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    He is the Monster
    He is the Monster
    He is the Monster
    Ebook170 pages54 minutes

    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.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAmy Ellis
    Release dateAug 29, 2018
    ISBN9781386880264
    He is the Monster
    Author

    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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      Book preview

      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

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