ang3lsh1

velvetcadence

redwesteinde

There is a monster beneath Charles’ bed.

Of that, he is sure.

When he tries to tell anyone else, they laugh, especially the adults. And so Charles can only huddle in his bed once the maid has shut the door behind her. They won’t leave it open to let the hallway light in; not any more, not after his stepfather had snarled, “Spoiling that brat rotten, there are not such things as monsters.”

And so, every night he goes to bed with some biology text or another, certain it would help protect him from the monster beneath his bed. After all, knowledge is power; and with power comes strength, does it not?

The moonlight beyond his window throws eerie shadows in his room, but he’s so very certain that the one waving frantically from the bottom of his bed is not one of them. With the certainty of a child, he clutches his book tighter and sinks further beneath his covers. After all, you can’t see me if I can’t see you.

As he grows older, the voices in his head grow louder, clamouring, demanding to be heard, an unending cacophony of noise as time goes on. He is convinced it’s nothing but the monster under his bed, whispering such things to him whilst he sleeps. Besides, there is no one who is willing to point out otherwise.

Eventually, as all children do, little Charles grows up. He learns that not all monsters hide beneath his bed. Not all monsters are voices in his head. In fact they’re mostly voices in other heads.

Most importantly of all, sometimes people are the worst monsters of all.

On the day he leaves for Oxford, Charles takes the time to survey his boyhood room, running hands down the mantle piece, picking up his old knick knacks and flipping through old biology texts. The trees outside his window have long been trimmed away, no longer able to throw shadows into his room.

An afterthought perhaps, he gets down on one bended knee to peer beneath his dusty, childhood bed. Uncertain of what he expects to find, all that greets him are dust motes swirling in the air, despite him looking into every corner.

Chuckling, he shakes his head as he gets up, pulls his bag and sets out the door. Closing it shut behind him.

As the door shuts, a lone shadowy limb creeps out from beneath the bed as though to wave forlornly at the little boy who grew up.