I am the monster beneath my own bed.
By Sam James
When I was young, I sprouted thick purple fur, grew horns and extra eyes every night. I showed myself as shadows on the wall. I would keep myself up, quivering in terror that the shadow-claws raking bedwards might, this time, reach.
“It’s alright, love,” Mum would coo. She’d run a disposable razor, blades covered, down my arms to ‘remove the fur’. She’d pluck the extra eyes from my face with her fingers, and unscrew the horns like lightbulbs. Eventually, I would sleep.
When I was older, I metamorphosed nightly into mortgage repayments and texts I hadn’t replied to. One night, I took the form of a CC that should’ve been a BCC.
It was the same terror; only the shape of the claws changed.
Then I became an artist. I drew my monsters, in every form: from purple fur to faux pas. By day, it brought exhibitions. Commissions. Prestige. By night, all-new monsters—empty wine bottles, and sneering self-reviews. I poured it all into my work.
Now she is older, Mum has moved in with me—the monster under her bed came too. I sit up most nights and stroke Mum’s thinning hair, as she embodies missed appointments and scary new prescriptions. Eventually, she sleeps.
I turn in, knowing I won’t transform into bills or critiques. My monster and I have struck a truce—so long as I’m tending to Mum’s monster, I’m off the hook.
The terror remains, but for now my claws trace someone else’s shadow.
Sam James is a professional musician and amateur everything else from England. His writing’s been featured almost nowhere—you can officially say you knew him before he went mainstream. Say you liked his blue period best, that’ll impress the dinner guests.
Such a lovely story about how our anxieties never really go away, they just shift shape through our lives
Apologies for this one posting a bit late this morning. We aren't sure if Substack is affected by the ongoing internet outages, but our scheduled post didn't go out so we did it manually as soon as we caught it.