The doom of my Spanish existence follows me nightly, plaguing my dreams, haunting the shadows, lurking somewhere below me, somewhere I can never quite see. When I turn my head, all I hear is his lingering laughter, and am left wondering, why, why, why has this dark scourge of shadows untold found me as its mark. It was an ill omen when I first caught the discordant melody of his presence during those gone-by hours, guided only by moonlight and protected only by a frail sheet of warmth. For not a night since has the demon left me unscathed. Perhaps my imagination has conjured it in whole, and nothing lurks beyond the edges of thought, perhaps I ought to close my eyes and gain sweet sleep, and yet, each time, again the banshee wail renews, and again my sleep is slain.
But lo, what is this? A sprout of an idea? An inkling of the truth? These cries be not like inhuman hunger, but those of a baby? A niño lives beneath my floor!
More specifically as my house-mother tells me, a niño of 14 months by the name of George. George, who I imagine is quite adorable but as of yet have not gotten the chance to meet has become something of a thorn. The last few nights, around 2-4 with dice-like consistency, his thunderous cries for food, warmth, or something else that his poor parents have to rush to discern burst forth with all the force of a pair of scissors cutting paper (which is to say just about enough force to get the job done).
I'd love to do something about it, but there really is not much to be said. It's not like you can go up to a child and ask him to stop crying, and the family is obviously doing what they can because his wails keep them up as well. I've tried using two pairs of nested earplugs to no effect (Yes it's possible), and for now I plan on just sleeping on the couch.
I'll take it as a good thing that the most immediately troubling thing in my life is a one-year-old.
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