Do you ever lie awake at night and wonder what kind of monster lives in your closet? Do you ever wonder if the monster is good and kind, or if your monster is evil and heartless and deserving of destruction?

Do you ever wonder why we call it a monster?

Do you ever wonder why we call you a monster?

Here's the thing, Jim: Monsters don't know that they're monsters. And a monster may start out as a small, scared little boy just trying to survive in a frightening world, but they don't stay that way for long.

So ask yourself: When I ask you to describe a monster, what do you see?

OOO

"Here's Jimmy's room, just here 'round the corner. He's such a very bright boy, very charming, if a little shy. You'll like him just fine, Mr. York, just fine." The Matron said. She was a rather portly woman of an average height with a deceptively imperious way of walking, like she was going to meet the Queen and not merely one of her young wards. "I'm so glad you've taken an interest in him – the poor boy's just had so much trouble after the fire, and he's such a sweet little boy. The way we're being defunded these days is just criminal! It's only the help of our generous donors and consultants like yourself, Mr. York, who help us stay afloat. How is it that you made your money again, Mr. York?"

Mr. York spoke for the first time in this conversation. He was a middle aged man with a slim build and deep frown lines that made him look a decade older than his actual age. "I made some lucky investments, was all. Or rather, I should say that I had a very intelligent investment broker. Can you describe Jim to me in some more detail, madam? I would like to be as well prepared as possible before I talk to him, to avoid causing offence."

Correctly gathering that Mr. York was looking for information regarding the events that led to Jim's stay at the orphanage, the Matron began to talk. "It was just dreadful, it was. The whole block of flats lit on fire – you should have seen the wreckage! The fire department said that Jim's mother must have forgotten to turn off the stove before going to sleep that night, but really, everything was too charred to really tell, how are they supposed to know how those things start? Anyhow, the whole block was all flame – the neighbours all made it out alive, but Mr and Mrs Moriarty, they didn't stand a chance. They found the bodies – or what was left of them – you see, Mr and Mrs Moriarty hadn't even woken. They just died right there, in their sleep – it was such a tragedy, such a horrible tragedy, Mr York, and poor Jim tried and tried to wake them – but the poor dears, I can't help but wonder if they were already dead of some godforsaken illness or disease. Either way, the firefighters came and took Jim out, and as he has no living relatives, they sent him here."

Oh, dear. They weren't already dead, were they? That would have been a mercy – and monsters are never known for having mercy.

They finally rounded the corner. Mr. York hid his relief at being rid of this obnoxious woman and gratefully said his goodbye's, promising to come find her after he was done his talk with Jim. The door creaked open and he could finally (finally!) see his target.

Jim was sitting, cross-legged, on his bed with his back to the door. The window was open, letting in a crisp mid-autumn breeze, but the boy (small for his age, very pale, dark-haired) was wearing only a light t-shirt. Mr. York pulled up a chair and sat, considering the boy.

The silence had stretched on for an interminably long stretch of time before Mr. York finally spoke.

"People can be so willfully ignorant when it comes to children, can't they? They'll stretch the truth to such unimaginable limits in order to believe that the creature they created isn't a monster."

"Do you want me to admit that I'm a monster, Thomas?" Jim asked. York frowned.

"I didn't tell you my name."

"We rarely have visitors here. It's not difficult to find out."

"Oh? Why don't you tell me?"

"I would rather not." Jim said, still facing away. He hadn't so much as twitched from his spot on his bed. York had a vaguely paranoid thought that he could very well be talking to a robot and he wouldn't know. That was followed by the more terrifying thought that he was actually talking to a human.

"No? What do you want to talk about then, Jim? Should we talk about the fire that your poor parents died in? Or should we talk about Carl Powers? Or, better yet," he said, clearly relishing his words, "Should we talk about little Sherlock Holmes?"

I'm trying to get as much writing practice as possible before I create and submit a portfolio of creative writing in order to get into a uni class. In order to raise my level of creative writing ability, I will be frequently posting new fanfic that follows the motto of 'quantity over quality.' Like this piece, it will be left unedited and sporadically updated as inspiration strikes. Concrit on grammar/sentence structure/writing style will be welcomed and I will attempt to use it to improve my writing; however, my focus on plot (in this particular story) is minimal. While I will strive for coherence and any feedback on the plot is still welcomed, please don't have high expectations for any sort of terribly exciting or well-executed plot.