Blanche Nuit
Sunday night, the boy had slept through the night the last two times. I get to bed early and fall asleep after reading a few pages of Antichrist thriller Lord of The World by Robert Benson. Benson was the son of the Archbishop of Canterbury in the early twentieth century, converted to Roman Catholicism. I turn the disconcerting images of the story over in my mind as I drift off after a busy day. Then I’m awake. I don’t hear a noise but I can sense something. I get up out of bed and grab my dressing-gown hung on a hook nearby. The boy’s door is open at the end of the hallway, the white noise machine blaring. I rub my eyes in the bleary light: “Where is he?” I don't see him anywhere, so I walk downstairs calmly but somewhat disturbed. It’s a windy night and the rain is battering the windows in the hall. Then I spot him, standing in the kitchen doing goodness knows what. He points to the Dining Room. He’s confused, so I grab him and take him up to bed, hoping that he’ll go to sleep quickly because I’ve got a whole week of hard work stretching out before me…He doesn’t.
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