**Chapter 5: The Monster You Draw**
842 Words
There are two kinds of weird.
There’s “someone put mayo on my pizza” weird.
And then there’s “the floor is made of giant Post-It notes covered in our deepest fears and someone just offered me a crayon that smells like guilt” weird.
We had obviously landed in Door #2.
The Imagination Lab was like a dream designed by a sleep-deprived art teacher with a vengeance. Floating chairs. Melting walls. A ceiling that turned into sky when you stared too long—and if you looked away, the sky whispered, *“Come back, I miss you.”*
Zoe stood at her easel, sketching like a woman possessed. Every stroke made something *real*. Not metaphorically. Like—**bam**, here’s a paper dragon. **Boom**, now it’s breathing fire on a motivational poster.
“I think the drawings… build the room,” she said, eyes darting. “But it’s not me. I just—I'm not controlling it. It’s like the house wants to show us something, and I’m just the remote.”
“That makes *you* the most cursed Sharpie in existence,” Max muttered.
Riley crouched beside a puddle of spilled ink that reflected moving images instead of our reflections. “So this room is built from… us?”
I nodded slowly. “Our thoughts. Our feelings. What we imagine—good *and* bad.”
“Okay,” said Amber. “So, like, if I imagine an army of emotionally supportive kittens wearing leather jackets, that would—”
She never got to finish that sentence.
Because behind her, the air *rippled*—and a giant, seven-foot version of **Amber** stepped out.
But not the Amber we knew.
This one was made of jagged edges, storm clouds, and the words **“I DON’T NEED ANYONE”** tattooed across her arms in blood-red ink. Her eyes glowed like bad decisions. Her fists were literal hammers.
“Uh…” Max said, backing up. “That’s not the kitten army.”
Amber’s face went pale. “That’s... my solo rage mode. From when I was twelve. I used to picture her smashing everything.”
“Well,” said Nate, behind me, “she’s got great form.”
The angry Amber clone snarled and smashed a desk in half.
Everyone ran.
---
We ducked behind a curtain made of shredded essays, and Zoe flipped her sketchbook open. “I think I can draw her away—just keep her busy!”
“How exactly does one distract a living embodiment of childhood aggression?” Riley asked, holding a book titled *“Your Trauma and You: A Coloring Adventure”* like it was a weapon.
“I have an idea,” I said, digging through a nearby pile of supplies.
I pulled out:
* One rubber chicken
* A whoopee cushion labeled *TRUTH*
* And a kazoo shaped like a unicorn with fangs.
“Jason,” Amber said, blinking, “this is not the time to start a circus.”
“No,” I grinned. “It’s time to throw a *pity party*.”
---
The plan was simple: annoy her.
Rage-Amber hated weakness, laughter, embarrassment. So we did all three.
I blasted the kazoo while Max danced like a dad at a wedding. Nate fake-cried about his phone battery again. Riley pretended to spill tea about Amber’s middle school poetry phase (which turned out to be real—she shrieked and tried to strangle Riley mid-chaos).
And the monster?
She faltered.
Hesitated.
Like she couldn’t compute the sheer *clownery* of what was happening.
That’s when Zoe flipped her sketchbook and drew something—fast, furious, wild strokes. She whispered as she worked:
“Don’t fight it. Redraw it.”
The moment the last line hit the page, the paper shimmered—and a new version of Amber stepped out. This one was smaller. Softer. Still fierce, but not angry—just **real**. The version Amber *wanted* to be.
They looked at each other.
Then Monster-Amber cracked.
Not exploded. Just… turned into mist.
Gone.
Amber collapsed onto a pile of pillows made of crushed expectations.
Zoe closed her book, breathing hard.
“I think that’s how we survive this room,” she said. “You don’t run from the things you imagine. You face them. Reimagine them.”
Max groaned. “Okay. Cool lesson. Love it. But if my imaginary friend appears, we are all in serious trouble.”
“Why?” I asked.
He glanced at us nervously. “Because mine was a talking jellybean who wanted to overthrow the government.”
Nate clapped him on the back. “Mine was a sock puppet named Dennis who gave terrible dating advice. We all have scars, man.”
Riley stepped up beside Zoe and pointed to the sketchbook. “What now?”
Zoe flipped to the next page.
The house had already drawn something new.
A door.
Label: **Room 3: The Mirror Maze.**
Underneath it, scribbled in graphite:
> **What do your friends see when they look at you?**
- Writer
