My room is full of monsters.

 

Every night before bed, ten-year-old me scurries around the second floor of our house, clicking every light switch until every hallway illuminates like daylight. I do this with caution, tiptoeing around the light switch in case my footsteps make unpleasant creases that awaken a sleeping monster. Once the lights are on, I rush into my room, leaving a sliver of the door open at roughly five centimetres. I squeeze through the sliver into my room, a room of monsters. 

 

One monster lives inside the walk-in closet to my left, lurking within the Disney princess costumes and mermaid dresses I once wore as a self-conscious child and fear to touch again. The laces drag pixels of dust across the cold carpet floor. He floats behind the sparkly blue dress I once wore to a daunting recital, awkwardly slapping palms to thighs from forgetting my line. He taunts me with this memory, warning me––do not approach.

 

Another monster lives in my ceiling fan, one that has creases where mechanics are tightly screwed. The larger, mother monster lives on the stem of the fan, sleeping above the spinning blades and watching them rotate. Her children are dispersed around each blade, each one screwed on with creases––like melted faces. I turn to face the wall opposite of them, fearing to see them every night, the children’s whiny faces dripping into the abyss of the cold carpet beneath. 

 

And, of course, a monster lives under my bed, creeping on the carpet floor as the lights shut off. He avoids light, scared of them. The sliver of light creeping through the gutters of the door frame pushes the beast against the corner against the wall and away from me on the edge of the bed. Still, I always know to keep my hands away from the floor in case it wants to drown me underground. 

 

Drop a tissue? 

 

Too bad, grab a new one.

 

Blanket slip off? 

 

Sleep in the cold.

 

Hand dangling over the edge of the bed? 

 

Either swiftly lift it back on the mattress or prepare to get a thumb bitten off.

 

Whenever morning comes, I dash out of my room and into an area of life––my mother's room, the kitchen, living room, or even outside, comforted by crickets or the sound of tires screeching on the road. I need to be anywhere away from the monsters––somewhere lively, somewhere real. Somewhere the shadows of monsters wouldn't bite through the dark air. 

 

However, even monsters open their arms during times I storm into the room with thickened teardrops in my eyes and soaked into the surface of my dry skin. I stomp my feet, maybe scream, tearing Kleenex tissues into bits and pieces, letting them snow onto the floor. My hands clench the frizzy baby hairs sprouting through the top of my hairline and slam the old, wooden door behind me even when it makes no sound. The room is dark and fully dark this time. The door is shut. No five-centimeter sliver, or even a four-centimeter one, or three, or two, or one. No slivers of light peaked through the gutters like usual. The monsters woke up. 

 

The monster from the closet seeps through the crumbling blue fabrics of old dresses, causing one to drop on the floor, the one I wore to the recital. That memory falls onto the ground and I look up to stare at the sheepish monster. It's okay, you can approach now. He watches me cry from the back of the door frame, hand gently clutching the wall and floating in one spot. 

 

I crawl desperately past the closet and lie on the floor, stomach facing up. I stare at the frowning children stuck on my ceiling fan twirling like a merry-go round. The mother on the motor continues moving, a gentle vibration that hums a tune of wind brushing on my itchy skin. The children's sad, distorted faces spin rapidly as the corners of their mouths drip down into my eyes and morph into a kaleidoscope of molten lava. It's okay, we won't whine today. 

 

I flip to lie on my stomach before stabilizing my body on the bed with my elbow. The monster under my bed brushes my delicate wrist before I drag my leg on the blanket. I let my hands, feet, and blanket dangle, not worrying about lifting it onto the mattress or losing my thumb, or my index finger, or even my pinky. I throw my used tissues on the floor for the monster to stash in his corner. He guards the bed, seemingly rocking me back and forth until I fall asleep like a baby in a crib. Shhh...It's okay, just go to sleep. I lie asleep in the monster's arms. 

 

Sometimes, the outside world can be too loud, too needy, too scary––scarier than a monster. Sometimes I want somewhere to go somewhere not lively, not real, a place where shadows of monsters would bite through the dark air and carry my tears in their palms. Perhaps it is in these moments, the quiet, dark moments, that monsters learn to comfort me, whether after the fight with parents over dinner or a group of bullies at school. 

 

Since then, I have never been scared of monsters in my room.