I am the House Monster.
I was the House Monster in Africa. I was the concrete dust on the floor that could not be swept off.
I was the huge, flying roaches that jumped off the walls at you in the middle of the night. I was the hideous mosquito net around and over your bed. Do you remember how I looked at night from inside those nets? How I put thirsty, vicious mosquitoes on the outside of the net so they would suck your blood if you touched the net, even with the tip of your finger? I was the hard concrete floor, too, that caused your back and feet to hurt all the time, even though you were only 29 years old. I was the light switches that lit up the wrong rooms. I was the butane cookstove that leaked gas.
I was the kitchen faucet that came off in your hand while the water was running. Remember how you screamed every time I did that? Remember how you cried every time you ran all the way around to the outside of the house to turn off the kitchen faucet? I made that happen. I am your House Monster!
I was the House Monster in Westhaven. I was the peeling floor in the shower stall. I was the slugs and salamanders you found in there.
I was the House Monster in all the houses where you had a wood stove, before you knew enough about them to make them heat well. I tormented you for years! I kept you plenty cold, room temperatures in the 40s! And I was the House Monster the year the pump froze and you had to haul water all year – winter and summer – down 35 steps from the River! I was the House Monster that made the roof leak, the paint peel, the carpenter ants chew and swarm, the dry-wood termites and caddis flies fill your rooms at night!
I was the House Monster that kept you so hot throughout your childhood in the Texas summer. But your grandmother never had me in her house. It was cool and breezy.
I was the House Monster growing up, too: How you hated your home. Fighting! Ugly walls, ugly colors! Ugly houses! Ugly words! Dirty wall next to your own bed from where you kicked rhythms when you got locked in there. Pain everywhere! A house was pain. You hated your clothes, too. Why take care of the things you hated? It was your way to let your mother know you did not like your clothes, the way she forced you to dress, forced you to walk, forced you to look, forced you to live, be. I was the House Monster that showed your mother how nothing you did was right. So being sloppy was like shitting on them – like a cat doing burying motions on its food.
I am your House Monster. Everything bad in your life is gone except me. I still live with you.
