Feed the Muse: Inner Monologues (Vol. I) [√]

[ 10th inner circle of hell ]

We grew up with violence — not the kind that starts wars and snatches lives, but a simmering bubble of adrenaline that wraps itself around our fragile bodies whenever somebody starts screaming in the house. We grew up around vicious tongues that burn and poke in anger, loud voices in the middle of the night, police sirens, pounding doors, glass breaking, hands that form into fists, throats hoarse from either crying or yelling, and pride, so much pride, that our whole household drowns in waves after waves after waves.

I avoid going down, even at 20. I despise seeing loved ones transforming into beasts; of words lashed out in heat, striking skin and burrowing into bones; of arms entangling into snake-like grips, to push, to pull; of voices rising like skyscrapers, up, up, up, up, threatening to crumble in the wind; of outsiders with their ears of gold and eyes of silver, looking in, looking out, just standing amidst the storm of turbulence, 'hey, what are you looking at?'.

In my room, I say a little prayer to the heavens to quench the brewing violence that is rooted within our walls. Sometimes, I believe our house is cursed, haunted, surrounded by the deadly seven sins found in the Bible. I think it would be enough to reflect the monsters living inside, breathing, fuming, plotting, trying to adapt to the normalcy that is clearly not in the books for this family. This house is the pit of hell.