May 5, 2019

Free From the Scent of Wet Plaster

Insomnia and I became acquainted when I was five years old. It was in the time of monsters where pretend was sacrificed on the altar of real. Innocence didn’t know how it would die, because it didn’t know hell lived outside the castle of dolls in a green room of forced silence. It was impossible to curl into a lullaby when evil’s voice kept whispering, Don’t Tell, from every shadow dancing across walls.

There was no place to run when the house was sleeping; no place to hide when nightmares were tied to the sun in a knot so tight starlight couldn’t bring freedom. The ceiling was a mirror of the secrets on my tongue, and curtains mocked my eyes that never closed.

Years collected hours of wide awake until my body adjusted to running on little rest. I once asked my doctor if he was worried for my health.

Without a pause he answered, “No, that’s your normal. If it had just started, I would be concerned. “

Insomnia has become a companion. I’ve tried to smother her in a pillow, but she just laughs as we take another trip around the moon. We joke about the irony I write in a green room when my nightmares where born in walls covered in green paint. Oh, but we agree this room doesn’t bring fear because it is filled with light and doesn’t bear the overwhelming scent of decaying, wet plaster.

©Susie Clevenger 2019
 248 words

Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: a Pantry of Prose, #3 ~ Phobias and Fears