I used to let monsters into my room at night. I thought it would make my parents stop fighting if they both had a valid cause to put all their efforts into. Instead of yelling every minute of every day and throwing anything that could cause collateral damage to another being. Most children are scared of the monsters underneath their bed, lurking in their cupboards, and tapping at their windows. But I was more scared of doors hanging off their hinges, broken glass from tables thrown across the room, and the foundation of my home eroding from two cataclysmic parents with not enough love to give.
So, naturally, I’d leave trails of candy or bread underneath my bed, trying to lure the monsters out. I’d leave my window open, regardless of the weather and insects, and I’d always leave my cupboards wide, allowing in any spirits who wanted to wreak their havoc.
My plan was simple. I’d let the monsters in and have my parents save me, together. While they were saving me, they would realize how much they needed each other and would stop fighting. Then we could be a family again.
There was this one time last year where we all went on a road trip. We drove all the way to the Grand Canyon. When I think of what my family should be, I think of this trip. I think of my parents holding hands near the cupholder, my dad squeezing her hand every few miles, and my mom smiling with the sun.
Now I hear mom talking to her mom, crying sometimes. Saying she isn’t happy. Saying it’s not working out. Asking what she can do with the kids. “Some people fall out of love,” I heard her say once. Yea, well I don’t believe it. Because I think back to the Grand Canyon, and I remember finding the most naturally beautiful thing, not some bunch of damn rocks. I remember the way my dad looked at my mom. I remember the way she looked back. I remember it. I God Damn remember it. Why am I the only one?
I knew I had to do something when my dad came home one night crying. My sister and I were already asleep, but his sobs slid through the crack under our door and drenched the whole room in saltwater. He kept saying I’m Sorry I’m Sorry I’m Sorry, over and over again. My mom was screaming, she was hysterical. My sister and I were frozen. We were sitting up in our beds, hearts breaking our rib cages. I was gripping my blankets so tightly I tore through the skin on my hand. Beads of red blood popped up like bubbles as the screams drowned out my dad’s apologies. Their shouts were muffled like I was hearing them through a glass room. My sister and I didn’t dare open the door. It was loud, barrier-breaking until it wasn’t. There was a huge bang, followed by glass shattering. My dad had to go to the hospital that night. My sister and I stayed in our room. We didn’t know where mom was.
After that night, I knew something had to be done. If they cared about me, they’d stay together. They had to. My sister thought it was stupid, but she wasn’t even trying to stop it. I was. Every night for two years, I’d do my routine. I’d let anything into my room. I’d let the monsters with piercing fangs as eyes in, have them crawl over my skin, peeling back the layers until I was nothing but a silhouette of who I used to be. I’d let in the ones that smelled like grotesque dead bodies laid to rest years after the war, their dried blood sticking to my lips, forcing me to throw up lies and promises of “this too shall pass,” and “mommy and daddy love me.” I’d call for the molding giants with spiders for hands as they wrap their webs around my throat, mocking the sounds of my cries, telling me the darkness is just as soft as the light. I’d bring the pitch-black snakes with human fingers, have them violate the space my body takes up, forcing me to apologize for not being quieter when I scream. I’d let in the ones you couldn’t even see. I would let them linger, create chaos, and break me until there was nothing left.
I was just a hopeful child, the dangerous kind. And my parents ended up divorced. And everything I did when I was a child was for naught because now I’ve got all these monsters in my room and I don’t know how to get them out.