To clarify, when I refer to THEM, I’m referring to those responsible for this all too awful racket. The two who are currently attempting to roust the boy out from underneath his down filled comforter, those who refer to him as “the boy.” 

It matters not which one is calling him, be it the cackling, high pitched, sound of HER voice, or the rasping, throat clearing, phlegm packed, sound of her husband’s. In either case, the way their voices are magnified and distorted by the speaker, it’s like he’s being woken up by the world’s most disturbing, ear shattering, alarm clock!

That’s right, each and every morning, his day starts with the amplified and crackling shouts, nay, the nagging demands of one or both of these voices. In this case in particular, it’s Hers! LOUD and high pitched enough in normal circumstances, but when fed through the tin, horn shaped, speaker, it looking a bit like what you would find on an ancient hand crank record player, it turns her whispers into cackling yells.

‘CHILD! ROUST YOURSELF! You have your chores to do!’

Her demands followed by his. They accompanied by grunts, and the clearing of HIS phlegm filled throat, as he voices an oft asked question;

‘Why do we ALWAYS grr  have to grr REMIND YOU?!’

As for the boy, not wanting to hear this, even though he can’t escape his fate, he buries himself deeper under his covers. Will this be enough to stop their amplified voices from getting through. For his sake, I hope so.

Again she yells.

‘CHILD! GET UP! THE RADIATOR MUST HAVE BEEN SHUT OFF! WE’RE FREEZING!’

​

I have to tell you, even with being buried deep, with him holding his comforter and pillows over his ears, her voice, like a hot knife cutting through cold butter, is still able to make it through. Doing this even though the demanding sound of her voice first has to pass through the fabric of his comforter, then the flesh and bones of his hands, and finally, through his down filled pillows, as it makes its way to his ears.

About this soul searing audio assault, he’s pretty sure that after a couple more yelps that she’ll let him be for a few minutes. As such he’s hoping to stave off having to face his day. Which is why, right or wrong, hoping to further deaden the sound of what’s sure to come, he adds to his defences by further covering his head with yet another one of his heavy, feather stuffed, pillows.

​

About the resistance he’s putting up, his motivation comes from him desperately wanting, more like needing, to go back to sleep. I wonder, of this, should it be, as there’s a risk that he could slip back into that nasty nightmare.

About that, already an unpleasant shadow of a memory, at best, living the nightmare has left him feeling out of sorts, kind of hollowed out. Worst of all, he’s more tired now than when he first went to bed. So Yes, he wants, more than anything, to get a few minutes more sleep. Only, with THEM insisting he get up; with HER amplified, scratchy, and cackling old high pitched voice, stabbing at his ears. With how it’s cutting into his skull, along with HIS phlegm filled growl, deep down he knows that he has already been defeated; that their voices have already done their job; just as they knew they would. But this doesn’t mean he’s willing to give in! That’s Right. He’s a fighter!

​

‘BOY! Don’t you know our old bones can’t take this chill!’

This bit she delivers in a whining, complaining, and even higher pitch than what he’s heard so far.

Despite knowing he’s already defeated, he hopes against hope that she thinks she has succeeded in getting him up, and as such will leave him alone, at least for a while, and as such he does what he can to slow his breathing, to slow his thoughts, as he tries to recapture his dreams. Not the nightmare part, but the kind of dream he was having earlier.

​

By the way, he knows perfectly well that her shrill voice comes from a place of comfort; his as well. For they too are in bed, and likely buried under their own heavy down filled comforters. He also knows that they, while in their comparatively much smaller, warm, snug as a bug, bedroom, it located next to their private office, are far from uncomfortable. You know, where he snuck off to last night. A place they intend to stay until well after the radiators they expect him to attend to, have properly heated their quarters. The resulting heat which they hope will be enough to vanquish the damp cold which crept in over the night. Something which SHE feels wouldn’t have happened if someone, him, that is, had, last night, checked the radiators before slumbering.

Just so you know, they have been talking to him with the help of what he refers to as the Screecher; a thin sounding, crackling, intercom system, of which they happened to have one of its speakers installed not so far from where he has his bed. Installing it there, as they assumed that he must be half as deaf as they are in their dotage. This observation based on how he was often slow, when called upon, to attend to their demands.

Again, when I say THEM, I am referring to HER, his tutor, a retired archive research administrator. And HIM, her husband, once the archive’s head curator, now also retired and also his tutor.

​

Of these two (his keepers), his guardians, his foster parents, if you will, he knows them as the Wextons.

In their defense, about their apparent impatience with him; the fact of the matter is that he is eleven years old, turning twelve, and not too many twelve year old’s can be accused of being particularly good listeners; especially when the words spoken to them primarily include a long list of chores.

​

Speaking of chores, the Screecher’s howling out again. This time it’s Mr. Wexton.

Speaking through his phlegm filled throat, he attempts to correct his charge’s behaviour. 

​

‘Boy Child! grr Listen to your Elders! grr  If you’re happy enough     with us wasting away,  grr, that’s fine, grr just know that grr  the cats are hungry, and judging by what  grr  is…’

He can hear old man Wexton sniffing the air like an old bloodhound, 

‘… greeting my nose... ALL OF, and I mean ALL of the cats’ litter boxes... grr NEED CHANGING!’

​

This last bit, even though delivered by the less shrill voice of the  retired head curator, still makes him wince. Not so much on account of its pitch, but rather how he talks with such a wet sounding and fractured cadence. The truth is that it seems like after roughly every half a dozen words or so, that he has to pause. As if he’s chewing on his thoughts. And then, with his musings processed; before allowing his words to pass by his molars, he often noisily swallows. Well, trust me when I say that this long, drawn out, fractured way of speaking can be more than a little challenging to have to take in. Kind of, ah     monotonous. So much so that when listening, you think to yourself “would you  PUHLEASE get to the point”.

​

As if to punctuate Mr. Wexton’s last demand, suddenly, and may I say startlingly, a large weight lands smack down on his already buried head. A weight that, with how it’s settling in, is threatening to, with the help of his pillows, suffocate him dead!

As if one airborne assault isn’t bad enough, it’s quickly followed by another. The second one landing on his hips.

Pinned down by the dual weights, this coordinated attack announces to him that there are others about; those whom obviously have their own plans for him; whose motivations run both contrary, yet parallel to those of the Wextons; whom, with seeing him there vulnerable, defenceless, and feeling beat up, have no qualms with taking advantage of the situation.

​

Whomever they are, with his head buried, and his arms and legs still tangled, he isn’t in the position to put up any resistance.