She would fashion monsters from those things she found in the vast space around her; combinations of little bits of waste, sharp fragments woven together in a manner not unlike the fusing of skin. These things were hoarded and forgotten, and once uncovered found to be rotten beyond recognition. She wept at the fractured beauty found in such decay within the horrible constructs she had created, emphatically aware of the futility realised in the casual acknowledging of this crisis.
It has been a long time since she had left this place, a house of damp and loneliness, and monsters made of mainly cardboard and milk cartons. They were things easily deconstructed, though when her eyes met those of the host she would allow herself to succumb effortlessly. Their company was preferable after all to the vast emptiness which permeated every part of her, punctuated only by the finding of further shards, carving deep into the soles of her feet with every tread. Though their company was consoling, it was also inherently disturbing; the monster with the sideways smile caused her to stand perfectly still, unable to meet it’s gaze, for fear of it’s attempts to become better acquainted. And another, swathed in darkness, did not seem to have a face at all, but rather it moved mutely and earnestly between dark corners before settling on her shoulders, causing a wave of nausea and sleep to flood into her lungs. But perhaps more terrifying was the kindly construct; a scarecrow of sorts with a gracious expression. It swathed her heart in yellow days, though it’s hands of glass and plastic were cold to their very core.
She loathed her monsters, yet reinforced them with paper plates and old erasers. If she no longer had these monsters, what more would she have left? Without these friends, she may very well have become insane.
Holding the hand of her scarecrow she was reminded that if such horror existed within her imagination, it could also exist beyond. These were terrible but exquisite constructs, formed from the waste of the human condition. She started to weave her skin into her monsters, an amalgamation of misery. It was much easier than she had first anticipated, to yield to the whims of her friends, and as she looked into her mirror she realised that she was no longer just herself, she too had become a construct; the most monstrous and beautiful of all.