The Nightmares  under his Bed 

I heard him crying again, the little sobs, hiccuping from behind the bedroom door, talking about the nightmares under his bed. I had ignored him for so long now, i thought he might just cry himself to sleep as usual. Since she died we’ve been all alone, i thought he was coping well, so i just left him, i had my own problems, and was taking too much time off my work to worry about his nightmares. She was the one that always chased the monsters away for him, she was the one with all the answers, “don’t worry about them bobby, i’ll sort them!” she would say, cradling him in her arms, while i ignored him. But she never sorted them, the nightmares. No they took her away from us before she could sort those buggers out.
I went to his door the next morning, but heard no sound, “Dad are you all right?” i whispered, slightly anxious. The doorknob turned in my hand and the door squeaked open, “Dad, are you okay?” i repeated, but the old man lay on his bed and said nothing. On the bed i saw the photograph of my mother, and the pills.  
He was gone. 
I found the nightmares a few days later, in a box under his bed. The final demands for the mortgage payments, the gas bills, the electricity, and the loans. All the loans my mother had taken out to pay for my college education, all the threatening letters , and i wept. 
Now i lay on my bed, the nightmares scratching on the wooden floor beneath me, calling me, threatening me, and i sob. 
i sob for my father, i sob for my mother. but nobody comes, only the nightmares they left me. 

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