Monsters are cold and ruthless.

Nobody likes monsters. Their whole purpose is to destroy as much as they can.

Stolen as a child, and raised into a perfect, perfect family. Stand up tall, smile, and don't cause trouble. It wouldn't have mattered either way. Silver tongue.

Never once did I spend a day without even a little mischief.

Nothing was right; I wasn't who they said I was. The betrayal I dished out so fervently pierces into my heart and destroyed everything I knew to be true.

Was I ever good? Was I always the enemy? Am I supposed to be a monster? It hurts; I still feel. Monsters don't feel pain, do they?

The disappointed looks and cold sky blue evidence glares me down and freezes my soul.

I don't feel like a monster.

But if a monster is what they want, then a monster is what they'll get.

Until my dying breath.

My heart beats faster and faster and stops.

The stress claws at my brain and tears at my heart; it’s shredded to pieces and holding on by a string.

The pieces runs and grow and now they’ve a mind of their own.

It hurts, but I’m happy.

I think.

The emotions, they come so strong and so fleeting.

That’s just me.

From day to day, I don’t know how I’ll be.

Hold it together.

I’ll be okay.

We can all make it another day.

When we sat there on her bed, and the TV blared in the background, I looked into her blue eyes and asked her a question.

"How long have you liked me?" I asked.

"Since day one. Remember when our friend abandoned me and you stayed to comfort me?" she answered.

"I do; it was the day we became friends."

"That was the moment I knew I liked you. I'm happy we came this far."

(Based on a true story. I don't remember everything said, but I do remember the when and the feeling that exploded in my chest.)

Homophobia isn't a fear, but rather a hatred.

It's the slurs thrown when two boys hold hands, and the black eyes the boys go home with.

Have you ever kept a secret that, although nothing was wrong, you knew that its spilling could destroy your life?

If you don't understand, hold up a mirror. Reverse it.

What if old men who kissed their wives on their anniversary heard people gagging behind them?

What if the bride walking to her car with her husband got called disgusting for loving a man?

The boys the link hands in secret, the girls who hide their feelings, and the closeted teens that cry and cut because they feel so scared because they can't fix it.

They are the results of homophobia.

Homophobia isn't a fear, it's a hatred of love.

“What is love?” asked the boy, bright eyes studying the elderly woman.

She paused her work and turned to face him. She sat and patted the seat next to her.

“Sit here and I’ll tell you,” was the brief response.

The boy eased himself onto the bench and looked at her intently.

“What is love? Love has multiple forms.

“There is family love and romantic love.

“Family love comes with small things. A whispered blessing, a warm hug, an extra five minutes to sleep in when they know you’re tired. The feeling of waking up on the couch and being covered by grandma’s quilt, or smelling bacon cooking on a weekend morning. It’s the knowledge that no matter what happens, your family will be there.

“Romantic love arrives slowly and then all at once. It’s the whispered compliments, the joyful laughter in the middle of the night, the fear of losing them. This love is precious, as is family, but this is more precious, because you have to search for it. This love accompanies the tingling feeling in your stomach when they get too close, or the sinking feeling when they slam the door and send you away. It’s the knowledge that you want to spend the rest of your life with them and wake up with them sleeping there beside you.” The old woman’s eyes turned dreamy.

“Did you ever love someone like that?” asked the boy.

“Yes, I did. They’re gone now, but my peace comes from knowing that I’ll see them again one day. I smile, and they’ll grin, and we’ll run and embrace each other. Then, we’ll know that we won’t ever have to part again. That’s the best part of love: knowing that no matter what, in this world or the next, you’ll always find a way to be together.”

I live a good life.

Good neighborhood.

Good friends.

Good job.

Great family.

Wonderful life.

Last week was my daughter’s thirteenth birthday.

You understand how thirteen-year-olds are: all focused on fitting in.

Her friend gave her a beautiful doll.

Emerald green eyes and porcelain skin framed by braided brown hair and a dark red gown.

It must’ve been expensive, but she was mortified.

After the party, it disappeared.

I found it in her trash can with a crack over her left eye, otherwise undamaged.

I tidied her up and stashed her in our attic, propped up on a rusty music stand.

Last night I heard a scream that could pierce the fabric of reality.

It was about 2 am and my daughter had friends over.

I peered through the attic door and saw her rocking back and forth madly.

