As the music crescendos, you fall, and then you fall some more. A portal, unused for twenty years, cracks open, and then—here you are again.
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?