Insomnia

Note: This week's prompt is insomnia, a chronic condition I have been struggling with for four years now. The story just came to me (anywhere from 1:30 am to 4:30 when I seem to be up almost every night).

Night One: When the clock struck two am, I finally gave up the struggle to sleep and admitted defeat. I threw back the covers and found my socks on the floor. Then I slipped my bathrobe over my pajamas and got up. I moved around the dark room of my bedroom, stretching out my sore back. I wandered over to the window and pulled back the curtain. Just as the weatherman had predicted, snow flakes were falling fast and furious, covering the sidewalk below my apartment. I glanced across the street where a streetlamp illuminated the white storm and was surprised to see a man standing next to the pole. He was wearing a black leather jacket and matching ball cap. When he turned around, I saw he was smoking a cigarette, the smoke lost in whirls of white snow that floated around him.

I recognized him at once. He was Ned Green, owner and pastry chief at the Morning Sunflower Pastry Shop one block over. We often spoke when I came by everyday to buy muffins for the office.  I wondered why he was standing there at this time of night, all alone, with the snow piling up around his tennis shoes. He had to be cold. For a moment, he lifted his eyes and seemed to look directly at me standing at the dark window. I felt goosebumps rise on my arms and backed away from his glance. I knew he couldn't see me, but I still felt like I needed to hide behind the curtains. Finally, I got tired of watching him stand there and moved to the chair beside my bed. I flicked on the light and reached for my book. Later, when my eyes finally got tired, I decided to try the bed again. After I turned off the light, I returned to the window and discovered that Ned was gone.

The next morning, I walked to the Morning Sunflower Shop to collect my usual muffins and coffee. I was shocked to find the place closed with a note taped to the door saying that there had been a death in the family. They would be closed until after the funeral of Ned Green.

I saw Julie, my favorite waitress, inside the shop so I pounded on the glass. She came and unlocked the door. I could see her eyes were red from crying.

"What happened? I saw Ned standing under a streetlamp late last night in the snow. What was he doing there?"

Julie looked at me, puzzled. "Couldn't have been Ned, Donna. He was in Philadelphia last night visiting his sick mother at the hospital. He was killed this morning on his way home on Highway 63. His car was hit by a tractor trailor."

Again I felt the goosebumps. I went on to work, wondering if I had been hallucinating from the lack of sleep. It couldn't have been Ned. It had to be someone who looked like Ned, waiting for ride, I reasoned.

Night Two: The next night I managed to make it to three o'clock before I found myself staring up at the dark ceiling. I sat up, cursing my life and my body. I had tried all the drugs and nothing would put me under for long. My brain had long ceased to recognize night time. I was sentenced to endless day. While others slept soundly in their beds, I was awake with racing thoughts. Like the night before, I got up and wrapped my bathrobe around me. I moved to the window.

The snow was gone, the cold front now over Maine. It was cool, crisp night with a bright half moon overhead. I glanced at the streetlamp below and was surprised to see a woman leaning against the pole. She was dressed in a long black trenchcoat and brown boots, her purse dangling from her arm. I knew her immediately. It was Jean from the office. She worked in the cubicle next to mine and lived across town. She looked at me standing in the window, and I shivered from the imaginary cold.

I shook my head to clear it. Was I asleep or awake? She couldn't be there. It made no sense. I reached up to unlock my window, but the clasp was stuck tight. I went to the kitchen to find my hammer, but when I got back, she was gone. I never went back to sleep.

The next day when I got to work, I went first to Jean's desk. She hadn't arrived yet. Hours went by, and I kept checking but she never showed up. Finally, the supervisor came, called us together, and told us Jean had died in apartment fire that morning. I dropped my coffee cup, shattering it into a million pieces. Everyone looked at me as I jabbered on about seeing her last night outside my apartment.

"You do know how strange that sounds, Donna, don't you?" the supervisor said. "You must have dreamed it."

I wanted to tell him I didn't dream because I never slept. Instead, I went back to my desk and took an aspirin.

Night Three: I sat straight up in bed at twelve midnight. A whole three hours had passed since I turned out the light so I was disappointed when I looked at the clock. I had an overwhlming urge to throw it against the wall.

Eventually, I got up and went to the window, fearing the worst. It was another dry, but cold February night. Clouds blocked the moon. The wind whipped dead leaves and loose paper wrappers around the light pole across the street. I was relieved to see that no one stood there. A car drove by, and I watched  its taillights disappear down the road.

Out of the shadow of the alley walked my neighbor one floor down, John Bingham and his wife. They were dressed in their pajamas, his wife pulling their four-year-old son Sammy who was barefoot along the pavement. They stopped at the streetlamp and stared up at me at the curtain. Sam had a teddy bear in his arms.

I wanted to scream. This couldn't be happening again. No more death! I raced to find my apartment keys and flew out the door. I ran down the steps and pounded on Apt. 4B with my fists. No one came to the door, but I continued to beat on the door and yell their names. An old woman opened the door down the hall and threatened to call the police.

"Please do!" I hollared back. "Something is wrong.  Call 911!"

When the police arrived, they pulled me away from the door. One of the officers forced the door open,  and we all smelled gas. While I and the other tenants were shuffled outdoors into the cold to await the firetrucks, the police carried out the unconscious Bingham family one by one. I craddled little Sammy in my arms, trying to keep him warm.

"You saved them," the officer told me. "They would have died. How did you know the stove was leaking gas?'

I couldn't explain it without them thinking I was crazy. "Maybe I smelled the gas in my sleep."

The next day I returned to my apartment after work. The gas leak had been fixed, and the tenants cleared to return. Neighbors told me the Binghams were recovering in hospital and would be alright. I turned in after watching the ten o'clock news  and lay once again in my bed wondering who would be standing under the streetlamp tonight. But I never looked. Instead, I rolled over and slept the sleep of the dead.