Creepy - Day 19 - I Was Born A Monster

Episode Date: October 19, 2019

Nature vs nurture...***Written by that_nasty_dumptruck and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer***See your donation rewards podcast at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Patience is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents The 31 Days of Horror. Day 19. I was born a monster. Written by user that nasty dump truck and narrated by Jimmy Furr.

I realized years later in my life that I'm very different from other kids. I know this because I remember my birth every second. It was darkness and it was my everything. Then all of a sudden I was pulled from that darkness by large white creatures with lights and silver tools used to fix the damaged. When I was taken from the night, I did not cry. I did not sleep.

I was born silent, with my eyes wide open. The creatures looked at me, with confusion and disgust, but not her. She took me and helped me in her arms. And that, This one I met my mother.

She took me to a place. A red building constructed along a section of evergreen forest, along with fields, dead plants. It was a farm and an unsuccessful one at that. A large man met us at the door. And as she passed me to him, his large hands caressed my chin. They were rough and belonged to someone that did not hold. babies. His hands held machines, tools, and weapons. It was my father. The house was built, but not structured. Its collapse was inevitable, but unfortunately, I never got the pleasure

of being a witness. Years went by, and at this point, it was time for me to begin my formal education. My mother handed me a bag and led me out the front door to a dusty yellow bus. As I boarded and drove off, I looked out my seat window to see her. Her face was pale and broken, like a shattered porcelain doll. She stayed up for long nights, and fell asleep with some sort of Elastic band tied tightly around her bicep, scabs littering her forearm. I walk into this mysterious building with other children. Meeting tall adults as I go by in the halls. Many children are running, yelling, jumping.

But I do not. I walk. I do not blink. And I definitely do not speak. Teachers directed me to class, making small talk along the way. They spoke, but for every word they said, I listened less and less. The kids in my class were content, talked about their favorite toys and games. I had nothing.

I had no toys. I played no games. I didn't want them yet. It seemed that was the norm. They brought me no happiness and, come to think of it, nothing really did. I had a life. I went to school, said nothing, went home, and did nothing. My parents, they fought and fought.

Then I would find them in a trance, powder-faced, and pill bottles next to sharp objects and glass pipes. Finally, I would sleep, but it was different. I did not fall into a dark void and awaken the next morning. I would lay there and stare at the interiors of my eyelids, listening to my body. I could hear the blood being manipulated by my heart. I could feel my bones growing. I would lay there every single hour of my waking slumber and replay every second of my life in my mind as my body stretched and ate.

It was time for school. I got ready, walked down the hall to the kitchen. My foot became wet. I looked down. I had seen my own blood for the first time. glass protruding from my foot and blood pouring from the wound. I felt nothing. The pain was truly nothingness, like a pause in my neurons.

I turned and walked back to my room, leaving a shining red trail behind me. I sat on my bed and began to pull clear crystals from my foot covered in my life. blood. My father found the scene and came to me. My mother was with him. They began to beat me. For a reason, there remained unknown up to this point. My mother held my arms and my father slammed his fists into my abdomen. I knew what they were doing was wrong, but I felt nothing. there was so much pain. Yet, it didn't phase me. Years of abuse and self-harm.

I realized something new. I knew who I was. I was nothing. I did not live. I existed. I was cracked. But it took me years to become fragmented. When it finally happened, I finally knew what I had to do.

I steepled my eyelids open and removed my lips, so my parents wouldn't recognize me. I didn't want them to see me. I flayed my parents. I skinned them alive and displayed them neatly on the basement wall with nails and pins, Like a gorgeous, rare butterfly displayed museum. Their arms open, their chest pried apart to create a beautiful floral display of their ribcage. I had no remorse. No sadness, no anger, no love.

Just existence. As I write this, The police have been outside my house for four hours With the belief that I have hostages I'm trying to conserve my time with my beautiful new parents Why you ask Not because I'm angry Not because it's the only way I feel anything

Not because I love them Because I love and feel nothing I did it as a reminder, a reminder of what you may ask. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us at CreepyPod on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook, or email all stories told on this podcast can be filed. at creepypasta wikia.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license.

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