There is a huge pit in in my stomach where a beast is sitting inside of me, gnawing everything in sight and not caring about any damage it does.
It must have long tentacles because it has taken ahold of my brain and whisked it up like it is considering scrambled brains for lunch. I don’t even care. I forfeit, he can have them.
Everything feels heavy. The beast must be really fat. It probably feeds on my emotions, that would explain the weight. He must be full, about to burst. I can relate to the feeling, though I haven’t eaten a thing.
The beast has taken control of my speech. It makes sense, since there’s a tentacle in my brain. He makes me speak sharp, harsh words. He makes me yell. He makes me bark orders. He makes me say nasty things that I can never take back.
He has control of my eyes too. For some strange reason the beast is crying. He can’t stop. I think he feels confused and overwhelmed. I can sense that he feels like he can’t handle anything, but he got himself into this mess. It’s his problem, no one else needs to deal with it. They have their own stuff going on.
If he didn’t want stress he shouldn’t have set up shop in my body.
The beast is tired. The beast needs a rest, a break. Not a sleep. A mental vacation. He needs to see some sort of a rainbow through the storm but all the beast can see is dark, dank shadows. In the shadows hide more beasts, just waiting to take their turn.
The beast has total control. I can’t fight it anymore. I’m too exhausted. I know I’ve failed. I’ve let everyone down. My family don’t like him, but he is me now.
Mummy beast. Wife beast. Daughter beast. Sister beast. Friend beast. It looks like me on the outside, but he’s calling the shots.
You’d think ‘oh she’s smiling she’s doing well’ and inside the beast is chuckling his low, husky laugh because he knows he’s putting on a damn good show.
He has been the understudy for years, but it’s time for his big debut. The show must go on.