Restless

(For a newer draft of this story, click here.)

My chest. The only noise a heartbeat. It throbs. My heart is bucking wildly, becoming unhinged. Am I dying? Nothing else seems alive—all energy is focused to that spot. Frenzied thudding. My head feels lighter. Helium in my brain. Limbs feel distant, noncompliant. I am in a concussive daze, no senses operating properly.

Breathe. You can breathe. You should breathe. I gasp. Phlegm pops in my throat and air breaks through my open mouth. Cool air strains through an irritated throat. It is the refrain, slight and staticy, to the heavy drumbeat. Haunted.

The pounding subsides and the adrenaline dilutes. Other faculties ramp up.

Something is very wrong. My collar is an unsqueezed sponge, hoarding chilled sweat. Everything is absolutely ruined. Dejection. But why?

What happened? Think back. My last memories are fractured. Overcast and rainy. Shiny pavement and old stone buildings. Europe? Travel. A car, silver then mangled. A car wreck. Screaming. She was with me. Was hurt. Vanished. Dead? I twitch at the thought.

Where am I? Crumpled on my side. No pain. My eyes are closed. Open them. Nothing. Blind? It is completely dark. I stare forward. My hungry pupils expand to no avail. Nothing but encompassing black. Crushing. I let my eyelids fall.

Wait. I am horizontal. Lying. Bed. I wiggle my hands over worn cotton. This is a bed. My legs, swaddled in sheets pinned by a hip, are constrained. I've been here the whole time. You’re all right. It didn’t really happen. Invented.

Is she all right? Parts were maybe true. Has she been gone for months? Oh God I am alone. Confused and only thinking the loss of her was a dream. What now? No, no. She is next to you, just sleeping. Check. Go on.

I free myself and rotate cautiously onto my other side. A spring creaks. Stubble grates against the pillow cushion. Velcro. Now silence. She is making no noise. None. Is she there? Has she stopped breathing? Why can’t I hear her? I send out a probing finger. It crosses petrifying lengths of space. At last resistance. A cushy lump. Her back. Respiration. Facing the other way.

Partial relief. At least she’s with me. The disturbance does not abate entirely. Heart slower than head. Doom lingers. If only I could tell someone. Get reassurance. But I won’t wake her. Wouldn’t dare disturb. She is such a light sleeper. She’d never make it back. Instead trapped—inside a skull inside this cavern.

I lie on my stomach with my left ear on the pillow. The hushed rustle of material made loud by proximity. Rest. You need to rest. Kinked neck. Another tired day in store for me. You have to call Leyland. Tell him about the South Bend branch. Incident. He’ll blame me, but… No. Be still. It’s night.

I don’t care what he says. I followed procedure. Documented to a T. Show him the report. Point out the date. Must be careful…

A plastic snap sounds in the hallway. An electric whir. A muffled rumble. The furnace rouses. It’s less than 66. Damn drafts. Heater can't keep up. Complain at Stevens again. Caulk the windows for chrissake. It's like living in a tent. Good for nothing. Once the lease expires. March. Maybe someplace further downtown. Greenwood. We can afford to move up.

Look at you. You’re only getting yourself excited.

I am tired. Come on sleep overtake me. I try detaching. A sink draining. Little currents swirling, emptying down the pipe. Evacuating all thoughts. Relax. Methodic breathes, measured and deep. Yes. Fading away.

The furnace keeps blowing. My legs are off. Splayed out. My hip complains. Roll over. I lay one leg atop the other and wad covers between them. The knee caps press annoyingly into each other. Pillow on the ground? I lean over and paw. I wave at the air. I lean over further, the bedding comes with, and she shifts. Ugh. I graze something. I stretch, envision my fingers lengthening. Enough to pinch. I reel it in and maneuver it in place. Aligned. I lie stiff as a board. There. Stay with this. Patience. It’ll work.

The furnace shuts off. Soundless again.

My ear is hot. I lift up and flip the pillow. I put my head back down. My cheek welcomes the temperature. There. Finally.

How long have I been at this? No telling what time it is. We don’t have a clock in the bedroom. She says it makes it harder for her. Distracting. The curiosity drives me up the wall sometimes. It’s probably two or three. Not a seam of light under the door. It is too late and too early. Must sleep be taken from me? A gracious departure from the day.

