Saturday's Storyteller: "I feel like a monster."
by Belinda Roddie
I feel like a monster. I look like one, too. And I think I smell like one, too. Mothballs and moldy socks. Rotten meat and vegetables. It's like I've climbed out of a garbage can and crawled under a bed.
My husband says he'll leave me if I don't shower. My son wants me to get a haircut. I don't want to feel warm water on my skin. Or shampoo on my scalp. It's like pins and needles being stabbed into my pores.
I don't know why I'm like this. I hate that I'm like this. I'm yelling before. Well, more roaring. It's becoming incoherent. My daughter cries constantly. She says she doesn't recognize me.
I don't recognize myself, either.
I used to be blonde. I used to be pretty. I used to wear blue eyeshadow and red lipstick. I used to put on deodorant and wear nice pantsuits to work. Then the company laid me off. And then my diet turned to shit. And then the moods started again.
The goddamn moods. They always ruin it for me. They ruined it last time, too. That time, they committed me. They may as well have put me in a cage. Thick, iron bars. So I can't chew through them.
I used to scare my son with spooky bedtime stories. He was always scared of a monster creeping under his bed. Or hiding behind the shower curtain in the bathroom. Or waiting to spring up on him in a dark hallway. I always had to be the one to get him a glass of water.
I didn't mean to turn his nightmares into a reality. But I can't stop screaming. I can't stop howling. And I can't stop frightening my family.
Maybe I'll sleep in the bedroom closet from now on. Get used to the dust and the asbestos.
It smells like home now.
This week's prompt was inspired by a lyric from Skillet's "Monster," which can be found here.
I feel like a monster. I look like one, too. And I think I smell like one, too. Mothballs and moldy socks. Rotten meat and vegetables. It's like I've climbed out of a garbage can and crawled under a bed.
My husband says he'll leave me if I don't shower. My son wants me to get a haircut. I don't want to feel warm water on my skin. Or shampoo on my scalp. It's like pins and needles being stabbed into my pores.
I don't know why I'm like this. I hate that I'm like this. I'm yelling before. Well, more roaring. It's becoming incoherent. My daughter cries constantly. She says she doesn't recognize me.
I don't recognize myself, either.
I used to be blonde. I used to be pretty. I used to wear blue eyeshadow and red lipstick. I used to put on deodorant and wear nice pantsuits to work. Then the company laid me off. And then my diet turned to shit. And then the moods started again.
The goddamn moods. They always ruin it for me. They ruined it last time, too. That time, they committed me. They may as well have put me in a cage. Thick, iron bars. So I can't chew through them.
I used to scare my son with spooky bedtime stories. He was always scared of a monster creeping under his bed. Or hiding behind the shower curtain in the bathroom. Or waiting to spring up on him in a dark hallway. I always had to be the one to get him a glass of water.
I didn't mean to turn his nightmares into a reality. But I can't stop screaming. I can't stop howling. And I can't stop frightening my family.
Maybe I'll sleep in the bedroom closet from now on. Get used to the dust and the asbestos.
It smells like home now.
This week's prompt was inspired by a lyric from Skillet's "Monster," which can be found here.
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