The Space Underneath The Bed

At nineteen, I unwillingly became a mother to a six-year-old boy.

I hate kids; I’ve always hated them and their tantrums, their spoiled arses, the deafening squeals and shrieks—basically everything they are. People slap me with that “Hey, you were once a kid,” line, but I try to counterslap them with a “Yeah but I didn’t have to take care of me, did I?”.

Now, I got stuck with this spoiled six-year-old boy who cries over things he either can’t control or can’t have. It’s always been a pain, looking after this boy, if only it weren’t for his sick mom.

“Oi, oi! Get off that couch, this instant, Roland!” I approach him with my brows furrowed and piercing eyes. “I’ve been telling you to behave yourself down because this isn’t our place. It’s Aunt Irma’s and I’ve told you how she feels about kids being in her house,” I say, slightly grabbing hold of his arm.

“I know, I know. Melody keeps on dragging me everywhere. You should scold her,” he says in a bored tone.

“Melody? Huh, have you hit your head again? You hallucinating or what?”

“Oh, yes. Of course you can’t see her. Everyone doesn’t.”

This kid’s crazy, I think to myself. Crazy and equally unbearable.

The last rays of the sun start to cower behind the mountains. I take the last of the dishes off the table and to the sink, my sweat dripping off my neck. The precarious pile of things to wash stare me down and make me roll my eyes with both my hands on my hips. I’m here to help my sick cousin, and not to look after her child, and do chores in the very least, I think. This is just sickening. I just want to go home.

The porcelain wares clatter as I pick a glass. In my peripheral, I see something move near the refrigerator, and swiftly turn my head towards it to see nothing. It must have been my imagination, or a play of lights.

I usually am not affected nor scared by these mythical creatures adults use to tell kids to scare them or make them obey. It didn’t even work on me as a kid, as my mom says. But tonight, it’s different. I seem to be bothered by that periphery vision, and Roland’s imaginary friend. Something’s really off tonight. Or maybe I just need more sleep.

After shutting off the light in the kitchen, I sprint upstairs to my room with my heart beating fast, and cold sweat streaming down my forehead. What the hell’s wrong with me?

I lie awake in bed, trying to bring other thoughts forward, and pushing the scary stuff into oblivion. Yet, it doesn’t seem to work. What’s weirder is, I suddenly have this urge to check on Roland in his room.

My feet leads me out of my room and to the hallways, turning to the left, and stopping at the second maple door. I can’t say I’m doing this against my will because it’s not. It’s just ... bizarre.

I turn the knob of Roland’s door and slightly push it open. It’s dim, with the bedside lamp as the only source of light. Washed wallpapers with fleur-de-liz patterns clothe the walls of the room. A shelf with pieces of wood falling out of it stands by the wall far from the foot of the bed. The newly purchased rug sits on the floor between the shelf and the ricketty trunk where the kid’s toys are hidden. A bed sits in the middle of the room covered in cream sheets and pillows—and it’s empty.

The room reeks of everything old, except for the carpet which, obviously, is the only new thing in here. I take a careful step inside, and the floorboards creak.

“Roland,” I whisper into the space, “don’t you dare scare me like this you naughty boy.” The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand as cold air sweeps into the room. I have no idea where it comes from since the windows and the door are closed.

“Achoo!”

I stop and roll my eyes. This kid’s really pissing me off, getting me (extremely slightly) worried where he’s gone. Doesn’t he still know I’m accountable for him? And for whatever happens to him?

“Wow, and you think you’re—“ I turn my back and cross my arms across my chest to see not Roland, but a small entity. A kid, but a different one—eyes have different colors, the left a deep purple, and the right gold; her hair the same purple as her left eye up in a floating ponytail; her skin as porcelain as Aunt Irma’s plates; her clothes a modern-victorian mix in an out of this world hue and a matching pair of boots; and her form, seemingly translucent, but as every second passes, she becomes more and more solid.

I stand nailed at my place, taking in what I’m seeing, fighting whether to scream or stay dumbfounded. There’s a stranger—an eccentric one—in my cousin’s room, in the middle of the night.

“Melody? What’s taking you so long?” Roland starts to crawl out under the bed, with a variety of sweets in one of his hands. He stands from his crouching position and takes in the scene. “I see that you’ve met,” he says, taking a bite off a chocolate bar, “so, Angel, this is my friend, Melody; Melody this is my cousin, Angel.”

Melody shyly looks up to meet my eyes. “Hi,” she says. Her voice sounds so mellifluous, like the sound of the waves crashing on the shore and the light breeze rustling the leaves.

“All right, I’ve introduced you, so can we go now?” Roland impatiently says.

“Wa-wait. Go where?” I say, snapping out of reverie.

Without answering, Roland drags me down on my fours. I don’t know why, but I seem to be unable to protest, or I seem to don’t want to protest. He crawls back under his bed and Melody and I followed him toward the other opening of the bed. But we weren’t in his room anymore, nor anywhere around Aunt Irma’s house; we were somewhere bright and festive, coming out of a hole in the wall instead of under the bed.

“Where are we?” I ask, looking around the place. It’s obviously daytime here; I just don’t know what particular time of the day. We’re at a street or a park—a very busy one—which seems like the center of trade for this place. Carts can be seen everywhere, full of food, toys, clothes—basically everything you can think of. Scents of waffles, sugar candies, soap, cigars waft through the air in heaps. People—the same kind as Melody—crowd the street, lining up on carts or just strolling about. 

“What are you?” I helplessly mutter.

“We’re Kampils. And you’re in our planet, KP-1013,” Melody says matter-of-factly. She pulls herself out of the hole and onto the street, blending in with the crowd. They almost all look the same because of their porcelain-colored skin. I follow and pull myself out too as Roland do the same.

We scour through the crowd of people (or aliens) and carts, looking at a variety of things. There’s this chocolate bar with a “geode filling” which tastes a little earthy and crunchy with a punch of sweet and salty. A cart full of clothes showcases a simple casual dress that turns into a gown with a pull of a ribbon. The view is quite overwhelming and I don’t even know where to start.

“You really did it Melody, didn’t you?” I hear Roland say from behind me.

“Of course. She was thinking you were crazy.” Melody giggles.

“Hold up.” I stop and face the two kids. “What are you talking about?” I face only Melody this time. “You did what?”

“Oh, only inflict fear in you, control you, and bring you here,” Roland’s the one to answer my inquiry.

“How dare—“ I stop and put a palm across my face.

“Well she only did that to make you believe they all exist—aliens, monsters, fairies, mermaids. All the good stuff.”

I stand before these two kids, perplexed. “Monsters, mermaids—what?”

“Oh, come on. Aliens only live in this part of the planet. On this city. You’ve still got a lot to see!” he says in excitement.

I don’t know if it’s still Melody’s power that’s taking over me, but I’m pretty sure it’s not. 

I willingly let them lead me anywhere, to quench the thirst this curiosity of mine has been long suffering from.