Monstrous

By Heidi Kasa

When Janine gnaws her way out of my belly I am surprised, to say the least. I see her little egg face covered in blood like a wolf’s after a fresh kill. She’s been in there awhile; she’s done a lot of damage, feels like. I double over in pain, unable to speak, and I don’t move out of the fetal position for hours. My father wants to take me to the emergency room he’s so scared.

My mother laughs. 

She’s fine, she says. Janine’s here.

I don’t have the kind of mother who throws a blossoming-into-womanhood party. I have the kind of mother who laughs when she sees me in pain. Only later do I realize she might’ve laughed out of discomfort—she doesn’t want to talk about this.

Janine demands I carry her in my pocket. She’s thin and light—a tiny creature with rows of chiseled teeth. It’s not clear how long she’ll be here; it’s only clear she’s sticking with me.

She draws the curtains shut so my room is a cave. It seems she plans for us to hole up here on the first day.

Over the next week I realize Janine is an intense friend. She stops chewing my insides, but then she jumps on my back and my uterus while punching my stomach and butt. She quiets. She leaves without a goodbye.

***

People say Janine exists to punish women for original sin. Others say she came about as a blessing from the gods bestowed on a child when she becomes a woman. Punishment or blessing? You decide.

***

I don’t yet know the signs of Janine’s arrival; we’re new friends, after all. A relationship takes time. But she arrives with a bang and a clatter, chewing through my clothes even. She can’t stop herself from rushing. It’s like she hasn’t eaten in years. She expects me to drop everything and tell her every detail since we last spoke: who I’ve kissed in the hallway, which friends I’ve lost and gained, what fights I've had with my parents. Janine wants to go deep and bring up everything, even if reliving it, for me, is another kind of pain.

Sometimes I wonder if she feeds on my tears as well as my flesh.

Mostly she rides in pockets, dictating what I can and can’t do during her visit.

At first, I push all the pain away and I hate Janine. She’s nothing but a disruption, charging in and demanding constant attention and submission. She feels like a little boss, and I think that in my head, Boss, but I don’t tell her that. I’m scared of those teeth. 

***

My mother picks me up from art class. I try to make it through school but I’m paler than the bust of an ancient I’m staring at. My teacher thinks I should go to the emergency room because I’m shaky, and out of it, also she’s never seen someone decline so fast. My mother holds my arm. I barely escape the classroom before vomiting in a nearby trash can, having one dim thought before I pass out that I hope no teenagers have seen this—friends or enemies—or I’ll die of embarrassment.

There’s years of this: various arms and friends and boyfriends assisting during this first day of Janine’s entrance. It’s a rite of passage. If I introduce them to Janine, then I trust them.

***

We’re on a walk. I’m twenty-three and my mother sees me broken, shattered, at a loss of what to do or where to go next. Perhaps it’s this brokenness that makes her turn, pause, and say, Maybe your Janine is not the same as other Janines. It’s the closest thing to an apology I’ll ever get, I think.

***

The boys at school think Janine is an excuse to escape swimming. She’ll never visit them, and they can’t see her. I explain how Janine chomps through my belly and my back, sometimes even using a knife to cut away parts she wants to devour. The teachers excuse us for swimming because blood is visible and therefore gross.

The boys don’t listen.

So, I stop talking to them. I start talking to Janine.

For years, I do nothing but complain about when she visits, about all the plans she ruins, and about how I feel when she tears through me.

It isn’t until I’m thirty-four that I realize I could be listening instead of talking.

I know she has a mouth, and a good sense of direction, so I can trust what she says.

Janine comes from the moon, but not from any of the moon tales I know. She says she’s the power of the moon. She’s not a spirit, but maybe she’s a monster, if I’m okay with that.

I want to know what makes her think she’s a monster—is it all the eating?

Janine says, Look at my teeth. They’re made for gouging. Her face is bloody as she tells me this, and it’s my blood, but I’m not scared. We know each other better by now.

After listening to her—not once, but every time I see her—and understanding her quirks (like any friend), I become someone who knows herself. I lay out the red carpet for Janine; I make sure she has all the amenities she needs.

***

Janine, are you a monster?

Monsters eat. She shrugs. I’m not any more monstrous than the rest of you.

What do you want, Janine?

To be consumed by peace, rest, and reflection, she says. Hand your body back to the earth in spurts.

I consider the word consumed coming out of the mouth of this creature that eats me inside out each month. Her eyes glitter.

Turns out, Janine is a philosopher.

Capitalism gets it wrong. You focus on what you can consume, while it consumes you.

Her teeth make a clacking sound, like a train settling on its track.

Wouldn’t you rather know what eats you? 

About the Author

Heidi Kasa is the author of Split (Monday Night Press, 2022), and her writing has appeared in Barrelhouse, Ruminate, and The Racket, among others. She won the 2024 Plaza Prose Poetry Prize and the 2023 Poetry Super Highway Prize. Kasa’s flash fiction collection The Beginners won the 2023 Digging Press Chapbook Contest, and is forthcoming in 2025. Her first poetry collection, The Bullet Takes Forever, is forthcoming from Mouthfeel Press in 2025. She works as an editor and creates handmade artist books. Find her at www.heidikasa.com or on instagram @heidi_kasa_writer.