From the dark room in B West where I was held down to a bed with leather straps, given 150 volts right in the head; shocked to death, then brought back to life again.
You’ve got a strong heart, Violet Hildreth.
I have been to the other side.
I have been there and back again.
Do you remember? Do you remember?
Oh yes, I remember. I remember all of the things my grandmother taught me. The lies she told. The invented life she gave me: with imaginary parents who never existed, a car crash that never happened, a brother who wasn’t really my brother, who was a stranger.
She taught me the parts of the body from the tiniest cell to the largest organ (the skin). She taught me to memorize the scientific names for the things we see every day: for the maple tree at the edge of the yard (Acer saccharum), for the mouse (Mus musculus), for juniper (Juniperus communis).
She taught me to draw medicine into a needle, to make a surgical incision, to stitch a wound.
She taught me how to make a killing jar.
To put a sick creature out of its misery.
To be the God of Rodents.
To hold my head up high.
You’re special, Violet Hildreth.
She taught me how to live among the humans, a monster hiding in plain sight.
THE BOOK OF MONSTERS
By Violet Hildreth and Iris Whose Last Name We Don’t Know Illustrations by Eric Hildreth 1978
HOW TO KILL MONSTERS
Vampire: Stake through the heart Werewolf: Silver bullet
Fairy/goblin: Bind it in iron Demon: Holy water, crucifix, exorcism Ghost: Cast a circle and send it on to the next world If you don’t know the type, there are other things you can try.
Fire will almost always kill a monster, and so will chopping off its head.
Sometimes it’s as simple as saying the creature’s name backward.
There are as many ways to kill monsters as there are monsters.
Vi
July 28, 1978
THE GODS WERE roaring, screaming in her ears. Their voices like thunder, like waves crashing. Car crash voices. Sounds made of broken glass and screams.
She tried to scream, but when she opened her mouth, no sound came out.
Everything she knew, or thought she knew, was a lie. A carefully painted backdrop that pulled away to reveal a vast nothingness.
There had been no car crash, no brilliant surgeon father, no mother with the beauty of a movie star.
She had no brother.
This was where she came from. This basement, these medications, treatments, hypnotic sessions, surgeries.
Can’t be, can’t be, can’t be: The words were a wishful train chugging in her ears. Can’t be, can’t be.
But it was.
And hadn’t some part of her known all along? Hadn’t some part of her been preparing?
Vi was down on the ground on her knees, and Iris was shaking her shoulders. “Vi! Violet! Wake up, Violet!”
But Violet Hildreth was a made-up name. A character.
Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?
She opened her eyes, and they were no longer Violet Hildreth’s eyes.
She stood up on shaky legs and walked to the file cabinet.
“Vi?” Iris said. “Talk to me, Vi.”
She began to pull the files out, not even looking at the contents through her tear-filled eyes, just throwing the papers all over the floor.
I am Patient S.
And she felt it in her chest, blooming, the words sure and strong: I am a monster.
This she knew how to be.
The pages were scattered around the room now like a strange fallen snow. She tipped over the heavy metal cabinet, letting the scream that had been building inside her out at last.
She’d give them a monster.
She’d give them the worst monster the world had ever seen.
And wouldn’t Gran be sorry then?
She’d make Gran sorry.
Sorry for everything she’d done.
Vi picked up the wooden chair and smashed it against the wall, breaking its back and legs. She was amazed by her own strength, by the power and fury flowing inside her, lighting her up, making her crackle and glow.
THIS is who I am, who I am, who I am!
“Vi!” Iris was calling, “Violet, stop!” but her voice sounded far off, a voice at the end of a long dark tunnel.
Vi felt a hand on her shoulder, gentle at first, then firm, turning her.
But it wasn’t her shoulder anymore. It was the shoulder of a girl named Vi, a paper-doll girl who no longer existed.
“It’s okay,” Iris said, pulling Vi closer. “Shh, it’s going to be okay. Please talk to me, Vi.”
Iris petted at Vi’s hair, touched Vi’s face, looked at her with such love, but also a trace of pity. It was an I’m so sorry look. Iris was crying, tears running down her pale face.
The girl named Vi—what was left of her—loved Iris, loved her so much her chest ached and she could hardly catch her breath.
But the monster was full of hate and scorn and fury.
And the monster was stronger.
The monster was winning.
“Let go of me,” she ordered.
“No,” Iris said. “Vi, I—”
“Let me go!” she roared, but Iris held tight.
The monster reeled back, making a fist with her right hand, swinging her arm through the air. It seemed to happen in slow motion, and what caught Vi most off guard was not her strength, but Iris’s expression of pure bewilderment and disbelief.
Vi’s fist made contact with Iris’s temple, and Iris went down, sprawling backward, hitting the back of her head on the edge of the desk with a sickening crack. She crumpled to the floor on top of the scattered notes.
The monster roared louder, ripped at her own hair, her clothes, tore her shirt, scratched deep red welts into her own chest.
Her voice became a furious, deep growl.
Her vision sharpened as colors brightened and sound intensified.
She heard footsteps rushing down the stairs, coming to see what all the commotion was about.
She heard the mad patter of rain on the roof, the crack of thunder, the sound of Eric sleeping softly in his bed, the squeak of the metal wheels going round and round in the basement.
She heard it all.
She felt it all.
And she understood, just then, what it meant to be a god. The voices of the gods who spoke to her, told her what to do, guided her every day were just her own self all along.
And now she didn’t need the gods.
She knew what must be done.
It was the only thing left to do.
She let out another roar, stepped around Iris moaning on the floor, went down the hall to the procedure room. She smashed the ECT machine on the concrete floor. Pulled bottles and vials of medicine out of the cabinet and threw them down, stomping on the broken glass and spilled liquid, dancing her own strange monster dance.
No more, no more, no more.
“Violet?” Gran was there in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, clothes thrown quickly on.
Sal lurked behind her, a great gargoyle in his blue scrubs, a man solid as stone.
“What the—” His voice trailed off.
Gran scanned the scene, saw the smashed electric-shock box, the glass bottles and vials of medicine crushed in damp puddles.
Sal took a step toward Vi.
Gran put up her hand in a stop gesture. “You may go, Sal.”
“But, Dr. Hildreth—”
“I can control my granddaughter on my own. Leave us.”
“But—”
“Don’t come down here again. And keep the rest of the staff away too.” Her I’m the boss voice, edgy as a knife, the words annunciated with perfect clarity, perfect calm.
Sal slipped away looking regretful, as if rounding up an out-of-control teenage girl would have made his night.
Gran took a step closer to Vi, her shoes loud on the cement floor. Click clack, like the hooves of an animal. A monster.
“I remember,” Vi said.
The worst sort of monster: the kind who hid in plain sight.
“What is it you think you remember, Violet?”
“I remember everything.”
“Do you?” There it was, that sly forced smile, which wasn’t really a smile all, just a loose facsimile of one. It was all wrong. Grotesque, even.