K. Stockton
Bio
Stories (1/0)
A Monster Under My Bed
There is a monster under my bed. It whispers to me. “You can’t,” it hisses, “you wouldn’t, you shouldn’t, you aren’t.” I am nine years old. My best friend is Gladys. We watch Clueless and make a pact. Tomorrow, we promise, we will each dress in a plaid matching outfit like Cher and Dionne. I uphold my promise. Gladys does not. Snickers fill the classroom. A kind teacher with curly blonde hair and warm, biting humor whispers to me, “I admire your bravery in expressing yourself.” I think that she thinks it helps, somehow. It doesn’t. That night, the monster whispers, too. “Idiot. Outcast. Weird. Why can’t you just act normal? Just blend in and things will stop being so hard. But you don’t know how to do that, do you? Freak.” I ask my mom if I can clean out my closet. “I’m too old for that stuff,” I meekly justify.
By K. Stockton2 months ago in Psyche