“Ms., I don’t know what happened. She saw the doll and now she’s just... delirious,” stated a friend that noticed me.

The doll lay on the floor, calmly.

“It’s fine; she’s tired.”

And I ushered them downstairs, calming my daughter, but my mind couldn’t help its curiousity as to how the doll came to sit on the other side of the room.

An infuriating beeping rang out, shadowed by a distant, bone-chilling siren. Dasha woke up abruptly, head pounding, heart thundering. As she recognized the pale lavender walls around her, the relentless beeping of her phone synced with the radio.

“What is it now?” groaned Dasha, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She grabbed her phone and her eyes glanced over the announcements popping up.

‘All citizens are to remain calm.’

‘A solution will be found.’

‘Do not panic.’

The original warning was long since buried by further notices and more kept pouring in. Most people would’ve been confused, but Dasha was not. She understood. Of course, why wouldn’t she? She was the domino that sets off the rest.

With a sigh, she stretched and got up to look through the windows. Sirens flashed in the distance.

“Dasha? Are you awake?” came a soft whisper from her door.

“Where else would I be?”

A small boy scampered across the room and hugged her legs.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“Seven days.”

“Seven days until what?”

Dasha pressed her palms against her eyes and took a deep breath. “Until the end of humanity.”

“The end?”

“Yes, Odoxton. The end. Dammit!” shouted Dasha, knocking her laptop to the ground.

Odoxton flinched and looked up at her curiously.

“Why did I have to go and destroy everything?” muttered Dasha.

“Wait; is this because of that neighboring planet?” asked Odoxton.

“No… It’s because of me. I spoke to a man,” said Dasha, sitting down,” who said he could fix this. He said he could take all our problems away; no more working at that factory, no more being pitied, no more…”

“Did he?” asked Odoxton.

Dasha smiled and ruffled his hair. “No. I assumed he had wasted my time so I thought nothing of the note he left. That should’ve been my warning.” She chuckled. “‘The end of your problems, the end of everyone else’s, and the start of a new era.’ At first, I passed it off as some meaningless inspirational crap. Now, I see what he really meant.”

Odoxton stared at her with big, teary eyes.

“Do you want to go get ice cream? I’m sure the government will fix this before anything happens,” she lied.

“Yeah! Ice cream makes everything better,” exclaimed Odoxton.

Dasha stood and grabbed her coat.

On the walk, she made a silent pact with herself while her brother skipped along and chased stray cats into the alleys. The end would come, but they would not be there to see it. She wouldn’t let her baby brother watch the end of his world and happiness.

The day was uneventful; they got ice cream and walked back home. Odoxton put puzzles together while Dasha watched for updates.

Midnight came and the government still didn’t know what to do.

Dasha crept down to the kitchen, careful not to wake Odoxton who was sleeping on the couch.

“Six days,” she muttered, glancing at the clock.

She searched the kitchen silently, tears brimming her eyes. She found enough food to make a small pot of spaghetti. She made the meal as quietly as possible, thinking of the countless people she had condemned.

Under the sink, she found the arsenic she had accidentally fed her parents. Taking a shaky breath, she emptied it into the pasta. Once it had dissolved, she put the food on plates and set the table.

“Odoxton! Supper’s ready!” called Dasha.

About a minute later, he wandered in and pulled himself into the big chair at the head of the table.

After about a minute of eating, he looked up at her. “I’m tired.”

“Finish eating and then we’ll take a nap.”

Odoxton and Dasha ate all the pasta before Dasha finally let them go to her room.

“Aren’t you gonna clean up?”

“I’ll clean up when we wake up,” said Dasha, biting her tongue.

They lay down, curled up together, and Dasha’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Dasha, I’m scared,” muttered Odoxton.

“Just think, tomorrow you won’t have school, so we can go to the park. Maybe you’ll see that girl you’re so fond of.”

Odoxton whined and buried his face in the pillow.

Dasha chuckled.

After a few minutes of silence, Dasha was still awake, albeit feeling numb and a little nauseous.

It took her a half hour to fall asleep, and when she did, it was faint and she awoke after one hour.

“Odoxton?” she asked, feeling nausea starting to take over.

There was no response. She pressed her fingers against his neck and felt no pulse. She gasped and took a shuddering breath, tears welling up in her eyes. As the poison was being absorbed, she knew there was nothing to do but lay there and wait.

So she did.