Little Hell

"Mom, there's a monster under my bed!" your kid screams upstairs.

You sit there, a cup of tea between your shaky hands, and a blanket over your shoulders.

Your heart beats frantically. It used to be standard procedure: you'd walk upstairs and turn on the lights. Open the closets, look under the bed -not exactly trying to find something, but so that he feels like he's safe in his little blue room-, reassure your kid with sweet words and a soft tone, and tuck him back in. Tell him a story, sing him to sleep. But you stay there, frozen in place, unable to take another sip from your already cold tea. The prospect wouldn't be so terrifying if your kid hadn't died five years ago.