Monsters in my Head

Monsters in my Head

“It’s all going to be okay, Lucy. Monsters aren’t real. It is all just in your head. You’re safe here.”

I supressed a bubble of laughter which rose deep in my chest. The constant reassurance that I was in a “safe place” was just so laughable. Was that honestly supposed to make me feel better? Didn’t that defeat the purpose of suicide? Clearly, they did not understand. Nobody understood. I didn’t want to end my life. I needed to end my life. Of all my failings, why couldn’t I have done the right thing just this once?

Every part of what the doctors were saying to me rang false. No such thing as monsters? Normal everyday people do monstrous things every day, so I know that can’t be true. I had done things that could not be forgiven. I was a monster. Therefore, I determined that suicide was the best option for myself, and for everyone around me.

Sadly, because of my failure to follow through with a such a simple task, I was even worse off than when this horrible ordeal had begun. I managed to get myself locked up inside a looney bin, placed on suicide watch, and restrained to a hospital gurney. What was worse was that nobody listened to a word I said. They kept throwing around words like “distressed” and “nervous breakdown” like it could explain away my sins.

If the he had had bothered to ask, I could have saved the attending doctor a lot of time and aggravation. I am in fact unhinged, over the bend, and entirely bonkers. I am also a murderer. I told the doctor who checked me in to have the police inspect my dorm at the university. That would give them more than enough physical evidence enough to lock me away for the rest of my life. There he would find my roommate – or what was left of her in any case. My roommate, the girl who disappeared weeks ago. The girl everyone assumed had run off with her loser boyfriend. When they discovered what was left of her, they would need to order dental records to identify the remains.

The hospital staff assured me that they would investigate my claims, but in the meantime, I should focus on resting and getting well again. Doubtless my recovery would be forcefully administered in the form of a stiff cocktail of sedatives and anti-psychotic drugs.

I decided to play the part of meek mental patient. I only needed a tiny window of opportunity to end my life, and this time I would not botch the attempt. This time I would succeed, and everyone, including the hospital staff, would be safe.

It was shockingly easy to win over the nursing staff. All I had to do was shed a few crocodile tears and flutter my eyelashes. I spun tales about how hard it was to be a university student working a part-time job to pay for my education, and about how little support I got from friends or family. I was just so depressed and isolated that I didn’t know what else to do. I suffered a psychotic break, but I was starting to feel more like myself again. The medication the doctors prescribed was really making a difference. Everyone at the hospital was being so good to me…

Blah. Blah. Blah.

All my blubbering distracted them from the fact that I was hiding the pills under my tongue and dropping them down the air exchange register while nobody was looking. Those damn pills did nothing except dull my senses until I was reduced to a drooling idiot. I needed my mind to be clear if I was going to succeed.

Time passed in my shoebox sized cell in the hospital. There were no clocks to count the minutes or hours, but there was a small barred window. I used the position of the sun to gauge the hours until night finally fell.

I would wait until dusk, just before the moon rose full in the sky, and then I would use my teeth to rip deep into the soft undersides of my forearm. Cutting into the side of my neck would have been ideal – a person with a severed carotid artery can die in under a minute – but I couldn’t get my hands on anything sharp enough to do the job. My teeth were the next best thing, but biting into the veins of my forearms would be a much slower death. Minutes to bleed out might seem like a short period of time, but being on suicide meant I was under nearly constant surveillance. Those few minutes might as well be an eternity. I would have to be careful not to make too much noise, lest I alert the orderlies who patrolled the hallway outside. If I was lucky, nobody would find me until it was too late.

Sunset marked the changing of the guard. The day shift staff would begin to gather their belongings and leave for the day, while the night shift shuffled in and got set up for the night. It would be my one and only opportunity to finish the job.

I curled up in my cot, and tried to face away from the door as much as I could. The wide barred window on the door afforded me precious little privacy. Any visible scarlet stains on the white hospital sheets would bring the cavalry running. If I could manage to block their view of the pooling blood for long enough, they might not find me until it was too late.

I stared at the tender pink flesh of my arm with the spidery blue veins visible just below the surface. My mind’s eye could see the life sustaining blood pulsing just below the surface.

This should be easy, I thought. It wasn’t as though I was squeamish. It was far too late for that. I needed to stop being such a baby and just get it over with already. It was too late for second thoughts.

“Just do it,” I assured myself aloud. “It will be over before you know it.”

I opened my mouth wide, and brought my wrist close to my lips. As I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, I was frozen in my tracks by a terrible pain. The muscles of my abdomen knotted and cramped so tight that I thought I might be sick. All thoughts of my latest suicide attempt fled my mind as I doubled over clutching my gut.

I tried by best to stay quiet, but a soft gasp escaped my lips despite myself. A line of perspiration formed on my brow as the muscles of my body began to spasm and contract. My groans of agony intensified as the pain traveled up my back and caused me to contort at unnatural angles.

