There's Something Living Under My Bed

There is something living under my bed. I can’t see it. I can’t hear it. But I know it’s there. Each night, a wave of panic crashes over me. I can see its cold, unfeeling presence when I close my eyes, but whenever I work up the bravery to check there’s never anything there. 

Clumps of my hair fall out every time I shower. I have a loose tooth. I don’t even recognize my hands anymore; the skin is wrinkled and paper thin. My muscles are atrophying. Food tastes bland, even when I heap the salt and sugar high.

I’ve been to the doctor a hundred times in the last year alone; poked and prodded in every way you can imagine. They assure me there’s nothing medically wrong, but they look at me like I’m crazy. I wish I was crazy, but I’m not. I’ve been assured by my psychologist. I’ve tried medication. I can only feel the side effects.

My friends and family joke that this is just what it’s like to get older. They have offered me nothing but empty platitudes. Sometimes there’s a faint glimmer of recognition in their eyes, but they’ve built a wall around these feelings. I would do anything for that wall. 

I tried moving. It follows me wherever I go, waiting for me, just out of my perceptual reach, its boundaries, enveloping more each day. I couldn’t live like that any longer, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. No doctors perform the procedure anymore, but I found instructions in an old medical textbook. I purchased the longest nail I could find at my nearest hardware store and boiled it. I placed the end of the nail where my eye meets my nose, and hammered it in with a mallet. Even through the near-fatal dose of painkillers, each hammer brought pain to greater heights. I could feel the nail penetrating the parts that make me who I am. With a final solid blow, I blacked out. 

I woke up in the hospital, my vision limited to a single blurry eye. I could hardly make out the shape of my brother. I tried to talk, but my lips no longer respond to the impulses I send them.

“Why? Why did you do this? You’re lucky your neighbors heard screaming.” He pounded his fist on my chest, caught between anger and relief.

The procedure failed, leaving me permanently paralyzed with no chance of escape. It’s still there, only stronger. Lingering. Salivating. All I can do now is wait patiently for my damaged brain to send its final signals, giving in to its desires.

My brother said he should get the doctor and asked if I needed anything. He knew I couldn’t respond, but was just trying to get a break from seeing someone he loved in so much pain. He stopped abruptly at the door, fear melting off of him like wax to flame. “I feel it too. We all do.”