He stares out the door.

He hears a scream — it sounds like Mama.

But Mama never screams. Her voice is gentle and soft. Her voice is always happy.

Mama doesn't sound happy.

He hears strange sounds downstairs

He sees Mama run up to him. He sees her face as she scoops him up.

Mama doesn't look happy.

Mama looks scared.

He's scared.

There's somebody at the door. He looks over Mama.

He sees it.

The monster in red.

The yellow eyes stare at him. He sees its sharp teeth in an evil smile.

He's very, very scared.

He cries into Mama's shoulder. She whispers into his ear, singing a soft lullaby.

He hears loud noises around him, crashes and punches. He feels glass and wind and grass hit at him. He still cries.

Mama's stopped. He stops crying. He looks up.

Mama looks sad.

She puts him down on some floor. He's confused.

Then—no—she's moving back.

Going away.

He's reaching out. A wail starts from his lungs.

He only hears water below him. He feels the floor move. So fast, so far.

He sees Mama getting farther, out of his reach.

He's alone.

Totally, utterly, alone.

Absolutely alone.

He cries louder. It's all he hears.

It ends after a while. He stops somewhere.

And eventually, he falls asleep.


Someone scoops him up. He wakes up. He looks at them.

He's not scared. He knows them — he's seen him before.

He's alright. He's friendly.

He's safe.

He hangs around his neck, staring at the grey and blue helmet.