There’s a monster under my bed. Mum told me that’s silly, that other than a few old toys and the odd dirty sock, all there’d be under there is a carpet badly in need of a hoover. But I know different. I’ve felt it, whatever itis. I think I might have seen it too, out of the corner of my eye, just before I fall asleep. Then it haunts my dreams, a blackness, an absence. Nothing, where something should be.
I think I know what it wants though. Me. I think it wants to crawl out from beneath the bed and take my place. Become something. And then I’d be nothing, I’d take its place. I’d be the monster and it would be me.
Or perhaps it’s already happened. Perhaps I’m already it. I’m already the bad dream and its already me.
I’m the monster under my bed.
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