of my feet; up inside every possible
orifice a human being can provide.
I ooze, then crust over, then ooze
again. Mum covers me in special
non-scarring band-aids, and I wear
slippers all the time because my
feet bleed when I walk. The only
thing I can eat is cold soup, since
my mouth is full of sores. The meds
mess with my brain, so I talk funny
and sleep a lot. I hurt, I groan.
I’m also on the dole, or so I thought.
Having diligently collected doctor’s
certificates and mailed them to the
government with a note basically
reading, “I am infectious and
cannot look for a job right now,”
I thought I was covered. I am
informed otherwise. Apparently,
Centrelink needs me to present
myself in person at its local branch
office. So, reluctantly, I do.
THE MONSTER EMERGES: I am
vengeance! I am fury! My mum
dropped me here on the way to the
shops! My hair is matted, and I’m
covered in weeping scabs. Wearing
blood-specked slippers and a stained
nightie (no bra or undies – they
hurt too much), I smell faintly of
soup and strongly of despair. This
is my lowest moment. And when
the woman behind the counter
attempts to deny my claim, I’m
reduced to incoherent moans and
rage tears. A Frankenstein monster
in Brisbane’s northern suburbs,
with only slightly nicer scars.
I want to tell these strangers in
this awful place that I was once
like them! I too enjoyed non-creepy
skin and working feet! I was not
always this wreck of humanity
they shudder from now! And,
most of all – goddamnit Centrelink,
I want you to know that visible
contagion is a pretty good excuse
for hitting pause on the job-seeking.
Finally, some sort of sanity prevails.
A supervisor is called over, and
my social security reinstated.
I am grateful, and repulsive.
I snatch my forms and shuffle to
the car. A small part of me hopes
I infected every unhelpful
bureaucrat in the joint. Maybe
I really am a monster.
By
Sinead
Stubbins
For someone who was never
allowed to watch scary movies –
and who still avoids them, even
as an adult – I sure do spend a
lot of time thinking about the
ways supernatural beings could
murder me in my sleep. Beds that
will suck me inside an alternate
dimension full of monsters with
claws; a ghostly creature hiding
underneath my mattress, waiting
for me to place a single bare
foot on the ground; a murderous
hundred-year-old poltergeist
who appears to me in the mirror
when I brush my teeth – these
are the kinds of things that
occupy my late-night thoughts.When I was younger, this fear
consumed me as soon as it was
time for bed. Every night while
I was being tucked in, like
clockwork, I’d ask my parents,
“Will I be safe?”–aritual I
recited for years like a prayer.
(I wonder if they were ever
tempted to say, “No idea! Good
luck, though.”) I just felt so
strongly that my demise would
occur once darkness fell. It didn’t
help that, at the time, I was
sharing a bedroom with someone
who I had a strong suspicion could
be a demon from the beyond.When she was young, my little
sister looked like a classic creepy
horror movie child. She was
pale, with big blue eyes and long
dark hair. It wasn’t that she
had the personality of a horror
movie child – she didn’t casually
converse with invisible spirits
at the dinner table, mutter
nonsense under her breath, or
walk down the staircase like a
spider (though we didn’t have
a staircase; perhaps she just
didn’t have the opportunity).
But I felt as though the universe
was trying to warn me I should
be on guard, nonetheless.When I was eight or nine, I used
to have nightmares about my
sister. It felt like I dreamt
about her for at least a year,
but it was probably only a few
months (when you’re little,
time can only be measured by
school holidays andHarry Potter
book releases). In the dream,
I would wake up and she’d be
standing at the foot of my bed,
wearing a long white nightgown
that looked like it was from
the 1800s. Her long hair would
partially hide her glazed face,
but I saw a hint of a narrowed
eye. Her head was tilted down at
a menacing angle that told me,
“I intend to haunt then kill you
with my supernatural demon
child powers.” I never went back
to sleep after those dreams.Was I so dumb to believe that
the late-night visions were
the work of a higher power
trying to tell me something?
It’s said that dreams come
from the unconscious during
the ‘theta brainwave stage’.
Some people think that when
we’re in this stage, our brains
pick up cues, like the energy
of places and people around
us. Our subconscious tries to
provide us insights, and even
give us spiritual guidance. Both
Abraham Lincoln and Joan of
Arc predicted their own deaths
in a dream – perhaps I wasn’t
so different from Abe and Jo?Eventually the dreams stopped.
My sister’s hair was cut into
a short bob (quite fashionable,
I must say). I didn’t need to
confirm with my parents if I
would or would not be slain in
my sleep. It’s easy to see now
that the dreams were probably a
manifestation of all the anxiety
I was feeling, transitioning from
being an only child to the eldest of
three. When you’re a kid, the idea
of getting less attention is akin to
doing battle with a supernatural
tormenter. But a bit of me always
wondered if there was something
spiritually iffy going on there.
There’s no harm in checking
under the bed now and then.writers’ piece