I was always so afraid that the monster would get me.

I’d hide under the bed, breath held silent while my heart thumped in my throat, and

Wait. And

Wait. And

Wait.

Then I’d hear it: the soft
pat pat pat
Of feet nearing me.
Tears blurring my eyes, fighting to keep the whimpers down, I’d

Wait.

Then he’d arrive, bearing sharp teeth and pale skin and eyes full of malice.
He never hurt me the way I expected (teeth, blood, the works).
It was always hands on my throat; the air would leave my lungs and I’d feel my trachea collapsing, plum-colored bruises taking shape on my neck as I felt the life leaving my body.
At the last second, I’d feel the air rush back in.
Sit up straight in bed.
Wipe the tears I didn’t feel myself cry.
Stare at the wall. And

Wait.

I could never escape it, not in any real way.
I tried hiding in the bathroom. The closet. Under the covers. Sometimes I’d even try to run—
It always ended the same way.
Until he stopped coming.
(I wonder if he ever really did stop, though.)
Sometimes, I find myself sitting up straight in bed, wiping tear-stained cheeks, gaze locked in The Great Stare. And I

Wait.

In the dreamland between conscious and un-, I wonder what caused me to wake. But then I hear it:

pat pat pat