His Last Of Life

There are monsters in his room. He knows it. Monsters are under his bed, by the corner of the walls, in his closet... They're everywhere.

Johnny has the covers up to his eyes, his face stark white. They're in the shadows, Johnny thinks. Despite himself, he's too frightened to check.

Raveled in his clothes, he can't even call for his parents, motionless and hardly breathing through clattering teeth.

What lingers in the shadows? What's beneath the natural blackness?

"Well, it's us, Johnny, just us," voices grow in unison. Johnny jerks back, gasps, screams. As if on guard, his parents explode into his room just as quickly as the cry disrupts his lips.

"Honey, what's wrong?" his mother reasons, her eyes squinting, her face lined with the extra light from the hall.

"It's. . . The monster. . . And said--"

"Jesus, Johnny. Will you quit fussing over those damn monsters already? We've already gone through this a dozen times. There are no monsters in your room—in the closet, under your bed... No where. Just your imagination. It's all in here," his long finger taps his head. "It's one in the morning for Christ's sake," he mumbles to himself, turning for the door. Johnny nervously watches the back of his dad's matted brown head, trying to muster enough guts to swallow.

Johnny's mom stares at him, only then decides to climb in beside him. She reaches out, gently rubs his forehead, reassuring him that she'll protect him, that she'll kill them—the monsters. Johnny shakes, still doubtful, staring into the dark, into corners of darkness created by the blazing glow of a plastic-covered nightlight. What can his mother do? She's just as helpless against them as he is, Johnny thinks. She's so harmless, so gentle; she couldn't even kill a fly if she wanted to. What can she possibly do to save him when they come after him?

He begins to think of the creatures who have spoken to him. Slightly trembling, Johnny forces his eyes shut, inching against his mom. Having his eyes shut isn't very pleasant either, he decides. Disgusting animations appear even through his swollen eye lids. Are the monsters sending them?

Green and blue, sticky like glue. Eyes of blue night skies and lips of broken yellow, their arms hang loose, dragging against the wooden floor. Oozing blood, their mouth exposes razors. Their head sprouts silver strands exploding in every other direction.

Just seeing the sun peek through his windows brings joy to his fluttering eyes. Lightheaded, Johnny can't even remember whether or not he slept. But it doesn't matter. Johnny's just glad night's over, shadows gone and conquered.

Twitching to spring off the bed, he's startled by the moisture the movement brought. He rolls over, blinks and stretches to lift the heavy quilt. As if fog started to clear from his head, he realizes his mom's missing, the only remainder of her being a wrinkled nightgown tucked beneath the knit. He jolts up, the quilt flying with him, along with it, blood.

Blood in quarts cover his legs, over and between his toes. Petrified, Johnny let out a choked scream. Only silence responds to his bellow. He quiets himself, shuddering, and encouraged by the blazing sun, creeps out of bed.

"Somebody help me!" His eyes widen now as they roam the room, across white walls and brown drawers. His lips quiver, tears welling in his eyes. He moves with hesitation, cautious with his steps, eyes leveled, refusing to look at his blood crusty legs. He avoids scratching his icky toes, the sticky feet collecting dust off the polished floor. "Dad? Are you there? Dad!" A distant pound resonates. He shoots for the door, his tiny hands grasping for the door frame. "Dad?" he continues, his knees weak and his palms wet over the thin frame.

Were there any more answers, the house muffles it: no trickles from the sink, no groaning of the fridge... just his trembling breath, nothing but his own growing wheeze. "Dad? Daddy!"

He begins to the right, toward his parents' room, dragging forward against his better judgment. Behind him through a glass window of the hall, the early sun spills a husky silhouette with a heavy ax. The slightly gleaming blade swings back and forth in a tight grip. "Dad?"

As he approaches the partly closed door of the dim room, Johnny stops short for a deep breath. "Hello?" His shaky hand vibrates toward the golden knob.

Even with the camouflage, a grin reveals itself on a man's face, his eyes squinting as he ensues silent progress. Then, without significant warning, the man darts forward, the floor rebelling against his bare sweeping feet.

Jumping, Johnny dashes for the door, his knees knocking it first. He tumbles over, flinging the door against the wall. He hits the ground face down, the impact knocking the air out of him, and the door springs back against his short body as if to attack him.

Twisting his head over with obscene breathing, he catches a glimpse of the man at the corner of his gray eyes. As his tiny hands flail over and over across the floor to propel him away, a swift wind takes the air. An unpleasant sound gushes in the silence while the ax whisks across Johnny's delicate, clad spine.

After the ax falls onto Johnny, the man turns away.

Heavy strides precede him, clapping into the hall as the sun licks his only eye-catching feature: a matted brown head.