Slumberland Page 11

  All I’ve wanted to know is why he hates me so much.

  Mark steps closer.

  “I didn’t want to come to your birthday dinner,” he says, “not after what happened last year.”

  Through my scattered thoughts and senseless illusions, I’m trying to remember. I don’t recall anything happening on my birthday last year. Mark, he wasn’t even there.

  “I was there,” he says.

  He tells me his invitation was just like the one a few days ago. He tells me I was excited to have him there because he’s my friend. But my real friends that evening were the ones who didn’t need an invitation. The ones just like me. My friends, like Annie, who never find themselves in dire straits. People like Clayton, the owner of the renovating night club, who wants for nothing. Those are types of people who win my attention. The higher class. The wealthier class. The ones with the perfect lives. The perfect cars. The perfect homes. The people not like Mark.

  “Birds of a feather,” he says.

  The worst part for Mark wasn’t that he felt like an outcast but that I don’t remember him being there at all. Being ignored is one thing, being forgotten is worse. All year I had gone without acknowledging what I had done, only to ask him again this year to go through it again. If for two seconds I could put a thought together, I would give him a response.

  Never have I considered myself such a person to treat someone like that. To act that way.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  This isn’t the state of mind for me to be in where I can say something sincere. I need to focus on something else. Walking past him to my living room, I scrounge through my makeup bag that lay in the corner of the floor.

  Mark follows and his eyes widen as they slowly scan the walls.

  “Acknowledging you were being a shitty person would be an option,” he says. “But it’s okay, I wouldn’t have paid attention to me either.”

  All of a sudden, he’s no longer concerned with what I have done in the past as much he is with what I’m doing now. What were once less decorative walls, are now covered from ceiling to floor in the same equations and math statements as those in my notebooks.

  Dropping a plastic cap to the floor, I calculate numbers in a clean space next to the television.

  “Are you writing with lipstick?” asks Mark.

  “What can I say? I ran out of eye-liner.”

  It’s not ink. Hopefully this stuff will wash off easily. I didn’t think about it before. Somehow I fear it won’t matter anyway. Not with a massive storm coming.

  My wrist is numb, so making broader strokes doesn’t take as much of a toll.

  This line of numerals, operators, and superscript, like the others, they equal nothing.

  I can’t remember if this specific statement is a repeat of one I’ve already tried to solve.

  What I do know for sure, it’s another dead end.

  Thinking hard, running through the math in my head, I forget Mark is watching.

  There’s something missing. I can feel my blood boiling. My face flushes.

  I draw a red circle over the line of figures and cover it with a big X.

  My lipstick snaps in half. My first reaction is to throw it hard across the room.

  Mark ducks as it flies past him.

  At this point, I don’t care who hears it. Both my fists, including the injured one, they slam the wall. The weak pounding isn’t hard enough to do any damage because my crying takes what little energy I have left. My hands smear the writing and I try to focus on breathing.

  Inhale and be aware. Exhale and be aware. Focus and feel and focus again… on what? Why bother?

  Concentration doesn’t work and leaves me with only frustration. The guilt trip I’m taking over Mark only adds to it.

  My forehead smudges with black and red from the walls, but I don’t care.

  From my height, I watch my tears fall to the carpet.

  Mark steps behind me, resting both his hands on my shoulders.

  “We need to get you some help,” he says.

  My eyes close as Mark’s thumbs rub in circles, just like Doug would do.

  My teeth clinch and I spin around, ripping the top of my shirt apart. Dark blue bra straps hang over each shoulder.

  Grabbing Mark’s belt, I pull him close and start to unbuckle it.

  “Sex is the best cure for insomnia.”

  His palms are open to his sides and his eyebrows curve toward each other.

  I lean my back against the wall and grab his hips, unzipping his pants.

  “Do you want to fuck me?” I ask.

  Mark is speechless. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t touch me. His mouth hangs open as he tries to find the words to say.

  “Is wallowing in bed your solution to stop me from tossing in it?” I ask.

  Trying to undress myself like there’s not a second to lose, I try to pull the rest of my shirt but Mark grabs my arms and holds them back.

  “Stop it,” he says.

  And I do.

  Now he must hate me even more. My actions, they’re not his fault. He shouldn’t have to pay for me being angry. He doesn’t deserve me as a friend. Buckling my knees and covering my face, I slide to the floor and the waterworks flow once again. The tears now are of not only frustration but shame.

  Mark towers over me as I sob. I don’t want to look up. Any second now, I’m certain he will storm off… but he doesn’t. Instead, he kneels to my side and from his pocket, he pulls a tiny box wrapped with a yellow bow.

  “The people you ignore,” he says, “may be the ones who save you.”

  Wiping my tears, I take the box from his hand.

  “It’s unfortunate you’ve grown to dismiss the ones who aren’t as perfect as you want them to be,” he adds.

  The ribbon falls to the floor and I flip the lid. Lingering tears fall from my chin as my mouth hangs open. From the box, my fingers pull a light blue dog collar, pattered with moons and stars and the name ‘Bart’ stitched in yellow.

