January 26, 2018: Sisyphean \ sis-uh-FEE-uh n \  adjective;

1. Endless and unavailing, as labor or a task.
2. Of or relating to Sisyphus.

 

Plort stared up at the parallel slats of wood crossing back and forth mere inches from his face and sighed. Above those slats were a mattress, and above that was a fitted sheet and on top of that was a monster. A real monster.

Shifting uncomfortably, Plort glanced over at the glowing red numbers on the bedside table’s clock. It was almost midnight. Almost time. His stomach tensed anxiously as the little red 57 turned into a little red 58 and he wished he hadn’t eaten so many dust bunnies earlier that night.

Closing his eyes, he slowed his breathing, perking up his long black ears, waiting. All he heard was the soft wind outside the window, the whir of the room’s ceiling fan, and the soft, shallow breathing of the monster in the bed. It definitely sounded like it was asleep, but Plort knew better.

Watching the red 58 blink into a 59, Plort closed his eyes again, this time trying to control his breathing just so he wouldn’t throw up. He had given up feeling guilty about how anxious this made him. It was his job, sure, but it was a never-ending nightmare. It was a Sisyphean task filled with agony and torment and–

Something had moved. His long ears twitched. He was sure of it. Something above him had moved.

His red eyes flicked to clock again. Still 11:59, but something had definitely moved. His forked tongue flicked out to moisten his dry lips, but his whole mouth had gone dry now, because he knew, it was about it begin.

He steeled himself, curling all four of his clawed hands into fists and began shimmying out from under one side of the bed. He took a deep breath, ready to let out a horrible hissing screech he had been working on that he was sure, he was so sure, would work this time, but–

“BOO!” the monster shrieked from behind him, and Plort jumped on top of the bed, letting out an equally shrill shriek himself.

This was bad, this was very, very bad.

Burrowing quickly under the blankets, Plort squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe it hadn’t seen him jump onto the bed–he really wasn’t supposed to be on top of the bed, it was sort of a basic rule, but what was he supposed to do when the little beast had infiltrated his domain–and held his breath. Maybe if he was quiet enough–

“BOO, I SAID!” it yelled again, ripping back the covers, and wrenching another shriek from Plort.

He leaped from the bed and paused for the briefest moment to try and find a safe place to hide. Under the bed was out, it had been compromised, and nowhere else in the room was deep enough in shadow to hide his slick black fur from the monster’s piercing gaze. But then he saw it–the closet. Perfect. Without another thought, he dashed for the closet, pulling the door closed behind him and–THUNK.

* * *

When Plort woke up who knew how long later, he found himself trapped under a laundry basket, with what must have been a bowling ball or two balanced on top, because he couldn’t seem to move the flimsy human contraption, and so much plastic wouldn’t have caused the bump he could feel forming on the top of his head.

“I have caught you, monster,” the voice came from outside his prison in the closet, and Plort narrowed his red eyes at the source. The blue eyes of his charge stared gleefully back at him, and Plort felt his shame rise anew as he took in all three feet of Eleanor Brown.

He growled at her, but she didn’t even blink. He made a try at his hideous hissing screech, and she only quirked an eyebrow at him. He gnashed his teeth, and clawed at the laundry basket, but she didn’t even fidget.

It was useless. He could have ripped the laundry basket to shreds if he took a moment or two, but what was the point when six-year-old Eleanor wouldn’t care one way or the other? So instead, he fell back onto his rump, and sighed.

“Finally given up, monster?” Eleanor asked, the slightly whistle on the ‘s’ because of her missing front teeth sending another stab of shame straight through him. She didn’t even have all her teeth and he couldn’t best her.

“I’m not the monster here,” Plort grumbled quietly, hunching his shoulders and refusing to give her the satisfaction of looking at her while he talked to her.

“What did you say?” Eleanor asked, her voice high with awe and wonder, and Plort realized he had never actually talked to her before. Not once in the six years he had been hiding beneath her as she slept.

“I said you’re the monster, Eleanor!” he said, glaring at her from inside his pathetic cage, not allowing his shame to stop him from relishing the look of shock on her face.

“What?” she asked, staring wide-eyed.

“I’ve been under your bed for six years, Eleanor Brown. Six years. I’ve emitted the most frightening noises, cast horrible shadows on your walls to fill your nightmares, I’ve even stared at you from dark corners with my blood red eyes. I’ve done all that for six years, and you know what you’ve done?”

