A door creaks open.
Jimi’s strangled cries are cut off by the sound of my front door slamming shut.
The angry knocking and yelling resumes from the next apartment. But I’m not scared of Elijah Cohen or his chain-smoking wife. I am caught in breathless anticipation and terror over the powerful entity I’ve knowingly summoned into my bedroom.
The monster remains where he is, and though I cannot see his eyes or any defining features of his face, I know he is intently scrutinizing me. I feel it press against my flesh with insistent, probing heat. Tingling zings of embarrassment flood my body and cheeks. Nails dig into my chest where I’m holding the bra up to cover my breasts. My breathing is labored, my body humming with a potent mix of fear and excitement so intense I don’t dare move or blink, afraid I might shatter the moment.
One of the tendrils picks up Jimi’s discarded shirt, lifting it into the air between us. Before my eyes, the fabric blackens and crumbles into dust.
In an instant, the monster who emerged from under my bed materializes beside me. His gaze burns into the side of my face. Hot energy pulses between us without warning. I can’t stop myself from trembling as waves of electricity course through my body.
My lids flutter shut, as one of those long tendrils caresses my bare throat with a velvet touch.
The creature’s cold mocking voice pierces through me like a blade. "Did you miss me, Evie?"
A Monster’s Return
Did you miss me, Evie?
The monster who lives under my bed has returned. I brought him here.
And judging by the cold, grating texture of his voice, he is pissed.
One of his smoky tendrils wraps around my neck, causing more goose pimples to race and rise across my skin.
My eyes slam shut at the touch I long missed. Every emotion riots inside me, fighting for dominance—from relief, to grief, to excitement, to anger. I land on the last emotion and cling to it with all my might.
"Where have you been?" My words come out shaky, through bared teeth.
I don’t want to open my eyes. Despite feeling his caress, I fear I’ll open them and find myself alone,again.
There is such a long pause, I force my eyelids up. As soon as I try to see into the unfathomable darkness, the tendril around my neck hardens and forms into a monstrous hand with long black talons. The pressure is enough to raise alarms in the sensical part of my brain. The other stupid part of me is so grateful to be touched again.
I follow a black scaled arm up a hard bicep, taking in the muscular torso. Over twice the size of an already large man, he fills the room. The cut of his abs allows for an extra set, adding to his supernatural strangeness. Streaks of gray veins press underneath his onyx skin.
Horns jut out from the top of his head, like sinister spires, curving backwards with an elegance that belies their deadly sharpness. Their surface is textured, appearing almost molten, as if forged in the heart of a dark, infernal flame then cooled into twisted, obsidian silhouettes. When I meet his gaze, I find a pair of glowing white eyes, as if they are made of mist. For being so ethereal, they punch straight through me, taking my breath away.
He’s here. He’s really here. MyShadow.
Suddenly, I’m thrown back to when I first saw Shadow. To when I firstfelthim.
4 Years Old
I’m with a new family. The other one didn’t want me. Neither did the family before them. No one wants me.
This place smells yucky, like bad veggies. The sheets are scratchy and there’s no night-light.
I hate it.
Quiet tears escape my eyes as I cling to my stuffed animal, a parrot named Snarp. I can’t let them hear me crying, or they’ll come in the room.
I don’t want them in my room. They don’t feel like a mommy or a daddy.
Not that I know what parents feel like, but I see other kids with their mommies and daddies. It’s like looking into awindow of someone else’s house. I shouldn’t look, but I can’t help myself.
My heart gets all tight, kind of how Play-Doh feels when you squeeze it too hard. I can’t sleep. I go back and forth between rolling in bed and sitting up, holding Snarp and my knees to my chest.
I roll for the bazillionth time when Snarp slips off my bed. Panic shoots up into my throat, ringing alarm bells in my head. Oh no! Poor Snarp might be hurt, or worse, he’ll think I don’t love him.
