Outside The Window, Inside The Room
The lights are outside his window again.
At first I ignored them, wrote them off as headlights from the neighbors or some strange reflection shining through the trees.
But my son is different now.
I noticed the day after I found his bed empty in the middle of the night. I heard him cry out and then nothing, a vacuum of sound where his voice had been. When I went in his room, he wasn’t there. Which is impossible because he can’t go anywhere without me lifting him in and out of his wheelchair.
I rushed around the house, screaming his name and by the time I’d made the full circuit, he was back in his room, sleeping like he’d never left.
The next morning his eyes were different. His pupils oval instead of round. The movement of his legs stronger. His teeth sharper. He doesn’t even look like my son anymore.
They’ve taken him five times. Each time he comes back there's less of him.
And there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
Except tonight I’m hiding beneath his bed. When they come to take him, I’m going with.
Then I’m going to find him. The real him.
And bring him home.