When I first met the monster, he was crawling over the counter of my old toy store while swallowing gum clearly labeled as inedible.

He seemed to know everything yet nothing at the same time. The monster marked by the CreepyPasta, who gave me - his supposed rival - a smile that sparkled more than the diamonds from the jewelry store across the street. And he could have broken into that store, I imagined. He did appear suddenly; I would believe he could do so in the store across from my little business. Steal those diamonds that could rival the complexity of his smile then run away. Run down the humans in the way we destroyed his people.

Yet he didn't. He clung to that overstuffed fox plush with wide eyes and a mouth full of Mr. Zeel pink raspberry gum. I never found the flavor 'pink raspberry' to be anything of significance, especially since I had a sneaking suspicion that the pink raspberry was the same as the over chemicalized normal raspberry flavors. I am rather ashamed to admit it, but that was the first thought that popped into my head when I realized death was literally upon my countertop. Then I immediately became saddened that I assumed he was a killer simply because of his biology.

That fox, with big beady eyes and floppy ears, told me a lot about him. Just holding it gave me enough information as I watched him chew and swallow the gum that certainly should not be digested. This man, the fox seemed to tell me without any words, isn't what monsters are said to be like.

And I, for once, listened. My Mother could attest to me never listening before. Always had to sneak out, yes I did. Who else would date that cute boy down the block with his fruit colored hair and amazingly combined dorito bowls but myself?

That monster was like us. He looked almost human. A human corpse to be specific. His species hinted at a possible relation.

Comic Sans. That was his name. He whispered it under his breath, the tainted stench of over processed chemicals carrying with his words. Barely was there a hint of raspberry fluttering with it. The skeleton, who carried bags under his eyes with that energetic grin of his, leaned forward. And I could see, within those eyes, a broken man who probably couldn't even name the street he was on. Who's seen everything so much so that he now knew nothing but the cute fox plush he named Franky.

He spoke fondly of a story that had that name. About a Princess that was kidnapped, just like him, who was saved. He talked about that tale a lot, as if memorized.

I wondered how long he clung to that story to keep his sanity. And I also wonder, to this day, when did that strategy begin to fail.

Perhaps it never worked from the start.

Comic Sans spoke of a lot of things. So many things. So many secrets and tales that I would never dare account to, even behind the safety of the internet. I don't think I can even if I tried. I imagine, if I did try, that my fingers would freeze and I would find myself staring at a blank document until the sun arose the next morning. Then I'd watch it set the next night, and that loop would continue on and on until I would have a meer inkling of how broken a person could become.

Sans was a different case. Someone who didn't quite belong anywhere. Would we, as a human society, accept him? I would like to hope. That we'd set aside our differences, and look at this man in need, who thought gum was the most amazing thing in the world, and get him some help. If he were a vase, he would be a helpless pile of broken debris in the dust who desperately needed someone to reconstruct him. And I'd believe, for a moment, that we would. That I could call the police and they'd bring him that fixer. And he'd be fine.

Then reality would knock at my door and call me the same stupid cunt my neighbor would mock me as. They'd walk in, heels stomping so hard against my floor that it'd break, and shake my hand only to wash theirs moments later. And I would simply know, looking across the trail of defeated tiles, that he would certainly die. We find ourselves running thin of kindness for humans. What would we do to a monster who desperately needed it all? The most kindness we would offer would be to look away as we shot him dead with far more bullets than necessary. Perhaps, if it was a good day, he would receive a marked grave.

Everyone failed him. That was the burden he carried. Did you know that there are over a billion people in the world? Billions and billions of people! And not a single person decided to, in his entire life, look at Comic Sans and think he was worth a damn.

That's why he was on my counter that fateful evening, on the cusp of a sneeze as he practically consumed blue raspberry powder from a dip and stick packet. Not Mr. Zeel brand, I had noticed. That brand wasn't particularly good in the first place, much less with their weird and annoying flavors that somehow kept getting worse with every new release. Comic Sans found himself eating nothing but candy on my counter because no one gave a damn, and because I was too scared to shoo off the man with a gun.

That night was the night I couldn't call monster. The temptation was there, certainly there indeed. Call the police, get this strange and scary man out of my life forever. But then he gave off that look. That sorrowful look, like a little child who really just needed a hug. Sans was everything at that moment. Both a little boy who just wanted a nice teddy bear, and a grown man who had been shaken to his core and broken to nothing but dust in the shape of a person. The world ground him up and spat him out, and that was that. That was Comic Sans. That was the skeleton who gave me a look one night and made me realize that I just met the man who was everything, only because he was a bunch of tiny little parts stitched together with scotch tape and off brand glue.

I don't know if I'll ever see him again. See the man who was too small but too big, see the man who seemed to defy all logic. The single monster, abandoned by his kind on a surface full of enemies. The man who had nowhere to turn but serial killers, because he was useful to him, and that was it. All he had was usefulness, and I know that too was running quite thin.

But I do know one thing. That I won't ever be able to call monster. That a CreepyPasta could break down my door, point a gun and me and spat out nonsense, and that I could never cry monster. I cannot. Because I did so once before, under my breath when I found the monster.

And now, whenever I see those damned CreepyPasta on the news, his reflection stares back at me, and I'd smell that disgusting stench of chemical 'pink raspberries' all over again.