I go to bed after washing my hands until they turn a hot pink. Your hands can never be too clean, that's what I say. I smile as I crawl
under the sheets of my old futon. Good night.
I wake up at two in the morning. I am still very tired, and the sun is not even thinking of peeking up over the horizon. I am in a sweat. Nightmares are occurring almost every night now, and I am almost afraid
to go to bed. Actually, I am afraid to be alone. But I am alone, and
right now there is nothing I can do about it.
I toss and turn. Sleep does not come back easily once I have scared it away. Or maybe it will not come because deep down inside I do not want it.
Four o'clock. I lie in bed with eyes wide open. I do not have a bedside clock with huge glowing numbers to tell me how long I have been
awake. Those clocks mock anyone who is trying to sleep. I am glad I do not have one.
I get up and can just see the morning light beginning to wash over Broom Hill. The trees are a dull, soft green, growing lighter by the minute. I think perhaps I will sleep better once the sun is up.
Sometimes the darkness scares me, and sometimes it does not. I am never
sure how the nights will go.
With my housecoat and fleece slippers on, I unlock my front door and step onto my front porch. The concrete is cold, even through my
slippers. I don't close the door behind me.
The sun is glowing above the house across the street, and the trees surrounding the house are getting hazy as the sunlight filters through them. I pull my housecoat tight over my body. It is chilly, but so
beautiful. There is no sound at all. This place is so quiet. No one is up yet, especially since it is Sunday.
I realize I have not met any of the other people who live on my street. Neighbours, that's what you call them. Next-door neighbours.
Really, I don't want to talk to anyone. I hate being alone, but I hate people too. I'll get a cat. The thought makes me smile. People everywhere and I want to get a cat. Funny.
I stay outside until the sun comes over the house and shines into my eyes. I am cold now, but I feel more rested. The sun burns little
spots into my eyes. I close them and the spots are still there. I go
back inside and lock the door behind me. The quiet street can turn evil
in an instant, and I don't want to have the door unlocked if that
happens. You never know, right?
Back to bed. Sleep.
Can't breathe. Tight. Can't see. Help.
Darkness pushing me around. Blind. Walls moving, twisting. Writhing.
Sarah. Sarah.
Eyes open but no images. I am walking, trying to run, on a moving, undulating floor. I hear voices. Loud voices. No words. Except my name. Over and over.
Sarah. Sarah.
Sudden quiet. I am standing still. I can feel the walls moving, pulsing around me, touching me as they vibrate and roll. The floor rises and falls, gently. I feel like I am in someone's throat as they are swallowing. I guess that means they are swallowing me.
Moving again, violently.
I am running again, things are moving and shifting. I cannot see, but my eyes are wide in case any light helps me. Up and down, up and down.
I close my eyes.
Now I am on a bed, your bed. You have on a mask. You show me the knife in your hand. I try to move, but as in all my dreams of you, I am tied down and still. I struggle but get nowhere. You hit me with an open hand. My cheek stings with the impact. I feel tears on my cheeks. My arms are in pain, my shoulders feel dislocated, absolutely in agony. I cannot feel my feet or lower legs at all. Help me. My hands are dirty, covered in mud. The mud is heavy.
You are gloating over me, waving your knife and laughing.
Screaming fills my ears. It is me.
I wake in a hot sweat. My sheets are on the floor. My hair is plastered to my face.
Help me.
I get up, shaking. I walk to the bathroom.
Water and Advil and water and Tylenol. I need more than this. I stare into the bathroom mirror and it stares right back. I do not even recognize myself. My face is red and wet. Puffy, sad and scared. No fight in me, only surrender.
Surrender. No surrender. I have to fight.
My hands are vibrating with adrenaline. I place the glass as gently as possible onto the counter. My feet are cold and wet. Drops of water. I have spilled water on the floor, but the painkillers are in my belly, doing their thing. I only wish it was enough.
I close my eyes and see an image. A man is holding my head, just my head, in the air for all to see. My hair is plastered to my face. My face is dirty. My eyes are open and unseeing.
I open my eyes and slide to the floor, crying.
Will it ever be enough.
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