This is a short and somewhat silly little piece that came to me while I was working on a short story. I took a couple hours to whip it up, and here we are. The story itself is a work of fiction — as is the titular beast — but I think it speaks to an experience and emotional truth that many of us have shared. You’ll see what I mean.
When I hear the bedroom door creak open a few inches, I know my time is up. Every other night the door is firmly closed, but in my tired haze the night before, I must have left it ajar and thought I would be safe. I made a foolish gamble, and now I’m about to pay the price.
The door opens the rest of the way. I wish I could sink further into my cocoon of blankets and sheets, but they won’t protect me from what’s coming. Lying on my side, I raise my eyelids just enough to get a blurry glimpse of the doorway. It’s almost pitch black, but I can still make out a shape standing there, peering back at me.
I know for certain it’s the thing that I fear. Large for its size, low to the ground. A flash of large green eyes glowing in the darkness, and then it’s on the move. Somehow its footsteps don’t make a noise as it runs toward my bed.
I shut my eyes, roll on to my back and I do my best to lie still. If I pretend to be deep asleep, I think, or maybe even dead, the beast will leave me alone for just a while longer. I might call it a desperate plan, but in truth, it’s not a plan at all. And the beast knows that.
It knocks the air out of me when it leaps. All of a sudden there’s a dense, breathing weight pressing down on my ribs and my lungs. I had tried to brace for it, but I wasn’t ready. “Ow! You can’t do that, you’re too heavy!”
As a last-ditch effort to throw aside the monster, I attempt to sit up. But it’s already walking up my body, pinning me down. The heavy paws tread across my collarbone and right on to my neck. Its unsheathed claws send tiny pricks of pain into my skin. I can feel its breath and its whiskers on my face as it leans in closer.
And then it meows, as loudly and pitifully as it can manage. And when that doesn’t get a response, it butts my face with its big dumb head.
Jerking my head back to avoid a mouthful of fur, I glare at my cat with the moderate amount of malice that I can summon. “Listen to me, asshole. It is not breakfast time yet. The sun’s not even up!”
I think Smudge can understand what I say, but he just chooses to ignore it. Instead he stares back at me with those big green eyes and lets out another unhappy meow.
I glance over at the digital clock on my side table. The bright red numbers say 5:25. Five minutes before the alarm is set to go off.
“Okay, okay!” I whine, pushing back the covers and the cat. “You win this time.”
Smudge leaps to the ground and lands with a thud. Instead of running ahead of me to the kitchen, he waits for me to get up. Then he follows me down the hall, purring and rubbing against my legs the whole way.
Smiling, I reach down and scratch his ears. “Good morning to you too, buddy.”