The Monster Under the Bed

Desks always creek. The metal of their legs, thin like a starving child, always seem to make a noise that scrapes the inside your ears.

Creek.

Sad Ben shivered. He hated the noise. It reminded him of hurt and pain --- the menacing creek of wooden stairs with chipped wood and dented corners that creek with each step.

Again, the desk behind him made the noise.

Creek.

Sad Ben took a breath.

“What’s wrong?” asked the boy behind him. “Do you not like it?”

Again, the desk screamed.

Creek.

And again, Sad Ben took a breath, trying with all his effort to focus only on the teacher at the front of the room, chalk in her hand. Sweat began to creep down his back.

“I think you’re angry, Sad Ben.”

The boy’s breath was warm on Sad Ben’s neck. Several snickers, low and mocking, came from the few other fourth graders that sat in the back of the room as well. They all wanted to see Sad Ben angry. It seemed to be their goal, terrible as it was, and he hated it. Home was bad enough.

No.

Home was hell itself, especially since Mom left.

And the stairs, old and worn from that person’s heavy footsteps, that person he loathed and feared, seemed to always creek, always tease him with how helpless he truly was.

“Queer,” the boy behind him whispered again. “I heard you like boys.”

Be strong he told himself. That’s what his mother always said.

Another girl, just to the right of Sad Ben with blonde hair and a green jacket, piped in, whispering, “I heard that too.”

She giggled, causing others to glance over, the hint of a grin soft on their lips.

The boy behind made that noise again, louder. His whole desk moved from the effort.

“Stop it,” Sad Ben murmured, so soft he wasn’t sure if even he himself said it.

The girl beside him covered her mouth in shock. “He talked.”

“No shit,” the boy behind him murmured. He flicked the back of Sad Ben’s neck, making him flinch. “Why don’t you make me, fag?”

Make him?

Sad Ben’s clenched his jaw. He couldn’t show anyone how he felt. That would bring trouble and questions and answers he couldn’t provide because ...

Because that person, that person who tormented him, would come up here in his shitty truck with the cracked windshield, booze heavy on his breath.

Sad Ben shook his head at the thought. That was the last thing he wanted.

But, unfortunately, life didn’t work that way. People seemed to relish the discomfort they could cause Sad Ben. And since he never fought back, never uttered a word in his defense, never did anything but slump his shoulders and hide in himself, others took advantage of it.

Especially that person with the truck.

This time, a smack seared Sad Ben’s neck. It was loud, causing a rude stinging heat that quickly filled Sad Ben’s neck and back. He bit the inside of his mouth, the others around him snickering almost loud enough, hands over their mouths, for the teacher to hear.

But Sad Ben didn’t say anything.

More heat, this time prickly like jagged coals, erupted throughout Sad Ben’s neck as the boy quickly slapped him again, harder. The laughs were nearly unrestrained now, and Sad Ben, poor Sad Ben, fought with every ounce of strength he owned to not cry. The tears were so close, and the laughs didn’t stop. The teacher paused her teaching, her chalk-writing, and turned to face the class, hand on hip.

“What’s going on?” she asked. Her brown eyes were stern behind her glasses.

A chorus of laughter erupted throughout the classroom. Everyone snickered except Sad Ben. Fingers pointed at him like he was a freak --- something undeniably different. The teacher ...

The teacher.

Sad Ben nearly screamed for her to stop, but he would never do that.

The teacher quickly called the principle and spoke with him just outside the classroom’s doorway. Both of them turned to face him, worry laced heavy in their eyes like they truly cared. Meanwhile, all the kids around Sad Ben continued to talk about him --- how weird he was --- the shaggy clothes he wore.

And Sad Ben believed it.

After several long minutes, the principle returned. He gestured for Sad Ben to come to the hallway. Again, the kids laughed when he stood, shoulders slumped, eyes facing the glossy tiled floor. Once he reached the hallway, everything in Sad Ben, the last remaining strength he had, crumbled.

“Your father is on his way.”

Finally, the tears fell.

It was cold outside. The air nipped at Sad Ben, trying its best to crawl under his worn-out clothes as they walked to the truck, the clouds above heavy and grey. His father had come fast. Once he arrived, the principle and his teacher explained what happened --- how weak Sad Ben was. The entire time, his father refused to look at him.

He didn’t even speak.

So, now they were in the truck. His father slammed the old-rickety door, its hinges moaning like a drowning witch. The leather seats, full of scratches, were stiff from the cold, and the floorboard was full of beers and fast-food wrappers, some still drenched in grease.

Sad Ben could feel the beat of his heart rattle in his chest as his father started the truck. It was quiet, too quiet and Sad Ben, shivering in the passenger seat and watching the tall dying trees rush buy, felt lost. He willed the tears to stay put.

But when they reached the clearing in the woods ...

When they turned down the short gravel road that led to a small house with faded grey brick, old windows, and a slanted roof with missing shingles ...

Screaming ... screaming till his throat bled was all he wanted to do. Yet, that, the yelling, would make it worse. So, he got out with his father, flinching when he slammed the door, and followed him to the rotten house. It was dark inside and cold. Sad Ben hated the dark. It teared at his spine like the sharp dirty nails of the dead and made his knees tremble because anything could happen in the dark.

Behind him, his father slammed the door with a grunt. The man towered over him like the devil, his shadows seeming crooked against the grey light that struggled to get through the living room windows. Sad Ben could barely breath. He knew, could feel, the grueling stare from his father’s black eyes but still ran up the stairs anyways, each step a loud creek that quickened his pace, made him feel like demonic hands were grabbing for him, so he thumped harder and quicker until he rounded the hallway, the wooden floor dark like wet dirt, and shouldered open his bedroom door, panting.

