The Tragedy of Sleeping With the Lights On

He had been staring at the blank white roof, for what seemed like hours. Carefully going over every crevice, every line whomever had painted it had made, slowly, gliding the brush across. It was strange he thought, that he always focused on the what rather than who in what he was looking at.

“Who built this room?” He asked the voice.
“I did, of course, child.” It answered.

“Why?” He asked, his curiosity growing.

“We have gone over this, it must be a thousand times already, haven’t we?” It replied.

“Then we will go over it a thousand more, until I never have to ask a question again.” He said, laughter bowling over into and out of his mouth.

“To keep you safe.” The voice sighed, a tinge of happy playfulness in it.

“Safe from what?” He asked.

“Everything.”

“What’s everything?” The boy asked.

The man stared through to the boy, wondering how a boy devoid of so many pleasures and experiences could be so insatiably curious.

“Every bird that flies, and every dog that barks, and every human that dies, all that. As well as everything in between those things, and all that are not those things, but not what isn’t any of the above; that is to say; nothing.” He answered, his words flowing methodically.

“Nothing is everything?” The boy said, sitting up.

“I suppose it could be.” He replied.

“Then what’s nothing?” The boy spoke, a confused look settling upon his young face.

“Everything that could’ve been done, said, or sung that never actually was.” He replied, again.

“What’s the date?” The boy asked.

“A type of fruit.” The voice said.

The boy scowled at the left wall.

“Not that one, I meant the time, and day, and year.” He said.

“Ah, yes. My apologi-” He was cut off.

“No, you’re not, you did that on purpose, are you trying to mock me?” The boy asked.

“Of course not, my child. The date is the 11th of February, the year of three thousand one hundred and twenty-two; The Day of Red.” The voice answered.

“Why is it called the Day of the Red, voice?” The boy asked.

“Well, because of all the blood.” The voice replied.

“The blood, whose blood?” He asked.

The voice was silent.

“Hello? Whose blood, my blood?”

Nothing.

“Voice, your blood? Don’t leave me, you’re my only friend!” He yelled at the top of his lungs.

The static that came before the voice sounded, a gargled noise followed by two groans sounded.

“Voice!?” The boy cried.

“I’m here, child, I’m here.” He said, coughing up blood.

“Whose blood?” The boy whimpered.

“Ours, I’m afraid, my child.” He gasped, trying to keep his voice calm.

“Why?” The child said, starting to tear up.

“Because we are nothing, and it is the Day of Red.” He said, his breath stopping.

The boy stood up, a gunshot sounded, and then nothing.

END