what makes a monster

I don’t remember much about being human. I know I was, once. I think I had a name, a mother, maybe even friends. But those memories have eroded like words written in the sand—fragile fragments scattered by time, leaving only traces I can’t fully understand.

What I do know is this: something went wrong. Something happened to me, and now... I’m what people fear in their nightmares. A creature that doesn’t belong, a twisted thing meant to be forgotten.

I didn’t want to become this. I still don’t. But some curses are heavier than wishes, and some changes can’t be undone.

A Body That Doesn’t Fit

The first thing you lose when you become something like me is comfort. I don’t mean warmth—though warmth is part of it, too. I mean the sense that your body belongs to you, that your limbs move the way they’re supposed to, that you can walk down a street without feeling like a marionette dragged by invisible strings.

My hands are too long, my fingers sharp and crooked, each nail like a blackened claw. The skin that wraps around me feels borrowed—tight over the bones in some places, sagging elsewhere like it was stitched from scraps that didn’t match. I can feel the gaps where my ribs shift beneath it. And my face...

Well. I know what they see when they look at me. I’ve caught glimpses in windows—jagged teeth too big for my mouth, pale gray skin that looks like paper soaked in water, and empty black eyes that reflect no light. A face designed to terrify.

It wasn’t always this way.

I think I used to have brown eyes. I think I used to smile.

Now, when I try to smile, it only makes them scream.

The Girl in the House

I found her house by accident. At least, I think it was an accident. It’s hard to say—sometimes it feels like I wander endlessly, carried by an invisible thread. I stumble through forests, slide between buildings, slip unnoticed through the cracks of this world. No one sees me unless I want them to. But this time...

This time, I think I wanted to be seen.

It was just a small house, tucked at the edge of the woods, half-hidden under a canopy of old trees. I saw the light in her window first—a soft, golden glow that reminded me of something warm. Something I think I used to have. I was drawn to it without meaning to be, the way a moth can’t help but fly toward a flame, even knowing it will burn.

I stood outside her window, watching as she sat on her bed, legs crossed, brushing her long, golden hair. The light from the lamp softened the angles of her face, and I felt something inside me ache, sharp and hollow.

She looked so... safe.

It wasn’t the kind of beauty that makes you jealous, but the kind that makes you homesick. Like the memory of a place you can’t return to, no matter how badly you want to.

I pressed my hand to the glass, as if that small touch might close the distance between us. My fingers left streaks—dark smears on the clean window. For a moment, I thought about walking away. I could feel that familiar tug in my chest, the one that tells me not to stay too long, not to get too close.

But I was tired of being alone.

The Moment She Saw Me

When the lights went out, she tucked herself beneath the covers, and I slipped inside. The door creaked open just enough for me to slide through, my limbs folding unnaturally to fit through the small space. I moved quietly, my feet making no sound on the wooden floorboards.

I didn’t want to wake her—not yet. I just wanted to sit beside her bed for a little while, to pretend I was someone else. Someone who belonged here.

I crouched by the side of her bed, resting my chin on my hands, and watched her breathe. In and out, slow and steady, like the lull of waves on the shore. It calmed me, that sound, in a way nothing else ever had.

And then, she stirred.

Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she just stared at me. Blinking, half-dazed with sleep, as if I were part of some dream she hadn’t yet woken from.

And in that moment... I hoped.

I hoped she wouldn’t scream.

I hoped she’d see me—not as the monster I am, but as something else. Someone lonely. Someone lost.

Her lips parted, and I held my breath.

Then she screamed.

Running Again

It’s funny, isn’t it? How quickly hope can die. One second, it’s there—this fragile, flickering thing, warm and bright in the hollow places of your heart. And the next, it’s snuffed out, like a candle in the wind.

Her scream shattered the silence, piercing through the night like glass breaking, and I ran. I didn’t stop to think, didn’t try to explain, didn’t even look back. I just ran.

It’s what I always do.

It’s easier that way. If I stay, the fear only grows. They always scream louder the second time. They always run faster. And no matter how much I want to tell them the truth—that I don’t mean any harm, that I only wanted to stay for a little while—it doesn’t matter.

Because to them, I’ll always be a monster.

Hiding in the Forest

I’m back in the forest now, crouched beneath the twisted branches of an old tree. The wind whistles through the leaves, carrying the distant hum of the girl’s house—soft, comforting sounds of life. I can hear her crying inside, the way people always do after they see me.

It hurts, listening to it. Not because of what they think I’ll do, but because of what I won’t—because I’ll never have the chance to be anything else.

I press my hands against my chest, feeling the steady thud of a heart that beats without purpose. My skin feels cold, but it doesn’t bother me. The cold never does. It’s the silence that gnaws at me, the emptiness that follows me wherever I go, no matter how fast I run.

I wonder if she’ll dream about me tonight. I wonder if she’ll tell someone what she saw—a monster with too-long limbs and empty black eyes, crouched beside her bed like a shadow come to life.

I wonder if she’ll ever understand that I didn’t want to hurt her.

I just wanted to stay.

What Makes a Monster?

People think monsters are born from darkness, that we’re made from fear and rage and cruelty. But the truth is, monsters aren’t born.

We’re made.

We’re made from loneliness. From broken promises and forgotten memories. From the ache of wanting something you can never have.

I think, maybe, I was made from love once. I think I loved someone, a long time ago, before all of this. And maybe that’s the cruelest part of all—knowing that love still lives inside me, buried beneath all the sharp edges and jagged teeth.

But no one will ever see it.

Because to them, I’ll always be the thing that hides under the bed. The shadow in the corner of the room. The monster they scream at in the dark.

And maybe they’re right.

Maybe I am a monster.

But I didn’t mean to be.

I swear, I didn’t mean to be.