The Monster

Damian knew from experience not to bother the monster when the monster woke.

He sat back, sipping his coffee, watching the beast push back the sheet that covered it through the night. It stood, stretched it’s arms high above its head, it’s shorts extended in a tent. It ceased its stretch and, with eyes still mostly closed, shambled its way to the bathroom.

Damian shrugged and turned back to his newspaper. Headlines of monsters and murderers and mayhem filled the pages of his sleepy little city, but no villagers with pitchforks, no uprisings to overthrow the oligarchy. Another cheerful morning.

Ten minutes later, the bathroom door banged open. The monster emerged, looking more human in a towel-turned-skirt. It dressed slowly, methodically. Underwear, pants, a shirt, socks, shoes. It then shambled into the kitchen.

Damian pushed a mug toward it. “Coffee for you.”

“Unnnnhhhhhh,” the beast said, sitting with the thud.

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Unnnnnnhhhhh,” the beast repeated, before it lifted the mug and sipped its coffee. They sat quietly, and with every sip the beast became a little more human, the form it assumed through the day.

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