Monsters Are Real
I was three. I sat inside my room listening to my “dad” drill a hole for a chain lock he was putting on the outside of my door. I remember sitting on the floor, wondering why no one loved me. I thought maybe I could pretend to be a dog. People like dogs. Dogs live in cages, its not that unusual. Right?
But I wasn’t a dog. I was a forgotten child. Locked away like a dirty little secret. I pressed my ear to the vent, I could hear my mother downstairs watching “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.” Drinking the ice tea I had seen sunning on the deck earlier.
Was anyone coming back for me? It was getting dark. I looked at the closet. Monsters live in closets. Would anyone notice if a monster got me? Did they even remember that I was up here? It was dark now. The room, so many shadows. So scared.
The closet seemed safer. I climbed in and shut the doors. The darkness was smaller in there. Not as big and scary as an entire dark room. Stifling and hot, encompassing and enclosing.
The dark empty closet, held my tiny body, kept me safe.
It was the closest that a scared, small, child would come to a hug.
Monsters are real. But sometimes, they live in houses. Not in closets. Sometimes, the innocent live in closets while the monsters roam free.
Photo Credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/60113700@N04/