I met her in the third grade. She had mousy hair, and red splotches all over her face. She was a bit fat too, and no one missed an opportunity to tease her for it. She was a scapegoat, doomed to sit at the bottom of the food chain for the rest of her life; Someone would always be there to belittle her, and it seemed she'd been born that way.
I was the butt of jokes too, for different reasons—a budding Axis II mental disorder, keeping me from understanding things the way everyone else did. People called me special and different. I couldn't tell whether that was an insult or a compliment.
She didn't mind, though. She'd still sit with me at recess, and tell me about the latest episode of Hanna Montana. We were each other's escape from the rest of the world—we didn't call each other stupid or ugly, we called each other by our names, and we were the only ones who did.
So I was the first to notice when bruises started to dot her arms, when the red splotches were revealed to be burns and scratches. When I first asked her about it, she pretended not to know what I was talking about, but I persisted, as any frightened child would.
"It's a monster." She said, eventually. "There's a monster in my house." She wouldn't say any more.
It was hard not to notice, though. She wouldn't let me visit her house, even after she'd been to mine so many times. Whenever I asked about it, she shook her head quickly, terrified at the very thought of it.
"My house is scary." She said.
"The monster?" I asked. She nodded.
I asked if she had a dog, or maybe a cat. She didn't. "What does your monster look like, then?" I asked.
She stared at the ground. “It's big, and it's scary."
“Is it a person?”
“No . . . “ She said. “Not anymore.”

She'd piqued my interest. This was the stuff of nightmares, the type of thing that was always happening to someone else. I spilled all of it to my mother one night, all the secrets that weighed too heavy on the conscious of a child. I could feel the mystery following me everywhere I went, begging for a resolution I was too cowardly to find.
My mother frowned, and said she'd go visit my friend's mother. She kissed my forehead, and I knew everything was going to be alright.
I saw my friend the next day. I told her I'd solved her monster problem.
“What?” She said. “No, you should stay away—“
“Don't worry!” I said. “My mom is going to fix everything, okay? You don't need to be afraid anymore.” I gave her a long hug. She started crying. I assumed they were happy tears.
When I got home from school, my mother had already left. There was a note on the counter dotted with hearts and assurances. I smiled, and thought about how much fun I would have at school the next day, and how thankful my friend would be.
I was sitting on the couch and flipping through television channels when the phone rang. I wasn't supposed to answer the phone when my mothers weren't home, so I ignored the ringing as if that would make it go away. It didn't.
It rang seven more times until the caller left a message, and I could hear them as they did. It was her, panting and crying through the phone.
“Are you there?” She said. “Please pick up, please please please.”
I stared forwards at the T.V. I thought that if I ignored it, it would go away, it'd be a bad dream, or my imagination playing tricks. I was not so lucky.
“She's in trouble.” My friend said, whispered through the tiny speakers. “Your mommy's in trouble.”
At the mention of her, I sprung to my feet. I dashed towards the phone and almost tripped over myself. Everything happened so quickly, like I was passing through a dream.
“H-Hello?” I said. My fingers were sweaty, and the phone was slippery in my hand.
“Your mommy's here.” She said.
“Yeah, she's going to stop the monster.” I said. “She's telling your mom to stop the monster.”
“No, she needs to leave, she needs to get out right now. . .  Call for help, call the police, call someone! S-she's in big trouble!”
“She can't be!” I said. “She's with your mommy!”
She sobbed into the phone. “No, you don't understand!” She said. “My mommy is  the monster!”