The Hidden Monster

When the word 'monster' comes to mind, my father is what I think of.

It was an automatic reaction, an automatic thought as my mother would have called it, the association between "father" and "monster" deeply etched into the corners of my mind, my neurons effortlessly connecting the two concepts together.

I know it's not the correct way to feel about one's own parent, and for many years, I blamed myself for it. Over and over, I chastised myself for feeling this way. It was abhorrent, going against the natural human instinct to love and trust one's family.

To be fair, to this day, I'm convinced my father is a monster.

I knew from the moment I became aware of the world around me, the way his eyes held a darkness that sent shivers down my spine. I felt no warmth or comfort when he was around, only fear and dread. His words were like venom, and his actions left scars that ran deeper than any physical wound.

My mother, bless her heart, mistook my fear for childish imagination. "Your father loves you," she'd say, her eyes tired from years of trying to keep the family together. "He's just going through a tough time."

But I knew better.

—

I was sixteen when things took a sinister turn.

There were the bottles, of course, empty and discarded like the fragments of our shattered home. I could never prove it, there were always excuses, perfectly reasonable explanations, with my father's charming facade dispelling any suspicions. It was also possible, of course, that I was simply a confused teenager, trapped in a web of my own delusions.

Trust me, that thought never strayed far from the back of my mind, a whisper of doubt in every interaction, every angry outburst, every night of terror that left me trembling in my bed.

My father was never overtly cruel to anyone else, but behind closed doors, the monster emerged. His rage was unpredictable, his temper uncontrollable. He reveled in the pain he inflicted, as if my suffering was his lifeline.

Nobody else seemed to share these feelings about my father, of course.

That was okay; I became adept at pretending. I had years of practice. Soon, I'd escape this hell, leave behind the facade of a happy family, and finally breathe again. A few more years, and I'd be free. A few years. That was hardly any time at all.

I was ready to continue our farce, burying my fear and anger under practiced smiles and feigned contentment. But then, one fateful evening, while searching for something I'd left in my room, I found it hidden under my father's bed.

After that, I could no longer pretend.

—

I stared at the contents of the box in front of me, my heart pounding in my chest. Even then, even in that moment, my brain sought other explanations, innocent reasons for what I'd found under my father's bed.

"Dad."

I turned to see him standing in the doorway, a twisted smile on his face. My father, the monster, had been caught.

"What do you think you're doing?" he hissed, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

I couldn't look away from the contents of the box—photographs, newspaper clippings, and letters, all documenting his sinister deeds. It was a shrine to his malevolence, hidden in plain sight.

My father stepped closer, and I could feel his presence suffocating me. "You shouldn't have seen this," he whispered, his voice dripping with malice.

I knew then that it was finally out in the open, the truth about my father, the invisible walls between us shattered. I couldn't hide from it any longer.

"I won't let you hurt anyone else," I whispered back, my voice trembling but resolute.

My father's sinister smile faltered for a moment, and I realized that the monster was afraid.

"I didn't mean to," he muttered, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape. "You don't understand."

I took a step forward, my fear giving way to a newfound strength. "I understand enough, Dad. It's over."

And with those words, I knew that I had finally broken free from the monster that had haunted my life for so long.