The Story of a Monster

Little Penny

A story. There's always a story.

All legends were born out of them. All myths formed from them. All lives intertwined in them. The lives of everything on earth – living or non. Even those of monsters.

The monsters under your bed. The ones that hide in the closet. And the ones who lurk in the darkness. It's easy to think of them as creatures of the night who creep outside to scar and to kill. However, what we don't know is that they're actually protectors. They serve as warnings, and of reminders.

Reminder of a scar, reminder of a consequence.

Like little Penny. The one that lives under your bed. If you've seen her, and I'm sorry for you if you have, then you know how she looks. But for those of you who don't know – she is a girl of small frame, petite you'd call her – if you considered only her body, that is. She wears a loose pink nightdress – with ruffles along the trims – and one sock. Her hair is long and unruly, coming till above her waist – just like her daddy liked it, because it made her look mature. Her face, although now pale, just looked weathered – except for her eyes. Her eyes were awake and alert.

Fairly normal, right? Wrong. I haven't explained to you yet what's on her body and what grows from it. Scales. Her body is covered with it, thick and rough, like one of the famed predator. That's not all though. Her scales - it is malleable. It shifts and changes forms, making her more grotesque than she already looks.

But if in case all of that doesn't get your hair standing on edge and your breath coming out in pants, her eyes will do the trick. No, they don't bleed. They just see. Straight through you and into your soul – into your thoughts and your intentions. They see vile thoughts and hear lustful stirrings.

If everything has a story, what's her past, you ask? I'll do you one better. I'll tell you her present.

Like other monsters, she stays hidden. Not to be seen in plain sight and definitely not heard through the day. At night is a different story. She crawls out from under the bed when breathing turns deep and heavy. She glides through the room, slowly and steadily. Tracing steps from one wall to another, eyes darting to whispers and ears strained for shadows. She saunters to and fro, back and forth – ready and waiting.

Little Penny. She isn't harmful. Well, not really – at least not to the ones who sleep soundly in their own beds. It's to the ones with sneaked footsteps and wandering hands that she reveals herself to. The ones who lie awake, to then quietly sneak into their kids' room. The ones whose pleasure is greater than another's pain. The ones who rob innocence and steal trust. The ones just like her father.

You see, the scales on her skin? They're not scales of a predator – they're the scales of the prey. One that grew out to hide scars and hardened to protect skin. Her eyes – they're not haunting; they're haunted. Once a victim of a battle, but now the ones leading it. And her - she isn't a monster. She's an angel. A vision of threat to some and of hope to others.

This is why I'm sorry for those who have seen her. because, if you have seen her, then you're one of the two – a perpetrator or the victim. If you're the first, I wish you good luck. If you're the latter, I wish you hope. But remember one thing, little Penny is not there to just warn, but to remind. So if you wish to grow in the shoes of those who harmed – you're next.