**Well my dear readers, it certainly has been awhile since I’ve written, no? Blame school. I sincerely wish I didn’t have to attend so often.  Or that there was less homework.  I would take that too…Anyways, here is a new bitlet for you, dedicated to my dear Sarah, who beta-read for me and exclaimed that it was her life.  ‘Cept for being gay and male. For easier reading, thoughts are in italics. **

            He looked down at the brass doorknob that was freezing his fingertips.  As his soul screamed out in terror at the violating touch of the metal, the lock tumbled open with near-silent clicks.  The heavy mahogany door swung open without the telltale creak of the squeaky hinges characteristic of gothic horror stories. 

            Dragged in by independent feet, the hair on the back of his neck prickled into animal alertness, a chill ran through his bones, and goose bumps shuddered into awareness as a draft whispered across his knees.  As he wandered in a half daze, opening door after door, stepping over threshold after threshold, his stumbling footsteps quickened and the chill in the air murmured its insidious messages a little louder, always on the cusp of hearing. 

            All at once, he stopped dead, in the center of a circular room, a dense fog clinging to the floor, a nameless dread singing on his nerves.  Dry ice? He giggled, high pitched, the sound echoing and amplifying against the dull walls.  His own voice cackled at him, catcalled, sniggered at his fear and confusion.  He sat on the uneven stone floor, gathering deep breaths in an effort to calm himself. 

            When he had gathered half his wits, a slow, steady beat insinuated itself into his consciousness.  Laying a hand on his heart, he discovered it was not his pulse. The tread of heavy feet grew louder by miniscule amounts, but his terror glued him to the frigid floor and eventually overcame him.  He fainted.

            And woke up, soaked in his sweat.  As he untangled the sheets binding him to the bed, he rolled onto the floor with a soft thump and peered blearily at the clock.  3 AM.  Earlier tonight.  This morning? Urgh.  It’s always the same…  He pulled a pair of flannel pajama bottoms on and straightened out the covers. Every night, without fail, it was the same.  He would lose himself in a labyrinth of doors and wake up in a cold sweat, the sinister eyes of terror bearing down on the nape of his neck.

            Wandering into the abandoned kitchen, he filled his mug with water, punched a minute into the microwave, and heated up a cup for tea.  He rubbed his eyes and peered into the cupboards.  Le Chef will be preparing something special today…perhaps rice? Indeed, rice and vermicelli!  The rice will be prepared in chicken broth with garlic to flavor…hey! Cheap buggers, this isn’t vermicelli, this is spaghetti chopped up into little bits.  Maybe that’s what vermicelli is? Vermicelli vermicelli… vermin-celli? Oh sick…

            He poured the box of Rice a Roni into a saucepan and dunked a tea bag in and out of his mug absentmindedly.  While the butter sizzled happily to itself, he perched on a stool by the counter and recorded his dream in the handy dandy book his uncle had given him four months ago for his birthday. It didn’t take long to describe the nightmare. 

            “Ibid.  Managed to sit down on the circular floor this time, heard those damn footsteps later, then fainted.  Woke up.”  He stared at the entry for a few moments, and then turned on the TV.  Muted, he scanned the captions with half interest, sipping his tea.  The energetic arm waving of the Orange Clean man contrasted with the sleepy condition of the state at this hour.  As the rice cooked, the Orange Clean man was preempted by the blue screen of dead time. 

            Munching his impromptu dinner, he pushed in the VHS tape hanging out of the VCR.  He could always count on his little sister leaving something in the recorder for him.  It had become a bit of a ritual for them.  She watched at least the first half, leaving it in the recorder for him to watch with half his attention and tease her about in the morning. 

            When an incredibly young Tom Cruise stared at him in a decidedly creepy way from the screen, he had to smother a laugh.  Legend, eh? Urgh.  What an awful movie.  Whoa, Tom Cruise just flashed his dirty underwear to all. Hey, if Tommy didn’t stare so much, he’d be quite pretty in his shiny little dress thingy. 

            For the rest of the morning he watched Tom Cruise act, badly, and munched his Rice a Roni.  At six, he erased all signs of his early morning activities and slipped back into bed.  A half hour later, his mother woke him, and the day began for the rest of his world.