Sleep little darling dont you cry
His quick slim eyes darted around the room, checking for danger. It rested on the slumbering body gently rising and falling, under a thick dark blue duvet that reminded him of the blanket his dad would hide under to eat, shoving fitsfuls of chocolate into his decaying toothless mouth as he stared at the telly, washed down with warm beer, which sat lined up at his feet, testimony to his unwillingness to make trips to the rumbling fridge. He wiped his glasses with his gloved hand, condensation had from the change of the cool night air to the warm bedroom. His tongue nervously flicked along his teeth, familiar, reassuring. He walked lightly towards the bed, testing with each foot for the creak of floorboards or the knock of toys left untidied in the tumult of bath and bedtime stories, wondering if the sound of a story being read aloud would anger him now; the forced narrative imposed, words emphasised that should be muted, rushed voices instead of the required pause. Why should someone else decide how a story should be told. And decided that he had missed nothing. He inched closer to the form and slowly took a small rucksack from his shoulder. Quielty he unclipped the straps and searched within. His gaze rested a moment on a book; Sally Summer the Splashy plumber. How odd he thought that the idea of a plumber who splashed should be so appealing. No order no job done right, messy. He rolled out a cloth, a selection of metallic tools glistened in the dim light of night light. His tounge raced across his teeth and a slight tremble began in his feet, slowly working his way up his body. He found the smell intoxicated this close. His hands selected a long thin metal device which he held up to the muted light. He brought it close to his mouth and his tounge darted out running across the length of the device. He wondered why they never woke up. Was it some sort of sleep paralysis or just a child's ignorance. Would he say anything or just stare at them he thought. But they never wake. His whole body seemed to be trembling now as the time few closer. Always he had been the same, from that first bloody moment when he held it in his hand as a child, horror and fascination mixed in a grim intoxicating blend. He raised the metal object higher and gently pushed the tip into the unresisting softness, without a sound. He felt his body pulsing in the thrill. Twisting slightly he probed deeper, searching for hardness amongst the soft. And then with a gutteral sigh he felt it. there. with that resistance his body shook as if he convulsed. Slowly he withdrew the tool and held something up, it's pale white form like a misshapen moon. In another moment it was gone into his bag and in its place a single shimmering coin. He giggled softly as the coin spun in his thin fingers. Then he selected another device, flat and smooth and in a few moments the coin was nestled under the softness of the pillow. He seemed to release then and his body finally stopped shaking. He sniffed the air deeply and rolling his cloth bag of tools up he secured his rucksack and crept slowly from the room. Another night's work done. His father would be so proud.