The Wolf Under My Bed - illustrated
Some fears never leave the room. They simply wait for your feet to touch the floor.
Chapter One: Beneath the Bed
The wolf lives under my bed.
Not in the way wolves live in forests,
or in the pages of old stories,
but in the way certain fears live
inside walls,
inside silence,
inside people.
I hear him most at night.
When the house settles,
when the clock drags its tired hands
through another sleepless hour,
when every shadow in the room
starts looking like a warning.
He breathes beneath me.
Slow.
Heavy.
Patient.
Like he knows
I will not sleep.
Like he knows
I will eventually
let one foot
touch the floor.
Chapter Two: Sleepless Hours
So I stay in bed.
Still as stone.
Eyes open to the dark.
Heart kicking against my ribs
like it wants out
before the wolf gets it first.
I have memorized
the ceiling above me.
Every crack in the paint.
Every stain.
Every shadow
cast by passing headlights.
I know the shape
of the darkness
better than I know
my own face.
Some nights
I try to bargain with him.
I tell myself
if I do not think about work,
if I do not replay
old conversations,
if I do not remember
every mistake
I ever made,
maybe
he will stay quiet.
But he is never quiet
for long.
Chapter Three: The Voice Beneath Me
He scratches beneath the mattress
with thoughts
that sound like facts.
Everyone is disappointed in you.
You are failing.
You are getting older.
You are trapped.
You should have been more.
And the worst part
is not hearing him.
The worst part
is how often
he sounds
like me.
Chapter Four: Morning Doesn't Chase Him Away
Morning comes eventually,
but the wolf
does not leave
with the night.
He follows me quietly.
Under conversations.
Behind smiles.
Inside every crowded room
and every empty one.
He waits
beneath conference tables,
in parking lots
after work,
in unopened text messages,
in mirrors,
in the silence
after someone says,
"Are you okay?"
He rides with me
in traffic.
He sits beside me
in waiting rooms.
He follows me
into grocery stores
where the lights
are too bright
and everyone looks
like they know
how to be alive.
Sometimes
I see people laughing
without forcing it.
Talking
without rehearsing.
Making plans
for next month
like they fully expect
to survive it.
And I wonder
what it must be like
to walk through life
without hearing claws
on the floor
behind you.
Chapter Five: Learning My Life
After enough years,
the wolf grows older
with you.
He learns your routines.
He knows
which songs
will break you.
Which memories
still bleed.
Which dates
on the calendar
feel heavier
than others.
He knows
that certain mornings
begin with exhaustion
before your feet
even hit the floor.
He knows
that depression
is not always sadness.
Sometimes
it is emptiness.
Sometimes
it is numbness.
Sometimes
it is staring
at the wall
because even breathing
feels like work.
Chapter Six: The Days I Stop Fighting
There are days
when I do not fight him.
Days
when I let the curtains
stay closed.
Days
when dishes pile
in the sink
and messages
go unanswered
and hours disappear
without anything
inside them.
On those days
the wolf
crawls out farther.
He lays his head
beside mine.
Not angry.
Not violent.
Just certain.
As if he knows
that eventually
I will stop resisting.
That eventually
I will believe
everything
he says.
Chapter Seven: Teeth Marks
And after enough years,
I stop asking
if the wolf
is real.
Because real things
leave marks.
And I have
teeth marks
everywhere.
In the shape
of ruined sleep.
Missed calls.
Forgotten dreams.
The ache
of being exhausted
before the day
even begins.
In the jobs
I almost pursued.
The people
I stopped
calling back.
The hobbies
that slowly died
on shelves
covered in dust.
The way joy
now feels
like something
I borrow
instead of something
I own.
Chapter Eight: Feeding the Wolf
Sometimes
I think about
feeding him.
Giving him
every fear,
every failure,
every memory
that still wakes me up
at three
in the morning.
But wolves
do not get smaller
when you feed them.
They only learn
where you keep
the meat.
So I keep
lying awake.
Listening.
Waiting.
Knowing
he is there.
Knowing that tonight,
like every night
before it,
he will be
under the bed,
breathing
in the dark,
and waiting
for me
to touch
the floor.
Epilogue: Waiting in the Dark
There are nights
when I still
listen
before lowering
my feet
to the floor.
Not because
I expect
the wolf
to leave.
Only because
I know
he is patient.
Some mornings
I win.
Some mornings
he does.
Most mornings
we simply
begin again.
Perhaps
that is what
living with wolves
has always meant.
Not defeating them.
Not becoming them.
Just finding
the strength
to stand,
even when
you know
they are still
waiting
in the dark.
