The Monster of Truth

a fable about what we carry

Photo by Hannah Busing on Unsplash

“RUN! The monster is coming!”

The green-eyed monster moves through the city, intent on one thing. She scans the vast landscape, searching for her next victim.

She thinks, Is it the man in the coffee shop, bent over a bitter espresso? Or the mother scooping her child down from the monkey bars? No. She can already feel the answer. They are elsewhere — buried in errands, worries, small private dreams. They would pass a feeling monster without slowing, let alone speak to one.

But it’s not just an ordinary conversation the monster is after. She’s after their hopes, their desires — the deepest cuts and the brightest joys they have ever survived.

The monster comes with a double-edged sword: it glints like relief, and it bites like truth. They blame the green in her eyes for what frightens them most — being seen. It requires something they aren’t willing to surrender: the shame they have buried. Unearthing that weight would take an Olympian effort of discovery they aren’t ready for. So they default to the easiest path they know: burial.

In this city, pain is something people learn to press down until it barely stirs. But it’s still there — simmering under the surface, bubbling like a hot cauldron — until they become wraiths of themselves.

The monster can sense the shift when a person is about to turn from a human of flesh and blood to a wraith that can scarcely feel. Their eyes become clouded and their smiles become ragged. The monster is drawn to these wraiths like a shark to a bloody wound. The monster can’t mute her ability to feel or to empathize. When she finds one of them, she meets their gaze and offers what she can: real connection.

Slowly, glimpses of light return to their bodies. She sees it first in their eyes — how the clouds part and a blanket of twinkling stars alight. Onward the light travels to their mouth, softening its uneven lines. The monster reaches for the human’s hand, which is the most deceiving part. Because when the monster reaches for their hand, something long-buried rises.

The monster feels the shift — when the clouds and doubt start to roll back in. In her last remaining hope, she grasps the human’s hand and looks deep into their eyes and says, “It’s up to you to choose how much truth you let into your heart, before your mind decides it’s too much.”

Often the human flings her hand away and slips backward into their deeply rooted grave, as if the earth itself were calling them home. After standing on the edge of breaking free, the shame winds its way like a rotting vine around the human’s heart and binds them. Their eyes turn milky from the weight of the clouds, and their mouth is a cold blade. The wraith process is complete.

But occasionally, humans surprise the monster.

To the monster’s right, she sees a raven-haired woman sitting against a willow tree — her back to the bark, knees drawn close, hands busy with a thread of grass she twists until it frays. Leaves have gathered in her hair. The monster senses the woman’s grief pulsing from her heart; her outline is a faint shadow. The monster slowly approaches the woman and sits down next to her, unsure if she notices.

Minutes pass. Then the woman whispers, without looking over, “I know who you are. You’re the monster that deceives human souls.”

The monster lets the accusation settle like dust. “That is one way of looking at it,” she says. “You could also say I help humans return to their true soul.”

The woman looks at the monster in wary silence. She doesn’t trust anyone that comes too close — not after what happened.

“Let’s try this,” the monster says. “Will you tell me your name?”

The woman weighs the question carefully; the thoughts dancing back and forth behind her eyes. Exhaustion wins. “Daphne,” she says. Then, quieter: “What’s yours?”

“Helice.” The monster’s voice is softer than her reputation. “I was born in the city of Ursa. It was very different from this one.”

Daphne stops twisting the grass and her eyes widen, “But Ursa was destroyed over two thousand years ago by a tsunami.”

Helice’s gaze drifts past the river, past the streets, as if she’s watching water rise again. “Some souls are born into places that were never meant to hold them,” she says. “My birth aligned with a prophecy: Ursa would be swallowed by water and left in ruins. I entered the world able to feel pain and beauty in equal measure — and I wanted others to feel it with me.”

“When someone met my eyes,” Helice continues, “they felt everything they believed they’d buried — the wonder of a first sunrise with a lover now gone, the terror of a fire that burned their home away. I listened. I welcomed them. And in the end, it was always the same: abandonment, then burial.” Her throat tightens. “My empathy curdled into rage — at them, at myself. My rage brought about the wave. Ursa fell. I’ve been paying penance ever since.”

Daphne twists the grass again between her fingers, absorbing each word as a hint of color returns to her face. “I don’t think empathy and rage are opposites,” she says. “Sometimes they grow from the same intensity. The world tells us to shut our feelings down instead of seeking real connection — to bury grief instead of working through harm. In that way, Helice, we might be alike.”

