She was not a happy person. She often wondered if the feelings and thoughts that plagued her were normal, common among all. Perhaps, she thought, some people are simply better able to cope and move forward, and try to live as best a life as possible. People do numb themselves to their inner demons, through drink, drugs, or some other mechanism of removing themselves from reality. 

She had, however, met people who seemed authentically happy and carefree. Was this possible, or were they simply better actors than the rest? She, herself, could give a master class in hiding one's true self.

She came from a good family, was well-educated and not unattractive. She had a good job, was financially comfortable, and lived in a nice neighborhood. She had every reason to be happy.

And, so, she played the part that was bestowed upon her.

She smiled and laughed at family gatherings, came to work every day with a positive attitude and a willingness to get the job done. She was kind to cashiers, waiters, and strangers she encountered. Those she was acquainted with would say she was quiet, an introvert; she didn't seem interested in getting to know others or building friendships but she wasn't aloof, rude, or dismissive. She simply kept to herself. She was very private, allowing very little of herself be known. 

A closer look would reveal she spent most of her time in another world, one that was fabricated inside of her head. She thought of this world as the Land of What If. In this world, she was the person she wanted to be, living the life she wanted to live. In this world, she did not wake up every morning and wait, impatiently, only for the moment she could return to the oblivion of sleep. In this world, she did not hope to one day soon discover an incurable disease lurking inside her body, a secret desire for death in the absence of the courage to commit suicide. She did not feel an alien in this world, a being forced to live in the presence of a species she did not understand and that did not understand her.

She was not a private person because she was shy or feared the judgement of others. Sharing an intimate detail of her life felt like gouging a chunk of flesh from her body. Being the recipient of such information felt like being served the flesh ripped from another. Like being offered a bowl of something unpalatable in a culture different from one's own, it was a custom that didn’t make sense to her, a custom she was uncomfortable with. 

What bothered her the most was the occasional shift in these inner thoughts and emotions. There were moments, entire days, even, when she felt genuinely happy, normal, even. Then, as suddenly as this change came about, it would be gone, leaving behind a bloody, gaping would.

She began to wonder if she might have a mental disorder, a split personality, maybe, or if, perhaps, there was something evil residing inside of her, something that took joy in removing its presence just enough to allow for a little bit of happiness to trickle in before ripping it away and filling her thoughts with disease once more. She often argued with herself and became convinced it was not inner dialogue but a disagreement between what little bit of her was left and this monster inside. 

She became convinced that she was inhabited.

She tried to understand the exact mechanism of what it meant to be inhabited by a monster. She wasn't possessed, she did not feel it was the evil spirit of Satan dwelling inside of her. It wasn't a spirit at all, but rather an actual living, breathing monster. Was it a small creature, an insect that moved throughout her body? She thought of the various, random twinges of pain she sometimes felt and wondered if that was it, giving away its whereabouts. She considered, too, the possibility that the this monster was able to change, transform, like water. It could course through her veins with her blood, wrap itself around her muscles and her bones, entrap her brain in a fog.

She began to notice, in pictures and in her reflection in the mirror, that sometimes her face was not her own. She could see the monster in her eyes, an expression she was unfamiliar with staring back at her. The structure of her face, the composition of her features, sometimes they looked foreign, wrong, too. The worse she felt, the less of herself she saw. On the rare good days, she would come home and stare at herself in the mirror, recognizing the girl she saw in front of her. On bad days, she realized her reflection was nothing more than a mask of skin, the shape and form of the monster lying just beneath the surface.

She wondered if there was some way to get rid of the monster. She thought, maybe, if she adopted a new outlook, a new lifestyle, the monster might be scared away. She engaged in conversations with people, spent time with colleagues after work, went places on her own she had never been before. The monster, it did not fear these things, not the way she did. Rather, it rose to the surface and locked her deep inside herself. She found herself paralyzed, confused, her thoughts racing incoherently one minute and non-existent the next, her speech nonsensical.  She came home exhausted, agitated, in a fog yet acutely aware of her failure. The monster fed greedily off this discomfort, dragging the worst moments from the hiding place she created for them and playing them over and over, again and again. 

She considered seeing a psychiatrist but couldn't bring herself to fathom the idea of sharing something from so deep within. After a while, she began to think that perhaps it would be present within her for the rest of her life, and maybe even beyond. If she died, would it stay present within her, continuing to torture her in an unconscious state for a period of time beyond her ability to understand? Or would it stay behind, slither away from her corpse and find a new body to occupy? She did not know, and so she remained where she was. She was trapped in the realm of the unknown, the purest torture known to the human race. Not wanting to live, but afraid to die. 

