"You know, it's scary that people like you can vote."

Josh continued to flick me on the back of the head with a pencil. Lucky me, Mrs. Casteel had left the classroom.

"I'm surprised that you're not still sucking a pacifier," Josh sneered.

I sat up, slamming my pencil down on the lab bench. "Ok, you know what—"

"Oooh, what do we have here?" He snatched the corner of a paper that was sticking out of my chemistry notebook.

Jackson's three-headed monster drawing.

"Another drawing of yours, shrimp?"

"Give it back, Josh." I stared at him coldly.

"Awww. It's so cute! What the heck is this supposed to be, anyway? Some kind of purple tree?"

"Give. It. Back."

"No no, I see it. It's a, a creature. Pretty bizarre looking. Really, though, it's spectacular. Did you get the wax crayons from a restaurant's kids menu? You should look into doing this for a living."

"You won't have much living left in you if you don't give it back."

People in class doing work started looking up at the confrontation.

"Hah. Don't make me laugh." He held out the drawing away from it, tilting it to the side. "You know, it would be a shame if something were to happen to it..."

By this time everyone had dropped what they were doing and watching, holding their breath.

Waiting for what would happen next.

Panicking, I leveled with him. "Please, please Josh. Don't."

"And what if I do? You gonna cry and run back to your little orphanage?"

Something in my brain zapped, like the geek aspect of my personality had just been switched on by tiny people inside my head.

Words began to spew out my mouth in rapid succession like bullets from a machine gun. "It's not an orphanage. It's a relinquere home. It's like a foster home but in a public building run by people paid by the government and a lot more stable than foster care, which is why it's common for people to make the assumption that it's an children's home because it's so similar to one, except it doesn't offer any thera—" I cut my geek attack off, putting my hands up in surrender. "You know what? It doesn't matter." I caught my breath. "Just please give me back the drawing, Josh. Please. The kid who drew it is six years old, and gave it to me as a present."

He tore the crayon drawing in half, ripping it clear down its center.

"YOU MONSTER!" I cried, and slapped him across the face.

The entire classroom gasped.

"Oooooh." Said one senior.

Unfazed, Josh dropped the two halves of the drawing, leaving them to sail back and forth before lightly scuffing the ground.

"What's going on over there?!" Mrs. Casteel yelled from inside the chemical storage closet.

Josh ignored her. My handprint was visible on his reddening cheek.

"You know..." he said, biting his bottom lip as he smiled. "I think the real monster here is in your drawing." He kicked one of the halves of paper. "Was in your drawing."

* * *

Monsters.

Monsters.

Monsters.

I stuck my tongue out the side of my mouth as I taped together the two halves of the drawing Josh had ripped.

Stupid Josh.

Satisfied, I stood up from my desk and pinned Jackson's drawing to my evidence.

Evidence. Hah.

I plopped back down on my spiny chair, considering what the drawing meant.

Monsters make children laugh at night.

Monsters.

Monsters.

Monsters.

I dug my nails into my cheeks and forehead. I could feel my mind grow closer and closer to snapping as this curiosity, this obsession, consumed me.

Monsters in the closet.

* * *

I tossed and turned in bed for hours, my sense of reality slipping away.

One week ago, life was normal. I rolled over. Then I had to go look up my family for the English project and start this whole mess.

My eyes opened. The moonlight from behind my translucent curtain gave the room a ghostly feeling.

I loathed myself. I had walked into that police station hoping to clear everything up in my mind. Now I was even more confused than before.

Monsters. Monsters are evil, horrible vicious creatures. Monsters come and take your children in the night. Monsters creep through closet doors and make your children scream. Monsters...

But Jackson's still alive, isn't he?

And didn't he say they made him laugh? How does that make sense?

Oh what nonsense I toy with! Monsters aren't real! They are not... Real! Really, why am I even considering such preposterous thoughts?

I sat up. No.

No. Something... Something's not right. Something's not right here. Something's missing from this equation. And I must know. I must.

I threw the covers off me and bolted from my bed.

I must know. I must. Know.

I opened my door and and turned to the bedroom beside mine.

I stood motionless in the open door way. The whisper of Jackson snoring was drowned out by the palpitating of my heart.

I must know. I must. Know.

I crept through Jackson's bedroom, my sights on his mud colored wooden closet door.

I must...

