Woke Up Turned Wrong

         The boy knew upon waking up that it was, indeed, the middle of the night in the purest sense: it was neither early enough that, perhaps, others in the house might be not quite asleep yet, nor was it close enough to dawn that the restless sort of preparation for waking up had set in yet. It was within those most terrible hours-- one'o clock, three o'clock-- that not even the lonely rumbling of an engine on the road below his window would be heard for hours.

         However, he was not really a boy who was afraid of the dark. But it was to his unspeakable horror to find that somewhere within his restless dreams he had managed go from sleeping on his right side to his left side.

         Where he had fallen asleep with the freedom of surveying the room in its entirety, he now felt vulnerable-- naked-- facing the faded floral walls of the corner into which his bed had been carefully placed out of one carefully slitted eye. You never sleep facing the wall, he knew, because if you did then the whole staring weight of the room was at your back, and you never do know what could be in the room with you. And whatever you do, don't look back behind you, because you never know what you'll see, either. Shapes black enough to be thrown into horrifying relief, even against the dappled shadows that the moon cast through the curtains--

         --And the cord to the light was right behind him, dangling above the dog-eared book, the glass of warm milk long gone cold and scummy-- so maybe he'd just reach slowly back, but what if his hand hit something else first? Something cold, clammy-- unidentifiable?

         He squeezed his eyes shut, and prayed for dawn.