"Mathieu," A Monster whispers in his memories, "I love you, you know that, right?"
And only a monster could ask a little boy a question like that in a situation like that.
"You love me too, right?"
And only a very strong little boy could hold back the answer he's aching to give, and lay still and unresponsive on the bed. But a very strong little boy is still just a little boy, and a little boy can only break down as the police drag his Papa away in cuffs, screaming his throat hoarse.
"No! Let him go! You can't take Papa away! Papa!"
Only a little boy can lash out at the person who's helped him so much.
"You promised! You promised they would get rid of the monster! Papa's not -"
And only a little boy can break down crying in the middle of his anger, because he can't even say the words he needs to say to defend his own father.
No, not only a little boy, but a full-grown man too, because he knows the words the little boy can't say, and he sees how it hurts. Because only a full-grown man can separate a child from his father, all to make a monster go away. Only a full-grown man can listen to a scary story about a monster no one else has ever listened to before, and only a full-grown man can chase the monster away. Only a full-grown can hold himself back from hugging a child in pain.
But a little boy doesn't have to, and Alfred comes crashing through the door, almost falling, in the rush to hug another little boy who desperately needs a hug.
"I'm here, Mattie! Don't cry! I'll... I'll do something! So-" A not-so-brave little boy doesn't hold back his own tears, and maybe that makes him a brave little boy after all.
"Mathieu," A Monster whispers in his memory, "I love you."
Only a monster can make him hate his own name.
"Mathieu, it's going to be okay."
And an older cousin can only try to undo the harm that's been done.
Something creaks in the night, a person's weight on the floorboards, and Mathew jerks awake. For a moment, he lies frozen, ants racing up and down his spine and under his skin on his arms. A monster is coming for him. Mathew tries to breathe, but it doesn't come deep and even. His breath comes shaky and light, and he forces his body to respond, following the light from the nightlight in his room to his door, locked and latched. The knob doesn't jiggle, the door doesn't strain against the latch, and Mathew tries to remember, tries not to remember.
There's no monster in Mathew's house, and the monster can't come in, even if it wants to. A toilet flushes down the hall, and then a sink runs, and Mathew's skin keeps crawling and his stomach keeps twisting long after the bare feet pad back over the creaky floorboard and a door shuts down the hall. There's no monster in Cousin Lucille's home.
And a fourteen-year-old sits in his bed with his legs drawn to his chest, and tries not to cry.
A fourteen-year-old boy still uses a nightlight, and has a lock on the inside of his door to protect against Monsters. A fourteen-year-old boy still flinches at an adult man's touch, and cringes away at his own name.
A fourteen-year-old boy has a full mental breakdown when he wakes up and there's something clear and sticky on the inside of his pajama pants, and something hard throbs between his legs.
A fourteen-year-old First cousin (once removed) finds her adopted brother struggling to breathe, and cries too, because she doesn't know what else to do.
And Mathieu can't shake the fear that there's a Monster in his house, and it's coming to take him.
"I love you."
Only a monster can leave him terrified of love, scared of kindness and affection. Only a monster can make him hate the very touch he craves.
Only a family he made for himself can try to help him heal.
"It's okay, Mathieu. I know it's scary, but I need you to breathe. It's just your body, growing up and changing. No one is going to touch you if you don't want it, no one will make you do anything. Shh, it's going to be alright."
And Mathew wishes he could believe his cousin Lucille when she says that.
"What's your type?"
A classmate, one who doesn't know anything, thoughtlessly poses the question to Mathew. Mathew feels sick.
"I..I dont-"
And Mathew's family comes to his defence.
"He doesn't need to have a type!" Alfred's so protective his response is almost aggressive. "He's got us!"
And Mattias scowls at the boy who asked like he's committed a crime.
"We don't talk about that kinda stuff," He explains, a tad condescendingly. "An' besides, my mom says that love is love, it doesn't matter what they look like, when you fall in love, that's your type."
And the classmate falters to ponder Mattais's insight, previous thought process forgotten, and Mathew doesn't feel so sick anymore.
His friends don't know the whole story, but they know enough. They know there used to be a Monster in Mathew's house. They know the Police took his Papa away, and the monster is gone now. They know what the "monster goo" Mathew had told them about when he was 12 is now. They know enough.
And only little boys can decide they don't need to pry, they just need to be there.
There's no monster in Mathew's home anymore, but the nightmares still come, sometimes. When the nightmares come, Mathew likes to sleepover at Alfred's house again. There's no monsters at Alfred's house, and even if the nightmares come, Mathew knows he has a someone who can help him make it through it.
"I miss him."
And Mr. Kirkland nods, like he understands. He doesn't tell Mathew he's better off without his Papa, or that his Papa was a bad man, or that Mathew shouldn't miss his Papa.
"Do you want to visit him?'
It's already been two years since Mathew's seen his Papa.
"I...I don't know."
Mr. Kirkland never calls him "Mathieu", he never tries to hug Mathew like Cousin Lucille, never tries to touch Mathew without his permission. He just listens, and speaks to AMthew like he's an adult, and not a little kid.
"That's fine. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. It takes time to heal, Mattie."
Mathew wishes it didn't take quite so much time. He wants to be "normal" again. He doesn't want to be "only a little boy" anymore.
Only a little boy can rationalize his trauma with a "Monster".
Only a young man can accept the monster is his father.
And always, somewhere in his Memory, there's a whisper.
"Mathieu, I love you."
Mathew's heart hurts.
"You love me too, right?"
And only his Papa could take away so many of Mathew's choices, so much of his voice, so much of his heart. Only his Papa could hurt him so badly, so deeply. And Mathew hurts, deep inside with the desire to answer the question he could never answer, not when his Papa was there, molesting him in his sleep, or now, when his Papa isn't there, on the other side of the prison walls. Even a monster can't do what his Papa did, because only his Papa can make Mathew unable to tell his own father;
"I love you, too."
Only a monster can break a child's heart and still whisper love.