THE SECRET MONSTER

As a Child

I first heard it when I was twelve. A whisper in my ear as I lay in bed, half-asleep. A crunching, clicking voice—like a thousand cockroaches being crushed underfoot. The air changed, became uncomfortably warm, and was filled with the smell of decomposition. At the time, it reminded me of the compost bin my teacher kept behind the school.

"She resents you," it said.

I sprung up, searching the room for the voice, not convinced that it wasn't some artifact from an interrupted nightmare. Next to me, crouched near my nightstand, was a dark figure. I blinked, certain that it was some devious shadow cast from a mundane object in my room.

It wasn't. Whatever it was had a definite, physical form. There was weight to it. Power.

I wanted to scream, to run or hide, but flight felt useless. This thing was close enough that even if I tried to flee, I'd never make it to the door before being overtaken.

"She resents you," it repeated. The thing was unmoving. Almost casual. Relaxed.

Unable to see an escape, I did the only other thing I could think to do. I played along.

"Who?" I asked.

"Your mother."

I've tried to rationalize the scene a million times since that night. It was a nightmare, my own anxieties about my relationship with Mom manifesting themselves in a bad dream. Hindsight may have worked in my favor if it had stopped whispering to me then.

"You stole her youth," it said, and even though my eyes only registered the outline of this figure in the dark, I knew it was smiling at me. "If you were to die right now she'd feel relief. She'd be able to do all the things that you've prevented her from doing. She wouldn't have to spend her money on your  food or clothes. Wouldn't have to come right home from work to spend time and effort cooking for someone that doesn't even thank her. She'd be able to bring Felix over to fuck all night if she wanted, instead of constantly turning him down. She'd have her life back."

The tears came and I stopped caring if this thing grabbed me as I scurried from my bed and out the door. I ran to my mother. I asked her if she loved me. If she would miss me if I died. She told me that of course she loved me. Of course she'd miss me. Why would I think something like that?

I believed her.