Categories > Original > Horror
Monsters are Real
0 reviewsWhat happens when a girl finds out that her best friend is not the innocent boy she thought he was, but a human monster?
0Unrated
*Trigger warning* sexual violence and abuse
Its hard for me to tell this now. I've been here for 6 months. They just gave me access to a pencil, which is there mistake. I plan to kill myself with it as soon as I am done penning my tale. I would do it now, but someone has to know all that he's done. This is the story of how I discovered monsters are real.
12 years ago, on my 8th birthday, I met a boy who had just moved to town. He was 2 years my senior. He had bright red hair and a soft smile and I knew right then we would fall in love. Being 8, I told him so. He smiled and told me he would stay with me always.
Years passed, and I grew fond of him in a way I had never known before. He was known as Harry, growing in grace and fineness as well as beauty. However, on my 14th birthday, I found a different side to Harry.
I had told my parents that I just wanted a small party, only about 10 of my friends. Afterwards, everyone left with my parents to be dropped off, but Harry stayed. After 6 years, they trusted him to be alone with me. That was the biggest mistake they ever made.
We had just closed the door to my room when Harry pushed me against the wall, pressing against me. "You love me, don't you, Luna?"
"Yes," I replied, confused. "You know I do."
He groaned and kissed me. It was rough, like he didn't care if he hurt me. I tried to push him off, but he pinned my arms above my head, biting my neck so hard I cried out and was sure to have a bruise.
"You've teased me for 6 years, Luna, your beautiful body driving me nearly insane. You're 14 now, beautiful. Will you give yourself to me?" He whispered.
I said no, fought and kicked and screamed, but he found his way to my bed anyways. I will spare you the details of what happened next, only that he was eventually satisfied and I was left to lay on my bloody sheets. Harry told my parents I had gotten sick, and my mother assumed I had started my feminine time given the blood.
Neither of my parents looked past the pain in my eyes, the bruises on my skin. When I said I had fallen down the stairs and banged myself up, they believed me. That was the beginning of my end.
This continued for almost three more years, the violence, the torture. I became more and more distant from my family, my parents attributing it to me growing up. They continued to invite Harry to dinner, to let him take me upstairs, to leave us alone. They never saw him grinning at me from the dinner table, never saw me throwing up after he was gone, having to sneak food late at night so they wouldn't notice I was losing weight.
It was because of this that I didn't notice when I started throwing up constantly, missing my period as well. It took 4 months for me to realize something was different, that the swell of my belly wasn't from a surplus of food, but from a baby. I was instantly in love.
I hid my pregnancy until my 17th birthday, convincing Harry that I wanted what he gave, that he should be gentle. At this point, I was almost to the 5th month, and I had taken to wearing baggy clothes to hide the bulge that would soon not be able to be hidden. I cooed over my baby, day and night, plotting to tell my parents about the abuse, knowing he would do his best to kill me after. What he didn't know is that I had given up caring, that I only wanted my baby to live.
It was that fateful day that my parents gave me my present: to leave us alone for the day. Harry, after 3 months of not wanting me, decided he should take the opportunity to make me remember what we had. I cried, begging him to let me keep my shirt on, begging him to be gentle, but it was over when he lifted my shirt and I saw the fury in his eyes.
"Who did this to you, slut?" He cried, slapping me hard across the face. I couldn't respond because of my tears until he punched me in the gut, right where my baby rested.
"He's yours. You're going to be a father, Harry," I whispered. I saw his eyes go wide, before a wicked smile crossed his face.
"I will never be a father."
He beat me then, ignoring my screams and attempts to protect my child. He used a pocket knife, cut my stomach, punched it, pushed me to the ground and kicked me until I was sure I had broken ribs. Then he watched the blood pool on the floor and, smiling, left.
I laid there, broken, until my father found me hours later. I was immediately rushed to the hospital, given treatment, and asked over and over again: who did this to you? Luna, who did this to you?
I wanted to answer them, I really did, but I could not speak. My mouth refused to form words, and I became mute. My hands were shaking too hard to write, my brain refusing to process news: you had a miscarriage. You're covered in bruises. Someone hurt you, but you're safe now.
It was then that I broke down, crying out and screaming that I was never safe, that no-one would believe me if I told them. That I was not safe. Not safe.
My father held me, rocking me as I cried more than I ever had before, whispering one word over and over. Harry. Harry. Harry.
