Chapter Text
“Remember to feed the monster under the bed,“ the manual reads, which is not helpful at all, except there might be a monster in this room, and, well, there is a bed, she can see it with her eyes, thank you. It gives no more information, like how often? And with what? Does it consume food, like human do, or it requires souls? What is a soul anyway? She doesn’t even know how she knows that concept. She is not supposed to.
For as long as she can remember, her world has been limited in this squared, pale room. To live is not a problem, food and water are provided through a cat door on the wall. It must be only for cubs, or, in this reality, her meals. It’s so tiny that part of a palm is all she can see. Four times each day, the palm takes away her tray and throws in a new one. She always reserves some. Four times each day, she puts food and water under her bed. She never sees the monster, despite what she puts there always disappear. She dumps in a tube that comes with the tray. She seals it. The palm takes care of it the next time it shows. She doesn’t have to handle the monster’s excretion, for it produces nothing, which is lovely.
To live is easy. Follow the rules. Supplies circulate in and out as if her room is part of a vein, part of a big, complicated system that she doesn’t understand. The air conditioner is the lung she shares with others, if there is any, at least, she has the monster under her bed. It might breathe. The rules are simple. Rule One: "Remember to feed the monster under the bed.” Rule Two, written on the other side of the manual, the manual is only a thin paper, “Do. Not. Open. The. Door.”