Monsters under the bed - Part 2

Everyone knows how thunder works, the louder and faster it comes, the closer the storm is. You can calculate it neatly when lightning appears after the last crack of thunder. Or, in our house, after the last stair creak. But in this case, there was no actual lightning filling the room with its electric charge, no blinding flash erasing all details in its brilliance.

My lightning always looked the same. The final thunderclap was followed by the brass door handle being slammed downward, the door flung open so hard it stopped at the dent in the wall where it always hit. And then came the blinding light that made the entire room pale like a storm’s flash. A silhouette stepped inside, that was all I could make out. The streetlight was much weaker than the harsh glow from the hallway, making it impossible to see who the silhouette concealed. It wasn’t big, but it was incredibly strong, and every storm, it thundered into my room, the final strike after the rolling thunder and the blinding lightning.

I whispered, “Shh,” to Piet Hein. Though the figure wasn’t clear, I knew this was my father. He was having one of those days again. I didn’t fully understand the phrase, if it happens every day, is it really just one of those days? The room echoed with his shouting, but I couldn’t understand a word. That happened often when he was like this. My ears literally hurt. I felt the pain start in my right ear, but it seemed to tear straight through my left. Clutching Piet Hein, I covered my ears with my hands and slid lower into the wardrobe, hoping the noise wouldn’t reach me there.

The figure reached my bed, bending over it, the shouting growing louder and louder. Sometimes, I thought he was yelling at the bed itself, he did it every night with every fiber of his being.

But tonight felt different. There are different kinds of storms. You have refreshing ones, heavy summer storms, and then you have supercells. Those are the most terrifying. I wasn’t afraid of them, but I knew I had to hold Piet Hein tightly. He was scared, even as my curiosity grew with each rising pitch of my father’s voice.

Then it finally happened, quickly, but finally, the storm reached its climax. My curiosity was satisfied. I finally knew how this storm would end.

The figure moved with arms outstretched, drawing them back to his crown before swinging them forward with a final scream. A dull thud followed, vibrating slightly. The figure turned and disappeared into the light of the door.

Her scream cut through the room, higher and louder than my father’s shouting. She stormed towards the bed, yanked back the blankets, and froze when she saw the knife, deeply embedded in the mattress. My gaze followed her movements, my heart pounding in my chest, but I couldn’t force myself to leave my hiding place. She struggled to pull the sword free, the metal scraping against the wooden floor, and without a word, she left the room. The door closed silently behind her, but the silence that followed was unbearably loud.

When the light finally regained its hold on the room, I crawled out of the closet, my heart still in my throat. My bed was ruined, the mattress slashed by the blade that normally hung above the mantelpiece—my father’s prized possession. I sank to my knees and stared at the hole in the floor, where the sword had been driven in so deep that the carpet around it was torn. Fear overwhelmed me, a cold, all-encompassing fear I couldn’t escape. I softly asked the monsters under my bed if they were okay. They looked at me with wide, frightened eyes but eventually nodded reassuringly. I felt their unease, their vulnerability, and a determination awoke within me.

This was the first time I should have died, or at least, that’s how it felt. But I was still alive, though something inside me had died that night. As I curled up in bed, I could still feel the cold, icy fingers of the sword gripping my heart. I promised Piet Hein and the monsters that I would protect them, that I would grow stronger so that none of us would ever have to be afraid again.

The door opened again, this time softly. My mother stood there, her eyes icy, meeting mine in a silence that was anything but reassuring. I stared back, refusing to look away, holding my breath as she picked up the sword and left the room. The silence she left behind was heavier than the storm.

This was the beginning of my transformation. As I grew up, that night remained burned into my memory, the night when the childish illusions of safety and love were shattered forever. The cold lingered, a constant reminder of what had happened and what was still to come.

I had trained my own monsters, taught them to no longer be afraid, and now they stood ready to protect me, just as I had promised them. But I hated that cold intensly.

I survived, but not without scars, and in the shadows of my memories, the monsters still danced, a lasting witness to a childhood not defined by fear of what lurked under the bed, but by what stood beside it.

all images are prompted in Midjourney by my own prompts

The previous chapters:
https://ecency.com/hive-125125/@nathalie-s/friday-night-the-night-i?referral=nathalie-s
https://ecency.com/hive-125125/@nathalie-s/friday-night-the-night-i-7d9dfc6649fe6?referral=nathalie-s
https://ecency.com/hive-125125/@nathalie-s/monsters-under-the-bed-part?referral=nathalie-s