When he showed up at the hospital with a bouquet of roses, I threw up into the basin next to my bed. I screamed for him to leave, to leave me alone, but he came in anyways. My parents were gone home to eat and shower. I was alone.
He tried to rape me again, his face twisted and mangled with fury. The nurse ran to inspect my screaming machines and found him on top of me, punching me over and over. I remember him being pulled off me, screaming that he would never leave me, that he would stay with me always, that he was my soulmate, that he loved me. My last thought was of love, to wonder what it truly means, before my world went dark.
They told me I was in a coma for a year and a half. Healing, they said. In that time, I wandered through black, calling for my lost child. In the real world, Harry was put on trial for over a half-dozen rapes, victims of his lust crawling out of the woodwork, more than half pregnant with his baby. All girls my age, my size, my hair color. His mother had raped him as a boy, they said. He was trying to get revenge, they said.
I just colored in my coloring books and listened to the buzzing in my ears.
It wasn't for a year after his guilty verdict that we got the news. Harry had been killed in prison.
I remember being relieved that he could no longer hurt me, that I was free. That's until I awoke one night to find him on top of me, inside me. I screamed at the top of my lungs until my parents ran in and turned on the light. Then he was gone.
How could I tell them what he'd said, over and over: I will stay with you always. How could I tell them that he was missing an eye, bloody and mangled. How could I admit that I was seeing his ghost, feeling him? So I lied, I said it was a bad dream, and I spent the night with the light on.
From that point on, whenever it was dark, he was there. He clawed at me, horrible face twisted in a sneer. It took 6 months for me to try to commit suicide. Anything to get away from him and his torture on my mind. He watched as the blood dripped down my arm, frowning like a boy losing a game and confused by it. "You cheated," he whispered. When my parents ran through him, he disappeared.
I've been in here 6 months. Suicide watch. No shoelaces, no pencils, no belts. I've been a good little girl, not screaming when he stands in the shadows, making them believe I was sane. Not making a sound when they turn off the lights and he comes to visit me, hurting me again and again. I don't mention him, and they think I've gotten better.
He stands at my shoulder, watching me write this. I want so very bad to be free of him, and I will be. Soon, I will join my daughter in paradise, leaving Harry behind. He will say I cheated, but all that matters will be that I won in the end. I can see my daughter now, waving at me in a field of green, bright yellow curls bouncing as she runs to me. All to do is point the pencil upward and...
Its hard for me to tell this now. I've been here for 6 months. They just gave me access to a pencil, which is there mistake. I plan to kill myself with it as soon as I am done penning my tale. I would do it now, but someone has to know all that he's done. This is the story of how I discovered monsters are real.
12 years ago, on my 8th birthday, I met a boy who had just moved to town. He was 2 years my senior. He had bright red hair and a soft smile and I knew right then we would fall in love. Being 8, I told him so. He smiled and told me he would stay with me always.
Years passed, and I grew fond of him in a way I had never known before. He was known as Harry, growing in grace and fineness as well as beauty. However, on my 14th birthday, I found a different side to Harry.
I had told my parents that I just wanted a small party, only about 10 of my friends. Afterwards, everyone left with my parents to be dropped off, but Harry stayed. After 6 years, they trusted him to be alone with me. That was the biggest mistake they ever made.
We had just closed the door to my room when Harry pushed me against the wall, pressing against me. "You love me, don't you, Luna?"
"Yes," I replied, confused. "You know I do."
He groaned and kissed me. It was rough, like he didn't care if he hurt me. I tried to push him off, but he pinned my arms above my head, biting my neck so hard I cried out and was sure to have a bruise.
"You've teased me for 6 years, Luna, your beautiful body driving me nearly insane. You're 14 now, beautiful. Will you give yourself to me?" He whispered.
I said no, fought and kicked and screamed, but he found his way to my bed anyways. I will spare you the details of what happened next, only that he was eventually satisfied and I was left to lay on my bloody sheets. Harry told my parents I had gotten sick, and my mother assumed I had started my feminine time given the blood.
Neither of my parents looked past the pain in my eyes, the bruises on my skin. When I said I had fallen down the stairs and banged myself up, they believed me. That was the beginning of my end.
This continued for almost three more years, the violence, the torture. I became more and more distant from my family, my parents attributing it to me growing up. They continued to invite Harry to dinner, to let him take me upstairs, to leave us alone. They never saw him grinning at me from the dinner table, never saw me throwing up after he was gone, having to sneak food late at night so they wouldn't notice I was losing weight.
