The floor had always been comfortable, but unexpectedly waking up there was not. This was quickly learned when he turned his head to the side and found table legs blocking his sight. Specifically, his dining room table. The mahogany wood, slightly chewed at the bottom from the dog he had. Countless, insufferable family dinners were had here over the years. The bitter memories made him want to crawl back to his slumber, the slumber he could not recall falling into.

          His calloused hands grasped the wood as he attempted to bring himself to his feet. His legs weakened and buckled as the safety of the floor reclaimed him once more. Faint ribbons of light streamed through the curtains from the window above. The slits of his eyes closed as he prepared to bathe his face in the sunlight; however, that familiar warmth never came.

           Everything was cold.

           A red glow creeped in from the darkness of his still- closed eyes, beckoning them to open. Yet when he did, the startling discovery that the red glow came from the window outside was enough to spring him to his feet. A debilitating chill echoed through his veins as he hobbled to the window, pressing his palms to the glass. A heavy fog of crimson red blanketed the street.

            Did the fog cover the whole town? Maybe even the world... He pondered these thoughts to himself in an almost manic state. His racing mind was the only thing he could hear, for the mist had carried an impenetrable barrier of silence. A quiet that was so heavy, it was suffocating.

           Turning away from the window, the entire home was dark. Devoid of all light, all signs of life as well. It was as if all inhabitants of this quaint house in a suburban neighborhood had disappeared, evaporated into that blood-red quilt of gas. Many days, the boy wished and prayed for people to stop being so loud. He found the sounds of their laughter irritating, the way they chewed their food or tapped their feet against the floor. But now that his prayers had been answered, finally, he had never missed the noise so much.

            Reluctantly, he turned the corner of the house into the kitchen, its wooden cabinet doors beaten down and falling from the wall. The microwave read the time: 6:13am. This would be the time he would be sleeping on any usual summer day. But this day was different. It didn’t even feel like a day at all. It was as if he was in a different reality altogether. Questioning his existence, he continued on through the house.

             He couldn’t shake those nagging questions from his brain. They were like flies, crawling on his skin and buzzing their intolerable songs in his ears. The thoughts made him itch, and when he did, he ended up pulling a fly from his hair. Repulsed, he crushed the bug in his fingers. Actual flies were now buzzing all around his head, as if they were plucked from his disgusting imagination. He peered into the hallway to find the source of the vermin when a noise stopped him dead in his tracks. The wooden floorboards creaked-- subtly-- but enough to hint at some other life in the desolate home. Quietly backing out of the hallway, he waited for the noise to draw nearer. It was coming from the spare bedroom. Shuffling noises... was it feet walking? The bedroom door began to open. Whoever was behind that door was scared; he could sense this in their gradual opening of it, followed by hushed whispers.

             His mother stepped out of the room, she didn’t notice him immediately. Her face looked sullen, then she saw him.

            “Oh, what are you doing up so early, baby? Well, early for you, I should say.” Her face seemed to lit up as she spoke.

            Baby? He was taken aback by the pet name, something she rarely called him. Following close behind was his father.

          “Good Morning. I’ve taken off work today, we can all have some quality time together. Feels like we don’t do that much.” His father stated, which was unusual for his workaholic self.

The boy looked into his father’s eyes briefly. But that second of eye- contact held enough tension to clue how he really felt about his dad. 

            Remembering the mist, he turned back to his mother, “Have you checked outside yet?!”

           She walked to the bedroom window and peered outside, “I’ve always enjoyed gloomy mornings. The sun should be rising soon.” Her face darkened again as she remembered the sunrise, yet she fully ignored the red fog’s existence.

         “What about the red mist?!” He was almost yelling now, frustrated by their nonchalance.

          “Y’know, I’ve always thought there was something off with your vision. Maybe you really are color-blind.” His dad chuckled.

          “I’ll start on breakfast. I know it’s early but, the sooner that we get things done, the better.” His mother said, her last remark puzzling him. They were too calm. He lost his appetite.

           Both parents walked past him and headed for the kitchen, his dad gently grabbing his arm and pulling him from the hallway as they went.

          “You two sit at the table, I’ll make the scrambled eggs,” his mother suggested.

           He was dreading having to sit at a table with them. Was he the lunatic for seeing the mist, or were they for not seeing it?

           With his mother fixated on the stove, she went off on her tangents, “The food will be ready soon. I remember when you were younger, you used to eat this all the time. After I would come home from work, you would beg me to make this for you. It annoyed me at the time but, looking back on it, it was so precious,” she reminisced, hypnotized by the memory.

           No. He did remember the other nights, though. The nights where she would fight back tears in her old mascara because dad wasn’t returning his calls again. The nights that ended in either a bloody nose or a hug that was nothing short of a caricature. The anger of his past was enough to make him leave the dinner table. He pushed his chair in as his mother sighed with disappointment. The attempt at a perfect family breakfast ruined.

          He began walking towards the hallway, hearing his parent’s footsteps after him. Something had caught his eye. The closet door was slightly ajar, enthralling him in its gravitational pull. His dad sprang into view, breaking him from his thoughts.

            “Hey, we don’t need to go in there. Just stay here with us!” His dad pleaded with him frantically, acute twitching movements pinged throughout his body. His dad looked like he was on the brink of an explosion. His unexpected erraticness sent chills through his son’s spine.

           His mother’s hands lightly squeezed his shoulders, “Your father’s right. Breakfast is almost ready. I worked so hard on it, your favorite, remember?”

          Ignoring the requests of his parents, he pushed past his dad’s barrier and grasped the door handle. A warm energy ebbed from the entrance, encouraging him to move forward. Hands grabbed his arms and head. These hands were pulling, yanking, desperate hands, no trace of benevolent intent left. Unbridled calamity had broken through the surface, just as he had broken down the door.

       Tumbling into the room, he hit the ground hard, feeling something brush the very tips of his hair above him. Cautiously, he lifted his face to find the bottom of a foot resting on his nose. He crawled backwards, revealing a horrifying reality as it unfolded before him. The feet were a part of a limp and lifeless body, attached to the ceiling from a noose. The body ached for him, and as he scanned its face, he saw his own staring back at him. The same flies that were circling his head moments ago crawled down his deceased body’s face above him. Paralyzed with fear and disgust, warmth hit his head.

             The sun had risen. The light, in its ember glow and beauty, beat down into the faces of his parents as well. But the eyes that looked back at him were no longer brown.

     They were two pairs of red, beady eyes.