Last Night I Sang to the Monster by Benjamin Alire Sáenz Page B

understand that, monster?
    Tonight, when the monster comes, he will tell him the story he has wanted to tell all his life.
9.
    It is dark outside. The night has come again, but he is not afraid. It is a strange thing for him not to feel the fear. He feels naked. But he thinks it is not such a bad thing to feel his body, to feel his arms and his legs and his chest and his hands and his heart. He is sitting on his bed. He does not need a drink.
    He will not drink. He is waiting for the monster to come so he can tell him his story.
    I knew Rafael’s story had to do with the drawing he brought into the group. The drawing that really wigged me out, the drawing that made me cry, the drawing I thought was about me. I know that. But the thing is that I’m in love with Rafael’s story. I think I understand when Adam says that all our stories are different but in some ways our stories are all the same. I never really got that. But when I start to read Rafael’s journal, it’s as if I can see myself. It’s better than a mirror. Even though I’m eighteen and he’s fifty-three, I can see myself in the words that Rafael has written. I can. This doesn’t make any sense, but this is the thing: to me it makes perfect sense.
    Adam is not right about everything. No, he’s not.
    Still, I don’t think Adam would get into the fact that I was reading Rafael’s journal. But see, it’s helping me do the work. Why should anyone have a problem with a guy trying to do the work? Okay, I can just hearmyself tell Adam these things. I’m seeing the look that enters into his face. The look that, you know, reminds me that I’m lying to myself. The look that says, Zach you are not getting honest.
    I’m an addict. There. I’ve done some work on that and I’m realizing that yes, I am an alcoholic addict. So, now I’m addicted to reading Rafael’s journal. They say that’s what happens—you trade in one addiction for another. But it is better to read Rafael’s journal than it is to drink bourbon and do cocaine. That’s my thinking. Perspective, that’s the thing. Okay, yeah, I’m stunning myself out all to hell.
    And I’ve started keeping a journal too. This is what I wrote down this morning when I woke up:
I think my monster has something to do with my brother. My monster has something to do with my mother and my father. I know that the blood in my dreams and the monster have something to do with each other.
    I’m caught between wanting to remember and wanting to not remember. Is it me who wants to keep from remembering or is it the monster? Or maybe the monster wants me to remember. If I remembered, then maybe something really bad would happen to me.
    There is something I am keeping inside me that feeds the monster. And I don’t know whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. What if I stop feeding the monster? Maybe I’ll die if I do that.
    Does my monster behave like Rafael’s monster? I wonder if Adam ever had a monster. Sharkey, for sure, he has a monster.
    Another thought: Normies and earth people probably do not have monsters. But everyone here definitely has a monster. Some people here have more than one.
    There are monsters all over the place.
    As I’m staring at what I wrote, I’m thinking that maybe God gives us monsters for a reason. I don’t have a clue as to why God would do that, but see, I don’t know anything about how God works. We are not good friends. God and I don’t trust each other. Is that my fault? Okay, maybe so.
    This is the good thing: I don’t really want to die anymore. At least not today. Every day is different. I have good days. I have bad days. That’s the way it goes. I don’t think I know how to be alive. I’m getting very frustrated and when I get frustrated I get anxiety attacks. I don’t like the anxiety. I keep biting my nails and there isn’t anything left to bite. I even started chewing on my knuckles but Adam put me on a contract. No chewing on my knuckles. “That borders on a