* * *

The knob turned, and the door swung open.

Mike Wazowski walked out of the bedroom, a skip in his step. He sighed happily, closing the door behind him. He looked up at his name on the screen. The numbers on the laugh board sky rocketed.

* * *

Sullivan stepped onto the scare, or, laugh floor, wringing his hands uncomfortably behind his back.

All eyes turned. Warm hellos and pats on the back were given as he walked by.

"Hey, hi, hey how's it going, hi, hey there." he said as he walked by, the smile on his face camouflaging his neck disappearing into a turtle's shell.

He ended his tromp when he was about half way down the floor.

Mike stood at his table across from his station. He gave Sullivan a side glance before returning to his papers.

"Hey, uh, Mike." Sullivan rubbed the back of his neck.

"Well good day, Mr. Sullivan." Mike turned away from Sullivan, a manila folder in hand.

"Uh, hey, uh, I just wanted to congratulate you on being employee of the month again—"

"Why thank you, Mr. Sullivan." Mike turned the pages of the file, not even looking at Sullivan. "A darn shame you weren't here for it."

"Look, Mike—"

"Hey, how's that old CEO mansion been working out for ya? Probably a lot better than the dump you had to put up with before."

"Mike, you know I didn't have a choice in that—"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I bothering you? Don't you have a company to run?"

Sullivan stood there, defeated. "How's you and Celia?" He said, trying to change the subject.

Mike patted the ends of a couple files on the table, straightening them. "Oh, we're fine. Just fine. Just fine."

* * *

I stood at the closet door, my blood pulsing through my veins with wonder.

I reached for the doorknob.

* * *

"Look, Mikey, you wanna grab a coffee sometime? It's been so--"

A new door appeared in Mike's station. It was old, wooden, and the color of mud.

* * *

I inched for the doorknob. It was a struggle, like the force of a magnet repelling me.

I must know.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sullivan, I really am, but I don't think that'll fit into your busy schedule. You've got a lot of things to do. Big important things. Meetings, paperwork, pie charts, uh! It must be so crazy. Now if you don't mind." Mike walked from the table to the door, with a mike in hand.

"Now hold on—"

* * *

My hand shook. My whole body shook. Moments upon moments upon eons upon eons away...

My trembling fingers dug into the golden ball.

* * *

"Mike, you know everything in this company has turned to chaos ever sense Creachburg got their own factory. I have had no time to do anything. None the less, I'm sorry, Mikey. I have almost snapped twice from juggling all of this."

Mike said nothing.

"I miss you, buddy."

Mike's hand rested on the golden doorknob. He stopped, and sighed. His shoulders fell.

"I'm sorry." His shoulders tensed up again. He gripped the doorknob like his life depended on it. "But I've got work to do."

"Mikey—"

He turned and pushed the doorknob.

* * *

My wrist twisted. I pulled the creaky door back.

I stared.

* * *

Mike looked to face Sullivan, the door swung open behind him.

* * *

I stood there, my heart having fallen into my gut.

A closet filled with clothes.

* * *

Mike's eye fell, and he turned away, and disappeared into the room, leaving Sullivan speechless.

* * *

I fell to my knees. I could feel the disappointment build, tears prickling my eyes.

I mustn't cry. I will not... Cry.

* * *

Sullivan's shoulders fell. He turned from Mike's station, and walked out of the laugh floor.

* * *

I got on my hands and knees, and began rummaging through the shoes and toys.

How does this work?

I threw it all over my shoulder as I dug like a mad man. Miss matching sneakers, a bicycle helmet, a yellow, blue, and red stared ball...

"What are you doing?" a voice from behind asked.

I snapped back like a rabid animal. Jackson sat up in his bed, innocently perplexed.

I've gone mad. I thought.

* * *

Sullivan stepped through the oak double doors, the velvet carpet squishing underneath him. The crystal chandelier hung ten feet above his head.

He sighed, and sauntered through the lonely front hall. He steered left to the banister, and trudged up the stairs.

It was required for the CEO to live there.

He turned his head left, to watch the Waternoose family portraits slug past him as he climbed to the second floor. They were dusty, yet spotless. Dull with age, yet sharp. Dead, but alive, with staring bloodshot eyes.

Sullivan exhaled. This wasn't home.

It's my duty. He thought. It's my duty.

 It still wasn't home.