The monster emerged early one morning. She felt a stinging sensation on her upper arm. In the dull sunlight that filtered its way as best it could through the drawn curtains, she saw the skin pull together, as if she were being pinched from the inside. The pain grew more intense and she rubbed her arm. When she brought her hand away, she saw a small tear in her skin, blood running in one single rivulet down her arm. From the tear on her arm a sharp, ragged fingernail emerged, followed by a thin, decaying finger, separating the flesh a little wider. 

Another sharp nail and finger emerged and her arm swelled with the pressure of the hand forcing its way from beneath her skin. Human flesh is tougher than you might imagine. The sharp blade of a knife slips through quite easily but its much more resistant to being torn apart. The pain was immense, hot, burning, and then a feeling of sickening release as the bony claw of a hand tore through, flailing. It reached up and grabbed the flesh of her arm beside the ragged, bloody hole from which it emerged, the sharp nails sinking in. 

She was terrified, the kind of fear that can never be described, only experienced by an unlucky few, but she wasn't surprised. Another claw ruptured from her other arm, tearing through her flesh all at once. She didn't move, for she could not run from her own self. The pain was present but mostly eclipsed by the shock of this grotesque, skeletal entity emerging from her own body. 

It tore her skin from her body, ripping the muscle from her bones in large, bloody chunks. Upon freeing its legs from her own, thin and mottled, the claws sliced into the soft flesh of her stomach, reaching inside and sliding its fingers between the bottom-most ribs of her rib cage, gaining a firm grip on the bones. It pulled apart and her ribs began to splinter and crack with the sound of snapping tree limbs. Her rib cage split in two, revealing not lungs and a heart but the rotting body of the monster.

Limbs nearly detached, arteries and veins severed, organs lying in a pool of blood beneath her, she wondered when she would die, why she had not yet done so. She recalled reading somewhere that most people who survive suicide felt regret the moment they took the action to end their life.  She thought of the Land of What If and wondered if she could have tried harder to make a better life for herself, to find a way to be happy. She thought she had given up on that fantasy but it's human nature to cling to hope, even if it's nothing more than a wisp of a thread. Now, she would never know what was and was not possible, would never have the chance to find out. At least she would be rid of this monster, would not have to spend eternity with it inside her. But, perhaps, regret is a monster more terrifying. Perhaps regret, not the unknown, is the worst torture. She closed her eyes, waiting, hoping, that death would relieve her of conscious thought. We never give up hope.

It clawed at her face, removing her flesh, her teeth, and her eyes to reveal its own, and she looked at the human body destroyed before her. There was no loss of consciousness. She was fully aware that the monster was not within, could not be removed. Its thoughts were hers, its presence her own. She stumbled to the bathroom, turned on the light and looked at the monster in the reflection. It was no more than a skeleton wrapped tightly in its own putrid flesh. She could see herself in the monster's eyes, an expression she used to know staring back at her. 

She was the monster within.

The sorrowful sound of an organ,

vibrating within the inner sanctum of a church.

Death's symphony rising.

In the cemetery beside the chapel, corpses stirring in their non-ephemeral slumber.

The dead moan, the music an unwelcome memory of their final celebration.

This concert is a rehearsal, the end of a mortal life drawing near.

The notes of the organ bellow,

the ghostly chorus echoing, too.

Unknowing, you will soon discover,

this rehearsal is for you.

[This is my first time posting. I'm not exactly sure how I would classify anything I write - Horror? Mystery? Paranormal? - but this is one of my more tame stories. Not sure if it's long enough to be in Long-Form Prose but I'm going with it.]

I had a nightmare.

The couch I sit on is old, worn, stained in some places. There is very little light in the room I am in. Dark curtains hang in the windows, blocking sunlight from entering. There are pictures on the walls. They are hand drawn sketches, and they are unsettling. There is one of a man, peeking from behind a tree, his expression blank. Another portrays a woman, pulling a fetus from a gash on her stomach, surrounded by wolves.

There are lots of books, walls lined with bookshelves of varying sizes and designs. I approach one of the shelves to read the titles and I am momentarily startled by the appearance of a snake, patterned red and black, winding itself through the slats that run the side of the shelf. I reach forward and the snake slides over my palm and around my wrist, wrapping itself around my arm like a living, breathing bracelet.

I move to the kitchen, open the cupboards, take a look inside the refrigerator. There is not much in the way of anything to eat, nothing to compose what most would consider a good, wholesome meal.

The room is quiet, still. Never has the laughter of a child echoed through the halls, never will an intimate conversation be whispered in hushed tones with a lover in the bedroom. I am, however, not quite alone. There is the snake, bound securely to my arm. There is something, else.

