Under Attack

In my bedroom, the monster lurks. It has no arms or legs or neck—just a giant head affixed to a long, tube-shaped body. Its face is covered in red fur, almost covering the swirling black holes it has for eyes, and its rancid breath is like my terrier’s after he’s barfed up something unidentifiable. Yellow teeth gnash inches away from my fragile eight-year-old skin, flinging poisonous spittle every which way. If I didn’t have the pillow jammed over my head, my skin would be pockmarked from the acidity. I can hear my sheets sizzling from the dripping saliva, and I hunker down lower under the covers.

This isn’t the monster’s debut appearance. It shows up here almost every night after midnight, poking its snout out of the ancient dresser at the foot of my bed and leering at me with its mad eyes. As the minutes on my wind-up alarm clock tick by slower, and slower yet, the creature grows bolder and undulates in a snaky weave across the room. When it wafts like that, it smells like dirty socks on fire.

I can’t move. I can’t emit as much as a squeak. I want to alert my big sister. I want her to do the right thing and fling her body in its path. But she slumbers on in the twin bed beside mine, unaware of my imminent doom.

She babbles something incoherent in her sleep and giggles. In that moment, I hate her. If only she’d wake up and save me, maybe I’d love her again. It’s the least a big sister should do for a dear little sibling like me.

The creature’s zigging and zagging speed up. I inhale in desperate gulps, my heart pounding to the rhythm of its horrid dance, and I know it’s about to strike. It means to impale me with its viper’s teeth and then swallow me, inch by inch. It will bite into my head first, then my scrawny shoulders, then onward, right down to my precious ballerina toes. I’ll never dance at the Bolshoi. I’ll be a monster’s bits ‘n bites before I’m pooped out its other end.  My sister will find my disgusting remains in the morning, roll them up in the bedside rug for later disposal, and go down to breakfast, smug to reclaim her status of beloved only daughter.

I sneak a peek. The monster swoops across my bed. Its gaping, nightmarish mouth is almost level with my jugular. I try telecommunication: don’t bite me, don’t bite me. Look, there’s my sister, all nice and chubby, in the next bed. She’s juicier. Much meatier. Bound to be tastier. Honestly.

It doesn’t hear my psychic plea. It’s fixated on me, and me alone. I lie rigid and try to force out a scream. My throat constricts. I can’t do it. Not even the merest peep.

This is it then. My end. The world is about to become a less vibrant place. I send the Baby Jesus a quick apology for any transgressions, to ensure my rightful spot in heaven. As I pray, the shaggy, reeking thing makes a final pass over my face. Quicker than my bugged-out eyes can track, it swan-dives toward me.

At the last microsecond I find the strength to hurl myself to one side. I somehow succeed in wailing out a cry for help. I scream with all my might for the super-being that vanquishes all evil.

“Mommy!”

There’s a thunk, followed by flying footsteps. Our bedroom door crashes open and she appears, silhouetted against the hallway’s bright light.

“Oh, sweetie, not again.” My mom’s crackly night voice has never sounded sweeter.  “Was it—”

“Monster!” I gasp as I point to the stolid wooden dresser. It sits there, all respectable, pretending to be an innocent piece of furniture that houses girls’ cotton underpants, not apparitions from hell.

 “There, there.” My mother sits on the edge of my bed and hugs me. “You’re okay. Nothing’s going to get you.”

She’s saved me. My heroine: bed-headed, bare-footed and negligee-clad. The most important person in my universe. The strongest. The bravest. The most beautiful.

My sister, who’s managed to miss all the excitement, rolls over and mutters something. I consider forgiving her for failing to offer herself up as the more appropriate human sacrifice, being more expendable and all.

But I take a final precaution. I point to the other side of the room.

“Mom, could you please push the dresser over there?”

She gets up and moves it a few crucial inches, then gives me a last hug and leaves. Now the malevolent furniture faces my sister’s bed head on. If the beast makes an encore appearance, it will see her first. I wonder if it will swallow her whole, or if her bones will make a nasty crunching sound when the thing starts chewing. I put the pillow back over my head just in case.

Not that I hope for my big sister’s demise. I do love her—when she’s not being mean to me. Like telling me to leave her and her girlfriends alone because they don’t want to play with whiny babies. Or that Mom and Dad wanted her, but I was an accident. On good days, though, when nobody more interesting is around, she’ll actually deign to spend quality Barbie time with me, in spite of our huge eighteen month age gap.

Still, I’m glad Mom pushed the dresser over. Because you never know. And I have a future at the Bolshoi to consider. This isn’t selfish. I’m just thinking about what’s best for the world.

For now, I’m content to go good night, sleep tight. Mom’s on guard duty. She’ll always save me from the monster’s bite.