Sleep and I have always had a very volatile relationship. It’s constantly
hiding from me, even though I try to be nice, and always treat it well. I’ve
tried everything to connect with it, from not watching TV within a few hours
of bedtime, to meditation, to of course pills. Nothing seemed to do me any
good. The doctors I talked to said it was insomnia. No der, what do I do
about it? Nothing I haven’t tried, just keep trying those things. But stay
away from the pills, because they can really mess you up. So I did, and I
kept failing. I was miserable, and insufferable. I was fired from my job,
not just because they caught me sleeping a time or two, but because I was
agitated and ill-mannered to my co-workers. I had had enough. Something had
to be done, and I didn’t care any more what the consequences were. So I went
back to the pills, but I’m not talking about melatonin, or a tiny little
sedative. I went for the big stuff. I was going to fall unconscious every
night, whether my body wanted to or not. And if that shaved time off my
lifespan, then so be it. It wasn’t like I had much to live for anyway,
especially if I couldn’t even function during the day. I knew it was going
to be rough, particularly at the start, so I carefully prepared for it. I
set three different alarms. My regular alarm clock was set to the highest
volume. A friend of mine tinkered with it so it would play the noise
and the radio at the same time. My smartwatch vibrated
simultaneously, which I always found jarring and annoying. Five minutes
later, the television in the living room was programmed to flip on, again at
the highest volume. I knew this would piss off my neighbors, which would
motivate me to actually get the hell out of bed to unplug it quickly before
then. I thought it was a foolproof plan, but I was wrong.
A new personality sometimes took over at night. At first, I didn’t know what
was going on. Things were moved around, the refrigerator was open, the floor
mat was upside down. I realized that I was sleepwalking. I had heard of that
being a side effect, but never thought it would happen to me. Okay, that was
okay, I could deal with it. Place a lock on the bedroom door, and line the
floor against the walls with pillows. I could still hurt myself, but at
least I would land softly if I fell. It didn’t work, as you might imagine. I
still found weird things the next morning. Nothing truly bad had happened,
though. I didn’t have any stairs, and I never once got in my car, or left
the house. I would wake up feeling a little weird and dizzy, but I was
otherwise better rested than ever in my life. So I kept taking the drugs,
careful not to overdose, and kept just cleaning up my place when I came home
from work. I did go through a lot of knives, though. My sleepwalking self
had a habit of throwing them away, and always on trash pick-up day, like he
periodically felt that it was time to refresh the collection. Again,
fortunately, I never hurt myself with them. Then it happened. After all this
goofiness, I did something truly terrible, and I still can’t explain it. I
did get in my car, and I did leave the house, and I drove onto the highway.
Evidently, I came across a horrible car accident, a victim of which I
managed to pull from the wreckage. For whatever reason, I scooped her up,
drove her to an industrial park, and threw her off the roof of a two-story
building. I read about it in the paper the next day, and used my GPS history
to put the pieces together. She didn’t die, but she was seriously hurt, and
it was all my fault. I can’t live with myself anymore. So I’m back on that
roof, but by myself this time, and completely awake. Goodbye forever.
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