Daphne closes her eyes, draws a deep breath, and continues.

“Once upon a time, I loved a man named Xanthos. His hair was golden, he had a beautiful voice, and he made me feel seen on a soul level. So much so that I almost believed in the myth of other halves. Zeus himself couldn’t keep us apart,” she smiles.

As Helice watches Daphne’s face, her eyes open and the twinkling of stars start to emerge. One by one, as each memory unfolds.

“He played the piano with passion,” Daphne smiles, “and when he played, it was as if time stood still. The only thing that existed was our hearts floating along on the melody.”

“We ran through fog-soaked woods; the only sound being the crunch of acorns under our feet. We dove from the tops of leafy trees into the ecstasy of rushing water, clinging to each other. Backpacking across the country, we laughed at the marvels and absurdities we found along the way. We were determined to experience everything, no matter how small or spectacular.”

The words rush from her lips, and a blanket of stars erupts in her eyes. She looks at Helice with raw hope, clinging to the memories like oxygen. For a moment, she forgets the tragedy and fully leans into the beauty. But then Daphne notices it — Helice’s hand reaching for hers.

“I’m not ready to leave this place,” Daphne pleads, as willow branches brush her face.

“Daphne,” Helice says, “It’s up to you to choose how much truth you let into your heart, before your mind decides it’s too much.”

Helice grasps Daphne’s hand, and a dam in Daphne’s heart bursts open. The grief and the anger from remembering the tragedy come rushing forth from the cracks. A howl of pain escapes her lips, but she doesn’t let go of Helice’s hand.

“Can I tell the truth?” Daphne asks, more to herself than to Helice.

Daphne lifts her gaze to Helice and her voice no longer wavers. “Once upon a time, I loved a man named Xanthos,” she says again, and this time the words carry weight. “He was equal parts beautiful and complicated. In one moment, he could captivate me with music, and in another he could be cruel and calculating. I could never measure up to what he wanted; I never quite knew where I stood.”

Tears well and then spill, as if her body has been waiting for permission. “Xanthos carried his own trauma like a locked secret,” she says. “Once — only once — he told me about the night everything broke. Someone he loved never came home. He didn’t give more details. He didn’t want to. I tried to be a safe space and offered everything I could think of. But when I reached, he pushed back harder. The vault in his heart stayed locked, and I stayed out.”

“Things became increasingly volatile,” Daphne continues. “He started drinking heavily to numb the pain. The days of diving into water together — of laughing at absurdities — were over. I knew I had to leave. When I finally did, I saw relief through his tears.” Her voice thins. “It’s been four years and I still miss him every day. I come to this tree because it reminds me of happier times. But I’ve never told anyone how badly I’m hurting until now. He was beautiful. He was tragic. His unearthed pain turned him into a wraith.” Daphne swallows. “And the irony is that the same thing is happening to me.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Helice says. “In all the time you spoke, you didn’t once let go of my hand. Maybe you wanted to tell the whole truth — you just hadn’t met someone that made you feel safe enough to do it.”

Helice’s thumb presses lightly against Daphne’s knuckles — a steadying. “I’ve met many people in my long life,” she says. “The bravest ones are not always the least wounded. Sometimes they are the ones who can keep their hand open anyway, holding both the light and the shadow.”

Light settles in Daphne’s face like dawn. “Thank you,” she whispers. “The cracks in my heart may always exist in some way, but it doesn’t feel all-consuming anymore.”

Daphne stands and brushes the leaves from her hair. She turns to the willow and embraces it as if it is both shrine and shelter. “Xanthos,” she whispers, “I wish things ended differently. I wish you had gotten the help you needed and deserved. Maybe one day you will. That is my hope for you.”

Then she outstretches her hands to the sun. “I’m grateful for myself,” she whispers. “I’m grateful that I had the courage to walk away even though it hurt — and that I finally had the courage to tell my truth.”

Daphne turns back. “Where will you go now?”

Helice looks to the horizon, where a white sailboat waits as if it has been waiting for centuries. She smiles at Daphne. “I’m traveling to a land where my emotions can rest,” she says. “Where the light stretches for days and I can breathe again. Remember, Daphne — rest is just as important as resiliency.”

Helice embraces her once, then walks to the boat. She steps onto the hull and sails into the sunset — still smiling — as Daphne waves goodbye from the shore.