I see it, then, slinking around the corner. The snout appears first, the teeth of its upper jaw exposed. It crawls forward, its large, lumbering, armored body moving from side to side, followed by its long reptilian tail.

The alligator sees me, and it is coming for me.

I woke up, early morning sunlight streaming through the open window. The bedroom surrounding me was decorated in shades of ivory, sage, and blue, the quilt that covered me a patchwork of yellow and white.

Home.

I opened the bedroom door, stepped out and into the hallway. The walls were occupied with pictures of a smiling, happy family and school portraits. Hearing voices, laughter, I walked slowly down the length of the hallway, afraid of what I might find when I turned the corner.

What I found was a man and two children, sitting around the large, pine dining room table, breakfast in front of them.

My family.

"Good morning, honey," my husband greeted me. He patted the chair next to him. "Grab yourself some eggs and have a seat."

I moved around the table, giving morning kisses. I started with my husband, moving next to my son and then to my daughter.

"Good morning, mommy," my daughter said. Her hair was in pigtails and she smiled a big, toothless grin. My son grunted in response to my greeting, his eyes glued to the phone in his hand. He was a teenager, too cool for his family.

"Oh, and I made your favorite," my husband said, raising his coffee cup. "Pumpkin spice."

I could not deny the joy this brought me. I poured a cup, removed a plate from the cupboard and added some eggs, a piece of toast, and joined my family at the table. After breakfast, I set to packing lunchboxes, my children's, my husband's, and my own, filling them with leftover vegetable lasagna from the night before, apple slices, a box of raisins, and a homemade, gluten-free blueberry muffin with flax seed.

Lunches packed, I took a shower, readying myself for the day ahead. I was a third-grade teacher in an elementary school. I loved my job, working with the children, shaping the minds of the future. I dressed quickly, eager to get moving and out the door, pulling on a pair of cropped jeans with elastic in the waist and a pale pink blouse I'd purchased yesterday, on sale, from Wal-Mart. I slipped my feet into my shoes, white New Balances.

In the drive way, we said our goodbyes and my husband climbed into his Camry, pulling away while I loaded the kids in my minivan. We listened to a family-friendly station on the drive to school, singing along with the radio.

I arrived to my classroom just in time for the for the first students to begin to trickle in. I sat at my desk, grading papers, allowing the students the chance to converse before the morning bell rang. I had a great group of students this year, well-behaved and eager to learn. I looked up from my papers, thinking about this, my beautiful children, my husband who had just recently received a raise in his management position at the bank, our upcoming vacation to the Grand Canyon. My life, I thought, is a dream.

A wonderful, perfect dream.

"Ok," I said, clapping my heads to get the class' attention. I picked up the ceramic owl perched on the corner of my desk, a gift from a former student to honor our school mascot, Hooty the Owl.

"Whooooo is ready to learn?"

I had woken with a start from this nightmare, my heart pounding in my chest. The images of the yellow and white quilt, the New Balances, Hooty the Owl lingered in my mind. I shivered, thinking of my husband in his dress shirt and tie, his sensible haircut, so pleased with his choice of pumpkin spice.

Who likes that shit, anyway?

The kids, the gluten-free muffins, the minivan. It was horrifying, terrifying. It was an omen, what my life could have been, what it could still turn into.

I'm in the kitchen, now, Daisy wrapped around my arm, resting peacefully beneath the shade of my hair. Buttercup is making her way in to join us, hungry for breakfast.

"Hi, big girl," I say, patting the top of her head, stroking her rough skin. "Did you sleep well? Any nightmares?" I think about what an alligator might fear. "Did you dream you were a common lizard, trapped in a terrarium in a classroom?"

She mutters a low, guttural, growl.

I stand, prepare to make her breakfast, the nightmare beginning to fade.

"Why would anyone want to go to the Grand Canyon, anyway?" I ask aloud, pulling the carcass of a pig from the refrigerator. "It's just a big hole."

I set about chopping the remains into bite size morsels with a large cleaver. Oh well, I think. It was just a dream.

A horrible, miserable dream.

What I am most addicted to is sadness.

The sorrowful feeling that begins as a knot in your chest and spreads throughout your body, intoxicating, numbing you to the reality that things will get better, they also do. The anguish that takes hostage your mind, contaminates your thoughts with the certainty that your existence is worth nothing in this world.

Is there any sweeter feeling than that of defeat? Is there a more exhilarating experience than the fall from the peak of hope, landing in the comfort of failure and resignation? After a journey into the possible, is there a more welcoming sight than of cynicism?

Sadness humbles, it cleanses our souls of impractical dreams and unattainable fantasies. In misery and suffering, we learn to surrender to what we are and relinquish the burden to become what we could be. 

It is in sadness, only, that I find happiness.