Monster

Monster...how should I feel?

Smack!

"What was that for?!"
"Hanna, you're going to a therapist!"
This time, I slapped my mother. She went to attack again, but I dove under her, tumbling through the chairs in the kitchen. I stood up and backed away from her, closing in on the front door.
"You need serious help!" I shouted through the large foyer. My voice echoed off the empty walls. My mother came out of the kitchen, storming in the den, and coming back out with my purse and a small bag.
"You are the one who needs help, Hanna darling." She spat, throwing the bags at me. They knocked my small body down to the hard stone tile. My mother gave me a stabbing glance before turning away and walking back into the den.
I took that as the cue to leave; I was just indirectly kicked out of my house for the third time that month. My mother always let me back in, but how many more times would it take for her love to run out for me? Yes, that whole "a mother's unconditional love", is a bunch of shitty lies, and I was the main example of the false saying.
Alright, so maybe I was the one who needed the help, the therapy and the tissues. So what if I was found crumpled in a ball at the back of my closet with blood dripping from my skin? Or the fact that I was found taking pills beyond the recommended amount didn't say anything. Drinking only brought me to normalacy, and when I wasn't kicked out, my feet were running on there own.
To put it simply, I was a problem child from the start.
But here's where the best part comes into play: I'm nowhere near suicidal. Never looked at it like that, because although I was alive, my life always felt dead.
Crazy, right? Exactly. That's what I was.
Crazy.
Schitzo.
Insane.
Psycho.
Any other synomns would do just fine.
I was having battles with myself everyday. Not metaphorically, either. My mind wandered as if I was facing early dementia, and the world I saw around me was no where near the living reality. My body was fragile from driving myself into short, sporadic eating disorders. I had cuts appearing now on my collarbone; I was running out of fresh razor space. I looked like I was on drugs, always twitching and screaming, while a ghost settled in, leaving bruises on my arms and dark circles under and on my eyes.
I wasn't though. Pills don't do that to you, unless you have the good stuff. And it's been awhile since I got my hands on the harder capsles, not the painkillers these little kids trying "overdosing" with. Oh please, that's nothing.
My feet walked as far as they would take me. This time, it wasn't far, considering the huge meltdown with my mother drained me, and the countless anxiety attacks beforehand. Everything was always at the extreme end for me.
I found myself in an open field. Abandoned. Dark. Cold. Anything depressing to make the situations worse.
"Monster..." I mumbled, then began chanting it in my head. Monster, monster, monster, monster....
I glanced at the old junk spread out across the empty grass. There was a bathtub, and to me, it looked more like a comfortable bed. I dragged myself to it, and dropped in. There was a mirror propped in front of it; this was all probably something similar to a bathroom for a runaway. A runaway similar to me. After it clicked, I glanced around, and there was makeshift furniture forming a tiny outdoor house.
But it looked untouched for years.
I sighed, sinking deeper into the porcelain tub. My eyes didn't shut. They barely blinked. I sat up, glaring at myself in the relfection.
"Monster....Monster..." I chanted again. My hair was matted with blood from my mother's earlier blow. My eyes no longer had a color to call their own. And I saw myself shaking, cowaring from the world in a bathtub, in the middle of nowhere. I never understood why my mind was like this, nothing specifically drove me here, to where my mind was now.
Yet my insanity approved of this all.
"MONSTER!" I screamed out into the open air above me. I stood up sharply, took my arm back, and swung for my life.
I shut my eyes as I heard the glass shatter; shards flew everywhere, hitting my bare arms and fell to my feet.
"What did you do?!" I screamed at myself. My fist was bleeding now, more than I imagined it would. But the blood brought me joy. The pain gave me feeling. I was smiling. Laughing, even.
"Hanna's a good girl....good girl..." I whispered to no one but myself. There were still pieces of the mirror stuck to the frame. I drew closer to breathe into it. My fingers stroked my reflection.
"You'll be fine. You know, rehab is not for you. Mommy will take us back..." I cooed to the other side. But there was a part of me trying to say that it was only me. She wasn't listening.
Hanna never listened.
I shot back up, and kicked over the mirror.
"LISTEN, HANNA! STOP IT!" I yelled, shaking my head, and twisting my limbs in a slow seizure.
"HANNA IS A MONSTER!" I screamed, louder now. My skin began itching, crawling, screaming. What was wrong with me?
I felt my head twitch around in fast, sharp movements. My eyes stopped and fell on a small tank with a metal handle. I leaped out of the tub, snatching it from the ground, and walking back to the tub. It was filled all the way, and I began emptying it into the tub. The strong fumes filled the air; kerosene sloshed around, filling to the top. The tank held more than expected.
I climbed back in, "Hanna is a good girl...good girl, good girl..." My hand reached over the edge to my bag; my mother was too clueless to notice she gave me my death, as I pulled a lighter from the pocket.
I held the bloody hand with the lighter above my head as I went under, opened my eyes until the liquid blinded me, and dropped it as I lit up.
The monster inside me screamed harder and louder than ever before.