What They Won’t See

Jaxar Burpo

Waking up and regretting opening your eyes. You must feel it again. The hands you wish created a gentle grasp on you, were the claws of a monster. 

     A monster you wish could be saved. It cannot. 

  Now that you have opened your eyes, you should get up. Get the feeling back into your legs, the legs that felt paralyzed the second you laid down last night. Move slowly. You suffer from postural hypertension. Good, you got up. You think you’re okay until you hear it again. 

    No amount of noise or even dead silence could distract your mind from hearing the sickening words the monster so easily spit out, as if it was programmed into its brain. 

You should brush your teeth.  
Spend five minutes staring at the cabinet. 

Remember what you are supposed to do. 

Brush your teeth. 

Finish up. 

Stare at the mirror. 

    You think you are staring at a reflection that is only you, but that is not true. That same dark figure is always behind you. The monster. You are disgusted by the impurity this monster creates with even the slightest touch upon your body. The pain shoots through you again. Imaginary, yet it feels real enough to the point where ignoring it is impossible. 

Get out of the bathroom. 

You slowly retreat to the living room. Your family is talking to you. 

What do you hear? 


Smile and reply dryly. 

The racing of the flashbacks the monster have so aggressively created in your mind never go away. That monster… it pretends to be good. Perfect even. It is not. 

 You feel alone. The daily panic attacks will not make you heal faster, and no amount of social interaction will distract you. Those thoughts are always there. It is always there. 

  Right beside you.