The Care of Monsters

My sweetest girl, what a wonder it has been watching you grow.

Before you there were only books. Did you know that our room used to be an old man’s study? The walls on which you’ve hung your posters and paintings were once lined with bookshelves. Our room was cold and quiet then, with heavy red curtains that kept me in almost perpetual darkness.

Then, one afternoon, men in dirty white overalls and gumboots appeared and took the shelves away. I snuck from my corner into the back of the cupboard to see what would come next.

A young man and woman; your parents. She with a swollen belly and he with a ghastly moustache. 

They painted our room white and pink. I watched, with amused interest, as they struggled with decals of butterflies. After they carried in your cot I slipped out from the cupboard and settled beneath it.

And then, you. Your parents lay you gently on your thin mattress and closed the door. I crept out from below and perched over you as you settled into a restless sleep. You smelled of sweet powder and grunted and gurgled like a youngling of my own kind. You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, ruddy and round with a head of thick black hair.

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I remember you, my small girl, playing make-believe. With your tiny white and blue tea set. And when you offered your imaginary guests a cup of tea I would imagine that I was one of them.

“Why certainly, milk and two sugars, please,” I whispered as your chubby hand tipped the teapot towards our bed.

I never understood your obsessions, but it warmed my cold belly to see how they made you smile. Like changing seasons, each brought new colours and creatures to our room. First, the ponies and unicorns in shades of pink, blue, and green. Then pirates. Then dinosaurs. Then a thin plastic woman with a bright red car. And then, almost without warning, the toys were gone and our walls were covered in bright posters of women in sequined shirts and short skirts. And there was music, so much music.

And you grew long. Twelve years old, my tall girl, so worried about your skinny legs. I gushed with pride the first time you wore the blue tunic of your high school uniform. You remember it, don’t you? The one your mother bought a little big, the one that hung below your knees. You accused her of sabotage. She accused you of lacking appreciation. That was an afternoon of voices hoarse and faces red from the yelling -- a gorgeous fight, an epic battle of mother and daughter. And late that night, after all the screaming and fussing, after you’d fallen asleep crying into your pillow, I crept out from below, stroked your hair and promised you that soon, soon the pain would pass. You slept soundly under my watch.

My gangly girl, thirteen and glowing, you grew into that uniform and many others besides; our room was a mess of hockey sticks, netballs, trainers, tracksuit tops, and studded boots, all with shirts and skirts to match. And, as your body grew strong with new muscle, the shelves that once held ponies glowed gold with trophies. How I ached to see you play, to follow you out of our room, to your school, and see you run, just once, across a field of green grass and white lines.

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And then, this afternoon.

Oh, my precious girl, what did you bring into our room? There have been boys before, but none like him. He changed it all, that boy-thing, that monster. Yes, he looked pretty, his hair just so, teeth as white as the shirt beneath his blazer. But something was off from the moment I smelled him. When he sat next to you on the bed, too close, and you shifted from him, the hairs between my scales bristled. When he leaned in to kiss you and you pulled away, my teeth chattered and I unsheathed my claws.

When he made to slip his hand under your shirt, I bit my tongue and tore at my face. It was all I could do to stop myself from reaching out from under the bed and pulling him into the shadows forever.

But, oh, my brave, beautiful girl, when he ignored your polite rejections, when he moved to push you down on your bed, you stood and snarled. You struck his pretty face with a force such that his head rocked and the bed shook through its frame. He understood then that he wouldn’t have his way and like every small-hearted coward, he ran. Yes, he called you names, yes, there were veiled threats, but make no mistake, you beat him and he ran.

Now I watch you sleep, my darling, for the last time. I lean down and kiss you gently. Know I will always think of you. I’m going to walk across the threshold of our room, down the stairs, and outside. I would come back if I could, but that’s not how this works.

I can still smell him, the boy-thing, and I will follow the stench to find him where he sleeps. I will slip under his bed, and wait. He tried to take something from you. He couldn’t, but he tried. And watching you -- angry, defiant, so strong -- I understood that it wasn’t you, my heart, that needed me. You’ve never needed me... but his kind does. I will wait, crouched in shadows, and I will watch the logic of those fragile, selfish desires unfold.

Take, take, yes. I will watch, I will whisper, and, if I must, I will take.