Sleep: Night Three

By: M.G.J.

Up again, I think I’m beginning to grow accustomed to staying up at night after a hard days work. You’d think my body wouldn’t be able to take it, yet here I lay every night for weeks, and like every night before, I try to fall asleep with little success. Eyes wide open, mind aware of every last sound that reaches my ears, I can hear every last noise that surrounds me, even each individual hair that covers my body as it rustles on the sheets, the skin on my head as I toss and turn in bed not only makes a sound but also generates so much heat my head feels like it has been stuck inside an oven, or set ablaze on a streak as to warn the world they are entering the gates of hell. Here I lay thinking about everything and nothing; about fights, over due bills, pay cuts, whether I’ll even have a job next week. The lay offs are climbing pretty high up the seniority latter getting so close to me, I can hear them hiding in the brush, like a silent killer out on a night of hunting, and I’m the prey.

I remember simpler times, when I was younger, when all I had to worry about was whether you’d look my way. I remember staying up late at night thinking about you. Restless nights lost in thoughts. Did I always suffer through this insomnia? Had I ever fallen asleep? What is sleep? I remember grabbing hold of anything I could reach for, anything that could hold my thoughts, an old pen, broken pencil, and the paper I used to write notes in class, anything. I remember this helping me then. Could it help me now? And so, I reached for a pencil and the old napkin I used to wipe away the remains of tonight’s dinner, old sardines in a can, must have been in the covered for over 3 years. I begin to write everything I hear everything I think. I label it “Peering into the mirror.” Someday I won’t see you when I look into the mirror; I’ll be a better man than you. My eyes begin to grow heavy, this just might work.

“Ahhhhhhhhh,” It’s that scream yet again for a third night. Who can it be? I can tell it’s the same scream so high pitched it could break glass, so young, so frail. Besides, the clock reads 3:33. It’s always 3:33. Dare I step outside into the pitch black? I open the wooden door, stand behind the metal door and contemplate whether or not to step outside. The copter over head blows a gust of wind into the room, sending that awful smell up my nose, so reeking, so spoiled, so rotten. The copter’s light shines directly in my eye like the light that leads to heaven, as I hear it once again, “Ahhhhh! Abraham. Help me!” What she knows my name? Mmmmm cherry lip balm…