Monsters
There were monsters under my bed. And no, not the same monsters that other kids had, the fuzzy kind that looked like various flavors of Kool-Aid, or the ones that grunted in the middle of the night for the sole purpose of making kids wet their beds. Nor were they the personable monsters of Monsters, Inc. who had entire lives completely absent of their scaring occupations. These were abominable beasts who ate children for breakfast and lived under my bed every second of every day and night. They were subtle until they weren’t anymore, and there were dozens of them. I lived in fear for years, and no one would believe me.
They could write, too. I would find notes from them at all hours. On my well-made bed. Taped to my clothes hanging in the closet. In my underwear drawer right next to my freshly laundered white briefs. They were obscene, these notes, with made-up language and crudely drawn smiley faces, and they accomplished their purpose. When I would show them to my dad, though, he would simply laugh and attribute them to me, and to my well-honed imagination. Then I would burst into tears and run back to my room, leaving the door wide open. I never closed it.
I imagined they had names like Bob, Terry, and Jack. I even made up little dialogues between them as they sat there bored under my bed, waiting for me to start freaking out. Believe me, if I didn’t make up those conversations I would have gone certifiably insane. Maybe I did go insane despite my mechanisms. Continue reading “Monsters”
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