I've never been able to sleep on a bed without being terrified that something's waiting underneath. My parents gave up putting lights under the frame and settled on sticking a mattress on top of a couple of wooden pallets instead. They nailed the sides shut so I was left on a three inch wooden platform wit no chance of anything being able to be beneath it whatsoever.
I still heard her gasping for breath, even in the scant inches of air between pallets she somehow managed to be there and waiting for me every night. My parents never liked talking about her - it only made them think I meant to kill her but what three year old is capable of planning a murder?
Apparently I was.
My sister was a year younger than me and the best climber I'd ever seen. She always managed to get out of her crib and over the gate that blocked her bedroom door just so she could curl up and sleep under my bed. She liked to peep out and yell good morning to me and it was my favourite part of the day.
But when we're asleep we aren't quite ourselves. As far as my parents know the toy fell off my bed and hit her head but I distinctly remember dropping, no, throwing it to shut her up. And it worked. She never made another sound other than those final, rattling breaths.
Those same breaths that I heard coming from under the bed every night since.
The faint "g'mornin" that follows as the breathing fades to the hustle and bustle of morning routine.
Even when it's just a sleeping bag on the cold, hard dirt - she's still beneath.
Still breathing.
I still heard her gasping for breath, even in the scant inches of air between pallets she somehow managed to be there and waiting for me every night. My parents never liked talking about her - it only made them think I meant to kill her but what three year old is capable of planning a murder?
Apparently I was.
My sister was a year younger than me and the best climber I'd ever seen. She always managed to get out of her crib and over the gate that blocked her bedroom door just so she could curl up and sleep under my bed. She liked to peep out and yell good morning to me and it was my favourite part of the day.
But when we're asleep we aren't quite ourselves. As far as my parents know the toy fell off my bed and hit her head but I distinctly remember dropping, no, throwing it to shut her up. And it worked. She never made another sound other than those final, rattling breaths.
Those same breaths that I heard coming from under the bed every night since.
The faint "g'mornin" that follows as the breathing fades to the hustle and bustle of morning routine.
Even when it's just a sleeping bag on the cold, hard dirt - she's still beneath.
Still breathing.
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