Carlisle learned to fall asleep with his eyes open -- because to him, the Blindness was weakness, and all the world echoed in the colors of his room. Lunatic, he was told, was the very word for him. Lunatic. Loon. Loony. Loony Tunes rolled off in his sleeping-twitches as the TV blared like melodic sirens. Sylvester peeled raspberries into the sticky, August air, and Carlisle shook at the nightmares playing in his head.
The chair moved, but Carlisle still slept. Unhinged from its haunches, it tipped over, and Carlisle awoke with the thud and the pain. He jumped to get his gun from under the bed -- but it wasn't there.
"Aren't you looking for this?" a tall, sallow cadaver whispered. Her eyes were sunken and black and her hair fell to her ankles over her thin white dress. "Aren't you looking for this?" she repeated, a knife in an unsteady hand. Carlisle began to inch backward, slow and steady -- do not offend the demons, he had heard once. Do not offend the demons.
"I--I was looking for my gun," he whispered, as she crawled closer. "Looking for my gun," and he could feel cold breath on his skin as hers crawled all over him. She took the knife and raised it and--
Carlisle was pronounced dead at the scene. The room was largely undisturbed and there was no sign of foul play but for a hemorrhage that mimicked a shot to the head -- with no bullet, no gun.
Carlisle learned to fall asleep with his eyes open, but he was looking at it all wrong. It doesn't matter how you do it, you're always weakest when you sleep--