Mercy was the name of the girl who never saw her thirteenth birthday. I stumbled upon her story in a newspaper that had sat on my neighbor's doorstep for three weeks—long before we discovered his body—and I remember almost laughing at the irony. She was murdered simply for living. You might mistake the monster that killed her as human at first glance, but the eyes don’t lie. They were the eyes of evil. I don’t know evil all that well, but I know human, and the man who killed Mercy Hampil was anything but. What is the desire for revenge? Blood stains my face, my family looking at me warily as my eyes betray the ones of a human. A person capable of emotion. Empathy. Remorse. “This is who I am, and there is no need to be afraid…” I say, stepping forward, my lip quivering in disgust. I know what I’ve done. “You... monster!” Mom shrieks in agony, tears streaming down her pale face. We look eerily alike, and I can’t imagine how she feels looking at me and seeing herself. “That’s right,” I continue, stepping forward with my blade, the blood dripping off of it mocking them. “You know it is, isn’t it? You raised me after all.” Dad backs away, pushing mom behind him. “Don’t you dare. I did not raise this! WE did not raise this! We raised a little, caring girl.” I stop, my mouth curling into a frown. “And what happened to her?” My eyes shift between the two of them. “What happened to me?” My neighbor’s name was Michael, and he was murdered simply for living. I found his body by accident. It was a cold, cruel day. Something changed in me the moment I saw that dried puddle of blood beneath his head. His body was rotting, and the smell never left my nose, just as the taste for justice was never satisfied, no matter how many monsters I killed. “Nothing happened to you,” dad cries, “I know you’re still in there, Iris.” I raise an eyebrow. “Iris?” Mom holds her hands against her chest. “Iris, my girl. I know you’re in there.” I loosen my grip on the knife, and it falls from my bloody hands. A warm breath escapes my lips, and tears blind me. “I... Iris?” Rudy was the name of the boy who was murdered for riding his bike. He was nine. He was right in front of the house because mom said he couldn’t go any further, and he did everything right. But he never had a chance. “I killed him,” I whisper. The weight of reality crushes me and brings me to the floor. “I know, I know,” dad tells me, “I wanted him dead too. For what he did to my little boy.” The name of the monster who killed my little brother doesn’t matter. His name was buried the same time he was, and I don’t regret what I’ve done. But I knew the second I dug the knife into his stomach that I was becoming the thing I hated—the thing I was actively trying not to become. Monsters aren’t real. Not really. “I’m sorry,” I admit. “I killed them all. All of them! I did it! They deserved it! They’re evil! They’re monsters!” I don’t kill for fun. I don’t kill because I like it. I kill because if I don’t, nobody else will, and they all get away. I won’t let that happen. I reach for the knife. “You don’t have to do this.” The day of Rudy’s funeral was cold and cruel. The rain smelled like burnt popcorn, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what I didn’t do. The next day, I swore to never let another monster walk. And even though I did it to protect, to save everyone, I’m just as bad as them. I dig the tip of the blade into my neck and cry. “This is who I am,” and the knife makes a perfect cut. The next few minutes are blurry and cold. I say to the EMT that’s trying to stop the blood, “Don’t save me. I’m a monster.” But I know that monsters aren’t real, and we’re all just human.