For a long time I’ve been able to unlock happy dreams. Far too often I’m awoken in cold sweats. It’s always made worse when I’m stressed or anxious. With my book coming out next week, I’ve been both.
Why do others dream and I don’t? When sleep comes for me, it doesn’t offer peace or rest, but sour memories and shame fuelled sweat.
"Louis, come get ready for bed." I still hear my mother's voice when I'm brushing my teeth. If I close my eyes, casting my mind back, I can still hear my feet dragging along the sea-blue carpet, making every second count. The oval face in the mirror has changed a lot since then; time has an illustrious record. Smooth, milky skin spoils. Thick, curling locks thin, and sparkling eyes dull. But time does allow you to keep a few things - trinkets of the past, souvenirs of battle. My collection dangles from my keychain, weighing down my trousers as they bulge in my pocket. The worst of all are my dreams.
Thudding steps echo through my bedroom wall. The neighbour's kids are charging up the stairs, lured by the promise of a good story. Their dreams will be sweet and still. Across the way, beyond my window pane, the gusting wind and fence-sitting cats, glowing rectangles. A life not quite ready for sleep, one which feeds off the desolate sky, straddling the window frame with a cigarette between her fingers. She's too far away to make out the features of her face; are her eyes sparkling with life or detached from it?
The curtains refuse to close as usual - a symptom of my impatient pulling. But tonight, the glare from the rectangles is too bright to leave the gap slicing my room in two. My bed squeaks as I step on it for height and leverage. Up close, the grey fabric has a unique scent - damp, dust and dangerous dreams. Dangerous dreams, what do they smell like? A bar of chocolate long past its best or a rarely visited museum.
Before I settle, wrapping myself up in my cotton cocoon, I reach for an old T-shirt. If I don't, the sheets need to be changed every few days. It's why I sleep alone. And why I have a draw devoted to fresh linen.
There's more thudding; this time slower, more considered steps. The stories are over for another night. But mine are just beginning, coming in waves, every one washing higher ashore, pushed by the tides.
"You could have at least called me," I see the black font popping in front of its blue backdrop. Then those three dots start blinking...
"I thought you were different. I expected more...Don't contact me again." I want to scoff and roll my eyes; why do I have to be the different one?
I was nineteen, a boy walking around in adult clothes. I've tried every excuse, each one mixed with reality, but none wash the shame away. It's heavy and immovable.
The cold side of the pillow used to be a haven. A place I could run to for a while. But nowadays, its defences are old and decrepit, as a garden fence that withstands too many seasons. Another scene washes ashore; the water burns as it kisses my feet.
The alley is empty; only I and the distant revving of boy racers are here to witness it. Overgrown bushes hang and worm through wooden fence panels. It's summer - the air is thick with pollen and the fading fragrance of burnt coals. The path bends, and now I see him, slumped against one of those wooden fences. A bitter taste climbs my throat, and I move quickly for a distraction. He's older, I notice, snatching curious glances - lost in middle age. My headphones are silent, but I walk past, bobbing my head, avoiding the slumped body and empty bottles as if they are insects invisible to the eye.
A door slams somewhere, plucking me from that summer night and dropping me in my damp bed. My heart is racing, and my mouth is dry. The night is treating me rougher than usual. My hand fumbles for my phone in the dark, then finds it and brightens the screen to check the time. It's four am. Too far into the night to expect a healthy amount of sleep and too close to dawn to make a vain attempt. The duvet lands on the floor in a heap as I cast it aside. It'll need a wash. A faint glow bleeds around the edges of my curtains, and I wonder if it is dawn or the glowing rectangles. I pull on the fabric, cutting a sliver into the grey shield. She's still there, as she had been a few hours ago. I watch her for a while, lifting her hand to her lips, then exhaling a cloud of smoke. Perhaps she suffers too, but she waits it out instead of struggling through.
Love, Luke