January 7, 2008
By Tim Folkman, Lake Oswego, OR

He twitches there awake, kind of. Well his body is always awake, but his mind is never home. It leaves him for long periods of time, his mind that is, to take business trips to the land of Salvador Dali. He waits Sleep deprived, an insomniac. He is not like Dali though, there is no pleasure in these hallucinations by staying awake, and there is no artistic gain. This man stays awake out of his will because the fears plaguing him preventing him from considering sleep. He visualizes a face in the floorboard morphing, screaming. This pain, this fear, creaking in him that terrified the stiff hairs on his arm, assassinated his sanity.

Nobody would have guessed that this man was raised by normal parents. These parents were only abnormal because of their supreme ability and understanding of parenting. Although they appeared to be perfect there were flaws in them as there are in everybody else, but it was the one flaw that had stripped the sun from this mortified mans life and replaced it with a bright glowing moon. His mother and father were the most welcoming happiest people around. This was the flaw, this was the Achilles' heal of his parents, their optimism.

The boy laid content in his bed, his skin diffusing the crisp late October chill. A sort of smirk on his face, made with a corner of his mouth ever so slightly being pulled up by his cheek. He was so happy in his pool of content that the quiet scream of a door went unnoticed while he slipped into rest. It's too bad that his life was that happy. It's too bad that his parents didn't think that they would need to lock their door. A crazed man, with uncoordinated eyes and an uncoordinated conscience quietly stalked into the room of the boys parents. He wore dirty cloths, fraying tips, holes in the side. This dirty man was the prime image of a homeless person. He held a sharp piece of glass between his index finger and thumb. This particular piece of lifeless glass didn't shine or sparkle in the light; it remained the same dull clear piece of glass regardless of the environment. The man's limbs jerked as he walked; as if his joints were bone dry. Who knows what the motives were for him being there, but will it ever matter? Will this mans horrifying actions ever be justified? How could they be?

The slam of the door by the calm crazed man on his way out shook the floor enough to wake the boy. He listened for more noise but nothing was there. He walked out of his room but nothing was there. He walked into his parents' room. This disturbed him, he couldn't sleep.

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