It was half past ten when she last checked her watch.

He nods his head.

She knows that he shouldn't be up, but it's the weekend and she promised him this movie tonight.


Of all the genres, she isn't quite sure why she even lets him watch these sorts of things! It isn't even halfway into the story when she first hears it. It's low, but it sounds like an old motorcycle muffler -- the gargling was almost cute but intimidating.

She doesn't pay much attention to the movie at this point, now that his head tilts sideways -- he resembles an old tree with one too many branches grown.

"Let's get you locked in, tiger." She smiles.

She tries to collect him but, naturally, he protests. He insists that he isn't tired and reminds her on her promise. She can tell by the bags under his eyes and halfway breaths that his argument is merely childish excuses, but she agrees to let him watch the movie for a little while longer anyway. It wasn't even five minutes later when she sees him nod again, but the monster on TV can't justify these snarls and just as he starts to twitch, she throws him around her shoulders.

"We'll watch the rest in the morning," she whispers sweetly.

Out of that dark movie lit room, she carries him into the hall but with each passing step those grunts sink lower. What was once disjointed child-like adjustments became skirmish struggle, as if a giant insect had been caught between her arms and breast. He kicks her bruises and bites down on her flesh wound.

As soon as she's there, she lays him in a bed nailed into the floor and just manages to buckle him in with all laces. There are no blankets to cover this tarnished mattress. There are no desk or drawers -- only a light bulb branded into the ceiling.

He shakes more violently by the second.

Vicious gashes mark up the wall, and blood and dark feces the floor. There were even scratches on the ceiling now.

"It's getting worse," she looks.

Lightly brushing his bruised forehead with the palm of her hand, she kisses it between his movements then turns toward the door. He's shouting now.

And with a snap, the lights are off. The door closes.

One. Two. Three.

Every lock on the door is locked, just as it starts. Her footsteps are drowned under the screaming. Louder and louder they become until it is joined by the thrashing of the bed, rocking back and forth. She sits in front of the TV just in time to hear the bed tip over, followed by the violent smashing on door. This isn't the likes of any child.

"That's not him," she reminds herself.

She turns up the volume, as if to make it all disappear... but it's of no use. Each howl and screech is demonic, but she tries to remind herself that it's not really him... She has to remember Drake is just sleeping.