Escape

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.