Museum “That Thing Inside”

When I came in for work today there was no one there. I opened up the old building, the smell of mildew and old wood hitting me as I stepped inside. It is so strange to go into work now. In a lot of ways this museum has become a part of me, and so when I step inside it is less like going to work and more like going to my home. Even if it isn't.

As the hours have passed, I have found myself alone to take care of the exhibits and continue my research. It is not so strange for me to find the building all to myself, but with things as they are there is a feeling that I cannot shake, and a reality I cannot ignore.

Over the last week, fewer and fewer of the employees have been coming in for work. There haven't been any reasons given or any phone calls made. But I think I know the source of it, and that leaves me feeling sick and frustrated.

I told Eric and the rest about the note the previous curator left to me. None of them took it particularly well, and Eric's face paled when she talked about the face in the dark. I think that even with all of his knowledge, he simply hadn't let himself feel it until that moment.

And now I haven't seen him for days.

I order wellness checks and the like, but I know they are all okay. They are reading the messages I am sending. They see the emails.

They simply aren't responding.

And I know it is because they blame me.

They are convinced that they have done everything right and I have done everything wrong. They arranged things to make it seem like I was a part of them, and offered me a position to give me access to the information I needed, so that I would put all the pieces together.

And the reality is that I have.

But it doesn't form the picture they think it does.

I have been thinking a lot, over the last week, into all the strange peculiarities of behavior that I have witnessed in those around me, and the strange events that seem disconnected but aren't. And the image I am supposed to see is that of a world falling into ruin, with me as the helpless damsel and the Wellington Street Historical Society as the heroes of the story.

But that isn't what I have seen.

They have known for my entire life that there was something coming. They all knew that something was going to happen with me and my mom.

So my dad killed her.

My mom was killed by my dad, but nothing happened to him. The case was closed after only a year, leaving it unsolved, with the evidence sealed away. My my dad in our final conversation talked about a cycle, and the only place where I have heard such an idea being mentioned are by those at the WSHS or those who are sensitive. My dad is not sensitive to things like this. His mentioning of it, and his belief that he was stopping the change could be coincidence.

But then there is the matter of my sister.

My sister's death certificate says that she died of natural causes, even though there was no sign of birth defects, no mention of sickness or infection. And the thing is, I'd like to believe that my sister did die of normal complications. But the thing is, my sister and I are twins. Something wrong with her would have informed something being wrong with me.

And there was no mention of anything in the autopsy, a report I only found through The Officer.

Maybe not everyone knew what everyone else was doing. Eric's asking about me having siblings early on suggests that much. But for my entire life I have grown up thinking that I am just sad, just in pain, just a little off, and very, very odd. And I was told that my mom was murdered by an unknown assailant when in fact she was executed to stop the change from coming.

And it didn't even stop it.

They knew it wasn't going to.

My sister is sitting outside my window.

My mom is waiting with the rain.

They told me that my brain was damaged, that I had to take sleep medication for night terrors when really it was monsters in my room. They made me feel like I was a freak, like there was something wrong with me. And I am just supposed to endure it, to accept the lies happened and move on.

And I am so very tired, and I am so very alone.

They are all at home, with their families and friends, while all those things that I have built over time and effort have been torn away. They see me as weak, but they are the ones who didn't tell me. If they had, maybe I would have understood.

Maybe we would have had more time.

But I can feel the loosening of my nails as I try so very hard to not bump into anything. And my skin screams even with loose clothing, and my eyes burn as I try to stay awake. My body is trying to release what is inside, and I am told that it is a suffering I simply have to keep on tolerating.

Even if the suffering is becoming intolerable.

And I feel so bad to put so much on you. I am reading back on the letters we have shared, and I can see how much my life has been the focus most of the time. I say I love you, but I struggle to feel that at all sometimes, when the dysphoria gets too much and nothing seems to make it stop. I haven't even asked you about how things are by you. I haven't asked about your family in months.

And before you say it, I know.

I am being unfair.

But I don't know what to do.

And I am scared. Because I know that all the things that were built were meant to hold it in, and now I can see what happens if I try to let it out. I have seen The Artist join The Red, and I have seen the Thing on the Beach finally have new flesh. And I have seen the evidence, and know that the end of the world is coming. Because there is a rot in the air, and the smell of mold.

Because I know there is a face in the dark, and a sound to the void, and if I let myself tire and allow myself to listen, I know I won't come back.

I would never be able to come back to you, and you wouldn't be able to love what is inside.

Because no one loves a monster.

So I have to be human.

Even if it hurts.