VICTORAY SAWA No. 1

A dark figure flickered across B. Harrington's field of view as he lay awake in bed. He began to shift and stir in place, with a silent resignation more than an acute fear. Young B. knew exactly what would happen, now that the lights were out. The dark figure would creep in through the crack underneath the door, the crack that let in traces of light and faint echoes of adult conversation. The light, and the sounds, came alive beneath his door. On the wall next to his bed, there was a chip in the offwhite paint, about the size of his young palm, that hovered silently near his head as he lay. In the daytime the chipped paint would gaze across the room silently and coldly, and watch B. as he drew comics and built block castles. At night, though, the dark figure would glide across his floor, and up the wall, and into the chipped paint, and in that instant, the palm-sized spot would begin to smile a dark smile at young B. He would know he can't move and he would know he can't show his fear. He would know he can't sleep. Victoray Sawa watches young B. and he knows that if he falls asleep then Victoray Sawa will get him.