The Monster in the Bed by Aiki Flinthart

Each night it comes for her body, her soul, her perfect youth. Each night the pillow gathers her tears, her screams, her pain; hides the knife she’s too afraid to use.

Each day its face is kind. A good father, they all say. Good man.

Can’t they see the broken soul in her eyes?

Then comes a night marked by absence. By the murmur of voices in her younger sister’s room. A muffled scream.

She vomits relief and self-disgust to the cold floor. She hangs her head.

The captured rage of years erupts.

Knife in hand, she stalks next door.