First Sentence

"In his dreaming, a child screams piteously. Face down inside a utility crate, it is soiled, dirty, hungry, goes ignored. The child screams louder. Something in his awareness responds with: That is not the voice of a child. The image fades quickly, but the sound does not. That is the sound of an animal. He awakens on the dirty cot by simply opening his eyes and staring at the dingy wall. More of the faded yellow paper has peeled loose in the sweltering August night. He takes a deep breath, takes stock of his life, as he does every morning, lest he lose any more of it. It’s Monday morning, the rats are fighting again in the hall. They have invaded my dreaming for the third night in a row. He listens to the sounds of their skittering feet within the hollow walls. He moves his eyes to the right, focuses his attention on the wand sitting on the crate beside the cot. Reaching over his chest with his right hand, he notices that his left arm has melted into a gelatinous pool beside him, seeping into the stained sheet. He lets out his breath. The wand seems to hum with delight as he closes his fingers about it. He does not move his torso, lest he lose contact with the missing arm, then points the wand at the gaping rat hole on the other side of the room. There is a red glint somewhere in the darkness beyond the peeling wallpaper. He aims the wand and gently presses the discharge stud. An arcing bolt of vibrant purple flashes across the room, illuminating the startled rat for the briefest instant. Another hideous scream fills the morning, as the bolt incinerates the rat. The cockroaches clustered under the table scatter and vanish into their crevasses beneath the baseboard. He sets the wand back on the plastic crate that serves him as a night table. His heart is racing, like it does every time he kills a rat. It reminds him of the sweep. It also reminds him that his morning litany has been disrupted. He looks at the clock Rachel has given him. It is five after nine. Damn, I’ve overslept again."