Like most children, I was frickin’ scared of the shit that lurked under the bed. When it was time to sleep I practically became an Olympic long jumper. Seriously, I could jump from my door to my bed, a distance of about 45294648264 meters… or at least that’s what it seemed like to the four-year-old me.
One evening I failed miserably in my attempt to leap to my bed. My knees just grazed the edge of my mattress, and I landed right in front of the gaping crevice I was convinced led to the depths of Hell. I nearly pissed myself with fear, but instead began to scream bloody murder thereby summoning my father to my room.
My dad picked me up and set me on my blankets and tried to explain how silly my fears were. I wasn’t convinced, but I kinda calmed down. Pops tucked me in, turned off the lights, and left… And that’s when my brother came into my room. I told him why I had been yelling earlier, and he said, “Oh, that’s so stupid! Here, I’ll show you there are no monsters.”
He got down on the floor, reached his arm under the bed… AND STARTED TO YELL “OH MY GOD! IT’S GOT ME!” That mother fucking asshole. Needless to say, I started to scream and cry… I will neither confirm nor deny whether I actually pissed myself.
I totally did.
Anyhow, both of our parents ran into my room because of all the yelling. They saw my brother on the floor, me bawling, and came to a quick conclusion as to what had happened. My brother, that poop stain, got into some serious crap with Mom and Pops, and I slept in my parents’ room for the rest of the week.
To this day, I still jump onto my bed or quickly kick my feeties up onto my mattress because of that incident, and one day I’m gonna put shit in my brother’s pillow case for the trauma he caused.