It was the 9th of November

I can still vividly remember;

When he entered my chamber

While I was in my slumber

He came creeping by midnight

The figure that shadowed over my lamplight

The man who played with his flashlight

The lightstick that flickered the glimpse of hell to my sight

No, he wasn't looking for the monster underneath my bed

I forced myself to think it was just a boogeyman—I nailed it to my head

He dwelled to seek for something that reeked underneath my sheet

I felt him creep closer, from thigh to crotch then higher, it felt like bullshit

I gaslighted myself to think it was just a monster;

A dead that rose from the grave, and probably one of Dracula’s minion

But no, I was wrong, he wasn't simply just any superfiction

Because even the evilest villain couldn't be any worse than a molester

What's Your Monster?: “A Molester For A Father”

For most, November is the month when they celebrate the dead, to mourn, and to especially remember someone so beloved. Not to forget the series of untold stories that were better off left and buried—the monsters that were said to rise from the dead. They call them horror stories, I had mine too, but it was never aired, nor heard, nor seen, and neither told, how could I?—when he pinned me with a strong hold, he grasped me everywhere like desirable gold. It started when I was only 9 years old.

Some say ghosts aren't real, but some claim that they've seen monsters—I had my fair share, I have seen a monster too, but it did not rise from the dead, it just crawled from hallways then down on my bed.

“Mommy Oni, Kanino Ako Magsusumbong Kung Sariling Tatay Ko Ang Humahawak Sa Aking Mga Pribado?”

That song, that line that goes, “Isusumbong kita sa tatay ko”

I get jealous when others could complain and cry to their parent

While all I get is torment

Now I ask myself “Kanino ako magsusumbong?”

And yet, here I am

Shivering in the corner like a used-up lamb

A sacrifice to the churning desire of that monster

Who turned out to be my own father

I've known myself better than anyone

So that's why no one knows what really is going on, no one—none

I've been too obedient, too used up and too fucked up for far too long

Now here I am, legs being forced to spread wide like a tong.

“Be good to daddy, won't you, sweetie?”

“Come here, come, and give daddy a kiss, my baby”

“Look at you, all grown up… All. Grown. Up”

“Don't you love, daddy? Come sit on my lap, we could go on for laps”

The lines that seemingly fell on deaf ears on my aunts.

“Actions speak louder than words.”

If so, then how come they couldn't see my father lurking just underneath my bed at midnight? Oh right, because they were never there, they could never care—that's what fuels his blazing heat, it surges the nasty keen in his veins to flood his mind, to thrust harder and grind.

“Basta chismis, lalaki ang tenga ni misis.”

So why can't my own mother hear my plea? I know these walls are thin and frail, just like mine who the monster rails—the pain he delivers that causes me to wail, yet help comes to no avail.

“Every morning is the start of a new beginning.”

No such beliefs exist in my heart—there's no “new beginning” in my mornings, just closed window curtains with feelings that's uncertain and a room reeking like rotten rain—the residues that stenched on my broken bed from last night's disdain.

Marry Had A Little Lamb, With Wool For Men To Drool And Fool

Mary had a little lamb, the lamb was me, still me

The little girl whom Mary used to care for under a tree

Then left me for another family

Leaving me in the abyss while she enjoys summer in bliss

Then one day, Mary decided to take me too

Dragging me away from the nightmare I've been through

The nightmare she never knew

But I wish she knew

For once, I got to feel the sun again, the warmth of a new start—to change and redeem for who I truly am. I thought I finally woke up from my nightmare, I thought that I finally got away from him—I thought I did, but I was mistaken, because the clouds may appear clear, but the latter purposes aren't as clear.

He followed me, I felt him—his gaze, his touch, him. He followed me, not by flesh, not by presence, but by nature. Because my mother's new husband, my step-father, was no better than my biological father.

History Repeats Itself

Everything was back to how it was before

Mom was by my side, and no more monster barging through my door

But despite the new normal—something felt off

I didn't notice the lamplight looking so…off

The same way how my stepfather secretly got turned on

Just like how his eyes would linger in secrecy when mom is long gone

That's when I realised, he followed me

Again, not by flesh, not by presence, but by the nature to fuck me

So when we were alone

He pounced above me, he was like my father's clone

He touched me on the bed

After he finished, he tousled my head

He looked at me with lust, he smirked

Then shushed a finger at my mouth, to tell no one that he lurked;

That he roamed his hands all over my body

But I didn't want to rot again in the same path, I was ready

I told mom, the moment she got home

But she simply shrugged me off like an emotionless gnome

Just sitting there in silence

While I found myself crying by the corner, planning my vengeance

Not Now, But Soon

Now, I ask myself, “what have I done in my past life to deserve such a life?" What have I done to attract my fathers’ lust, rather than love?

Now, I'm fifteen

Yet the grass never turned green

because I was forced to be bound to the man who sees red

Succumbing to his desires, as he gropes me on my bed

As I wrote this, I'm still experiencing my nightmare

Although I'm scared, I still have to bear

Maybe one day when I finally get to get my voice

I will yield my rights and seek justice, and to rejoice

“Who's the monster underneath my bed dad?”

“Who's the monster underneath my bed, dad?”

Same tones, same spelling, same sentence, yet different meanings. One asks, and one is scared—frightened to find out that the monster underneath her bed was her own father.

“Because in reality, the devil does not just lurk in the darkest alleys— sometimes he lurks inside our own home, own mind and own blood.”— Myka Andrea Peralta.

The Frontman