It's Been There for Years

[Any feedback is appreciated :)]

It would be a lie to say I always appreciated its company.

It could be overbearing at times and too protective for its own good. I can recall when I first met it as though it was just yesterday. I was asleep - albeit in a light doze but asleep nonetheless – and had been woken by a quiet scratching noise from under my bed. The heavy breathing made me cautious. I had always been curious as a child, and caution was not my strong suit, but even I knew that the breathing was not something made for me to investigate. I'm not sure I was scared of it, more annoyed that I couldn't discern what the breathing was coming from. I wasn't sure whether he would walk in. I wasn't sure enough I could scramble to a sleeping position without being caught and punished for leaving my bed.

It stayed under my bed for a long time (I had fallen asleep again at some point), but when I had checked in the morning, there was nothing. No one. I had pulled out my extra blanket and pillow from my toy box and laid it beneath my bed, creating something akin to a replica of a blanket fort. I placed a few stuffed toys down. I hoped they would stay safe with the monster, would keep him company – keep him calm in the same way they did to me each night that Father saw it fit to stomp and smash and scream. I didn't know whether something alive was under there the previous night, but I knew even dead things could get hungry. I watched a television programme about it while Father slept. The Walking Dead, or...something similar. I had grabbed two of the bowls from the kitchen (while Father went on another trip to the pub) and filled one with crisps and sweets and the other with water and then repeated what I did the previous night. I went to sleep, fell into a light trance once again, and was awoken by the scratching. I hadn't heard Father come home which meant I was safe to move. Or – at least – I hoped so.

I looked under my bed.

At first, I couldn't determine what the thing was. My first thought was a dog from how it was curled up, but the red eyes seemed unnatural for a dog. The crisps and sweets were gone, residue from both coating the thick...fur? It looked more like smoke. The water was half drained as well. An afterthought came to me as I stared into those crimson orbs – something Father had warned me about when I kept climbing from my toddler bed a few years ago. The monster under my bed. I watched with childish fascination as its lips pulled back into a silent snarl, my own body subconsciously copying it. It looked confused in those deep pools of red. Slowly, eyes still locked onto its own, I slipped myself back onto my bed fully. A monster. Impossible was my first thought and by my first I stood, secure in the practical sense I had in me. I had scoffed, rolled onto my side and promptly tried to fall asleep once more but...

I couldn't.

No matter what I did, thoughts of that scarlet glare kept finding their way into my head despite all my best efforts and kept me awake. I couldn't shake it from my memory. I'm sure that you, reader, can sympathise with a traumatizing thought keeping you up. I wouldn't have described it as traumatizing but that's the word Father used when I told him about it. I hadn't slept that night and even he, as unrelenting and cruel as he was, could see it was bothering me more than it should've. He thought I was scared; unable to fall into the soft clouds of my dreams because fright was keeping me awake, but he was wrong. I wasn't scared and I wasn't frightened: I've already mentioned; I was inquisitive as a young girl - I didn't like it when things didn't make sense. My brother was more worried than my Father upon discovery of my 'fear', but considering he did care much more, it was a given. Father said I was being silly, and sent me to do my chores.

That night, I decided that I would try to talk to the monster. I wanted a connection with it, a friendship, and it felt like I was in a hypnotic trance that was so strong I was unable to break out of its grip... Well, would've been unable to if I was trying to. As a child, you have two instinctive fears; a fear of falling and a fear of loud noises. Monsters were not an instinctive fear – rather one burned into you by parents seeking a moments rest. My Father had no reason to add to the raging inferno that was already flaming deep within me – though I think he told me about the monster to keep me in bed, rather than make me cling to him, a child in distress. Instead; he branded a fear of drink into me; a fear of disobeying an order he gave. A fear of him.