It’s been a while. I guess you’re wondering how I’m doing, and I guess I’m wondering the same thing about you.
Do you remember the first time we met? You were in fine form that night, with your purple fur and your 17 eyes that peered out from under the bed skirt. You wanted so much to make a good impression—it must have broken your heart when I screamed and cried.
I feel terrible about that. I didn’t mean any harm, really, it’s just that we human children don’t like to be surprised. If you had introduced yourself properly, then we could have all avoided a lot of trouble. You could have slept on the floor beside me instead. I would have given you my blanket.
You didn’t have to react the way you did, my lovely monster. Even if I had hated you—and I never did—you can’t win somebody over by perching on the foot of their bed and whispering such terrible things into their ears. You didn’t have to scare me like that. You didn’t have to scratch me with your claws.
And then—do you remember?—you would reach into my ears and draw out my dreams. That was the worst thing. I wouldn’t have minded if you wanted to keep them, did I ever tell you? I know that monsters can’t have dreams, and I would have been happy to share.
But that’s not why you did it. You could have kept my dreams, or even done me the courtesy of airing them out, but you didn’t. Instead, you tied my dreams into a thousand tiny knots with a thousand evil turns, and you put them straight back into my head. I cannot forgive you for that.
I don’t blame you, though.
I don’t blame you, and I don’t blame myself, and I don’t blame the dark, because I wouldn’t blame the light. You didn’t rob me of a childhood’s peaceful sleep. Not understanding you did that.
Now I’m older, and I sleep too deeply to hear your monster words of love. Sometimes I wonder if you come to my bedside at all anymore, or if you’ve moved to the underside of some new child’s bed frame. I hope you have found someone who can love you better, and who will love you better in the moment that you need it. I hope you have found a friend.
Tonight I will turn off all my lights and wait for you, my monster under the bed. I hope that you will come and visit me (through the door this time, perhaps?), and tell me all about these past few years for you. I’ll want to know everything. Are the radiators noisy in your new place, my dear? Have your dust allergies improved?
Anyways. I threw away the night light that you always hated.
I hope I will see you again soon.