By Kate Foot
Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there (doesn’t that sound like a
line from a horror story?). A black shape that hides in the shadows. A figure that walks
behind you and darts out of sight every time you turn to look. A large predator that makes
the hair on the back of your neck stand up and gives you goosebumps and you don’t even
know why, only that there’s something there, something terrifying that’s going to kill you and
eat you.
We live in the light, don’t we? As a society, I mean. All of our business is conducted around
daylight hours, even in this day and age of artificial lighting. Nothing happens in the dark.
Only bad things happen in the dark.
Even little kids know that.
We give them nightlights and reassurances and we check for the monster under the bed,
where our ancestors had a fire and a lookout, a way to keep safe.
We tell tales of creatures of the night, of werewolves and vampires, and other, more tangible,
monsters.
Don’t walk alone at night. Stay with your friends. Watch what you wear and don’t drink too
much. The night is dark and dangerous, stay in the light.
So we live in the light. It’s safer in the light.
Until the darkness comes from within. It creeps in from the edges, slow at first and then all
consuming, until the monsters that chitter away in the darkness begin to take chunks out of
you. Small nibbles, testing and tasting and then bigger and harder and more. If they eat
enough of you, maybe they can destroy you and suck you into the darkness with them
forever.
That’s what they want.
They want you to live with them.
So they nibble, they bite, they leave ragged bleeding wounds and deep purple bruises and
you fight them every hour of every day and then someone comes along and jabs their
metaphorical thumb into one sore spot and you scream and scream because it hurts so
badly and then you’re the bad guy because you reacted.
You reacted.
You couldn’t help it. They couldn’t either. Not really. They didn’t know that wound was
there. But you screamed and lashed out at them and now they’re hurt too and it’s no one’s
fault but the darkness and the things that live in it, and with that scream, the monsters have
taken another chunk out of you.
Another scar to add to the collection.
Another human interaction failed because of the monsters in the dark.
We give them names. Labels. Depression. Anxiety. A hundred others. They sit us down in
bland rooms and speak with quiet voices and ask questions that we don’t want to answer
and then they give our monsters names, like a name will make the monsters go away, like
having a diagnosis is some sort of talisman against the invisible entity that’s slowly eating
every part of you.
We blanket them in therapy-speak as though calling them things like chemical imbalance
and panic disorder and abandonment issues and dysfunctional family relationships will stop
them from biting us.
We hide them with smiles and make up and nice clothes and nights out with friends and we
pretend they aren’t there even as they’re biting and biting and biting. We take photos and
post them on Instagram and show how great our lives are and no one can see the monster
that’s eating us from the inside out and all they say is wow that looks so fun.
We bury them in social media worthy photos of food and wine and cocktails and holidays
and big days out with family and we look back on those photos and ask ourselves if the
monsters are even real.
If we can’t see them, are they even there? Are we making them up as a way to scare
ourselves, like a campfire tale about a man with a hook for a hand? Are we, god forbid,
making it up for attention, to be special or different or to set ourselves apart from the rest of
the world around us? What have we got to worry about when our lives look picture perfect?
But slowly, slowly, the darkness creeps further and the monsters bite deeper and harder and
we stop going out, we stop doing those fun things that give us those perfect pictures, and no
one misses us.
No one misses us.
We’re just gone. Lost to the monsters that live in the darkness within.
We can’t make pretty Instagram posts about that, now, can we? No one wants to see the
rat’s tail hair and the dark eye circles, and the stained pyjamas that we haven’t changed out
of for a week.
So we fade.
Kate (she/her) lives in the Forest of Dean with her husband, three dogs and two cats. She is
autistic, disabled, and spends an inordinate amount of time arguing with chronic illness
about what she’s allowed to do today. She has written one book, about autism and
bereavement, titled Life Goes On, which is currently under submission and looking for a
publisher home. She has also authored several short stories which are under submission
with various outlets.
Hot Pot Magazine 