I stare over the city from my perch. It's dark, the shadows draping over me, the alleyways, and the old buildings.

"I hate you!"

I look down at my claws. I remembered attacking my sister with these dark gray hands. My need to lash out at the pain proved too much.

I can't even remember what she said, only that it hurt.

Still, I hurt her.

I must be a monster.

I squeeze my fist closed, the claws digging into my skin. Monster.

Something grabs my attention. A man, down below, seems to be kicking a woman. Looks like it was time to be a hero.

Was I even worthy to call myself a hero? When in truth I was nothing but a monster?

My sister was depressed.

When things got hard, she'd give up. Shut down.

My parents worked so hard to help her.

I look over at them. My parents stood around her. Her beautiful dark hair and smooth, tan colored skin looked so different from my black hair and rough flesh.

Her brown eyes looked broken.

Somehow, her arms has scars, all over. I don't know where she got them.

Sometimes, I think she gave them to herself.

My parents worried over her, because she's the one who needs help right now.

I couldn't take that away from her.

Instead, I walk upstairs, to deal with my issues alone.

I'll be fine. I'm the strong one.

I have to be.

Sometimes, I forget that I'm a monster. It's buried under happiness. Good times with my family.

Never time with friends though.

Like now. I stop, looking at everyone sitting there.

None of them were friends with me.

They never made fun of me at least, but they never spoke to me.

Pulling up my hoodie, I carefully select a seat away from everyone else, hoping one of them would choose to sit with me.

No one did.

I hurt her again. Not with my claws this time, but with my words. I made her feel small. I lashed out.

Monster.

I open my mouth to scream, but no sounds comes out.

Something in my throat must be blocking the noise. My throat burns from the pain. Monster.

All I was good for was hurting other people.

I lie in bed. The pain in my throat blocking my sobs.

Why couldn't I be a good girl? Why couldn't I be the type of person who never hurt others?

Why was I always so angry? So unable to say anything about what mattered? Why did I hurt others?

"God ... Help me. Please." I whisper into the night.

I shouldn't think I'm a monster.

I'm not a monster.

I'm not a monster.

The next day, I look over the groups of people, just like usual.

I prepare myself to sit alone, but I notice something.

There's a girl. She usually sits with her sister, but she's alone now. Her sister's sitting with someone else.

I change direction, sitting next to the girl.

I may be alone, but at least she won't be.

Years later, I sit at my favorite rooftop, feeling content.

I shouldn't have gone through that alone, but I have friends now.

I'm not perfect.

I'm okay.

Spotting a crime, I leap down to stop it.