He is the Monster
By Amy Ellis
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About this ebook
When Esther comes back at dawn on a school night, she's expecting an argument with her parents at breakfast. Instead, the police arrest her father for molesting girls in their neighborhood. As her father awaits trial and her mother wastes away with grief, Esther seeks comfort in the things that make her numb: parties, boys and her secret relationship. She is fine. Everything is fine until Esther meets Matthew, who refuses to be just another notch in her bedpost. Forced to confront her feelings, Esther has to decide whether to stay comfortably wild and numb or if it's time to start dealing with the painful reality of her shattered life. Written in verse, He is the Monster tells the heartbreaking story of loss and desire after learning that your loved ones aren't always who you think they are.
Amy Ellis
Amy Ellis is a Longwood University graduate with a BA in English/Creative Writing and a minor in Children’s Literature. She is currently working on her Master's degree in Digital Publishing from Oxford Brookes University in the UK. She is the founder of The Self-Publishing Toolbox, a resource for self-published authors. Find out more about the toolbox at selfpubtoolbox.com.
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He is the Monster - Amy Ellis
Contents
Half Title Page
He is the Monster
He is the Monster
Amy Ellis
First Published 2018
Copyright © Amy Ellis 2018
Amy Ellis hereby asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this book in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
A catalog record for this book is available from the British Library.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Illustration Copyright © 2016 Daria Shevtsova
Published by Amy Ellis
London, UK
Jake
In the dim light,
my wife’s skin
glows opalescent
against her pillow,
her nose tucked
into a library copy
of a Danielle Steele novel.
I like how milky
her skin looks, lit
up by her bedside lamp,
childlike, fae.
What are you looking at?
And she smiles, tucks
a dark lock of curly hair
behind her ear, switches
off the light. I come
to her, lay beside her, feel
her birdlike body
against mine. She curls
up next to me, tiny
and frail. I run
my hands over her: silk
nightie, faerie dress.
She inhales, heavy
tired eyes fluttering
and lips parted.
I kiss the curve
of her neck.
I feel her skin
against mine
but it is not the same
as my Anne, all velvet
skin and peach fuzz.
Christie is smooth,
all woman, no
traces of girlhood
left in her to spread
apart and kiss.
I let her fall asleep
in my arms
before turning
away, staring
into the dark
chasm of our bedroom.
Esther
Every noise echoes
in the early morning
hours, the chime
of keys against door knobs
is a bell tower striking
the hour of my arrival
but my house remains
still and dark, heavy
breathing like big waves
tossing ships, rolling
and heaving in the remote
darkness of sea.
I creep back to my room,
sweeping grains
from my salt streaked
skin. The smell of cigarette
smoke sticks to my clothes.
I strip down to nothing
and slip between my sheets,
still dirty with his touch.
I close my eyes, try not
to think of the too soon alarm
going off, seeing Adam
standing at the front
of the room, instructing
us on Dickinson and Yeats.
Tell me more about
star crossed lovers,
two houses divided
as you divide me in two.
Jake
I have my coffee
on the front porch
most mornings, watching
the skyline turn from blue
black to brazen pink.
I check my watch,
the second hand winding
its way around
until I am so wound
up I can barely
breathe. I convince
myself it was the second
cup of coffee
that has sent
my heart racing,
Kentucky derby
horses pounding
down a race track,
hooves heavy, running
toward the climax
when I see her:
red head of hair
gleaming
in the spring
sun, thumbs hooked
into the blue straps
of her backpack,
kicking
bits of gravel
down the road
and humming
a song that sounds
vaguely familiar,
like something heard
in the aisles
of a grocery store:
comfortable
but forgettable.
She looks up
and smiles
at me.
I see her
fingers dance
a wave. I wave
back and she walks on,
swaying
her narrow hips
toward her
bus stop.
I wait
until she is gone
and retreat inside
to finish
my cold
coffee
alone.
Esther
Where were you last night?
My mother’s words hang
and spin, a mobile, lulling me
into false confidence. I see
right through her, clink
my spoon against
my cereal bowl, pour
myself a second cup of coffee.
You can’t be out until morning
on a weekday. You have school.
I have responsibilities. I have a curfew.
I can hear her, scratched thrift store vinyl
repeating. As I open my mouth
to rebut, she pauses. There are voices
outside, men mumbling,
my father’s body silhouetted
in the front room curtains,
the house still closed up, asleep.
He is clutching his coffee cup, raising
it to his lips, shaking his head.
It must be some kind of mistake.
My mother’s eyes flick back
and forth between the shadow
puppet of my father and I.
I am frozen at the table,
watching my cereal get soggy.
Jake
From the backseat
of the cruiser,
I see Christie,
my Christie, trying
to crawl inside
herself. There are men
and women, in blue,
on the lawn, heads
nodding, hands
scribbling
into little notebooks.
Tell me more, they say.
Tell me everything.
But she has nothing
to tell or say or explain.
She knows nothing.
And I watch her face
as she is discovering
my truths.
Hand to mouth.
She is vomiting
on the front lawn.
She is kneeling
over, face flushed.
She is screaming.
She is exploding
and folding
in upon herself:
a vacuum, a dying
star, once nebulous
and iridescent
but now a void,
pulling us all
in and stretching
into silence
forever.
Christie
Where do you go while they search?
I stand on the front porch, this fucking
front porch, clutching a cup of coffee,
lukewarm and burnt bottom. I am not
wearing shoes. The concrete feels damp
against my feet. I can hear them inside,
digging. Doors opening, the slap
of brass drawer pulls. They fill
boxes with our everyday mundaneness:
dirty underwear scooped into plastic bags,
kitchen drawers pulled open and closed,
garbage sifted through for used condoms,
crumpled receipts, a strand