To anyone who will still listen,
I am not insane, not crazy, not mad, not bonkers; I have seen what I have seen.  It started 15 years ago. I was but a child; you see.  I was walking in the woods alone and I saw a shape move.  It looked like a deer, but I knew it wasn't.  I don't know how I knew but I knew.  It was a monster; monsters are real.  I rushed home and no-one believed me, said I was imagining it.  They were wrong, but would never know of their error while they lived.  I spend my whole childhood hiding.  I was hiding from the monsters.  I was foolish, there are some things that one cannot hide from.  My sister was the first in my family to die.  Out of nowhere she caught an illness.  She died soon after.  I could see the monsters watching her bed.  I could see them snickering and cackling.  That was when I decided that I would no longer run away.
Years passed and I began to show my work paying off, I was in a peak of fitness, my mind ready.  I had a plan to kill anyone I met, if they turned out to be a monster.  I had no friends.  I showed no interest in girls, sports, hobbies, or school.  I trained in every open moment during the day; read monster lore at night.  I was a killing machine with no target.  The monsters, sensing my strength, avoided me during those years.  I trained undaunted.  I needed to keep innocents like my sister safe from those fiends.  Near the end of my adolescence I saw one.
It was stalking through back alleys near a liquor store.  It shambled from side to side like a pendulum.  It's roars tilted high and low in a nearly song like capacity.  I drew my blessed knife and approached it from behind.  It hardly noticed me before I attacked shoving my blade through its back, while covering its mouth to stop it from attracting attention.  Red goo oozed from the wound and it collapsed in my arms.  I cast it aside then went to the river and threw in my soiled gloves.  It was my first kill, it was glorious.
Soon after my parents kicked me out of the house.  They said I was wasting my life and they wouldn't support it.  It was fine. I could support myself as a monster hunter, I could support myself somehow.  In those first weeks I was awkward, I had trouble balancing my personal needs and my quest.  Many monsters that shouldn't have slipped through my fingers. The times were bad, I'd go into them but it isn't my point in this letter.  Life was bad but once I was in the swing of it I began making more and more kills.
A notable kill was about two years ago, I was sleeping in a gutter and a small quadrupedal demon screeched at me.  It had tufts of hair and grotesque fangs.  I pulled out my knife and slashed at it.  It quickly dodged and ran away.  As it ran I threw a rock at it, stunning it and allowing me to close. I then pulled my knife and savagely tore into the beast.  After that I didn’t feel safe anywhere I slept.  I was an agoraphobic homeless man.  I had lived with my aesthetic lifestyle.  I had foolishly felt secure when I was alone.  I never did again.  I kept moving; stopped sleeping.  I was on the verge of collapse when someone caught me.
She was a do-gooder and saw a broken half crazed homeless man walking in the street.  I hadn't slept in weeks at that point.  On a normal day I no-one would have paid me collapsing on the street any mind.  It wasn't a normal day.  I shouldn't have trusted the good feelings.  She nursed me back to health, gave me a warm safe place to sleep.  I began to trust her, to love her; but you always hurt the ones you love right?
One night I awoke from a nightmare.  I looked up to see her standing over me.  I could see in her eyes something was eating her from within.  A monster was inside her and she couldn't fight it any longer.  She had saved me to kill the beast, the beast that wore her face like a mask.  I reach up and grab her throat, strangling every last bit of life from both her and the beast within.  I then run out crying.
I don't feel like I can do this anymore, being human I mean.


[this letter was found nailed to the wall of a whorehouse in downtown San Francisco pinned by a knife; the whereabouts of the author are unknown]