When Their Light Goes Out

I wish I knew the words to tell them.
To tell Mummy and Daddy what goes on in here - my room, Archie's room - when their light goes out.

But I'm only two. And I haven't learnt the words yet.

So, I stand in the dark at the child gate which blocks my door.
And when things get too bad, I cry and shout for Mummy and Daddy.
I shout for them to come and get me, hold me, make me safe, before it's too late.

I used to think that the toys were my friends. But that was before I knew that the walls had eyes.
That ghosts lived in the curtains.
And before I knew, once Mummy and Daddy go to bed, what the toys do when their light goes out.

Mummy and Daddy think it's a joke.
Daddy says, 'Do you want to go to bed, Archie?' and then laughs when I shout, 'No!'
Mummy says, 'You're tired, Archie. Stop fighting it darling - go to sleep.'
But I have to fight. Stop my eyes from closing. Try to stay awake.
Because, later, when I wake with a shudder in my own bed, I know what happens in my room, when Mummy and Daddy go to bed, when their light goes out.

So I stand at the child gate.
And it's nearly too late.

And I cry and shout for Mummy and Daddy.
And it's nearly too late.

And I hope for the day when I'm three and I know all the words I need to explain.

And then it's too late.



I feel their breath on my neck.
I feel their paws, hands and hooves pinching and kicking.
I turn round and I see that they know what I'm thinking.

And together, they laugh.

Then whisper, as one:

'But if you knew the words Archie, do you really think Mummy and Daddy would believe you?'