~ sandman ~

He closed his eyes and began to fall asleep. The bed moved. A growling sound came from underneath the bed. The boy now wide-awake, sat upright and his eyes shot open. He grabbed his baseball bat near his bed and clutched it tightly in his fists. He looked around the darkened room with amazing alertness. Something was moving just beyond the foot of his bed. He spins around. No longer able to take the fear, he cried out for his dad and after the third squeal for him, his dad stumbled into the room, reeking of alcohol.

“Dad there is something in the room!”

His father hit the light switch and bright light flooded the room. The father took a minute to let his eyes adjust and screamed, “I don’t see a damn thing!”

“It was over there,” the boy pointed over toward the edge of the bed.

“Damn it son, it was just a sheet. Listen, if you don’t get to sleep within five minutes you will have something to fear!”

It was settled. The lights went out and the boy tried to go back to sleep. He closed his eyes.

There was a loud clatter in the closet. Once again, the boy grabbed his bat. He was determined not to call his father again. A shattering noise echoed from the closet, followed by a blast of cold air from nowhere. The air sent chills through his body and he broke into a cold sweat. Clutching his bat tight, he stumbled out of bed and began to walk toward the closet. When he finally crept his way to the door, he grabbed the knob and hesitantly began to turn it. He threw the door open violently and began to take swings with the bat. This produced an even louder noise. His father threw open the door to his room and hit the light switch with such speed, the boy was still in mid-swing when his father called out, “What in the hell are you doing boy?”

The boy was humbled; his lip began to quiver. He was trying to fight back the tears. “I was trying to kill the ghosts to make you happy,” the boy mumbled.

The father’s bloodshot eyes glared at the boy. He pushed his son to one side and examined the damage. Holes in the wall, several fragile objects shattered, and what will easily be a weekend’s worth of repairs.

He picked up his son by the armpits and threw him down on the bed. “What were you trying to do?” his father shouted.

The son was terrified and in a small, weak voice, muttered, “I just wanted to kill the ghosts daddy, kill the ghosts, that’s all please don’t…”

Before he could get another word out, the father raised his fist and brought it down on the boy’s jaw. The boy curled into a ball on the bed, holding his hands over his head. The father grabbed the boy’s arms and began to shake him violently.

“Kill the ghosts!? Kill the ghosts!? What ghosts you idiot? You little coward!”

He punched him again, “You little twerp, you had better go to sleep this time or I will break your damn nose, you hear me!”

His father stormed out of the room, turned the lights off and slammed the door shut. All the way down the hall he could be heard crying out, “Kill the ghosts!?”

It wasn’t difficult for the boy to go to sleep after that. After the abuse, he was feeling dizzy and exhausted anyway, so he slept like a baby.

The next day was a Saturday so he got to sleep late, which he needed to get rid of the dizziness. Even after getting up at 11:00 A.M. the room was still spinning a little and he had a pounding headache, which his mother gave him medicine for. The official explanation for his injuries was that he obtained them while swinging the bat. His mother wouldn’t believe that daddy had hit him, so the boy went along with his father’s story.

But soon enough, bedtime came again. Tonight though, there were no ghosts and the young boy had no difficulty drifting off into dreamland.

Shortly after he dozed off, his father arrived home, obviously straight from the bar. He was quite drunk but still decided to clean up the closet, despite the time. He managed to creep into the room and into the closet without waking up the boy. He began to scoop up the various broken items when the door closed in on him and since there was no knob on the inside of the door, he had no way out. He dropped what he had picked up and began to vigorously pound on the door. He shouted as loud as he could, “Where is that stupid kid, usually he wakes up over just about any damn thing! Where is he?!”

He continued to pound on the door, screaming to be let out. After a few seconds, his son woke up. The boy heard the demons in the closet again. He grabbed the bat and crept over to the door. The pounding became louder; his heart began to beat faster. He could not make out the demon yelling to be let out. He raised the bat slowly and the door was suddenly thrown open. The boy began to swing wildly. The father, in his drunkenness, didn’t even see the bashes coming. He could only groan and cuss as the shots came wailing in. His son, in his state of terror, could not see the demon in the closet and didn’t realize what he was hitting.

One week has passed. The funeral for the father was simple, plain and rather quiet. Very few people came for the funeral and since the family wasn’t very wealthy, they really couldn’t afford a big funeral anyway.

As Metallica once said, “Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tight, exit light, enter night, take my hand, we’re off to never never land!”