My eyes shot to the window where the sky had transitioned from ruby red and orange, to deep blue and purple. The moon hung high in the sky, shining like a silver dollar on a sea of black velvet. Like the eye of a cruel god winking at me as she reveled in my torment.

My time was up. I’d hesitated too long. If only I hadn’t been such a coward. Even if the orderlies figured out what I was up to before I finished the job; at least I could have said I’d tried. Instead, all I had done was laying around and feel sorry for myself. The full moon high in the sky meant that it was too late to stop the change. I knew that, because of my foolishness, someone was going to die that night.

The tendons in my arms and legs tightened until I felt the joints pop. I whimpered, biting my tongue to keep from crying out in pain. Every fiber of my being, right down to my skeleton, felt as though it were being ripped in two.

The sane part of my psyche sat shivering and cowering in a dark corner. I knew that this was only the beginning. The worst was ahead of me yet.

The first time the change had taken me, I had been alone and scared on the floor of my dorm room. I’d screamed then. I thought that I was dying, so I tried to yell for help, but nobody heard my plea. The dorm had been all but abandoned that night for a party, which was already in full swing on the main floor. What few people decided to stay behind to study – myself included – couldn’t hear a thing over the thundering base which reverberated through the walls.

Growing up, I’d never been the kind of kid who enjoyed watching horror movies; body horror least of all. I could picture what the hospital staff would see if they just so happened to pass by the bars of the door. They’d stop and stare in revulsion at the pathetic whimpering creature that was not quite human, but not quite animal either.

On the night of that first full moon, I had the good fortune of falling to the floor right in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the door. Unable to crawl away, I got a spectacular front row seat to my transformation. I could count the vertebrae of my spine as my torso lengthened and contorted. My nose and jaw lengthened, jutting my front teeth forward into a wicked snarl. Patches of dark coarse hair sprouted along my arms, legs, and spine, until only my frightened eyes were visible.

By body bucked as my muscles spasmed, rolling me off the bed and onto the cold dusty floor. I whimpered again, this time sounding less human.

My crying and whimpering must have finally alerted one of the hospital staff. I didn’t hear them come running – I was too preoccupied for that – but I did hear the electronic beep as someone swiped their card in the electronic lock.

“No, stay away,” I tried to say, but my lips could no longer form the words. What came out was closer to a yowl than to human speech.

The transformation reached its climax with one final, violent spasm. I threw my head back and let out a strangled howl as the final throes of change locked everything into place. Each joint, bone, muscle settled into its final position. A wave of release washed over me like a sigh. It was like reaching the finish line of a marathon. Endorphins, not unlike the feeling of a runner’s high, coursed through my veins.

I took my first deep breath of relief, and was immediately assaulted by the scent of drugs, antiseptic, and human misery. Yes, I was most definitely stuck in a hospital. It was a far different experience from the night in the dorm, which reeked of cheap alcohol, and weed.

Behind me, the orderly clambered through the door, and then let the door swing shut behind him. Big mistake. He must have done it out of habit; to keep me from trying to bolt out into the hallway. The door automatically locked, and could only be opened with the use of a key card. Instead of containing a patient, he had effectively trapped himself inside the den of a dangerous wild animal.

I swiveled my head around and narrowed my eyes to appraise my new prey. He was a big man, at least a head taller than me, and twice my weight. The perfect sort of man for handling hysterical patients. Unfortunately, his size would not afford him any advantage. His burly arms were not protection enough from carnivorous teeth and claws.

He approached me with arms outstretched in a submissive gesture, and he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, “Easy, easy…”

A growl began deep in my chest, so low that the orderly would not have been able to detect it with his dull human ears. With each cautious step he took toward me, I growled louder in warning. The sound gave him pause, but he did not back down. Maybe he knew that running was not an option. He could clearly see me sitting on my haunches, poised and ready to strike.

My keen hearing picked up every change in the orderly’s breathing. With each shallow intake of air, I knew his anxiety was mounting. He would make a move soon. Rather that wait, and give him a possible advantage, I decided to strike first. The transformation did not necessarily make me bigger, or stronger, but what I lacked in size I made up for in speed and ferocity.

I lunged before he had time to react. True to my predatory nature, I bared my teeth and went for the throat. My fangs found their home in the tender flesh, and easily tore through the skin. Hot blood gushed from the wound in time with his rapidly beating heart. The floor was covered in the orderly’s precious, life sustaining, blood within seconds. It coated the soles of his shoes, causing him to lose his balance in the struggle. His feet slid right out from under him, and sent us both crashing to the floor.

The orderly’s meaty hand locked around a handful of my hair and forced my head back. Unfortunately for him, my muzzle was the only thing staunching the flow of blood. The moment I released my hold, a torrent of blood sprayed across the formerly pristine white tile floors. He could not both hold me at bay, and apply pressure to his life-threatening wound.

