I woke up with my hair in my face, and I was no one.
It was a strange set of events that had led me to this point. Sweating, I realized I was being suffocated and pulled hard my oppressor from my person. Of course, the pillow flew away with no difficulty and I sat assessing my place.
The first thing that happened was that I looked at the clock, which read 11:07. The first thing I had done was try to remember who I was, and with some difficulty, did so. Thereafter, I tried to assess the day of the week, as a dull ache called school troubled me to keep my wits about me even as I drifted into slumber again. Sleep never came, which is why I am here.
Next I walked to the phone. I remembered that Kenzie had said they would call me from the mall when they got there. Of course, I walked to the phone (albeit shakily) and picked it up, thumbing the caller ID button.
No calls since six? What time had I fallen asleep? The call on the phone was one I had answered before I had gone to my room and fallen asleep. I was gripped with some animal panic instantly because I had remembered something important: it was a Friday, at 11 o'clock, and here I am at my mother's house, with my father downstairs, presumably. I opened the door and looked out. The hall was black; strange, as Katie almost never fails to leave a light on. But the air was black as pitch, and I went back to my bed to sort out what had just happened. More than anything else, I was plagued by the dreams.
They have come back, dreams of unnatural disorder that haunts me, even in its smallest capacity, and each time I wake and lose another piece of myself. I forget my current purpose, I forget my name, I forget the last person I talked to, or what has happened in the past year, I forget all of it. Slowly it floods back, but the silent emperor of the dream stays enthroned, a spike in my mind. The dream sat as I remembered the details of the moment, grinning its orai grin, harvesting my soul.
I went downstairs, pausing at the top, and despite almost utter deafness to acute sounds, I first heard the muffled pitch of my father's voice, or at least thought I did. For a second, I waited for some confirmation, and seconds later, my mother answered him. But where were they? I trumbled down the stairs and was greeted by a dark living room. Even the computer, which is normally always sparked with life, lay still. I heard their voices again and moved toward it. But what is this, their voices coming from the same darkened room? As if it wasn't enough that my mind was doing a tapdance on my soul, something else unnatural, my divorced parents in the same room, sleeping...and god forbid...together?
I pushed open the door slightly and tried my powers of speech, which was successful but slow nonetheless, with fatigue and forgetfulness. My dad slept on a feather matress on the floor in my mother's room, and they were tiredly conversing about us not getting enough sleep on the weekdays. I inquired as to why we were still here, my dad justified this by saying I was sleeping and he didn't want to wake me.
But all the lights were on in my room, dad, I had wanted to say, they were, and the primal urges told me this was out of place. Most of the time, as I sleep before I am supposed, I awake and the lights are off. In fact nearly always. It was interesting that they had left both of them on.
I walked to the kitchen and was gripped by hunger, I ate some peanuts and a glass of Wyler's awesome raspberry stuff that is no longer in production, and sat in front of the computer now to inform all of you that, yes, and truly:
I am going completely mad.
It was a strange set of events that had led me to this point. Sweating, I realized I was being suffocated and pulled hard my oppressor from my person. Of course, the pillow flew away with no difficulty and I sat assessing my place.
The first thing that happened was that I looked at the clock, which read 11:07. The first thing I had done was try to remember who I was, and with some difficulty, did so. Thereafter, I tried to assess the day of the week, as a dull ache called school troubled me to keep my wits about me even as I drifted into slumber again. Sleep never came, which is why I am here.
Next I walked to the phone. I remembered that Kenzie had said they would call me from the mall when they got there. Of course, I walked to the phone (albeit shakily) and picked it up, thumbing the caller ID button.
No calls since six? What time had I fallen asleep? The call on the phone was one I had answered before I had gone to my room and fallen asleep. I was gripped with some animal panic instantly because I had remembered something important: it was a Friday, at 11 o'clock, and here I am at my mother's house, with my father downstairs, presumably. I opened the door and looked out. The hall was black; strange, as Katie almost never fails to leave a light on. But the air was black as pitch, and I went back to my bed to sort out what had just happened. More than anything else, I was plagued by the dreams.
They have come back, dreams of unnatural disorder that haunts me, even in its smallest capacity, and each time I wake and lose another piece of myself. I forget my current purpose, I forget my name, I forget the last person I talked to, or what has happened in the past year, I forget all of it. Slowly it floods back, but the silent emperor of the dream stays enthroned, a spike in my mind. The dream sat as I remembered the details of the moment, grinning its orai grin, harvesting my soul.
I went downstairs, pausing at the top, and despite almost utter deafness to acute sounds, I first heard the muffled pitch of my father's voice, or at least thought I did. For a second, I waited for some confirmation, and seconds later, my mother answered him. But where were they? I trumbled down the stairs and was greeted by a dark living room. Even the computer, which is normally always sparked with life, lay still. I heard their voices again and moved toward it. But what is this, their voices coming from the same darkened room? As if it wasn't enough that my mind was doing a tapdance on my soul, something else unnatural, my divorced parents in the same room, sleeping...and god forbid...together?
I pushed open the door slightly and tried my powers of speech, which was successful but slow nonetheless, with fatigue and forgetfulness. My dad slept on a feather matress on the floor in my mother's room, and they were tiredly conversing about us not getting enough sleep on the weekdays. I inquired as to why we were still here, my dad justified this by saying I was sleeping and he didn't want to wake me.
But all the lights were on in my room, dad, I had wanted to say, they were, and the primal urges told me this was out of place. Most of the time, as I sleep before I am supposed, I awake and the lights are off. In fact nearly always. It was interesting that they had left both of them on.
I walked to the kitchen and was gripped by hunger, I ate some peanuts and a glass of Wyler's awesome raspberry stuff that is no longer in production, and sat in front of the computer now to inform all of you that, yes, and truly:
I am going completely mad.