  If Mark’s intentions coming here were to make me feel like the lowest person on the planet, he’s succeeded. If his reasoning was to have so much guilt punch through my stomach, it worked. But that’s not why he’s here. He’s here to save me like he did when we were kids.

  His recent animosity towards me has been justified but just because he’s been angry and hurt doesn’t mean he never cared. He’s cared about me his whole life and I never could see it.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  My body shakes from each whimper. Both my hands fist over my face and I can still smell the faint scent of Bart from the collar. Curling against the wall, my knees folded to my chest, I weep heavily. Through a sob, I hear the click of Mark’s phone being unlocked. Through another, the tones of him dialing a number. Then, the faint ringing of a line waiting to be answered.

  MICROSLEEP

  17

  Mark has been insistent I come with him. If I feel like I owe him anything for the way I’ve treated him, I can pay him back by coming along. A cheap shot, but he said this will benefit me more than it will him.

  Still, I don’t understand why he’s come around. His help isn’t something I’ve earned and knowing what I know now, would never have asked for.

  To avoid the daylight from scorching my retinas, we wait until the evening but he won’t tell me where we’re going.

  This time, he drives.

  He doesn’t speak much on the trip except to tell me to close my eyes. My head rests on the shoulder belt between the seat and the window. Like a baby in a car seat, a soothing car ride generally helps one fall asleep. But no such luck with me.

  The volume of the radio is low.

  This song from 1956 sounds familiar.

  My lips move to the words but the singing comes from the woman on the radio.

  Stars shining bright above you…night breezes seem to whisper I love you… birds singing in the sycamore tree…

  We stop in the empty parking lot of a small o
ne story office building.

  The dimly lit sign in front says:

  ‘The Live Well Bridges Center.’

  Whatever this place is, it doesn’t appear to be occupied with the exception of a lit window at the end of the building.

  A friend of Mark’s has his own practice. This friend is not a medical doctor or a PhD, but a licensed therapist. Given my situation, finding time to schedule an appointment could take days or even weeks. Mark’s friend offered to meet today, after hours, provided we arrived on time.

  A man’s voice shouts from the back room as soon as we enter the front doors.

  “Come on back!”

  Each step I take seems to sink into a swaying hallway.

  Mark paces beside me, ready to catch me if I fall.

  My eyes squint to the floor lamp in the office and this man stands to dim the light.

  “This is Mr. Bridges,” says Mark.

  He’s a tall, thin man in his thirties with a shaved head and goatee.

  On a shelf are framed wedding photographs and pictures of his family on vacation. A smaller picture of a newborn baby girl sits on his desk next to a box of pink bubblegum cigars. Against the wall is a sofa and a decorative chair seated next to it.

  Mr. Bridges gestures for me to rest on the couch.

  “I’ll be in the lobby,” says Mark, closing the office door behind him.

  Mr. Bridges sits in the chair, holding his notepad and pen.

  “I heard about the lightning strike,” he says. “The morning weather report isn’t the same without you.”

  To be polite I smile, but in all seriousness…

  “Nothing is the same anymore.”

  This sofa feels brand new. Still stiff. Its smell is fresh from a warehouse.

  “It hasn’t been broken in yet,” he says. “The old one had to be replaced after a patient of mine… well, it doesn’t matter.”

  The new couch is not the most comfortable but I can see its potential. Besides, I would rest easy on a sheet rock if only I could.

  Mr. Bridges plan to help me is to try hypnosis. By making subtle suggestions to the subconscious mind, he would like to see if he could get to the bottom of what’s keeping me awake. I’ve never been hypnotized before. It’s a frightening thought but here in this office, I feel at ease. My feet slip from my shoes and my legs rest on the sofa.

  With his soft voice, he asks about my medication and what effect it’s had on my insomnia.

  “None.”

  “Let’s try this,” he says. “I want you to close your eyes. Relax every muscle in your body and focus only on one thing… your breathing.”

  As I follow his instructions, he tells me to fold my hands together, resting them on my stomach, and to imagine all of my tension being pushed toward them.

  My fingers, interlocked with each other, they grow tight.

  “Your palms together, they get tighter from the tension gathering inside of them,” he says. “All of your tension belongs in your hands. It holds them together like glue. Don’t panic. Just listen to my voice. You can’t pull them apart because the tension is too strong.”

  Everything he says to me, it happens.

  It’s impossible to separate my fingers. Both hands are locked tight together.

  The rest of me is completely relaxed.

  My eyes stay closed.

  “I’m going to count backward from ten,” he says, “and then…”

  Everything is black.

  Everything is silent.

  He’s going to count down and then what? Is he even there anymore? Am I here?

  My hands still feel bound but I’m in an empty room.

  Then a flash of bright light!

  A quick flash!

  A startling flash!

  In a split second, the shape of the number, 2, blasts the darkness and vanishes.

  My body jolts with electricity.

  My eyes open to see the ceiling and I’m still on the sofa. My hands still folded but relaxed.

  Mr. Bridges scribbles something on his notepad.

  “Two?” he asks. “You said the number two.”

  “What happened?"

  “You were on your way but now you’re back.” he says. “Let’s keep going. Close your eyes again. Relax.”

