"What can I do? I can't just throw them away. It'll make him upset." Jackson's tummy squeezed as he eavesdropped besides the slightly ajar living room door. Mummy couldn't throw those pictures away. They would find them and want to hurt little Jackson even more. Mummy was speaking to that funny smelling old man that always seemed overly-serious and too interested in what Jackson had to say about his Monsters. It always made Jackson's eight-year-old sized heart knot with fright and his head spin with troubled worry. Why did he have to ask questions? Why?
"...Ms. James, I'm afraid that it simply isn't possible without your sons agreement." The old man didn't sound quite right to Jackson. Like he knew something that Mummy didn't. "Perhaps I can speak with him now?" Jackson threw his tiny hands over his mouth, and sped into the kitchen opposite to finish off his peanut butter sandwich. Climbing atop his up and down chair, Jackson pulled his crumb covered plate towards him, and raised his sandwich to his lips just as Mummy and the serious looking man walked in.
"Jackson, you remember Mr Davidson from before, don't you?" Jackson nodded slowly, his dark discerning eyes never leaving his green patterned plate. Swallowing his chewy mouthful, Jackson then reached his hand out for his fresh orange juice and took a sip. The silence was-well, silent. Jackson could hear the blood in his head and deathly ringing in his ears. Shifting in his seat as his bum started to hurt, Mummy coughed and opened the fridge, releasing a trickle of cold air that played and danced around Jackson's overly big blue socks.
"So, uh-Jackson. Have you seen any of your-Monsters-yes, Monsters-recently?" Mr Davidson asked, the small black mass of his eyeballs twisting with an intense, hypnotic gaze like that of one of Them.
"Please Bring Me Home..."