Prologue
Dear reader,
Are you in pain?
Listen to yourself for a moment. Stop reading and just… breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. That’s what my therapist, Julia, tells me to do before our sessions begin.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Are you hurting?
Perhaps you have just stubbed your toe against your bedroom wall, creating a throbbing bruise; perhaps you have scratched a mosquito bite until it has bled; perhaps you have a headache, or a cough, or a random ache in a random place that you can’t quite recall the source of.
Perhaps you are perfectly fine, and that’s nice. I’m happy for you.
But I’m not fine. I tell people that I’m fine, but I’m really not.
“How are you, Eden?” they ask. Always that question. That stupid question.
“Fine,” I’ll say. “Great. Just dandy. Perfectly happy and content with myself and my life.”
I don’t need to say it; you know I’m lying. Always, always lying.
My name is Eden Walter, and I am in pain.
Not the kind of pain that I mentioned earlier. My body doesn’t hurt; but sometimes, when the pain gets too much for my insides, it branches out. It tears through my skin and weaves its way into my veins, into my bloodstream, and makes everything else hurt.
It’s like poison, and I can’t get rid of it.
We all have this pain inside of us. It is a part of us, like our organs and our genetics and the way our voice sounds. It is also a monster; a huge one, with razor-sharp fangs and claws powerful enough to slice you in half. It lurks within your chest, hidden away between the bones of your ribcage.
When it is asleep, you are happy.
When it is awake, your life is hell. Simple as that.
My monster? He’s awake.
He is always awake, and he will never go to sleep, no matter what I do. Let’s just say he has insomnia; the monster in my body will never drift off into slumber, and my life will always be a living hell.
Like I said, simple.
Don’t feel sorry for me; I do that enough for myself. I’m only here to warn you that if you like happy stories with happy endings and happy people, then throw away this book. Throw it out your window, or into the fireplace, or tuck it away where you will never find it again--because the truth is that this story is real. It doesn’t have fairies or alternate worlds in which the main character leads a faithful army into battle. She doesn’t explore the inspiring world of self-discovery or redemption, or fall in love with a handsome prince who cherishes her every word.
No. This is real.
Real stories, like this one, are about how life sucks. They drag you through the hardships of simply existing, and leave you questioning your own life decisions. They make you wonder whether life really is worth it or not.
I’m not a pessimist; I’m a realist. And that’s why I’ll tell you this:
Yes; life is worth living.
It’s worth a whole lot.
Even the monsters.