Exposed skin struggles against the chill. Blood sheds its heat along the way to the extremities. The tip of my nose is frigid. As soon the heater stops, we plunge. Leaking live a sieve.

Stillness is total. I’m in a cave. Tormented by my own self. Running out ahead of me. No one to talk to. No way to get this out. I keep poor company in here. With myself.

Stop this. Stop listening. No words. Just count. I count back from ten, picturing the numbers, blocky and made of glass. Only the numbers, animated. They shrink to a point. The next bursts forward. I make it to seven before I notice my ankle is twisted funny. I push the pillow farther down to raise it. Better. My arm is cold. Blanket? Clumped round my waist. I feel the plush fibers and pull. The added weight on my shoulder soothes. I am ready. This is it.

From nowhere, an irritant. I must cough. Imperative. A tickle commands me. Swallowing does not assuage. I clamp my mouth shut and spasm slightly. My abdomen contracts. Tears well in the corner of my eyes. Another spasm suppressed. No! I will not. Mutiny within me. The tickle claws to center stage. I make fists and squeeze. Go away!

The demand is too great. I bury my face and let loose a breathy, unsatisfying attempt. The tickle returns. The fabric is wet from my tears. I try again. The volume increases and rattles loose mucus from my chest. Salt on the back of my tongue.

She stirs. Tugs at the covers. Have I awoken her? I listen.

Nothing.

Stop this. You’re going to be ruined tomorrow. Tomorrow will be awful. You’ll be so tired. I’ll blast frantic music to make it through and be spent by noon. It drags. Awful. Nothing too worthy to do. But this, doing nothing, is worse. Frozen in this trap.

Dank underarms. Atrocious. I peel off my drenched shirt and toss it. My silhouette radiates heat. I shift closer the bed’s edge. My throat feels raw. Tells me to swallow but isn’t helped when I do. Saliva manages to scratch. Keeps on telling me to swallow. Vicious. I should have put a cup next to the bed. Sink is impossibly far.

The alarm will violate me. Rise cotton-headed and sullen. Not her. She has something to wake up for. She’s happy. Dream job. Happy at home; happy away. I’m neither. I’m so spent by the time I clock out I can’t muster the will to enjoy myself. What a terrible rut to fall into, to just grind along. Against what? Spirit versus the whetstone. There’s no choice in it—no real, vital choice. You can’t really keep your eyes shut.

The walls may be closing in and I wouldn’t know it. Too damn dark.

A tone sounds. Not objectively audible but still disruptive. It rings, warbleless. Solid. A note through time. Time I am awake hearing something that is nothing. Fabricated. Auditory malfunction. Hallucination. High-pitched. With my index finger, I massage my ear. The tone. More vigorous rubbing. The quick succession of open and shut canal. Ignore it.

Can’t get up. Can’t stay here. Stuck conscious and alone. Dropped in a box and taped shut. Torture. Interrogation without the light. Without the good cop. Just a cellar and you, left to your devices, til you crack. Fissures forming.

Alert, I lie on my back. Arms at my sides. Struggle to relax. Pretend a scan descends, systematically releasing tension. Shoulders. Spine. Hips. Curl and uncurl toes. Melting but no longer drowsy. A random snap from structural settling interrupts the quiet. My eyes open reflexively. No ceiling.

How can I clear my mind with all of this? So much discomfort. Pain isn't localized. It is evenly diffused, dredged in defeat. Unintended victory. I spent my best, most carefree years sacrificing to arrive at this place and then… and then old and empty. We're repeating. Life as a rerun. Even when you try to get something fresh and new, you’re undone by the knowledge of the rerun. The novelty only occurred to you because you’re repeating. Pitiful.

I told her once I’d jump off a bridge if she ever left me, that I’d end it all if she ever was taken away. But now I’m not so sure. I think I’d just stay here in this spot and die of thirst. If only. I’d drink eventually. Can’t resist the impulse. Coward.

If to be in despair is not knowing you're despairing, what is it when it’s known? I know I am despairing as thoroughly as I know my waking life.

You’ll be better after you work. Put this behind you. You have to fall asleep sometime. Maybe you can hop on the treadmill during lunch. Get the juices flowing to perk you up. Tomorrow is a new day.

But it’s already past midnight. It is the new day. Again.