He tried his light switch but it didn’t come on. Everything, his small bed, his wooden dresser, even the old toys that were from his mom, felt like they were staring at him as if they could feel it too. Before Mom died, it wasn’t as bad. But even she couldn’t handle his father’s already rough abuse and drinking. Even she didn’t love Sad Ben enough to stay, to control herself enough to not swallow every pill in the bottle, but Sad Ben still loved her. If only she were here.

He glanced at his closet, thankful it was closed, and walked in, shutting the door behind him. Instantly, it was dark, too dark, full of shadows that allowed his father to burst in and do things that only evil could see.

He hated the dark.

“Are you scared?”

Sad Ben sucked in a breath.

“Shh, shh,” the monster soothed, its voice soft like a child, innocent like an infant, but sill odd as if it was much older and terrible than it sounded.

He jumped on his bed.

“What happened?” the monster asked, sounding worried like the teacher and principle. Usually, it talked to him from under his bed if the closet was shut. Sad Ben never saw it. He only heard it and the monster terrified him because a feeling struck him, grabbing his stomach with rough hands, every time the thing spoke. Even the air, already cold, became icier when it visited.

“W-well ...” Sad Ben licked his lips. “My father is mad.”

“Oh? When is he not?”

Sad Ben engulfed himself in his small covers, shivering enough to make the bed sway. “Today, I—”

A sound came from the stairs.

Creek.

Sad Ben moaned in fear.

His father was coming.

“That’s not good,” said the monster under his bed. “What happened today?”

Sad Ben shook his head. “He had t-to pick me up from school.”

The stairs groaned louder like demons digging their way up from hell.

“He’s going to hurt you, Ben. Worse than he usually does. I can feel it.”

No. He didn’t know how many more beatings he could take. Mom should still be here but she wasn’t. It was only him.

The monster’s voice rumbled like distant thunder, vibrating through the bed frame. “How much more are you going to take, Ben? You don’t deserve this.”

Sad Ben’s heart began to beat even louder as his father reached the top of the stairs.

“Let me do something. Please, Ben.”

“No,” he said, flexing his jaw. “There’s no escaping him. You’re just in my head.”

“Am I? Or are you just too scared to stand up to him?”

Sad Ben was. No one could beat his father. The man was large and unfeeling.

Footsteps, booming on the hallway floor, came towards the doorway.

“I can help.”

“No y-you can’t,” whimpered Sad Ben. “I—”

The door thundered open. Grey light spilled in around his father.

Sad Ben cried out.

Instantly, his father stalked through the room like a madman, grabbing Sad Ben by the shoulder and throwing him to the floor. “Please!” Sad Ben cried, the ground stiff against his boney frame.

But his father didn’t listen.

Roaring like a bull, he thrashed his belt against Sad Ben’s back. The monster under his bed yelped and Sad Ben heard it. Another strike came, wild, sending fire throughout Sad Ben’s body that knocked the breath out of him. He struggled for air, scraping his nails against the floor, but came up short as another blow came and another. Desperate, he looked under his bed. A silhouette sat there, panting, with teeth as long as Sad Ben’s arms. They stared at each other, another lash from the belt rattling his bones. Pain clouded his thoughts but he focused on the figure. It seemed to smile at him as if waiting for permission.

I can help.

But could it?

Another strike. More pain.

His father didn’t seem to register how much damage he already caused. Again, he raised the belt, chest heaving, and again he slashed it against Sad Ben before doing it again, his nails nearly dislodging as he clawed at the floor in agony. Sad Ben knew he had to get out. If the monster could really help him ...

“I can,” it whispered, smiling wider, too wide. “Let me.”

The next blow made Sad Ben scream in horrid pain. He couldn’t take it anymore.

Stay strong.

“Do it,” he groaned to the monster. “Make it stop.”

Instantly, it crawled from under the bed. Sad Ben caught a glimpse of grey skin and long sharp teeth before he slammed his eyes shut. Its feet clawed against the floor and Sad Ben could hear his father stop. It laughed like a kid, sending goosebumps along Sad Ben’s bruised shoulder.

It was real.

His father screamed. The monster cried like a spoiled child as it attacked his father but Sad Ben kept his eyes closed, not daring to look as the sound of tissue and skin and muscle being teared from bone filled the room like a pile of dead bodies. Sad Ben cried from the terrible noise, the pleasure the monster was having as it tore more flesh, spilled more blood, made his father beg and struggle and bang his legs and hands against the floor in desperation.

How many times had Sad Ben done that? How many times had he pleaded to his father to stop?

Too many.

Which is why Sad Ben finally released a breath. Which is why he finally opened his eyes and smiled. A weight seemed to lift from him --- the constant presence of worry and fear. Blood pooled around his feet, warm and sticky against his toes. He looked down, admiring the constant stream of blood still spitting from his father’s throat. The sight soothed him and the monster smiled, every skin-splitting tooth dripping. It had no eyes, only a month and a body that looked like a kid.

“How do you feel?” the monster asked, it’s wicked smile still unsettling Sad Ben.

He glanced at his father’s dead body. “Free,” he said, surprised the man was actually dead. No more pain. This is what his mother meant: to always stay strong.

“Good. I’m glad you finally stood up to him. You were right.”

“About what?”

Sad Ben blinked and the monster was gone.

“It was all you,” came the monster’s innocent voice from under the bed. “All you.”

Sad Ben looked down.

A knife was in his hand.