Mathew believes in Monsters.

He doesn't believe in a God, or Aliens, or Heroes.

After all, he knows the monster is real, it visits him in his sleep every night, but he's never had any God answer his prayers, any Alien abduct him away, or any Hero answer his cry for help.

He's never had anyone answer his cry for help, and eventually, he stops crying. But the monster doesn't stop coming.

He twitches in his sleep, and tries to force his body to relax, to stay still. The monster can't know he's awake. He isn't sure what would happen if it did, but something deep inside Mathew screams that it would be terrible. More terrible than it already is. He can feel the fingers of the monster, sliding under his pajama shirt, pushing it up, resting on his chest. It takes all his effort not to shudder or tense. He has to be asleep. He has to. Because...

There's a time on his memories, one Mathew desperately tries to forget. A time he wasn't "asleep". And Mathew can't (won't) remember the consequences.

It takes every bit of his focus to keep his body limp and relaxed, his breaths deep and even. Asleep. The monster can't hurt him when he's asleep. If he sleeps, it will go away eventually. It always does.

The monster finds his nipple under his shirt, rough skin rubbing the nub, and Mathew is asleep. Even when the gentle circular rubs turn into painful, twisting pinches, and sharp flicks, Mathew is asleep. Even when the monster tastes him, slimly and uncomfortable, a trail of rapidly cooling saliva that leaves his chest cool and sticky, he doesn't wake up.

Even when the monster's fingers slip downward, tugging at the elastic band of his pajama pants. Even when Mathew's heart leaps into his throat and attempts to strangle him, and his skin crawls like it's trying to escape. Even when the monster finds what it's looking for, and strokes it, creepily, horrifically, in way that makes Mathew's body feel like there's a hot-cold wire strung through it. Even when his hands try to subconsciously tighten into the bed sheets, trying to ground himself, trying to feel any other sensation, Mathew doesn't twitch.

The monster shifts, and there's a humid wet heat on Mathew's privates, and there must be bugs under his skin (he imagines them, thousand of tiny ants, biting him and eating away his flesh from the inside) because his skin feels like its writhing from underneath. And the Monster tastes him again, and despite his best efforts, a hot tear escapes his carefully closed eyes - not so tight it looks forced! - and dribbles down his cheek. His heart skips, but it's okay.

The monster can't notice anything but its meal right now.

Mathew keeps limp and wishes for it to be over. Wishes for the time when he believed there was someone he could plead with to make it stop. Wishes for a time before he knew Monsters were real.

The wet feeling pulls away, slimey, disgusting, even worse than the inside of a toilet would feel, and Mathew feels relief at the sound the monster makes, a kind of disappointed and frustrated "Tch". At the very least, Mathew's body hasn't betrayed him. It hasn't yet, but Mathew's scared. He's old enough he's started learning about puberty, about the change it will cause in his body. He's scared of what will happen the day his body changes. The monster plays with his privates, trying to elicit a response, and the ants continue to eat away at him, inside his organs now, his heart, his throat, eating away at his eyes from within, burning and stinging.

Eventually, the monster gives up, and Mathew hears the shuffling of fabric. He tries not to shift, throwing an arm over his face, or clenching his jaw shut, or rolling over and curling in on himself. He already knows none of that will stop the monster. And if the monster knows he's awake-

Something familiar, hot, heavy, uncomfortable, but not because of the weight, touches Mathew's exposed stomach. He's almost grateful that the monster has chosen that this time. His lips almost tremble with the memory, the monster pressing at the entrance but never quite making it inside. The taste of the monster left behind. Mathew tries to tighten his jaw, just slightly. Enough his lips won't tremble, won't draw attention. Not enough to look awake.

The weight shifts on the bed, dipping in either side of him as the monster rearranges itself until its directly over Mathew, hovering. He can feel the dampness of its hot breath ruffling his hair. And something else hot, something worse, on his stomach. And the monster starts to move. Mathew does his best not to.

He can feel it, the traces it leaves on him with each shift, like the trails of a slug, and his insides shrivel. Not ants anymore. Like a juice box crumpling up. He wants it to be over. He wants it to be done. But the monster takes so long, longer every time. Bolder. And Mathew stays still, ever sleeping, through the minutes that feel like hours as the monster's shifting begins to gain speed. Until finally, it stops, and Mathew feels something else hot, sticky, but not the same way as saliva, spilling over his bare stomach. Spilling, while the monster quivers above him, the hot thing on his stomach still throbbing as it pools that disgusting liquid over his chest and stomach, and the monster pants above him.

And finally, it's over, and the bed shifts while the monster gets up, suddenly rising with the absence of weight, and the familiar sound of fabric covering it once again, and then-

Its hand, fingers trailing over his lips - he keeps his breaths deep, even - playing gently at the slight opening in his mouth, then, in a voice the monster shouldn't use, a voice that doesn't belong to it, a soft whisper.

"Ah, I love you, Mathieu."

And a monster's love pools and cools on his skin, and ants swarm and squirm within, and Mathew lies still, even after the door creaks open and shut once more, and long after the footsteps fade from the hall and silence falls in the night once more.

And Mathew shudders, silently, in his bed, taking shallow, trembling breaths and staring at the ceiling in terror when he finally does move. He's exposed, left like art to be displayed, and cold where the air touches him, colder still where the sudden absence of heat shocks his skin, and where cool ooze dries on his skin. Like a tree marked by a dog.

He moves, slowly, calculated to the slightest move, so the bed doesn't creak and his shifts aren't felt, to pull his pajama pants back up, and ease the top back down. He flinches at the feel of fabric and stick meshing together, he wants to get it off, to clean it right away, but he doesn't dare. Not since the time when he was ten, and his Papa caught him washing the opaque slime off his pants. He still remembers the look on his Papa's face, the words he'd said.

"It seems like my little boy is growing up."

They weren't gross words, they weren't, but it still felt gross to Mathew. The look his Papa gave him at the time felt gross. After that, Mathew didn't dare wash up afterwards anymore. He doesn't dare to move at all.

So he lays, flat, exhausted from his terror, disgusted by his skin, and tries to calm his pounding heart. Something is changing, and its even more terrifying than before. Before, the monster didn't used to leave the sticky goo on him. It didn't used to leave his pants pulled down or shirt pushed up, it didn't used to lick and suck and taste him, it didn't used to rub itself on him.

He almost huffs a silent laugh as he finds he's wishing for the times before. The times he just had to lie still and pretend not to notice the rythmic strokes above him and the uneven breaths, the times the monster shakily wiped away the spilt grossness, and the apologies it whispered when it left. The times when he'd wake up and nothing was different, and he could believe it wasn't a monster, just a nightmare.

He wishes for a time when fears could be soothed by a tight hug from his Papa, and Monsters disappeared with the daylight.

And he's scared, because the Monster has been getting bolder every year. He's scared, because recently, the monster doesn't even try to hide that it's there, and he can't shake the feeling of a marked tree. The monster is making sure he knows that Mathew is it's prey. And soon, Mathew's sure of it, the monster is going to finally take its prey, and Mathew doesn't know what that means for him.

He tries to relax, shuddering breaths as the tears he's been holding back finally escape, silently pouring without a single sniffle or whimper to accompany them. He squeezes his eyes back shut. He needs to sleep. He needs to sleep, because if he doesn't sleep now, he might fall asleep after dinner, while he does his homework, or after he gets home from school in the afternoon, before he starts his chores. And he can't let that happen.

Because the monster doesn't stay in the dark anymore, and it comes every time Mathew falls asleep.

And eventually, Mathew's exhausted brain gives in to his exhausted body, and Mathew falls into a troubled sleep full of nightmares.