Monster Love

Chapter One - The Visitation

    If you were expecting a story about a hero, look elsewhere. This is not a story about heroes, about good versus evil, or the good fight. It can never be, because evil lurks within every person on this earth. It doesn't just lurk, either. It dances, revels, seduces. In this story, the only reason evil loses, is because there's a bigger evil. This is not the story of a princess, or a warrior. This is the story of how a girl becomes a monster.

    The girl in question was me, lying back on my double bed, in my small room, listening to blaring rock music. My father's voice sounded from downstairs. 

    "Lilith!" he yelled. 

    I pretended not to hear, so I could get a few more minutes of alone time. I loved shutting my eyes and pretending I was immersed in the music, like it was a swimming pool. I liked the water, as you might have guessed. 

    "Lilith!" his voice was louder. 

    He had named me Lilith, after the woman who defied a God. I liked that. His partner, my mother, was a Siren. She had seduced him and tried to lure him to his death, which he had narrowly escaped. My bedtime stories were very different to anyone else's. Nine months later, he received an unexpected farewell gift. A bawling bundled baby, who already had a voice that was more than dangerous. It was deadly. He had hurriedly brought me in to the house, before any one could see; the first and last time I had seen the stars. 

    The two sides of me, human and Siren, were at war from that moment on. They tore at me, human need with monstrous intent, monstrous need with human intent. It was a constant tussle, dark water and fragile dirt fighting for control. I carried those dark passions with me throughout my life, the impulses and need to dysfunction, that no one else could understand. 

    He barged into my room, making me jump, wrenching me from my turmoil. He switched off the noise, making me start in the sudden deafening silence. I swallowed. I never knew what to do with myself when i was alone in silence, when I was expected to talk.  

    "Dad!" I yelped, "I didn't know you were back." 

    He glared at me, "Nice try. You need to keep the noise down. The neighbors might hear. You remember what happened last time?" 

        Neighbors. Meaning, other people. People whom I could drive to their deaths. I was the danger. I was the problem. I did not let my feelings show, however. This was because I did remember what happened last time. I also didn't say anything. It was wise for me to not speak when my father was angry, which was all the time. He had a short temper. I knew where this came from. He was afraid of me. Especially now, more and more, everyday that I looked less like him, and more like the woman who had destroyed his life. 

    I expected him to say something about my clothes. I was wearing a green dress and black leggings. He often criticized me for dressing badly, but it didn't matter what I wore. I always received unsolicited attention from men on the streets. I had my mother's seductive appearance. 

    He was still angry and glared at me now. 

    "Keep the volume down. The music is so annoying." he snapped. 

    I kept my eyes on the carpet. I sighed. 

    "What?" he asked in a gentler tone. He didn't hate me, he was just afraid. I often thought he did, but moments like these reminded me that he was merely concerned about me. When I was younger, I thought he was afraid for me, but as I grew older, I knew the truth. He was afraid for other people. I softened immediately. He was all I had in the world, and he had always protected me. 

    I said, "Can I go out for a walk?" I often asked him this. 

    He snapped with his best crocodile impression, "No. You cannot go out. You can never go out. Don't you know this? Don't you know that this pains me too? Stop asking. You can never leave the house. You can't have friends, or boyfriends. You know what you would do to them." 

    I would kill them. I would hurt them. I would drive them to their deaths. That fact didn't make it easier. I swallowed and nodded. He stormed out. I lay back onto  my bed. 

    Sirens knew things about the people they meet. Their darkest secret. It was a part of our genetic code, we couldn't help it. I didn't tell my father this, even though I wanted to. I didn't tell him anything that I had discovered about that side of myself. I wanted to, desperately, but I had so many reasons that held me back. Mostly, I was afraid. I was afraid because I knew his secret. One that he never told me. One that seeped into his voice when he spoke to me, colored the way he treated me. He thought I was evil. 

    I always knew the feeling of evil, the dark instincts, the state of what I was. I'm not sure when I put the word to the dark feelings, but it was probably when I first killed a man. I was nine; he was a middle aged man who took a special liking to me. I opened my mouth. He soon simply stopped, not that I remembered that part. Everything became blurry; that part of me unlocked and I unleashed it. The room converged, distorted. When I came to my senses he was lying on the ground with a kitchen knife in his neck. I had driven him to commit suicide. 

        I had waited five minutes in silence in my room, which was enough to return my father downstairs to his job. I leaned over and now turned the music right back on. I relaxed to the blaring rock. I had probably ten minutes at the most before my father came back upstairs. 

