literature

Sweet Sleep

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AtrumMiles's avatar
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Literature Text

     I slip out of bed, trying not to make a sound, despite the fact I live alone. I used to sneak downstairs in the dead of night when I lived with my parents, that was more than ten years ago but old habits die hard. I have to force myself to turn on the light, afraid I'll wake my non-existent neighbours. A clock on the wall with a knife and fork for hands informs me that it's 3:15 in the morning. I look for paracetamols first; I always keep painkillers in the kitchen, even though I only ever need them when I'm in bed. In my half asleep state I decide to dry swallow them. One sticks to the back of my throat, causing a horrible taste to fill my mouth. I guzzle water straight from the tap until it goes away.
     I contemplate going back to bed, but know that I won't sleep now. Four hours sleep is the most I've had in almost a year. I open the fridge and look at its barren interior: I forgot to go shopping. Again. That's the problem with chronic sleep deprivation, sometimes things just don't register properly.  I pull myself up to sit on the kitchen counter, my feet dangling a foot from the floor. I realise that I'm wearing odd bed-socks that make my skin look particularly pallid. My stomach grumbles and I consider making a run to the supermarket, it's twenty-four hours after all. Then I remember Crazy Jane will probably be there, standing by the fresh fruits, waiting to swap stories of menstrual cycles and golf. Even amongst the people I consider my friends, Crazy Jane is just too much for me to handle. Instead, I grab the last apple and take a bite. It's sweeter than I expect and the juice runs down my chin, I wipe it off and take another bite. As I eat I realise there's a mark on the wall. It's small and looks like a smudge mark from where a moth has met an untimely end by one of my never used cook books.
      The phone rings; I glance away from the wall and at the clock. 4:25 in the morning. I don't know if I fell asleep or zoned out; I don't know if there's a difference between the two anymore. I push myself from the counter and grab the phone hanging on the kitchen wall.
      "Hey! Why haven't you been picking up your mobile? I've been calling it for an hour." It's Sandra. I met Sandra two months ago when I found her having a panic attack in the middle of a park at 2 in the morning. We eventually became friends and she told me she had something called fatal familial insomnia, and would be dead by 2013. She's 38 years old, only 11 years older than me.
     "I don't have a mobile, Sandra, you know that." I remind her. She started hallucinating last week and ever since she's been getting more and more nervous. There is a long pause on the phone.
     "Oh, yeah, of course. Sorry, Ellie. Do you mind if I come over?" Before I have a chance to answer my front door opens and Sandra steps in. Her black hair is dripping on her face and her clothes are soaking; I look out my kitchen window and realise it's raining.
     "Did you walk all the way here?" I ask, for some reason still holding the phone to my ear. I remember to hang it up as she shakes her head. "Stick your clothes in the dryer, I'll go get you something." I say walking out of the room.
     I scour my drawers for clothes that will fit her; she used to me about my size, but over the past few months she's gotten thinner and thinner. I eventually grab some winter pyjamas and a towel for her.
     When I get back to the kitchen she's standing there in her bra and pants in a puddle of water, she still looks soaked. I hand her the towel and can't help but notice how visible her bones are through her skin.
     "Thanks." She says in little more than a murmur. When she's dried herself she drops it on the puddle of water and stands on top of it as she slips the pyjamas on; they look huge on her. Despite the situation, seeing her in my clothes makes me feel fat. Now that she's dried herself off I realise that's she's crying; Sandra doesn't make a sound when she cries, instead letting the tears silently roll down her face.
     "What's wrong?" I ask, awkwardly placing an arm round her shoulder for comfort. She pulls me into a tight hug and buries her face into my shoulder. For the first time since I met her she begins to audibly sob. I don't say anything; I don't know what to say.
      "I saw my father in the park today." she manages at last. Now I understand. Sandra's father had died twenty years ago of the same hereditary condition that was slowly killing her. I hug her tighter, knowing that every hallucination she has is just another grim reminder that her condition's getting worse.
     I'm not sure we stand like that. It could have been an hour, or fifteen minutes. Eventually, Sandra pulls away. She wipes her eyes with the corner of her sleeve and wanders into the living room. I hover in the kitchen a moment longer, thinking about my father and how he kicked me out the house after…I push the memory away and follow Sandra into the living room.
      She's curled up on the sofa, watching those crappy infomercials which come on virtually every channel in the early hours of the morning. As I walk in she pats the seat next to her and I sit down. She lies down with her head on my lap and I idly brush her hair behind her ear with my fingers.
     "I'm so sorry, Sandy." I mutter, staring down at her grey eyes, which still look on the verge of tears. She reaches her hand up and grabs mine, squeezing it tightly.
     "At least I have you." She replies, kissing the tips of my fingers before letting my hand go.
     "Some consolation prize." I say and we both laugh. She turns up the volume on the television and together we learn how we can get the perfect bodies in just a 28 days or our money back. The sun begins to shine in through the shutters, casting slits of light across the room.
     I look down at Sandra and realise she is asleep; I smile. It doesn't last long as I realise that in five months she'll never be able to sleep again and in a year she might…not be here anymore.
Well, this is the first thing I've been able to write in quite a while. I'm not sure how I feel about it, it's vastly different from my usual, but I felt I had to submit it, since I found it tolerable and not complete garbage like that last 10,000 things I tried to write (I may, or may not, have exaggerated the number). Do tell me what you think. Also, I couldn't think of what to call it, so...if you have any ideas i'd love to hear them.

For :iconrawem0tion:'s theme: Headaches
© 2011 - 2024 AtrumMiles
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MoonlightWillow6's avatar
This was touching. The emotions felt very real and the dialogue was incredible! Great job! :)