Real Monsters
Real Monsters stories
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“Do you know who the real monsters are?” He asked me as we watched fireworks set the sky on fire. It was a beautiful night, the temperature was perfect, and between the displays of exploding light the stars shone brightly.
By HylianFae https://www.reddit.com/r/...

Real Monsters

by HylianFae

“Do you know who the real monsters are?” He asked me as we watched fireworks set the sky on fire.

It was a beautiful night, the temperature was perfect, and between the displays of exploding light the stars shone brightly.

Real monsters? What makes a monster real? What makes it a monster? Can it be as simple as something that just seems to exist to cause unhappiness?

Maybe.

That makes my mind a real monster, one of the worst of all. Maybe specifically the little group of voices that tell me everything's not okay.

In fact nothing is okay, and I spend entirely too much time imagining that it is.

They tell me I'm trapped, and as hard as I try I'll never have the courage to go anywhere and do anything with my life. They tell me that even if I work up that courage I'd be a coward to leave.

I'd be a bad person to walk away from people who weren't ready for me to go. I'm a bad person anyways for wanting to.

And they tell me I'll never really be happy, that the good feelings are temporary and the darkness is forever. You can't heal bad things, you can only mask them.

They tell me that they'll never go away, and even if I think I'm as happy as any person could possibly be, I still won't be. This will still be here with no way to fix it.

They'll tell me that everything bad anyone has ever said about me is true. They'll make sure I never forget that I'm a liar.

They'll make sure I never forget the wrongs I've done, and they'll always remind me that I'm doing wrong by existing. They'll make me wish I had stopped everything back when I had less to lose.

They'll make me feel guilty for feeling so awful when things around me can still be good.

I'll never be able to make anyone else as happy as I want to, I'll end up making them sad.

They'll get mad at me for doing things wrong, be disappointed that I can't do enough, that I can't *be* enough.

They'll be upset that I let things limit me, and that I always seem to have an excuse for not being able to do something. Everyone will hate me as much as I hate myself, and this will never end.

Real monsters? They live in my head, and I don't think they'll ever go away. But they'll ask me to keep them a secret, so I will.

“I don't know,” I told him with a smile, hoping that he both would and wouldn't see through to what I really meant.

We'd part ways that night and I'd think over all the things keeping me here, and wonder yet again if they're worth it.

Hopefully this would be the last time I ever hurt anyone. I'll stop being a monster, I'll end all the monsters in me.

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