Not His Own

Truth be told, he doesn’t really remember the moments when he goes into a seizure, just the face of his parents that look scared. (He can never really tell whether they’re scared for him or of him, because they’re pretty sure there’s a monster inside of him that makes him tremble for no apparent reason.)

To him, he thinks there are plenty of things to be afraid of in this world, and all his fears come to him in waves that he’s so desperate to be rid of that the monster inside laughs, and keeps laughing until tears are found in the eyes of those who love him.

Other times, the monster throws him towards a fire or pots of boiling water, and even his father can’t save him from himself. The scars running over his body – some fresh, some old, some reopened several times over – have long melted together as if he’s suffered from one big wound. And at times, that’s what he feels like – like one large walking wound.

Maybe it’s not true, but he thinks that this is how his parents view him; that maybe they’ve forgotten what he looks like and can only see the monster staring through his eyes.

He doesn’t know when pain became his first and only friend. He doesn’t know why his parents think he’s suffering, when all he wants is for the monster to go away. He doesn’t know why he still feels so dirty, even though he thought the water would make him clean while fire would burn his sins away.

The monster inside him is still laughing, and its voice rolls a tombstone closer to his grave.


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