LaurenHanss
02-23-2009, 12:56 AM
I kept my eyes closed as I screamed, but it was pointless anyways. Only air bubbles came out. I stayed under, lungs burning, heart slowing. When I finally felt my muscles and mind start to relax and start to float, I felt my body drift to the top of the water. My arms felt like lead weights, pulling me back under the water, the all enveloping water, where I wanted to be more than anything. I could feel my heartbeat thudding behind my eyes, the blood pooling together making my fingers and toes tingle. Even my tongue suddenly felt too big for my mouth. My ears were still under water, so I could hear nothing, sense nothing around me but the gentle coming and going of the water against my body. I needed air, I was starving for it, but I wasn’t ready to give in to the need yet. I needed even more to feel this closeness, this one-ness with the water. It was seeping into me, through my pores. I was becoming the water, and the water was me. And now that I can almost feel the water reach my heart, almost feel it seep into me and fully take over, when it becomes a domination, now do I let go of myself, let my body have that life saving oxygen. While I’m dying for the water, my body is dying for air. Yet this is the only way to forget. To drive out the pretty monsters that live in my brain.
I was seven the first time I told my dad about the monsters. He told me that they were pretty monsters that only wanted to play with me and be my friends. He told me that they wouldn’t hurt me. So from then on the monsters were my friends. They were a bit bigger than me, so when we played games, it sometimes hurt. But they were always so nice and apologetic later on, putting make up on me so I could be pretty-just like my monsters. We played hide-and-seek. I always hid. They always found me. We played chase…they were so much faster than I was, and I knew they were close by the thump-thump-thump of their pretty monster feet. Those silly monsters, they lost control of their big feet sometimes, and whoops they stepped on me or crashed into me. But they told me it was my fault, that I shouldn’t get into their way. So I learned to be as quiet as a mouse.
I loved my pretty little monsters. They were my best friends. And then when I was eleven, the pretty little monsters moved into my bed. It was like having sleepovers all the time. But not just at night. During the day too. But we didn’t sleep. We learned to play new games, ones mommy and daddy wouldn’t like because they weren’t fun like my pretty monsters. They were our secret games. Besides my pretty monsters loved me. When something started to hurt, and I started to cry, they taught me how to be real quiet. If I started to bleed, which I did a lot because I was a stupid clumsy girl (not like my pretty monsters) they taught me how one little hurt can get a whole lot worse so I should just keep quiet. They taught me that I was better off alone. That the girls at school were too cool for me, and they boys just thought I was stupid. They taught me to accept that I was ugly and not going to change. I thought that everyone had pretty monsters like me. That they waited at home for all my friends too. I thought that I was the same as everyone else. But my monsters taught me the rules: do not tell anyone. My monsters told me that I was special. That no one else had what I did, and I should not make them jealous by telling them.
I was seven the first time I told my dad about the monsters. He told me that they were pretty monsters that only wanted to play with me and be my friends. He told me that they wouldn’t hurt me. So from then on the monsters were my friends. They were a bit bigger than me, so when we played games, it sometimes hurt. But they were always so nice and apologetic later on, putting make up on me so I could be pretty-just like my monsters. We played hide-and-seek. I always hid. They always found me. We played chase…they were so much faster than I was, and I knew they were close by the thump-thump-thump of their pretty monster feet. Those silly monsters, they lost control of their big feet sometimes, and whoops they stepped on me or crashed into me. But they told me it was my fault, that I shouldn’t get into their way. So I learned to be as quiet as a mouse.
I loved my pretty little monsters. They were my best friends. And then when I was eleven, the pretty little monsters moved into my bed. It was like having sleepovers all the time. But not just at night. During the day too. But we didn’t sleep. We learned to play new games, ones mommy and daddy wouldn’t like because they weren’t fun like my pretty monsters. They were our secret games. Besides my pretty monsters loved me. When something started to hurt, and I started to cry, they taught me how to be real quiet. If I started to bleed, which I did a lot because I was a stupid clumsy girl (not like my pretty monsters) they taught me how one little hurt can get a whole lot worse so I should just keep quiet. They taught me that I was better off alone. That the girls at school were too cool for me, and they boys just thought I was stupid. They taught me to accept that I was ugly and not going to change. I thought that everyone had pretty monsters like me. That they waited at home for all my friends too. I thought that I was the same as everyone else. But my monsters taught me the rules: do not tell anyone. My monsters told me that I was special. That no one else had what I did, and I should not make them jealous by telling them.