Slumber was first published in 'Darker Times Collection: Volume Two' in March 2014, after receiving an honourable mention in Darker Times Fiction's June 2013 Flash Fiction competition.
Slumber
At first he put it down to the energy drinks, the coffee, the stress. Not anymore. Two weeks is too long for that. A disease then? A condition? Both? Neither?
He'd gone to the doctors. 'Insomnia' – they called it. They gave him tablets, medication, a kindly word.
They'd asked him to come back after a week – see if anything changed. He didn't.
Then the phone calls started. Asking became begging. Begging became pleading. He wouldn't come back. He couldn't – in fact. Wasn't possible – didn't have the energy...not anymore.
It was like the world was playing mind games. Tricking him. Besting him. Hating him.
His apartment became a prison. The headaches – crippling. His thoughts like foreign whispers.
Beaten. Bent. Broken. Once so strong. Now so weak. He looks in a mirror, he doesn't know himself. Skeletal. Lack of sleep disables the stomach – so he's learned.
Despair: A thing of the past. He has accepted his fate.
He opens his window out onto the city. The rush of night-time air hitting his face – stimulating. He didn't want that.
The sound of traffic. Monotonous, constant, like a lullaby. Maybe that would do it – listening to that?
Staring at the bed – he couldn't face it. It was pointless. He knew that.
Back to looking out at the city. Down at life.
Funny how they call it 'falling fast' asleep – isn't it? Maybe if he just fell far enough, fast enough...it would have the same effect?
He'd gone to the doctors. 'Insomnia' – they called it. They gave him tablets, medication, a kindly word.
They'd asked him to come back after a week – see if anything changed. He didn't.
Then the phone calls started. Asking became begging. Begging became pleading. He wouldn't come back. He couldn't – in fact. Wasn't possible – didn't have the energy...not anymore.
It was like the world was playing mind games. Tricking him. Besting him. Hating him.
His apartment became a prison. The headaches – crippling. His thoughts like foreign whispers.
Beaten. Bent. Broken. Once so strong. Now so weak. He looks in a mirror, he doesn't know himself. Skeletal. Lack of sleep disables the stomach – so he's learned.
Despair: A thing of the past. He has accepted his fate.
He opens his window out onto the city. The rush of night-time air hitting his face – stimulating. He didn't want that.
The sound of traffic. Monotonous, constant, like a lullaby. Maybe that would do it – listening to that?
Staring at the bed – he couldn't face it. It was pointless. He knew that.
Back to looking out at the city. Down at life.
Funny how they call it 'falling fast' asleep – isn't it? Maybe if he just fell far enough, fast enough...it would have the same effect?