Eleanor blinked questioningly. He let the question hang in the air a moment longer before he began yelling.

“You’ve ignored me. Or worse, you’ve giggled. You’ve waved at me from underneath the covers and smiled.” Plort shook his head, “so I ask you, who is the real monster?” he spat. Reciting the litany of his shame was just too much. Especially in front of her.

When Eleanor didn’t say anything for a long time, Plort finally looked up only to see she was doing it again. She was giggling. Sure, she was trying not to, she had her little hand pressed over her mouth, but she was staring at him and shaking with mirth. She truly was a monster. When Plort grunted, Eleanor actually burst out laughing, and his humiliation was complete.

“If you’re going to kill me, just do it,” Plort said miserably, hunching over further in his cage. That would be the best outcome. He couldn’t go back to the office after this. What would he put on his report?

“Kill you?” Eleanor asked, as her giggle fit abruptly stopped.

“Please,” Plort agreed flatly.

“I’m six. I’m not going to kill you,” she said.

“You monster,” Plort said in defeat, letting his head fall to his chest, and waited to see what worse fate she had in store for him.

He heard movement then, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. None of it did. Not the shuffling feet, or the little grunt of effort, or the laundry basket rising off of him…

He blinked.

She had taken the laundry basket off of him.

Plort stared at her in confusion as she took a step back, giving him a clear exit from the closet, back to the underside of the bed. But it had to be a trick. And he wouldn’t fall into it so easily this time.

“You think I’m that foolish, monster?” he snarled at her, a little of his pride returning now that he wasn’t trapped under a laundry basket.

Eleanor heaved an especially heavy sigh, especially for a six-year-old.

“Look, this has gotten kind of out of hand,” she said.

That wasn’t what he had expected her to say. He wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“I only wanted you to see what it was like getting scared all the time so maybe I could ask you to stop. I didn’t mean to break your brain or anything,” she explained.

Plort narrowed his eyes at her.

“So you were scared?” he asked, trying to keep the hope out of his voice and not quite succeeding.

“Oh no. You just keep trying all the time. And it makes it hard to sleep,” Eleanor said.

Her hands shot up in front of her when Plort visibly crumpled. “N-not that I was never scared! You were really scary a few times! Like, a lot of a few times!”

Plort groaned. This was even worse than before.

“Well, I mean, you look kind of like an unwashed bunny,” Eleanor said apologetically.

Plort groaned even louder.

“I mean the claws are good!” Eleanor reassured him.

This time, Plort just sighed. And for a very long time, they both sat there, not saying anything at all, very awkwardly trying to avoid looking at one another. Finally, Plort broke the silence.

“I don’t know what to tell you. This is my job. My only job is to scare you,” he explained quietly.

Eleanor nodded thoughtfully at that, and began chewing on her lip.

“Well, maybe I could help you?” Eleanor said finally, after a few more awkward moments.

“Help me?” Plort asked, quirking a questioning brow at her.

“Yeah, like I could tell you things I’m actually scared of. Like, not bunnies,” she said.

Plort furrowed his brow. “Why would you do that?”

“I was thinking maybe if I helped you, you could help me,” she shrugged. She was chewing on her lip again.

“Well, what do you need help with?” Plort asked warily, worried all over again that this was some kind of trap.

“I… I get a little lonely,” she said quietly.

When Plort didn’t say anything, she continued.

“My mom and dad both work really late most of the time. And my big sister is supposed to babysit me, but she usually just leaves me with a pizza and tells me not to burn down the house. And I don’t have a lot of friends. Or any. So, maybe if I let you scare me sometimes, you could come and have pizza with me.”

Plort stared at Eleanor for a very long time, watching her chew on her lip and avoid eye contact with him. He looked down at himself, at his slick black fur, and his long black ears, and his sharp claws, and thought about the fact that this fearless little girl wasn’t scared of him at all. And he thought about going back to the office and explaining this whole situation, and all the paperwork he’d have to do. But mostly he thought about how monsters didn’t even have families, and what that must be like, to have one but sort of not.

And finally he grinned with all of his sharp, pointed teeth and said, “I have always wanted to try pizza.”

 

Note: I came really close to writing a story about myself staring at the word Sisyphean and that trying to write a story about the word Sisyphean being a Sisyphean task, but I think this turned out better. I’m kind of really into the idea of monsters under the bed, and might maybe have an idea for a short story collection? Maybe this could be polished and go in there? Maybe I just mostly like the name Plort.

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