With each beat of his heart – each pint of blood spilled onto the floor – the fight began to drain out of his muscles. His waning strength was eventually overcome, and I descended on him once more. This time I went for his unprotected belly and tore a strip from his abdomen. He tried to scream for help, but all he could muster was a gargle and a cough which sprayed scarlet droplets across the bed sheets.

My roommate died in much the same way. She bled out on the floor of our shared dorm as I plunged my claws into her abdomen and feasted on her liver. I’m not sure at what point she stopped struggling. For her sake I hope she lost consciousness quickly after the initial attack. The orderly was far more resilient than her. He held onto consciousness for several minutes after I tore into the abdominal cavity, which I hear is a slow and painful way to die.

If only my roommate’s friends hadn’t ditched her at the party that night. If only she hadn’t decided to cut her losses and retire back to our room for the night. Maybe she would still be alive, and I wouldn’t have cleaned up the mess the next morning.

For the record, I never thought it would be so difficult to hide the remains of a half-eaten corpse. The movies made it look so damn easy when serial killers hid the evidence of their crimes.

Well, there was no way to hide the body this time. In such a sparsely furnished room, and no bottles of bleach on standby, it was only a matter of time before somebody heard my late-night snack. I was so busy gorging myself on the entrails of my latest victim that I didn’t hear anyone approach me from behind with a syringe. I was so preoccupied with my meal that the tell-tale pinch of the hypodermic needle didn’t register in my mind until it was too late.

I lashed out at the doctor who dared to disturb my feeding, but the sedatives were already taking effect. My body felt sluggish, and within moments the world was growing fuzzy. I remember hearing the dull murmur of voices. Someone was trying to talk to me, but I could no longer make out what they were saying. I was also vaguely aware of the screaming of a female nurse. The high-pitched ringing in my ears was the last thing I remembered before falling into sleep.

The next morning, I was woken up by the obnoxious florescent lighting in the examination room. In my half-asleep state, I tried to move my arms and rub the dryness from my eyes, but found them tied firmly to the gurney. Leather straps nearly as wide as my palm criss-crossed my limbs and torso, fastening me to the bed. I could scarcely even turn my head to look at my surroundings. It seemed that someone had finally taken my warnings and my threats seriously.

“You’re awake,” said a male voice. It was a doctor standing on the edges of my peripheral vision. I couldn’t be certain from just a voice, but I suspected that he was the same doctor who had admitted me after my attempted suicide. “Do you remember anything from last night?”

I groaned, finding it difficult to talk because my mouth was dry as sandpaper, “The full moon. I hurt somebody. I told you this would happen.”

The doctor stepped closer, coming into plain view as he shone a penlight into my eye to check my dilation. His face was set in a grim expression as he spoke, “You believe that you turned into a beast last night? That is what you remember?”

“Yes,” I croaked, “but I knew you would not believe me.”

The doctor pulled away, eyes filled with equal parts pity and disgust. The medical professional in him saw a sick young woman who needed psychiatric help. The human in him saw a monster who killed and ate a man with her bare hands. It was clear from his body language that he wanted nothing to do with me. His only desire in that moment was to leave the room and let me be somebody else’s problem. I figured he felt at least partially responsible for a member of the staff being killed on his shift.

“I want you to watch something, and give me your honest feelings,” said the doctor.

He didn’t look me in the eye as he turned to a small tube TV straight out of the 90s. He pulled it to face me, and then raised the back of my hospital bed so I had a perfect and unobstructed view.

The TV buzzed to life, revealing fuzzy black and white security footage. The room from the video could have been any of the generic high security cells at the hospital, but I knew it was mine. A woman was laying curled up on the bed, and she had my long dishevelled brown hair. A few seconds into the footage, I began to shake and spasm. One could easily have mistaken the episode for a seizure. I knew exactly where this was going.

My huddled form on the monitor rolled off the bed and fell onto the floor, and a few seconds later the orderly could be seen fumbling with his key to enter the room. He enters the room cautiously, his arms outstretched in the same gesture one would use on a potentially dangerous dog. I pounce before he has a chance to reach for the sedatives at his belt. The blood which soaks both of us appears black on the low quality black and white security footage.

The doctor loops the two-minute clip – once, twice, three times – before the realization dawns on me. I was so caught up in what I was expecting to see, that I completely glossed over what was missing.

Slack jawed, I gaped at the version of me recorded in the video. I stared at my utterly normal hands and feet. I gawked at my perfectly smooth arms and legs. Everything about my body was human.

I am not certain at what point I started laughing. Before I knew it, I was cackling hysterically until tears were streaming down my face.

Turns out, the good doctor was right. It really was just all in my head.

 

Author’s Story Note

This was originally a rejected story that I intended to submit to a magazine which was calling for stories set in an asylum. I wanted to challenge myself and combine monsters with this story prompt.

For one reason or another, I never ended up flushing out the idea until now. Something finally clicked after weeks of this story sitting unfinished on my laptop.

The deadline for that call for submission is long past at this point, so it has now found its home here on my blog.