How is it I was terrified as a child and no one took notice? Mostly likely it was because those in charge of noticing were the monsters under the bed. They were the conundrum. Without them I would die, with them I may die. A child stuck in mid-air, weightless, unattached and discombobulated. What to do? What to do?
Does a monster know it’s a monster? Can the oozing mass see that it’s green oozing skin with multiple flesh wounds from its own childhood? Or have so many days passed it becomes everyday, the inner monsters normalized? So that when my mother looked in the mirror to put on her bright red lipstick that’s all she saw, no ooze, no greenish skin tone. Or my dad looking into the mirror while shaving with his single edge razor, did he notice the blueish tinge of his face or the sharp fangs of his teeth?
Does the zombie eating my tiny six year old brain know it’s a zombie? Does it care, can it care if half its brain had been eaten when they were six year old?
© SB Joy