Where the Dust Bunnies Are

It’s quite cosy in this corner, and really it smells like you, so I’m perfectly happy. I’m as happy as a pig in mud, or as happy as a sock monster in socks—literally.

Your socks smell so good; even the freshly washed ones remind me of you. The scent of sea breeze and fabric softener clinging to the fibres can’t erase that peculiar odour that only comes from your foot. I inhale, lifting one lone white sock to my nose— the one with the playful blue trim. It warms my heart, reminding me that I do not need to fear. You are my whole life, and I am safe.

“Penny! Have you stolen my socks, you know the ones with the blue flowers?” Your shrill voice wakes me from my slumber. I burrow deeper into my nest, just peeping out over the top. You stumble around the room, upending your life all over the floor. “Penny!” You shriek again.

“I haven’t seen your sock,” your sister hollers back. “If you kept your room clean, you’d be able to find things. Stop blaming me.”

Without pausing in your frantic dismantling of the room, you screech back at your sister with some unintelligible words that express your deep sisterly love wrapped in frustration and exasperation. I know that feeling well.

I covet that sock in your hand. The pretty blue border matches the one I hug close to my chest as I watch you create chaos on top of chaos. With the full strength of my monstrous powers—which admittedly are so subtle as to be nonexistent—I urge you to drop the sock, to leave it in the middle of the floor where I can snaffle it away when you’re not looking. Then I’d have a pair. Imagine that! A complete pair of socks that smell like you. It’s a sock monster’s dream. Why do we only ever get one?

After a fruitless search you give up, placing the sock on top of your dresser and selecting another sock from your drawer. Will you ‘odd sock’ it today? One blue, one orange? I burrow through my nest, and sure enoughh—there is the orange one, nestled beside the cobwebs at the bottom of my collection. I am so fortunate to have such a large pile. It helps me sleep at night, keeps me safe and secure. Warm with your scent, I settle down for a long nap.

In the darkness, when all is still and silent, I slink out from my comfortable nest. My senses tingle, and the odour of you draws me unceasingly forward. My heart hammers high in my chest, threatening to leap out of my mouth that hangs open and hungry for your footwear. I can smell it. An orange sock lures me forward. Your foot odour mingled with the earthy leather scent from the Doc Martins you always wear. I love those boots. They enhance your scent, trapping it within the sweaty confines for hours on end, imbuing your socks with the smell of you that does not come out even after washing. If I can grab that orange sock now, before you send it to the wash, I will have a pair and the odour will keep me sane for days.

I reach out, stretching, claw by claw, ever so slowly in the shadowy room. Trembling with equal parts fear and excitement, I listen for your breathing, so slow and regular, with the occasional grunt as you mutter in your sleep. You are adorable, and you are mine. The thought fills me with a warm, contented peace that is only elevated by the presence of that orange sock. My extended claw catches the edge of the rolled-up sock. You never look after your socks, never smooth them out after wearing them. You just toss them wherever they land, discarded and unloved. I love them, care for them, and protect them. Slowly I draw the orange sock to my nose and inhale deeply, allowing your odour to relax me, to fill me up right down to my toes. I melt back into lthe shadows, dragging the precious orange sock with me.

Morning light and I are not good friends, so it is with extreme pain that my eyes crack open. I am not sure what has awakened me; I’m still in sleep-fuddled disorientation as I clutch my nest of socks tighter, burrowing lower and lower into their dusty depths. There is comfort in your familiar smell, and it soothes my distress.

A horrifying sound fills the room: a shrill buzz that painfully penetrates my skull, vibrating all the way down my spine. My heart stops, then thunders back in double time. It’s the vacuum cleaner! I can barely breathe as fear steals the air from my chest. I huddle deeper into the crevice between your bed and the wall, tugging my precious nest of socks with me back into the darkness. I crouch lower, trying to make myself as small and invisible as I can.

With just my eyes peeping over the edge of my nest, I try to retreat further as the head of the vacuum comes closer and closer under the bed. A sudden loud, gurgling sound like the bowels of hell have ripped open echoes in the darkness beneath the bed. It’s immediately followed by a high-pitched whine as your precious orange sock, the one that smells so like you, vanishes, sucked right up the tube. It’s too late to leap after it. I cry out wordlessly, the pain of its loss hitting me low down in my gut. Trembling, I abandon my nest, scrambling back toward the wall, where I hide between the head of the bed and the skirting board.

Without warning, my hiding hole trembles, and the bed slides sideways. I clutch at the frame as it separates from the wall, exposing my hiding spot. The light pierces my sanctuary, and I am exposed to the elements. I scramble frantically, trying to find another safe space to hide. Your hand slips between the bed and the wall, five fleshy fingers grasping, reaching into the crevice that was my sanctuary.

I flee to the other end of the bed, the silent cries erupting from my mouth echoing in my head and heart. Watching your hand scoop up my nest is something that will haunt me forever. The white sock with the blue border, the fuzzy green one I have had since you were seven, the light purple one that has a hole in the toe, and the three school socks with the logo embroidered around the ankle—all gone, dragged into the light along with dust bunnies and cobwebs. Years worth of work, destroyed in moments. I gasp for air, shaking my head and trembling with disbelief.

How will I sleep now?

Where is my comfort?

I shudder, crying silent tears that fail to drip down my nose and drop onto the floor.

I am cold, unloved, and empty.

“Look, I have found the sock monster!” You crow, waving my nest like a gruesome trophy. I can’t bear to look. With a soft, unheard sob, I collapse, claws curled inwards to protect myself and wait for the next sock to drop.