I'm a monster.
I don't breathe radioactive fire. I don't have rapid healing. I don't even have a worm's chance of slipping through locked doors. I wasn't born from a Hellmouth as far as I know.
I do have a few special abilities. But they are the sorts that don't rank me up with the classic monsters that impress people. My take? Not all monsters are about power and being cool. I'm one of the un-cool monsters. I rank far below the teenage-werewolf or the skanky-aquatic from the 'ick' lagoon.
In my younger days, I was often jealous of and felt inferior to the cool monsters. I wasn't gruesome looking. I wasn't big. I didn't have an eerie laugh. Certainly no one made an effort to get out of my way, or avert their face when I walked into a room. Faces did not pale before me; women did not swoon.
I think I really wanted them to swoon. Women. That's where I think it might have started. My jealousy of others. My ambition. I wonder if I'm only thinking that way because of what I've been through. I'm ahead of the real story.
This isn't only a confession. This is the truth.
I'm a monster. If you're reading this, you probably are too.
This snippet of prose inspired a story for Halloween. If you'd like to read more, go to What Kind of Monster?