It was because of this that I didn't notice when I started throwing up constantly, missing my period as well. It took 4 months for me to realize something was different, that the swell of my belly wasn't from a surplus of food, but from a baby. I was instantly in love.
I hid my pregnancy until my 17th birthday, convincing Harry that I wanted what he gave, that he should be gentle. At this point, I was almost to the 5th month, and I had taken to wearing baggy clothes to hide the bulge that would soon not be able to be hidden. I cooed over my baby, day and night, plotting to tell my parents about the abuse, knowing he would do his best to kill me after. What he didn't know is that I had given up caring, that I only wanted my baby to live.
It was that fateful day that my parents gave me my present: to leave us alone for the day. Harry, after 3 months of not wanting me, decided he should take the opportunity to make me remember what we had. I cried, begging him to let me keep my shirt on, begging him to be gentle, but it was over when he lifted my shirt and I saw the fury in his eyes.
"Who did this to you, slut?" He cried, slapping me hard across the face. I couldn't respond because of my tears until he punched me in the gut, right where my baby rested.
"He's yours. You're going to be a father, Harry," I whispered. I saw his eyes go wide, before a wicked smile crossed his face.
"I will never be a father."
He beat me then, ignoring my screams and attempts to protect my child. He used a pocket knife, cut my stomach, punched it, pushed me to the ground and kicked me until I was sure I had broken ribs. Then he watched the blood pool on the floor and, smiling, left.
I laid there, broken, until my father found me hours later. I was immediately rushed to the hospital, given treatment, and asked over and over again: who did this to you? Luna, who did this to you?
I wanted to answer them, I really did, but I could not speak. My mouth refused to form words, and I became mute. My hands were shaking too hard to write, my brain refusing to process news: you had a miscarriage. You're covered in bruises. Someone hurt you, but you're safe now.
It was then that I broke down, crying out and screaming that I was never safe, that no-one would believe me if I told them. That I was not safe. Not safe.
My father held me, rocking me as I cried more than I ever had before, whispering one word over and over. Harry. Harry. Harry.
When he showed up at the hospital with a bouquet of roses, I threw up into the basin next to my bed. I screamed for him to leave, to leave me alone, but he came in anyways. My parents were gone home to eat and shower. I was alone.
He tried to rape me again, his face twisted and mangled with fury. The nurse ran to inspect my screaming machines and found him on top of me, punching me over and over. I remember him being pulled off me, screaming that he would never leave me, that he would stay with me always, that he was my soulmate, that he loved me. My last thought was of love, to wonder what it truly means, before my world went dark.
They told me I was in a coma for a year and a half. Healing, they said. In that time, I wandered through black, calling for my lost child. In the real world, Harry was put on trial for over a half-dozen rapes, victims of his lust crawling out of the woodwork, more than half pregnant with his baby. All girls my age, my size, my hair color. His mother had raped him as a boy, they said. He was trying to get revenge, they said.
I just colored in my coloring books and listened to the buzzing in my ears.
It wasn't for a year after his guilty verdict that we got the news. Harry had been killed in prison.
I remember being relieved that he could no longer hurt me, that I was free. That's until I awoke one night to find him on top of me, inside me. I screamed at the top of my lungs until my parents ran in and turned on the light. Then he was gone.
How could I tell them what he'd said, over and over: I will stay with you always. How could I tell them that he was missing an eye, bloody and mangled. How could I admit that I was seeing his ghost, feeling him? So I lied, I said it was a bad dream, and I spent the night with the light on.
From that point on, whenever it was dark, he was there. He clawed at me, horrible face twisted in a sneer. It took 6 months for me to try to commit suicide. Anything to get away from him and his torture on my mind. He watched as the blood dripped down my arm, frowning like a boy losing a game and confused by it. "You cheated," he whispered. When my parents ran through him, he disappeared.
I've been in here 6 months. Suicide watch. No shoelaces, no pencils, no belts. I've been a good little girl, not screaming when he stands in the shadows, making them believe I was sane. Not making a sound when they turn off the lights and he comes to visit me, hurting me again and again. I don't mention him, and they think I've gotten better.
He stands at my shoulder, watching me write this. I want so very bad to be free of him, and I will be. Soon, I will join my daughter in paradise, leaving Harry behind. He will say I cheated, but all that matters will be that I won in the end. I can see my daughter now, waving at me in a field of green, bright yellow curls bouncing as she runs to me. All to do is point the pencil upward and...
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