In the end I was more scared of my parents than the monster who killed them.
In fact, for most of my life I thought of it as some kind of super-powered hero - someone who had saved me when social services failed and the rest of the world seemed to have turned a blind eye to all my bruises. I even drew pictures of it, scrawling out thank you letters that I'd leave under my bed in case it came out from there like it had at my childhood home.
I never thought I'd see it again until it slowly crawled out from my dorm bed and snapped my roommate's neck before he could scream another drunken slur at me. It lingered this time, long enough for me to thank it through my tears and ask why it ever helped me.
As it tore a strip of my roommate's skin off, it paused and tilted its head.
Then its face gradually split into a grin that bisected its entire jawline.
And it called me Sister.
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