between what made Juniper Anne Garrow merely a girl, versus a monster, became ever more thin and grey as the years came to pass. As she crept towards the onset of puberty, and into the ferocious and dangerous beast that is womanhood- a monster soon would be born. Born from the actions of another monster. Her womanhood was a deadly game of Russian roulette. Except there were never any victors in this game...well except the gun that is. That was what he was to her. A gun. A poison. A Boogeyman.
A monster.
“Pretend you’re sleeping…even when you're not”, she would remind herself, as the door to her bedroom slowly creaked open. Like clockwork, she knew when to expect it- same time, every other night basically. The sound of heavy stumbling footsteps approaching, followed by the dip of the mattress.
“Look at the flowers...the stars”, she would say to herself; her eyes drifting between old floral vintage wallpaper, and the plastic glow in the dark stars on her ceiling. She would stare vacantly outwards and beyond, as she dreamt of far away planets- of galaxies and adventures where she was the daring heroine. A hero, a fighter- rather than a damsel trapped within a crumbling and cursed tower. She dreamt of a time and place, where she saved other little girls like her from savage interstellar marauders, and evil dragons. Indeed, her mind would drift between many fantastical worlds on nights like these, and also equally between many horrific phantasmagorias.
Another dip of the mattress. The blanket, moving. Cold air hitting her bare feet. Followed by the shifting of weight above her.
The ship's hull, breached by incoming enemy fire.
Soft whispers, followed by prayers. Always...prayers. He would pray as if the faux piety of his words alone could somehow absolve him, and garner forgiveness. They filled the darkness of the room; these words…these prayers. Filled and stifled the air around her- a gaseous and silent poison in the void, ever lingering. Still and deadly.
“Stay still. Play dead. Stare at the flowers...the stars.” Think of another place, another time. Another once upon a time. Another happily-ever-after.
Hot and heavy breaths on raised skin. The hushed words- filling her, like a funerary vessel with dead and long forgotten flowers. She was his Persephone, and he, her captor.
Smoke flaring from the nostrils of the great scaled beast, as he ravaged and raided the kingdom.
Sweet bourbon laced kisses- between every affirmation, and every drunken promise. Force-fed pomegranate. The juices of such poisoned fruit, burning hot and acidic in her throat- silencing her. Silencing her, so she could tell no one the tale.
She would stare at the flowers, at the stars...and go. Go to other places...other times. To what could have been, but never was. To what never would be. An alternate timeline. A parallel universe. A time and a place where her mother...her true mother, never left; a time and place where her father...her true father, never abandoned her. A time and place where she was wanted; and where love didn't hurt. Where it wasn't poisoned fruit. A time and place where things were easier...simpler. A place where dreams could replace reality.
A nowhere place…a no one place.
She naively thought it would get easier. That eventually she would fade away into nothingness and no one. That eventually she'd reach that nowhere place. That place between dreams. That place where what could be, would be. A place where everything was gentler...kinder...and of course, easier.
It never would get easier, however. All the hurt...the same. Always the same. The sameness you think would have dulled the suffering over the years; however, it didn't. It never did. It intensified, as the years came to pass and she grew older. The pain- intensified. The hatred- intensified. Until one night she stood over him with a lighter in her hand.
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They always said that she should "feel lucky"..."that not a lot of people wanted older kids". And at first, maybe Juniper did feel lucky? Maybe even blessed?
But, that feeling soon quickly dissipated. Fading away like rippling waves over white sand. As time passed, she stopped feeling lucky. Stopped feeling blessed. Stopped feeling much of anything anymore…anything but the cool hot burning sensation of hatred. Hatred- as the good doctor and part-time pastor prayed over her small lithe body, pinning her under his weight. Hatred- during his nightly "medical examinations", that left her sore and broken for days that followed. Indeed, she began to feel numb to everything but the hate. The numbness, paving the way to righteous anger.
Hatred cradled and kept Juniper safe on nights like these, better than any parent or guardian ever could. It guided her when she was lost in a forest full of ravenous wolves; when she stared into empty orbs where there ought to have been soul-filled eyes. It protected her when the beasts would stalk her; when their gazes were the kind that followed you, the kind that would knock you down just so they could take what they felt was theirs. During that time…hate was ever present. When their claws grabbed at newly formed breasts in the dark. Hate was there. Hate was there keeping her warm in the bitter cold of night. An old friend. Her only friend.
She reflected upon her relationship with hate. Reflected as she stood there, the lighter clung tightly in her grasp. She remembered how she would often think about the vastness of one's suffering. Of just how much suffering a human being could take. How much bending could one do before breaking beneath the pressure of it all? How much give and take could there be? Questions of survival, and doing whatever it took, and by any means necessary, began rattling the cage of her mind.
What was her limit? Her capacity for suffering? Did it differ from the rest of humanity? At that precise moment, Juniper wasn't entirely sure.
She flicked the lighter back and forth some more, toying with the cold metal between her fingers, as she stared down at the unconscious form of her foster father Joe. Remembering- the suffering. Her suffering. Remembering- the smell of bourbon thick and heavy on his breath. This smell even now, emanating off his comatose body as he lay passed out on the couch. “Never again.” She promised herself, as she flicked the lighter open once more.
Never again would hot drunken breaths leave kisses on her skin and burn her flesh. Never again would big arms roam over tiny curves- pinning her down and telling her it was all “okay”. Never again would she have to hear that stupid fucking prayer. Never again would God hear him, and these prayers. Never again would God forgive.
