Chapter Text
I was 24 years old when I first had sex with the monster in the closet. Before you start, this isn’t a metaphor for some childhood trauma or embarrassment about sexuality or anything. When I mean ‘the closet’ I mean my actual closet. And when I say ‘sex with the monster’ I mean I had sex with a monster. I wanted to make that clear before I start. None of this is allegory, I’m just in a very odd place in life right now.
Like all children, I was scared of the dark, and loud noises, and silhouettes of clothes hanging on chairs. All that jazz. And again, like all children, I was completely convinced there was a monster in the closet. Now I wasn’t ever the type of child to externalise this fear, I was too brave for that. I’m a real grin and bear it gal. However, I would still struggle to sleep at night. I would hear growling, scraping, shuffling against fabric and the clatter of clothes hangers. And every night I would walk up to the closet and swing it open only for nothing to be there, nothing except for the pitch black that coagulated behind everything else. I would leave the closet open for the rest of the night to make sure it couldn’t do anything without me having visual confirmation, Yet, every morning when I woke up the closet door would be back where it was, shut tight and silent.
This happened to me from the ages of 15 - 18. When I finally moved out of the house to go to college I managed to leave the closet noises there. I was sleeping very soundly most nights in my dorm, and less soundly the nights I had my at-the-time boyfriend over. He was such a sweet boy, but snored far too loud for my liking. I dumped him in my second year and promptly rebounded off some philosophy major who would whisper sweet-Nietzshes into my ear during aftercare. So I sent that boy off with a card about how, while he was cute, I would’ve preferred some Epicurus. I gave it to him the day of graduation. I remember him attempting to saunter back to his car, card and diploma in hand. I saw his shoulders shake before he hit the gas and drove to get his stuff before leaving. I on the other hand was proudly drifting back to my dorm, feeling freer than a bird. I didn’t know what I was going to do with a degree in literature but hey, now that I’m thinking about it maybe writing this counts as something.
Bounce ahead a few years and I’m now a freelance worker in marketing and design. It’s not particularly lucrative but after a bit of racking up a reputation and networking I’m pretty comfortable. I landed a few high profile jobs with fashion companies and snack brands to keep me and my student debt satiated, so I’ve not really got anything to complain about.
I had also found a new boyfriend, Ken. I remember the first time we had sex I joked I was surprised he had genitals. It took him a second to realise I was referencing the doll and not insulting his manhood, of which he had a surprising amount to work with. I say surprising because attitude wise he was quite subdued. For someone who worked in hospitality as a bartender I was sometimes put off at how unassertive he was. I usually like men I can play with a little, but sometimes I do just want to be fucked and I’d always be the one doing the fucking. Regardless, he was awfully lovely to me and that’s why I stayed. I mean a real romantic: flowers on weekends, dinner dates, movie nights, the whole nine yards. I did love him believe it or not.
On the week after my 24th birthday, I told him I wanted to take a break. Not break up, a break. We had been arguing for quite a while in the months leading up to it. He told me I was distant, I told him he was too coddling, he told me he felt undervalued, I told him he treated me like a wallet. It was generally very unpleasant and we agreed we needed time away from each other. I decided to return to my hometown, only a couple hours away from my apartment, to visit my parents. Return to square one, reset, humble beginnings and all that.
Walking back into my old room, I was greeted by that closet from all those years ago. I opened it up and rooted through all the boxes of my old stuff - a lava lamp, dusty tutus, some MCR CDs. I opened my phone to take a photo of it all when my mom came up to tell me to come down to say hi to dad. I put my phone down on one of the boxes before walking downstairs. I said hi, gave him a hug, small-talked my way through the past year, and promptly returned upstairs. When I got back to my room the closet door was closed. A draft came through the open window and I assumed it had blown the door shut. When I opened it up, my phone was lying where I had left it. I picked it up and unlocked it. I froze for a moment, confused. Instead of the camera app being opened, it was on Google maps. Did I misclick? Maybe, it was a long day, I was tired. But the funniest thing about it was I had just arrived back home and on the map was the directions back to my apartment.