There Be Monsters

There Be Monsters

Every night I sacrifice my feet to the monsters.

There is no other option.

I must lay my feet bare for the monsters to feast on, or overheat.

My husband sleeps peacefully, his innocent breath puffing in my ear, while I resign myself to the onslaught. I have contemplated moving the duvet, ever so slightly, inviting them to dine on his feet while he sleeps; but alas I know that won't work. These monsters have been with me my whole life, they'll know the difference, his feet won’t appease them.

I wear socks in bed to dissuade them, but it only prolongs the inevitable. Everyone knows monsters can't abide socks, they simply can't get their long slimy teeth through the cotton. They stare at my socked feet and breathe their horrible hot breaths. They light little fires under my toes. They won’t stop until I give up.

There have them. Have my feet you monsters!

With great bravery I hook the big toe of my left foot into the top of my right sock, and push, to free my right foot. And I must commend them! It has to be very hard, especially for monsters, not to pounce on the one exposed foot and devour it, toes first, the moment it is freed. Yet somehow, they don't. They must be credited for their patience. We've all been the first to receive our meal at a restaurant and had to wait (out of politeness) for the rest of the party’s food to arrive. Stomachs grumbling, unable to keep our eyes off the plate in front of us, maybe sneaking a quick chip and chewing slowly so no one notices. That's what it must be like for them, once one foot is exposed. But somehow, every night, they manage to contain themselves. They wait, and salivate, and hold their breath in anticipation, for my right big toe to slip into the top of my left sock, for my left foot to be free.

Only then do they set about the pair, a culinary feast for one's like them.

In the end it's a small nightly sacrifice for sleep, that comes more easily, knowing the monsters are full now. And knowing (even as they pick the marrow from the tiny bones in my toes) that I foiled them!

My well-practiced moves saved my hands that stayed safely under the blankets.

Everyone knows monsters can't get under the blankets.

*

I imagine my monsters, tired and full of foot flesh, curling up under my bed and gently purring in their dreams.

That was another struggle; the battle for the highly contested ground underneath my bed.

When I was young (and my monsters were much more unruly) they hid under my bed and terrified me. I could feel their weight shifting under there, see their oily movements in the dark.

I could smell their ragged breaths.

Untamed and merciless, they would snake out from under my bed the moment the lights were switched off and prowl about my room. Waiting, unblinking, for the smallest piece of my body to protrude from my blankets.

I had to plan.

I had to outwit them every night.

Carefully mapping my route from the light switch to the bed. I knew exactly how long their arms were, so I had to (even in daylight) jump the last half a meter or so to my bed. To be absolutely sure they couldn't grab my feet. I could never dangle my feet off the side of the bed, oh no. It would be like throwing chum in the ocean!

*

Personally, I've never had a wardrobe monster.

I just don't think the house on the farm had the right climate, or wardrobes, for them. I've heard they're fickle about their environments, like orchids.

I have encountered some though.

Once on a long drive we stopped over at my brother-in-law’s parents’ house. I think it's before he was married to my sister. And that night, in his sister’s room, while I was trying to fall asleep on a mattress on the floor (so no under the bed monsters) I saw the crack between the doors in the built-in wardrobe slowly growing bigger.

That whole night, I could not move or blink, but my vigilance paid off, everyone made it out alive.

*

We’ve grown together, my monsters and I, compromising along the way.

When the children were very young, they never ambushed my nightly zombie tread between the crying cot and my own bed.

Maybe tired meat, like stressed meat, is tough and unpleasant to eat?

Then a few years ago, I got a bed with storage drawers underneath, the storage is nice, but the fact that the monsters’ quick access route to my legs have been hampered…

Pure bliss!

They're still there, I reckon they must nest between the towels and bedding, and I always try to leave enough space for them to do so.

Before their midnightly snack of feet, they must escape the drawers. I have no idea how they do it, some sort of osmosis I assume.

Of late our battles have become more co-ordinated, more a dance than a war.

I think they're happy. Sure, they can't just jump out at me anymore, but I can't just leap out of the way anymore either. I know they won't pounce; they know they'll get fed. Everyone is a little better off, and everyone saves face.

Win, win.

*

I'm glad my monsters have decided to stick with me for so long. I'm sure over the years they must have been tempted to work with younger, more fertile, minds. Maybe they long for the thrill of the hunt? Maybe they miss stalking those more reluctant to sacrifice their feet, miss pouncing out at young supple bodies, willing to leap the last stretch to the bed.

Every now and then I enquire (amongst friends and acquaintances) about monsters, and we laugh, because they too leapt to beds and stared at wardrobes without moving when they were children. But I can see in their easy laughter, their eyes, and their actions, their monsters have abandoned them.

Poor things.

Maybe they went along with old toys, and clothes you’ve grown out of, to younger cousins.

Maybe they're all hiding under the shelves of the British Heart Foundation and other second-hand shops on the High Street. And that makes me sad.

So, I'll keep my monsters for as long as they want to stay, safe in the drawers under my bed and snacking on my feet at night.