  That’s easier said than done. It’s hard to relax but with my fingers folded together, I try focusing on my breathing again.

  “Counting backward from…”

  A dead silence again.

  The darkest black I’ve ever experienced.

  The another jolt!

  Another flash!

  It sends a shock through my arms and legs.

  The number 18 lights everything and then dissipates into darkness. The outline it leaves fades to nothing like streaks of a sparkler. It’s almost as if a camera burns through a flashbulb but inside of my head.

  The number 9.

  The number 7.

  Then blackness.

  Wake up!

  I’m trapped in this nothingness.

  Another bolt with the number: 8

  The electrifying sensation causes me to scream with each shock. Each of my hands, still locked with the other, struggle to free themselves as more blinding numbers flash in the dark.

  20

  19

  9

  4

  5

  Each twitch becomes more painful.

  This has to stop. I can’t take it!

  “Sierra,” says Mr. Bridges.

  Everything comes back.

  My hands free. Streams of tears running along my temples into the pillow. The therapist still jotting notes in his chair. Sitting up, my feet meet the floor again and I try to focus.

  “Is that what hypnosis is supposed to be like?” I ask.

  Mr. Bridges clicks his pen and shakes his head.

  “Not at all,” he says. “But you didn’t go under.”

  I feel like I’ve been napping for hours but still exhausted from the nightmares.

  “Microsleep prevents hypnosis,” he replies. “Your sleep-deprived brain is making attempts to shut itself off, so to speak.”

  As Mr. Bridges explains, I learn a normal night of sleep occurs with two stages: The dream state, which includes rapid eye movements, vivid dreams, and paralysis. And the second state is a deep rest, typically from decreased blood flow to the brain and muscles.

  “Microsleep falls in neither of these stages,” he adds. “It doesn’t last long enough to induce a full state of rest. Even falling asleep right away, it takes time for the brain to reach the dreaming cycle. I can’t say what you experienced was a nightmare because technically, you were still awake.”

  “What about the numbers?” I ask. “Something isn’t right. They’re not the same as the others. They’re not in order.”

  Mr. Bridges bites a side of his bottom lip with a dead stare at his notepad.

  His guess is as good as mine.

  Tearing away the sheet of paper, he hands me the numbers I had unknowingly called out.

  “There are too many to be winning lottery numbers,” he says.

  After looking it over, I fold the paper in half.

  These digits have to mean something.

  Prime numbers? No.

  Repeated in any sort of pattern? No.

  I would try to use my newfound talent for math to figure out what they mean but my mind draws a blank.

  FUNDAMENTAL FREQUENCY

  18

  At home, microsleep doesn’t come close to giving me back my energy. It’s only refreshed my mind so it will keep thinking and trying to solve problems. Thinking keeps me pacing my living room floor.

  By now, I’ve lost all sense of time.

  What day it is? No idea.

  Call it randomness. Not all numbers fit. I’ve struggled to find similarities or hidden meaning. My sunflower gives me an idea. Unfolding the crumbled folded paper from my pocket, I write the numbers Mr. Bridges’ gave me along the doorframe of my living room.
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  “You’re right,” I say. “All ten numbers are less than twenty-six.”

  In red sheer lipstick, I write the letters of the alphabet aside their corresponding numbers

  “That’s funny,” I say.

  Knock, knock.

  The window shades shine bright.

  Daylight. Who knew?

  Shielding my face with my hand, I open the door. Eyes burn like they’re wet with lemon juice. They blink fast but barely enough to make out who’s there.

  “Oh, CC,” says Dad. “You look horrible.”

  The fresh air hits my face, carrying the scent of Mom’s anti-wrinkle cream.

  “Sierra,” she says, “what has happened to you?”

  Taking steps back doesn’t dim the brightness. It’s not until Dad closes the door when my eyes adjust.

  Dad’s head tilts. He looks behind me to my living room. Mom’s hand touches my chin and wipes away the smudged black and smeared red.

  “We’ve been trying to call you,” says Dad, walking past. “Your phone goes straight to voicemail. But it looks as though you’ve been busy.”

  With both hands in his pant pockets, his eyes browse the walls.

  “What’s this?” he asks. “A secret decoder decor?”

  The only room that’s a disaster is the one we stand in. The only lit room, as well. This is the first time my parents have seen me a mess. Staring at a thick strand of hair hanging in my face, I see tiny patch of ladybugs moving across the floor. Like ants, only not. My parents can’t see them. Only I can.

  “Are hallucinations still considered hallucinations if you know they’re not real?"

  Mom wants to cry but she won’t. She covers her mouth with her hand while she tries to make sense of the mathematical madness that was once my living room.

  “When is the last time you slept?” she asks.

  Watching the ladybugs scavenging for nothing, I chew my fingernail.

  Let’s see. Six times twenty-four, plus fourteen is one fifty-eight. Times sixty, comes to…

  “Nine thousand, four hundred, eighty hours ago.”

  “We need to get you some help,” she says, reaching for my elbow.

  Before her fingers touch me, I gasp through my teeth and take a step back.