My whole process of writing is tricking my brain into writing without realizing what I’m doing, to make myself write even when the idea of writing instills a vomity feeling in my gut.
Are these the only two stories? The one, where you defeat your monster, and the other, where you succumb to it?
Perhaps the certainty that you are not the monster—that no matter what you do, you will never become the monster—is what gives rise to monstrous behavior.
I do not have flesh; I only have ghosts. In this story, the dead are only what I say they are. Does this make them less real?