A clichéd blue light washed the living room.

On the screen, Kurt Russell piloted his helicopter over a barren, icy waste. Outside, the sky was cold, and traffic was sparse. In the living room, Ethan slept, as the light cast from the set splashed cold, crisp across his legs, his feet, his chest, his cheek. A particularly loud bit and a smattering of darkness roused him from his sleep.

He blinked slowly. Fished the remote from between his thigh and the cushion. Click.

Debbie Harry presses her face agains t the screen.

Suzanne Sommers, a shit-eating grin, and a blue leotard.

Jamie Lee Curtis crying and running across the street in the dark.

An Asian woman pretending to be whipped and killed, the same woman as last night.

Jim Henson’s hand wrapped in green felt.

James Arness in a silly rubber suit.

“Nothing.” The light clicked off, and all was dark. Ethan sat a moment, staring at the glowing light switch across the way. 95¢ nail polish and a stroke of brilliance had culminated in a the marking of each switch with a green glow. He made his way toward the switch, and flipped it. Blinking in the brightness, he fumbled open the toothpaste tube and squeezed. This was the final ordeal before the sheets could claim him. Bristles dripped once, as he slung the brush into the holder, splashed water in the cup and drank, and then snapped the light off again.

As he made his way to bed, Ethan pondered the safety of his water. Fluoride was a lost cause… of course that was going on, and had been for years. But the radiation was another thing… something more devious and foul. As the green glow of the light switch across the room faded from his sight, his thoughts, and even his dreams, turned to radioactivity.