Monsters

Who are the real monsters?

Sara slips her legs out from under the bedcovers, her tiny pink feet landing with a dull thud on the laminated wood flooring. She tiptoes over to the bedroom door and back, a quick shadow in the darkened room.

"One," she whispers, jumping the last few inches, not wanted to get her feet anywhere near the edge of the bed, near the black hole underneath where it lives.

She holds her breath and peers over the side of the bed but sees nothing except the dark outline of furry rabbit slippers.

The tv drones from downstairs and pans clatter in the kitchen. She sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, takes a deep breath and jumps, landing out of reach of it, should it grasp out with one of its long feelers. She’s sure it had some. Her feet move quickly, quietly, taking her to the door and back.

"Two."

"Are you out of bed?"

Sara doesn't answer. She sits quietly cross-legged on top of the quilt and listens to see if Dad calls up again. When he doesn't, she hops to the floor, sprints to the door and back to the warm covers.

"Three."

She's been scared of the monster for as long as she can remember, most of her six years. She heard him moving around under there that first night, when her Dad took the crib down and told her she was a big girl now and so would sleep in a big bed from now on.

"Four."

"Sara!" Dad’s voice.

"I just went to the bathroom," she answers, fingers on both hands crossed because telling lies is a bad thing to do.

"Get to sleep!"

Then one night, her father had come when she’d screamed. He'd laughed first, told her there were no monsters but then said that crossing the room to the door and back ten times each night would keep it under the bed.

"Five."

And it has always worked. Once the tenth run has been done, Sara can rest, knowing it’s where it will stay, under the bed.

"Six."

The door bursts open. Sara hates it when her father shouts, his face red and angry. She never can understand why he told her how to keep the thing under the bed then gets so angry when she does it.

When he's gone she tiptoes gently, her toes cold. On the way back to the bed, she trips, falling clumsily to the floor. Sara counts the stairs as she hears his heavy feet pound each one.

"Seven," she says quickly as she dives onto the quilt.

The top of her leg stings. Sara can't see in the dark but she guesses there'll be a handprint there by morning, bright red. She sits for a while, holding her leg and waiting. Sometimes dad falls asleep in the chair. She's seen him when she's been down for a drink or if she's stayed up later.

"Eight."

She thinks that running quickly is the answer, on her toes, like ballet dancing. But his feet run too, heavy and stomping and the door flies open so quickly she thinks it’s going to fall off.

"But the monster," she protests, rubbing the top of her leg again.

"No such thing as monsters," he says. "I've told you before."

"But, you said, run to the door and back. You said."

"I said no such thing, stupid girl. Get out of bed again and it'll be the belt for you."

Sara hates the belt. It cuts her skin and she has to wear trousers to school for a week.

"Nine," she whispers, climbing slowly and gently back onto the bed, trembling because her feet are next to the dark hole, seeing as jumping will be heard. It has taken a long time, one tiny slow quiet step at a time.

Her body aches. She is tired and wants to go to sleep. Just one more. Gentle steps again, slow ones, like a tortoise. She just reaches the door when it opens. Sara sees the shadow first on the floor, hanging from his hand, a shadow from the landing light on the stairs behind him. He swings the belt, once across the back of her legs. They give way and Sara falls to the floor. He takes her by the arm and tosses her onto the bed.

"No such thing as monsters, I've told you," he yells, just before the door slams behind him.

"Ten."