Monster in my Closet

FEATURED in the WDC Newsletter -  Short Stories: Soul Eater - Editor's Picks, by Shannon , August 12, 2015

INVITED TO READ THIS SHORT STORY, IN A SCHOOL, TO SHOW TEENAGERS WHAT HAPPENS BEHIND CLOSED DOORS - AND TO ALWAYS SPEAK UP, 2016 Confidentiality Noted.

-FEATURED in the WDC Newsletter  - Horror/Scary: Dreams, Editor's Picks, August 2, 2022, by W.D.Wilcox , -

I am so small when I am next to you.

I was so happy then or I thought I was. Remember that day when you took me camping? That day you took that picture of me. I was wearing the red backpack that you gave me on my birthday. You kept the picture in your wallet. Sometimes I saw you looking at it in your bedroom before you came to see me.

I thought you were kind and good. I always imagined you as my hero, my savior, a great warrior from a cartoon or from a comic book, but … you didn’t protect me, you hurt me. The nights when we were alone together … I’ll never ever forget them. You were supposed to sing songs to me, read stories to me, tuck me up in bed so that bugs wouldn’t bite. Instead of games and children's toys, I received grown-up experiences on my flesh that cast all my fantasies and childhood wonders away from me. I didn’t like it. As a matter of fact, I hated it, but you forced me to think otherwise. I trusted in you. I am your child. You brought me into this world. You must love me and call me sugar pie.

Why do you hurt me?

Your only duty is to be my wise and inspiring role model, but you turned me into a tool; a favorite tool that you keep in your toolbox, hidden under a bed. Each visit is torture for me--torture without screams. I can't scream. You cover my mouth. You don't have that right! Have you no compassion? Please! What is it that gives some people the right to hurt? I only want to be young, childish, happy, and immature. I only want to grow slowly, not overnight in the silence of my room with you, breathing heavily over my small body. Oh, the pain.

I don't want to do this.

When I see your broad shoulders in the doorway I know what you want. I tell you that I don't feel good and have a real bad flu, but without a word you close my door. You sit on the edge of my bed. Your cologne smells of sandal wood. You switch off my bedside lamp. I tremble. I tell you that my tummy aches. You caress my flannel-soft pajamas. I start to cry softly. You tell me that I'll be surprised, and you open the first button of my pink pajama top.

Can’t they see the bruises on me?

Everybody is around me; but nobody sees, listens to me, or observes my pain. It hurts at night. Nobody asks me about it, or is even interested in asking. Is the truth so hard to face? Were they treated the same way I am now? Do they know? I thought I saw some recognition in my mother's eyes but I may be wrong. My sisters are so quiet lately. I want to scream, cry, and beg for help; but I am too ashamed of my own truth, of my own embarrassment.

I’m scared.

I am so scared of you, you monster - you are worse than the boogieman, or the scarecrow that haunted me before you came, outside my window. You are worse than the darkest of nights inside my closet, feeling cold and alone. You are the monster in my closet … late at night. Your deep, cold eyes follow me everywhere. I am afraid of you; scared that you might kill me, or take away from me much more than you have already taken. There is very little left, you know? Why do you hurt me in secret? Why do you look at me as if I were an adult, when I am so small and innocent?

I can’t suffer this way any longer. I want to smile again like in that picture that you keep so secretly hidden.

I’m not supposed to suffer, but to play, and laugh. Have dolls and fairy tales. I wish I had them. I don’t. You threw them away. Where is your emotional control? It's out of control. When will you stop? Maybe when the next one is old enough? What is wrong with you? What is wrong with ... her? What is going on in her mind? Does she ... listen? What do you really see when you look at me? Does she ... see? When did it start? When she became too old-looking and too tired to care? Does she ... know? What did I do? I must be a very, very bad little girl. And so, I hate you. With all my might, and, with whatever is still left inside of me.

I don’t understand much.

When a boy hits another boy in school, it is called bullying; if this same boy steals a wallet when he is older, it is called stealing. When bigger and a man, if he hits a co-worker, it is called trouble-making. When he is a father, and if he abuses his little girl--what is it ... really called? It is much worse than words because it is endless. There is no logical explanation. 

I’d prefer to be somebody else.

I’d rather be adopted, be homeless, or be an orphan but … I am your little daughter, your child. I serve you when it’s convenient, in the silence of the stars. You know, I’d rather be spanked or punished by you than feel the things that you do to me with your hands, and maybe I would have turned out to be okay. I envy other children with their simple lives.  I envy their fathers. I observe them together, and I cry, alone in my room. I cannot tell anyone about my sorrow. Who would believe me? My shame has become my bitterness. I am no longer a child. I am a woman in a little girl's body. My sorrow has become my nightmare. I have no more dreams.

You were my idol, my best friend.

I will never forget your smell, your touch, and the marks you left on me and in me. Oh, all those years wishing for your love, and for the warmth of your fatherly embrace--not for your insatiable desire, and for the fury of your body inside mine, cutting my little soul forever.

I guess I am a very bad little girl. You tell me so every night.





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