At night when I prepare to turn the lights off, I take a mental snapshot of the route to my bed between the landscape of clothes and books and assorted things on my bedroom floor. When I do flip the switch, I sprint along this path and make a dive for the covers lest my ankles come within the arm’s or tentacle’s length of the monsters that live below. That’s right. Despite the roll out bookshelf under my bed and the shelves in my wardrobe, I still half believe that monsters can emerge from them in the darkness.
I used to lull myself to sleep by telling myself that they don’t really exist but I’ve begun telling myself that perhaps I was judging them too quickly, that they could be rather lovely and lurking there only because of their jobs. I began to tell myself that on the off-chance that a monster did emerge from the darkness, I should reach out and call it “Kitty” before screaming bloody murder. Knowing me though, I would probably skip straight to the last step, which is why I keep the wardrobe doors ajar at night so that they can’t come in through Monstropolis.