Cynthia Jones is my child, and I am the monster under her bed.

November 10, 1963                                                                                                                                    7:55 A.M.

   I guess he can’t do it anymore. He doesn’t want to be assigned to Cynthia Jones any longer. He couldn’t stand the crimson color of her room and the ‘Bugs Bunny’ toys that littered the floor. Maybe it was that. Maybe, after four years, she just wasn’t afraid of him anymore. Cynthia was a tough little girl, I’d seen her over the years get picked on a fight back - a rather hard thing to do when the person picking on you is a rather tall boy. Regardless, her mother dressed her in brightly patterned dresses each day and tied her hair in ribbons, yet she seemed as though she was never quite in the same world as everyone else. I didn’t ask about what it was that made him request a change after all this happens all the time, children outgrow their monsters. He did his job and now another will take his place.

November 17, 1963                                                                                                                                      8:37 P.M.

   Every day this week Cynthia Jones has been assigned a new monster. She’s gotten common monsters, rare monsters, those made of stone, and those that swim in water. Each one has come back to me, requesting a change. Most have been crying.

November 21, 1963                                                                                                                                      8:24 P.M.

   I’ve been through them all. Every. Single. One. I looked over the books and as luck would have it, there’s only one monster left I can assign to her; me. I haven’t been in the field for a while - I never really liked it. But something about Cynthia Jones intrigues me, how could a seven-year-old girl shake the toughest monsters in the world to the core? None will tell me. But desperate times call for desperate measures. I’ll go in tomorrow. Cynthia Jones may always be in her own world, and that was fine by me, but I have a job to do and now she’s in mine.Tonight, none of my monsters will see the olive couch or patterned curtains. None will small the meatballs and grape jelly. Tonight, Cynthia Jones would sleep, because tomorrow I will be her monster.

November 22, 1963                                                                                                                                      1:30 P.M.

   It’s been a bad day for Americans like Cynthia. I best not go today. I want her to remember me. I do not want to be overshadowed by a dead president.

November 23, 1963                                                                                                                                      2:01 P.M.

   At 7:55 Cynthia will be tucked in by her mother. I’ll begin at 8:00.

November 23, 1963                                                                                                                                    10:16 P.M.

   At 8:05 tonight I slithered through the living room Cynthia Jones, the pale light of the news, along with Walter Cronkite’s voice illuminated part of the room revealing the burnt orange walls and the bright patterns of the curtains. Mrs. Jones had just tucked Cynthia in and must have been shuffling around her own room, I made my way to the small girl’s abode and curled underneath her small bed. She was drowsy but awake. I crept halfway out from her bed and reached my arm towards her sliding a scaled finger down her cheek.

“You don’t scare me,” she whispered into the dark. I did it again, “You don’t scare me,” she said again, though this time her voice was shaky. I looked across the room, past the Bugs Bunny toys and Chatty Cathy dolls I made eye contact with the small red clock, 8:21. I could hear the door slam, shaking the house along with Mr. Jones screaming. Time seemed to quicken as his feet hit the stairs, pounding on each one. Cynthia inhaled sharply and the bed creaked under her weight, she planted her feet on the ground and backed up one step. She bent down and crawled. Next. To. Me. “Move!” she grunted. The door was pushed too hard the knob made a dent in the wall. Alcohol perfumed the air. I could hear heavy breathing and grunting as Mr. Jones’s boots tracked mud up to the bed. He reached underneath the bed, snagging her wrist and began dragging her out. The girl made no sound, screaming with only her eyes. Before she could be taken from the darkness I snatched her hand away and replaced it with mine. “Hol-” he was cut off by my 8-foot height, looming over him as I came out from underneath the bed. While caressing his right cheek I looked down at him and hissed, “Don’t hurt my child because I assure you I can do worse to you.” Mr. Jones ran, sobbing out of the room. I tucked Cynthia in tightly and kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, my dear, and sleep well. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I know why none of my monsters could scare her; she was afraid of her own.

November 23, 1963                                                                                                                                   10:30 P.M.

Cynthia Jones is my child, and I am the monster under her bed.