A young boy grows up in a small, dim house with his quiet, exhausted mother and a monster that lives mostly at night. He never sees the monster clearly. Only heavy footsteps shaking the hallway, angry shouting that turns walls thin, the sound of glass bottles smashing against cabinets, and his mother whispering,
“Stay in your room… don’t come out.”
Sometimes he sees its shadow. Tall, wide, swaying like it can barely stand. Sometimes he hears it crying after it hurts her. His mother never calls it by name. Only ‘it.’ She hides bruises under long sleeves. She teaches him games to stay quiet, counting ceiling cracks, memorizing cartoon dialogue, pretending the house is underwater so no one can hear screams. The boy draws pictures of the monster. A faceless giant, hands like broken branches and a mouth that leaks black smoke
One night the monster becomes worse than ever. The shouting turns into crashing furniture. His mother drags him out of bed and whispers,
“We’re leaving now.”
They run barefoot into the street with a small bag. Behind them the monster roars but this time he sees it clearly under the porch light. Not claws. Not fangs. Just a tired man with bloodshot eyes and beer stains on his shirt. His father.
The boy froze in confusion because monsters aren’t supposed to look like family photos. As they drive away, he asks why she never told him. She answers quietly.
“Because you deserved a childhood where you knew monsters were wrong… even if they looked human.”
Years later, as a teenager, he hears his own voice yelling during an argument… and for a split second, he sounds exactly like the monster from the hallway.
