What makes a monster? Is it scales and teeth? Is it a perceived fictional reality? Is it creep factor? Villainous intent?
To the monsters, are we the scary ones?
You hear people say, "That man was a monster!" They don't mean literally. They mean he was awful, horrid, evil. But what if a perceived "monster" isn't horrid or evil? Then what are they?
I've written stories about mermaids, reapers, and Monsterous people. I've written fanfics about vampires. I've read numerous stories about a variety of "monsters."
October started out as spooky reads, but some how has turned into Monsterous reads.
And so I decided. I want to create my own monster. Play Frankenstein for a bit. I know things didn't end well for him but this is a short story, not science.
So without further ado, "It's alive!!!"
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All he'd ever known was the white padded walls of his mother's cell. She tried to kill him when he was two, he'd been alone since then. They gave him books; taught him through a screen. They knew what he was capable of; they'd seen what he could do.
His long raven black hair was tied back in a ponytail. They'd tried to cut it when he was small, but he'd started screaming and one of the techs passed out.
Two silver horns grew from the top of his head. Eyes like molten lava always watching. Other than this the boy looked human.
He slumped against the wall, picking at the frayed edge of his white shirt. White. You'd think color didn't exist in the world. His whole life he'd been surrounded in white.
"Eighteen," he murmured to himself. If he'd been born out there, outside of these walls, he'd be an adult. He'd be free. Who was he kidding? No one would have been there to stop his mother from killing him. He'd be dead.
He heard a shuffle outside his door. He glared at the camera by the door. He was just a caged animal to these people, always watching.
The door opened, three big men walked in the room. The one in charge held his hands up in front of him. "We're here for your shower, Wilder."
Wilder. Short for Wilderness. Because that's where they found his mother wandering. Muttering about carrying a Monster. Screaming as they brought her in that a Monster grew inside her.
Wilder stood slowly, if he moved too fast they freaked out. He didn't feel like being tazed today. The men pulled his hands behind his back in cuffs. He opened his mouth for the gag, no sense in fighting them. He rolled his eyes at the headphones blasting classical music as they shoved them on his head.
As if any of this could stop him. As if any of them could really stop him.
Then he saw her. He watched her as they ushered him down the hall. Her blonde hair pulled back out of the way, bouncing slightly as she walked. Her bright smile as she talked to the other patients. Wilder couldn't breathe.
He screamed in frustration against the gag, as his guards tried to pull him away. He just wanted her to see him; he just wanted to see her face.
He looked back towards her and for a moment time stopped. Big brown eyes wide in fear locked with his. Defeat.
Wilder closed his eyes, he didn't want to see anymore. Then all he felt was electricity as they stunned him.
Wilder woke later in his room, his hands chained to the bed.
"I'm sorry," he screamed. Lowering his voice he murmured, mostly to himself, "I just wanted to see her face. Please unchain me. Please."
They didn't. No one came. Not even at dinner time. He could've broken the chains, but then they'd never let him out of this room.
Wilder stared across at the long scratches on the door. His mother had put those there when he was a baby, her fingers bleeding. Trying to escape. Trying to get away from him. A treacherous tear slid down his cheek.
Once when he was five, he'd awoken from a nightmare. "Please," he'd cried. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again, I promise. Just please make it stop."
No one had come then either. He was Wilderness. Born from insanity. Eternally alone.
