Under My Bed

• Khalil Arja
• Short Story
• 2006

It’s that time again, that time that I dread,
That nerve-racking time, when I have to go to bed,
Mum tucks in the covers, “hope the bedbugs don’t bite”,
But I know there are worse things that lurk ‘round at night.

There’s a monster, you see, hiding down there,
That horrible mutant with a red eyed stare,
It hovers in the shadows ‘till the day is done,
Its toothy mouth smirks at the sight of the setting sun.

Mum comforts me, as my face turns to white,
“It’s okay sweetie. Everything’s alright.”
She turns on my night light and closes the door,
“Don’t you worry about those bedbugs anymore.”

We’re all alone now - it’s just the monster and me,
I bet it’s licking its lips now with sheer ecstasy,
I pull up the blankets to cover my head,
To hide me from that creature that lives under my bed.

I have a sudden thought, what if I catch him first?
So I creep out of the blankets, expecting the worst,
But he doesn’t emerge so I bend down to see,
That strange, frightening creature, that’s waiting for me.

I hold the sheet tight to invade his lair,
I jerk it straight back, but I can’t see much down there,
I find a few lint balls, some toys and a tack,
But the monster’s not there tonight, I guess he’s just slack!

A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified. Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills the air. I look for my shues under my bed. A fat colored woman becomes my mother. I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap. I grow a beard in one day. I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut. I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to talk to me. I empty the garbage on the tabol. I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them. I use the typewritter as my pillow. A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes. Bums give all their money to me. All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life. My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough bacon. My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of blue beards. My dreams lifted me right out of my bed. I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a bullet. I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me. My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning of life All I needed was ink to be a black boy. I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face. I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven. I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for fresh butts. My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed. I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street, look up at my window and see nobody. So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears then I do?" Nobody around, I piss anywhere. My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies, my gay jubilation.

Morning again, nothing has to be done, maybe buy a piano or make fudge. At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I've done flick the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor. But frist of all wipe my glasses and drink the water to clean the smelly mouth. A nock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo's baby elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these hallucinations aney more. Time for another cigerette and then let the curtains rise, then I knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan No ice box so a dried up grapefruit. Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink maybe or instal an elevator from the bed to the floor, maybe take a bath on the bed? Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own room-land? For this drop of time upon my eyes like the endurance of a red star on a cigerate makes me feel life splits faster than sissors. I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would disappear forever. The holes in my shues are only temporary, I understand that. My rug is dirty but whose that isent? There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute. Thro a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the tabol. Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost, or on the bed I resemble a crying mummey hollaring for air, or on the tabol I feel like Napoleon. But now for the main task of the day - wash my underwear - two months abused - what would the ants say about that? How can I wash my clothes - why I'd, I'd, I'd be a woman if I did that. No, I'd rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor its more creative to paint it then clean it up. As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in a lunchenette. My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me around the globe. Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature. I was born to remember a song about love - on a hill a butterfly makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of flowers.

Last night I found a monster under my bed.
I was so surprised when he said his name was Fred.He was so very hairy,
but not so very scary.With one eye red and the other yellow,he was such a strange looking fellow.
I don't know how he could fit.I mean he was so fat he would barely sit.He smelled so bad I could hardly breathe.I told him to bathe or he'd have to leave.So he open the door and waved goodbye.This is a true story, I promise I would never lie!