My parents never believed me.

I hated my parents. They never believed me. When I was only two, when I would wake them in a state of hysteria, trembling and covered in sweat. Instead they put me back to bed.

My parents never believed me when I was five, when I would frantically try to explain the incomprehensible noises I heard coming from underneath my floor. Instead, they told me it was the sound of the floorboards shifting in the wind.

My parents never believed me when I was seven, when I replayed to them the messages the voices would say to me. Instead, they told me I just needed more sleep.

My parents never believed me when I was nine whem I would wake up with cuts on my arms and legs. And chunks of hair pulled out of my head. Instead, they told me it was something I merrily did to myself in my sleep.

My parents never believed me when I was twelve when I made eye contact with a grinning creature in my doorway, never breaking for what seemed like hours until he slowly shut my door. Instead, they told me it was my imagination.

I never believed my parents when I was fifteen, when their screams pierced the air like knives, turning from terror into pain. Instead, I told myself it was only the wind.
Perhaps my imagination, maybe I just needed some more sleep?

Thinking back, I only remember one thing: I was smiling...