I’m an insomniac, my mind works the night shift
Pete Wentz
He was struggling to sleep.
His skin was uncomfortable. The bed too bouncy. The blanket too hot. And noise of the ceiling fan irritating.
Should have shaved my beard. My chin is itchy as hell, he winced.
Three weeks at home and he’d let it go, and now, each time his face pressed against any of the pillows, it grated.
I’ll give it a trim in the morning. And he adjusted his sticky body, to feel more at ease.
His phone, plugged in and resting on the bedside nightstand suddenly glowed. He reached for it. And swore under his breath. 5:45am.
He’d barely had shuteye for 3 hours!
I’m going to be screwed, as if yesterday hadn’t been bad enough, he grumbled. Now I’m going to sleep in. Yet again.
For the past fortnight, he’d missed every alarm he’d set.
“5:30, 6:00, 6:30, 6:45, 7:00am!” Waking on average at close to lunch time.
The routine of January and a fresh start, wiped out, as the city braced itself for the ravages of the virus that was tearing the world asunder.
The insomnia had been expected though. It came seasonal or so to speak. Bouts that ranged from a few days, to a week at most.
It would fade away eventually, that he knew.
But right now, and especially this week, he wished it wasn’t here.
Only once had he taken medication for it. Little yellow pills, that had taken the better part of an hour to convince his doctor for a prescription.
And that was 13 years ago.
He’d never been one for medicine.
That’s what the alcohol had been for. Drinking himself into a blind stupor and sleeping deeply had been a good excuse then.
But an aging body and heavier responsibilities in life kept him from engaging.
That, his liver, and his temper.
The booze made him sleep, if taken in consistently larger amounts, but it also aroused his rage.
There had been times when in drunken delirium, sudden thoughts of slights endured from childhood, his teens, the many failed relationships, all crossed his mind in a swirling kaleidoscope of color and memories, so overwhelming that he’d end up in tears, and clenched fists.
And on more occasions than he’d care admit , these fits hadn’t ended well.
Holes in walls, broken cutlery and smashed furniture, a stark and embarrassing testament of his tantrums.
His own father had kicked him out. TWICE.
No. No alcohol.
Birds chirped outside his window. Swallows or Finches, he could never tell. I’ll find out one day.
In the distance, a rooster crowed.
He let out a deep, exasperated sigh.
“I swear, if someone puts up a sign about smile today’s a bright day or some bullshit… the middle finger I send them wont be big enough.”
He smiled, at the thought, knowing he wouldn’t.
Ok maybe not the middle finger.
A salty tear rolled down the corner of his left eye.
He squeezed both eyes shut to ease the stinging.
He was tired. The bed was too soft. The blanket lay on the floor. And be damned if that pillow touches my face.
Might as well hit the shower. And shave. He thought ruefully.
I can find sleep tomorrow.