Dust dances around in a beam of sunlight from my window early Monday morning. I try not to move, afraid I might disturb the brand new dark red scratches adorning my pale skin. Although I’m awake, I don’t feel like it. I barely even feel alive. In fact, if I had not felt such incredible pain in that moment from the tiniest movement I might have believed myself to be dead. I thought about this for a moment. What am I? What is the term for being physically alive and mentally deceased? I don’t believe there is one. Depression is perhaps close but it is not capable of describing the feeling of the present; my present. The feeling of absolute nothingness, that is as close as it can get. I cannot afford to act like I am nothing because I feel nothing, I cannot act like I care about just simply nothing. I begin to think about my life as an actor, the fact that I, every day, decidedly lie to everyone I know. I do this marvelous thing where I pretend I am indeed alive to please some very tired, overworked parents as well as school administration, friends, and people I don’t even know. I closed my eyes, letting myself be enveloped in the feeling of the monster’s aftermath. All across my body, the teeth and claw marks make the perfect evidence of my slavery. I feed the monster inside of me, it makes me whole. But so incredibly empty as well. I begin to remember the night before. My monster decided to pay me a visit, greeting me not with the warmth I so desire from any kind of contact but with an absolute frigidness that chills me to the bone with fear; the fear of not making it through the night’s battle. My monster began to sink its teeth in, drawing blood for its thirsty companions, the parts of me wanting the monster to win. Scratch after scratch, bite after bite, the monster releases its venom to keep me addicted to its torture. My monster whispers to me, a language that only I can comprehend, “I will be back.” Opening my eyes, I sit up, cringing at the sudden shock of pain throughout my body. I hobble over to the mirror, examining my monster’s carvings into my body and the dull pink scars of battles I had won. I had not lost my battle yet, and I don’t plan to any time soon. Although the monster knows how to do its job, it will never take me. My scars prove that I am strong, and I fill fight until my last drop of strength is taken. I walk through the dust, interrupting its celebration of the new day. I put on my mask; knowing that no one will know of my nightly battles with neither my monster, nor the scars they bring me. Only when I am recovered will anyone know the war I had fought. On that day, I will be able to stand tall and victorious, but until then it will be an everyday struggle. It will be so very worth it.