I Can't Sleep

Fysh

Quick note : there's no language in this, but a tiny bit of implied gruesomeness. By the standards of what I've posted before, though, it's tame. So on with the show.

It's 3am, and I can't sleep.

I know I should be asleep, I know I have work in the morning and it's not like I'm not tired, but I just. Can't. Sleep. My body won't switch off, and my mind keeps throwing out thoughts at me, seemingly at random but connected by some elusive gossamer thread. I know why this is happening, and I won't think about it. If I do think about it, I'll have to go and check on them again.

I'm pretty sure someone saw me last time. It's dangerous, but sometimes I just can't help myself.

Right now it feels as if the world is dead or asleep, and I'm a lone survivor in some sort of narcoleptic apocalypse. I look out onto the city beyond my window, but the orange-red colour of the city lights reflected in the clouds gives the place a hellish atmosphere that does nothing to lift my mood. There's a heavy oppresive feeling in the air, like something is waiting for the right moment to happen.

They know.

That must be it. They know, and they're waiting for the right time to come for me. They're waiting, outside, to burst through the door with guns raised, and drag me off to rot in some jailcell. Or maybe I'm just being paranoid. I mean, there's been nothing so far in the news.

But what if they are on the way?

I have to go and check on them again. I'll have to move them somewhere else; it's not safe any more. I don't know where I'll put them, but nobody can find out. I can't run the risk of losing everything, over them. I've already lost so much.

I change my clothes, and set off. I have a small torch with me, and a rucksack that I'll need for moving them. I'm not sure it'll be big enough, but I haven't got much time.

There's nobody watching, as far as I can tell. I'm wearing dark colours, but still I feel as visible as if I were wearing a neon sign. I keep glancing around self-consciously, very aware of what could happen if they arrive in time. I climb up the wall, dislodging a few stones along the way, and then I'm over. It takes longer than I remember to climb down the tree and find my way to the spot in the dark, but soon enough I'm there.

I have to dig with my hands because a shovel was too obvious to carry with me. It takes endless minutes to get deep enough, each of them stretching out, reaching to infinity with fingers like treacle, and I'm starting to think that my hands aren't pulling any dirt from the ground, but eventually I touch something hard.

I keep digging, faster now, until they're uncovered. Both of them. Staring back at me with dead eyes, accusing me, calling out to me in silence, reminding me of what I did and what I've lost. I whisper at them to shut up, but their silent voices grow louder in my head.

I shudder, struggling to keep my fear under control, and I hiss at them again to shut up, but they won't listen!

SHUT UP!

It's a few seconds before I realise that I've just shouted out loud. Someone must have heard me.

My nerve breaks, and I grab the two severed heads by the hair, throwing them into my rucksack. I was going to collect the rest of the bodies as well, but there's no time, not now. I'll be lucky to get away at all, at this rate. I zip up the bag with shaking hands; it takes me nearly three minutes to get it done. Then I'm running as fast as I can for the wall, my screaming companions roaring in my head, my guilt and pain a searing lance piercing through my mind so that I can't think straight.

I clamber up the tree by the wall, and fall over the other side, dragging some more masonry along the way. No sooner do I hit the floor than I'm up and running, only to realise that my rucksack has fallen open, and one of the heads has tumbled from it. It sits there, covered in dust from the fallen masonry, and speaks to me. A voice only I can hear, screaming about murder and revenge inside my head. I stare, blinking, for several minutes, and then my wits come back to me. I grab it and stuff it into my bag, and run home as fast as I can.

It takes me several minutes to calm down when I get back home. I try to make a cup of tea, but my hands are still shaking and I drop the mug. It shatters on the floor, the sound piercing through my scattered thoughts and feeling like a razorblade drawn over a raw nerve. I make an effort to breathe deeply and slowly, and eventually manage to go to bed again.

I still can't sleep, but somehow having the two of them under my bed puts me at ease.

~~~~~~~~

It's rough-and-ready (the first time I've written anything in months, and it was rather appropriately when I was unable to sleep on a hot sticky night a few days ago), but I have a penchant for the first person narrative, as well as the awkward present tense. I'm not sure if it works, but the premise is simple enough that it should be ok. Any comments? (There's one thing in particular I'd like responses on - whenever I write about something like this, with a screwed-up central character, there's an irritating habit of mine of sticking random little bits of dialogue in which make the character sound like an upperclass gentleman from Victorian London - which skews the characterisation somewhat. It's something I've picked up from reading Lovecraft - are there any noticeable parts that do this here? I can't see any, but then again I usually can't until someone else points them out.)

Skip

Your character does sound upper class, but what's wrong with that? Seriously though, if you imagine someone being in such a turmoil as this, he won't be able to narrate the story in this manner. Okay, you can say that's the artistic controversy about the piece, but I'm still not convinced. However, I could vividly imagine the things happening while I was reading, so it felt as if it'd be a really good screenplay.

Le Rack

good and vivid, severed is slightly upper class I suppose but I can't think of anything else you could put in there anyway so meh.

pwd

It's good.
I can see what you mean about the protagonist. The tone is not dark enough for the premise. I think perhaps the language he uses make him seem a little too relaxed, kinda sardonic or something. The way he speaks is engaging but not intense enough. It just seems more like he is suffering from angst than from extreme guilt and paranoia.
Maybe you should change the line about having work in the morning. It made me think he was just worried he'd be tired at work.