Pain.

Unbearable, excruciating, burning-alive pain.

My fingers feel broken. The joints have been welded together, locked in place. Throbbing, swollen, stretched past the point any finger should be stretched.

Memories fill my mind like water, heavy, suffocating. I can't breathe. Hazy, wavering, darting through my mind like a goldfish through shallows. Eye-catching. I remember it all.

My surroundings taunt me with their familiarity. I know this mall—my friends and I used to shop in this mall—I loved this mall. But nothing feels the same. Everything has changed, and it will never go back.

God is dead. I've seen it written on the walls more times than I can count.

Mom would say to have faith … but the devastation around me, the monsters—my fellow monsters—agree with the writer.

I know what happened to me. I know what I have become.

The loss of my former life adds to the pain. Adds to my frenzied howls that I have no will, no desire to stop.

I smell chicken soup, salty and wet in my nose. Mom always makes me chicken soup when I get sick. I hear her in the kitchen, stirring the pot and telling my little brother Zach to stay quiet. He ignores her. He never stops talking. A river flowing between two trees … a painting hanging on the wall above them. Dad painted it for Mom for their anniversary last year. I wish I could dive into that painting, escape this pain. Escape Zach's incessant chatter.

The light hurts my eyes. Everything hurts my everything. I barely feel the glass cutting my feet as I stagger through the broken hallways.

Red and blue and yellow—bright primary colors—the toy store. I stop, dropping to my knees.

Zach. He loved chocolate, loved playing with dinosaurs in the living room. He had just turned eight last month.

Pain.

Unbearable, excruciating, burning-alive pain.

Every part of me feels like fire. Every part of me feels like ice.

My hair falls into my face as I rock with the force of my shivering sobs. It, too, has changed. It has drained of color, drained of life.

My head pounds, my throat feels raw. Still I sob, even though it increases the pain. I deserve it. Deserve the pain, the torture.

I have become a monster.

Monnnster, monnnster, monnnster. It echoes in my head in my brother's voice, a child's chant. His accusing eyes haunt me. I still feel his blood on my hands.

I hear a noise.

A voice.

Not like the others. Not like the senseless monsters.

Complaining … always complaining. My brother always complained. He never shut up. Never knew when to stop. I have a headache. He never stops. Mom, make him shut up. Mommy, make him stop. Too loud—too loud—TOO LOUD!

It happened again.

I stare at the man I have just killed, horrified.

It happened again.

I see my brother's face instead of this man's much older one.

It happened again.

I have become a monster. I can't control myself. I run away.

It happened again.

Mommy, I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to.

I didn't mean to.