by Xochitl L. In the midsized bedroom room of a large suburban home, a small girl sits bolt upright in bed. Beside her lies another girl, even smaller with tousled brown curls resting peacefully over rounded pink cheeks. The small girl stares through the empty darkness toward the thin pool of light puddled around the bottom of the bedroom door, and listens in reverent silence to the rhythmic shouts of angry people pounding through thin walls. Sobs and yells, whispers and pleas grind together through the paint and wood and wires and insulation until finally, in a desperate flurry, they burst forth, and engulf the girl with the all the force and emotion and finesse of a grand symphony. She wonders why they fight tonight and fears it is because of her, because she forgot to take out the trash that morning or perhaps because she ate one of the cookies that her mother baked especially for the lady with Terminal Cancer that lives two doors down. In the blackness of the night, these guilty thoughts grow and grow until they become tangible. They fill her lungs and stomach with sticky blackness until she coughs and gags and gasps for air. She spits them out but then they merely coalesce into a dark figure, a thick being that looms upon the bed—glaring and licking contemptuous lips. She tries to kick it away. It won't budge. Her sister murmurs in her sleep. If only she had been the one that had eaten the cookies, then maybe the monster would torment her instead.