Personal Narrative: The Real Monster

In all of the thirteen years, not once did I believe that there was such things as monsters. Not the kind that live under your bed at least… But little did I know that the world is full of them. Monsters are all around us, disguised and camouflaged in the bodies of human beings. She’s the nice woman you pass and smile at walking down the street, and the busy man rushing to work on a Monday morning. Monsters cannot be detected with the naked eye. You have to get to know them and really observe the person before you can really tell if they’re a monster or not. I always imagined that you would know a monster when you saw one because they’d be extremely terrifying, and sometimes they are, but what surprised me the most is that I’ve been living …show more content…
Minutes turned into hours and hours turned into days as I read the journals with puzzled horror. As time went by, I was sunken into this world of fairytale that only I and one other person knew of. I was reading the words constructed by someone who lived to tell the tale but never did. I paid close attention as the words written on the worn paper painted the image of my mother, my loving mother, stabbing my father one in the heart… then twice…and a third time. A pit dropped in my stomach as the text described the pool of blood emerging from my father’s dead body. I shut the journal not able to read anymore, sobbing uncontrollably as everything sunk in. All those endless nights I spent coming up with possible excuses for my father’s disappearance, and all those times I caught myself daydreaming in class about the day we would finally meet, was all for nothing. I would never meet my father and he would never come back to me. As everything processed through my brain all at once, only one word could make it through my …show more content…
After doing my homework and eating, I would go straight up to my room and lay down without saying a word. This only resulted in more confusion and anger, I was up thinking one of those nights when I realized that this was the type of situation that I would normally turn to my mother for guidance. Now I had nobody. Nobody to talk to, and nobody to guide me. I thought back to all of the times my mom had been there for me, and all the times she was my shoulder to cry on. My mom loved me, and as badly as I wanted to I could never hate her, no matter what she did. I got out of bed without thinking, and ran into my mom’s room. She seemed startled as she squinted up at me after being distracted from her