Everytime he came into her room at night, was he worshiping God then? She wondered? Or was he worshiping her?
A kind of sick sacrilege. Her youth and beauty seemingly placed upon a pedestal of false ritualistic idolatry. Well…no more. Never again.
Never again.
Before she realized it, she tentatively knocked a bottle of alcohol over onto the sleeping man. He didn't wake up. So, she then found other bottles- opened them, and began to pour. He stirred a little, but still didn't wake. His slumber seemingly a raft floating upon the Lethe.
Never again.
She would save them both- her foster mother Susan and herself. Even if Susan hated her; she would save her. The well of love belonging to the man known as "father" and “husband”, poisoned all who dared to take a sip from its waters. And well she...she and her foster mother Susan had been drowning in these waters for going on years now. Drowning in his love.
She couldn't use love. Not this kind of love. Not anymore.
Never again.
Now, hatred. Hatred, she could use. Love itself is deceptive, it wears masks to hide its true face. Hatred though- the face of hatred is clear and translucent to the eye. It doesn't hide. It doesn't confuse. It's not like love in that way. It doesn't make demands; it doesn't humiliate, demean, manipulate, or use. You can sculpt masterpieces with one's hatred, and build something better. Something new. You can wield it like a weapon, and slay any number of dragons with it. It takes whatever form you need it to take, whenever you need it.
That night, hatred took the form of flame for young Juniper Garrow. A brilliant, bold, and all encompassing blaze. A wildfire- clearing the rot away, and leaving something better in its place.
Freedom. Opportunity.
Hope.
So, there she stood- watching the slow and rapid growth of the fire spread over the old polyurethane foam sofa and onto the man himself. Watching…as the untreated fabrics of the furniture and the alcohol soaked fabrics of his clothing, steadily caught aflame. It's embers burning all at once a brilliant orange and red hue; like a sunrise on a new dawn…like new beginnings.
Never again.
A phoenix must burn to emerge anew. She knew this to be true…truer than any gospel. And so she watched. The fire- wrapping them both up in their burning embrace like wings. She would soar on these wings. Soar and fly free from her cage.
Never again.
Unlike other nights, she had no need to go elsewhere to distant lands or forbidden planets…not now at least. No, here at this moment; at this time- this is where she belonged. She closed her eyes, remaining ever present in this space- listening to the crackling sounds and the screams. Listening, as it's soothing lullaby burned away bad memories; washing them clean in a kind of baptismal rite. A kind of fiery mandala.
Never again.
She was in awe of the suffering of the man before her, not paying much mind as the room around her began to quickly burn. She started choking and coughing on the smoke, but she didn't want to leave. Utterly transfixed on the fire. Transfixed on how Joe seemingly began melting away like the wax of a cheap birthday candle; the kind you would get from some ghetto gas station or some local bodega on the corner. Unremarkable in a sense, but effective. It gets the job done in the end.
And as his flesh began to bubble and melt away, she so desperately at that moment wanted to blow these candles out and make a wish. Except her wish already came true? Didn't it? There had been a fullness to that moment. To that wish. To that need and desire for ongoing survival and self preservation. It was all palpable. This moment; this suffering...his suffering. It was something that felt as if it could be held. Could be tasted. Could be savored. She wondered, just how much of this need could she hold onto? How much of this sensation could she savor? How much could she care even, in the face of such obvious suffering?
Never again.
“Never again.” She repeated the words over and over in her head like some kind of mantra; like some kind of prayer.
Never again.
It would happen, never again.
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She hadn't even realized when Susan had woken up, and forced her outside. In fact she only really truly came to just now. The piercing cries of sirens wailing like a banshee's death song, and pulling her spirit firmly back onto earth.
The house continued to burn, but the emergency responders were quickly beginning to douse what little remained of the flames. Her foster mother Susan stood some ways away in a robe and gown- talking with authorities, as they comforted her and jotted down various notes for their report. The neighbors had begun to pour out of their homes, many still wearing their own night clothes, as they gawked at the spectacle that lay before them. Speculating and gossiping in only the way bored suburbanites can. They would never know the truth of what went on at that address, or behind that particular closed door; nor would they likely care, she imagined. The fire was likely excitement enough for them, no need to tarnish their neighborhood further.
Juniper's gaze wandered away from the burnt out husk of what had been her home for a number of years, and away from the congregation of nosy neighbors. Gazing instead at every modestly quaint house on the row of this tragic American cul-de-sac. As she looked at the other houses, she thought about the infinite worlds that must lie behind each brick and mortar. The secrets hidden behind each picket fence and closed door. Were there father's like hers behind those doors? Little girls in need of rescuing?
The radio clicked on in the back of the emergency vehicle she waited in. The faint static buzz of the station, finally coming in clear, as the driver fussed with the dial in order to get good reception. The voice of the DJ reminding her that it was "WRXL 102.1 FM", and that it was going to be a "Perfect Day"- before giving his listeners a brief weather report, and switching over to the song.
She closed her eyes, and went elsewhere. To that nowhere place. Finally. A place where she would be floating in the vast emptiness of space, half a planet away, on turquoise seas- dancing in the light of several moons, to the rhythmic sounds of Reed on the radio, as he reminded her of what a Perfect Day this had indeed been.
A perfect day…
A perfect end, she thought smiling to herself, before a small laugh escaped her lips.