    I don't remember crying, or running to my father or even screaming when I had first killed. I remember watching him curiously, his unmoving shape, trying to understand death. A person had become a thing. I kept my eyes on him for a long time, and I knew one thing now. I was evil. This was nothing new, I suppose. If there are evil adults, this means there must be evil children. I loathed that part of me, crushed it, repressed it, ran from it, tried to ignore the dark whispers, the dark passions that threatened to overwhelm me if I let my voice be heard.

    Looking back on it, I don't blame myself for wanting to kill him. Every child has uncontrollable emotions. They all want to kill someone at some point. They even get frustrated when they realize they cannot. I blame the universe for giving me the power to kill him when I wanted to. My father eventually saw the body, what I had done, and I never saw another person in the house again. 

    I raised a finger idly above my bed, and traced the swirly clouds and star patterns painted on my ceiling. I assumed those were what stars looked like. The last time I had seen them I had been too young to remember. At night, I could feel them singing in the distance, shut my eyes to a surer black, only to feel the pull. 

    Monsters do not dream. I knew this. Humans did. Monsters did not sink Into sleep only to have their world thrown back at them, albeit tainted with their fears, desires and anger. Monsters saw what is beyond their scope and what will be. I had never understood what a dream was really, as you probably guessed. Only, I knew that I never saw one. I had a vision, instead. At first frequent, which had then become nightly. A visitation. 

    He appeared before me now, blonde haired, grey eyes liked spent, burnt coals. I was suddenly wearing black, lacy lingerie, with my long black curls, burnt cinnamon skin and brown eyes, I was a sight of pure, decadent passion. His chest was bare, revealing rippling muscles and capped shoulders. His blonde hair was messy, some curls falling over his forehead. His eyes darkened with lust as he looked down at me. The sight of him made my heart hammer against my chest, my head become hazy with need. I wordlessly lay back and let him on me. He climbed onto the bed with a powerful lunge, giving me full view of his tight, skinny, black jeans. He pressed me down into the bed with his strong hands on mine. 

    He made eye contact at first, making sure it was all right. Then, he pressed his lips to mine, sending electric shocks of pleasure jittering through my body. He eased my mouth open with his, and pushed his tongue into it. I moaned in pleasure, which was so intense it ached. He explored my mouth mercilessly, pushing, savoring, owning. He was savage. 

    The first time he had appeared to me, I had felt my senses take me over. I hadn't even said anything. Overcome with lust, I had let him into my arms, my bed. I hadn't needed to know anything. This was good, because years of isolation, of not having friends, had left me with stunted conversation skills. 

    He had scars on his back that I wanted to trace my red nails along. His hair was bristled with sweat, making him only more attractive. He slid his fingers down my untouched breasts, my tight waist, curved hips and then slid between my thighs. I moaned loudly, glad for the rock music, tipped my head back and cried out. I knew he was real. I couldn't possibly have the imagination to make up someone this perfect. No one did. I told myself this when I thought I had gone insane. I could smell his skin, his intoxicating musk.

    His finger pressed and teased my skin the soaked fabric, unbuttoning my babydoll from between my legs. He released my pulsing skin. He moved his lips further and further. I had sensed the last time that he was getting more bold with me, but I hadn't been prepared for this. That wasn't to say I wasn't enjoying it. I moaned as he kept working on me. 

    I had hidden my whole life, kept my head down and been invisible. I had never dared to desire anything in my life before him. I wanted him, selfishly, just for myself.  I didn't expect this to last, of course. Our love was not a warming flame, or a glowing ember. It was a nuclear explosion, which no one would survive. When the dust settled we would struggle with the remnants, with the damage we had caused. I would save my regret for then. For now, as his lips ran along my thighs, I knew I would do anything for him, to save our love.  

           He stopped, tensed, as though he had heard that thought. He arched up, and looked at me. I cried out in protest. He smiled at that. I mock - glowered at him. 

    He said, "Did you mean that?"

    It took me a moment to realize that he was hearing my thoughts. We hadn't talked yet, but I loved his deep, hypnotic voice. 

    I answered, "I don't know who you are, what you want, or even what your name is. But yes, I would do anything for you. However, I think I might kill you if I meet you." 

    He was amused, "I doubt that." It hadn't occurred to me that he might be a monster, like me. The thought filled me with yearning. 

    He said, "In that case, meet me." 

    I said, "Talking and meeting in one day? I might pass out with shock."

    "No, not today. But I need to meet you soon. Tomorrow night." he said.  

    I remembered my father, the shadow over my life and my heart sank. My excitement abated. 

    I said, "I can't leave, my father never lets me out. I've never really been outside except for school." 

    He spoke three words which changed everything, which made my path ahead clear to me. He was real and I was about to find out just how much. 

    "Then run away."