Why Monsters Don't do Group Therapy

by Jackie Kessler

"My name is Mark, and I'm a monster."

Around the room, a chorus of inhuman voices chanted, "Hi, Mark."

Mark combed his fingers through his black hair. "For the record, I think this is a waste of time. There's nothing wrong with being a monster."

"Of course not, Mark," the therapist said, flashing a smile. "But it's important that we acknowledge our place in the scheme of life."

"Unlife," Mark corrected.

"Death," the zombie called out from the corner.

"Dead as a doornail," said the muse. "Pushing up daisies. Ashes to ashes."

"What have you." The therapist spread her hands wide, taking in the small room. "We're all set apart from humanity. By first acknowledging our own monstrosity, we take the first step to overcoming our challenges."

Mark eyed her suspiciously. "How is admitting that I'm a monster going to help me? There¹s nothing wrong with me being a monster."

"Of course not, Mark. Why don't you tell us why you're here?"

Mark pursed his lips for a moment before he leaned back in his chair. "I've got a drinking problem."

"How can a vampire have a drinking problem?" This from the werewolf suffering from alpha-male-pattern baldness.

Mark looked down at his feet. "Things used to be simple. Rise at full dark, go out for a quick bite, scare some of the locals. But these days, no one scares easy. Satan spare me, everyone's into monstrosity. Look at the Goths!
Kids dressed in black, wanting to be vampires. Thinking that it's all partying until dawn, black lipstick and loud music. It¹s sad."

Around the circle, the other monsters murmured agreement.

"So this one girl the other night, she . . ." Mark's voice choked, and he clamped his lips shut.

"Go on, Mark," the therapist said.

"She was on a Buffy kick. Down to the Sarah Michelle Geller nose and the Joss Whedon dialogue. Decided she was a vampire slayer. So in the middle of a truly awful one-liner, she smashes my mouth with a mallet." He smacked a fist against his palm. "Bam! My canines shattered. Damned weapon had been blessed by a priest."

The zombie whistled in appreciation of the horror.

"If it doesn't kill you," the muse said, "it'll make you stronger."

Mark snarled at her. "Will you please stop speaking in clichés?"

The muse cringed in her seat.

"Now, Mark, I know you're hurting," said the therapist. "But please don't take out your anger on Melpomene. She can't help but speak in clichés. That's why she's here."

"She's not even a real monster!"

"She's not part of the prevailing religious universe. Therefore, she has been designated a monster."

Mark would have muttered under his breath, except he didn't breathe.

"Everyone here has an issue they're working on." The therapist motioned to the shedding lycanthrope. "Burt here is wondering if using Rogaine would adversely affect his status in his werewolf clan. Freddie, over there, wonders whether he'll fade into nothingness now that his movies are no longer popular. Crunch, over to my left, is convinced he's starving, even though zombies don't need nutrients as such."

"Damned television," the zombie said. "Brains keep atrophying. Music television. Game shows. Reality T.V. Brains getting smaller. Nothing left to eat."

"Don't go blasting the media again." Freddie raked his claws against the armrest, shredding the plastic. "Movies made me what I am today."

"And what is that, exactly? You're nothing more than a caricature of a boogeyman." Burt snorted. "Poster boy for Satan's serial killers."

"Now look--"

"Folks, please," the therapist said. "Come on. You know the rules. This is Mark's turn. Now, who has some self-empowering ideas for Mark? What can he do to solve his drinking problem?"

The werewolf shrugged. "Go to a dentist. Get yourself a new pair of chompers."

"Yeah, right," Mark said with a snort. "Show me a dentist who works after hours. And insurance swears it's cosmetic, so they won't cover it. Idiots."

"An apple a day," the muse said.

The vampire rolled his eyes.

Freddie said, "Try a blood bank, maybe?"

"I'd rather bathe in the sunshine than be forced to drink pre-packaged meals."  

"Someone's acting holier than thou," Burt said, his voice a growl.

The vampire glared at the werewolf. "Take that back!"

"Or what? You'll gum me to death?"

"Bore me to tears," Melpomene said. "Cry me a river."

"Folks," the therapist said, "please. Come on, everyone. We're all on the same side."

"Maybe." Mark stared hard at the therapist, watching her pulse dance in her neck. "But we're not all players, are we? Fess up, Ms. Helena. You're not a monster like us. You're human."

The therapist's hands fluttered on her lap. "Why, yes. Yes, I am human. But I'm a practicing Satanist."

"I see. And that qualifies you to counsel a werewolf, a zombie, a muse, a boogeyman, and a vampire?"

"Man," said Crunch, "we're the supernatural BREAKFAST CLUB."

"This isn't about me, Mark. It's about you and your drinking problem."

"No, let's talk about you, Ms. Helena. Ms. HUMAN Helena."

The therapist swallowed audibly. "My credentials and references are excellent."

"I have no doubt," the vampire said. "But you don't really know what it's like to be a monster, do you?"

"Mark, I'm not here to convey my empathy. My role is to help you all help yourselves."

"Really." Mark glanced at the others in the room. "Well then, monsters. Any . . . palatable suggestions?"

"A friend in need is a friend indeed," said the muse with a smile.

"In deed, huh?" Freddie slipped off his razor-tipped glove and tossed it to the vampire. Mark slid it over his right hand.

"Now Mark," said the therapist quickly, "we're not here to role play."

"I'm not interested in role play." He met her wide-eyed stare. "I'm a monster, Ms. Helena. I have needs. Certain necessities."

"Necessity," said Melpomene, "is the mother of invention."

The vampire leapt out of his chair. The therapist opened her mouth, perhaps
to reprimand him for ignoring her boundaries, perhaps to scream bloody
murder. With a flick of his wrist, the razor tips sliced open her neck. He
pulled the dying therapist to him and locked his mouth over the gushing
wound.

"Dude, dibs on the brain," said the zombie, licking his chops.

The muse smiled. "All's well that ends well."