My first memory of him was when I was 4. I remember laying in bed with my blankets pulled up to my chin staring up at the ceiling. He walked through an unseen door in the corner of my room. He introduced himself.
“Sleep is here.”
His voice echoed like a cathedral choir. A low almost haunting tone. Practically soothing if it wasn’t coming from a slender and hunched shadow figure. Even though this was the earliest memory I could feel that I’ve known Sleep my entire life. He took a long stride from the corner of the room to a seated position at the edge of my bed.
“It’s time for you to close your eyes. Don’t open them or I will hurt you.”
I wasn’t scared. Not then. This was how I slept. I waited until dawn. This was how all boys slept. The reason this particular memory of Sleep was etched into my brain though was the curious reaction from my parents.
Four year old me felt the sun touch my cheek. I knew then it was safe. That he was gone. I opened my eyes to a new day. I walked down the stairs to my parents already eating breakfast and drinking coffee. They were my super heroes.
“Mom? Dad? There is a monster that sleeps with me at night.” I shakily expressed.
I could sense the mood immediately shifted. Even at that young age it didn’t feel… didn’t feel comforting. I’ve skinned my knee enough times then scooped up and kissed to know what that comforting warm embrace was like.
My dad stared at me with one eye almost closed. His head cocked as if to study me. Then my mother leaned over and whispered something to my dad. They both got up from the table and went to the other room. I heard hushed whispering. To this day I wish I knew what they were discussing. The only other memory from that day is going out to get ice cream.
I’m always tired. I’m always exhausted. I tried to explain what happens to me at night and the teachers would call my parents about my imaginary friend. Sleep wasn’t imaginary. He was very much real. As I grew older and into my early tweens I stopped mentioning Sleep to teachers. I apologized to the teachers and promised to try harder. The school suggested counseling. The counselors would call my parents about my imaginary friend. I stopped talking about Sleep entirely especially because my parents offered no reaction.
At age 12 I had my first sleepover. I was the weird kid in school, so, I wasn’t popular but on the other side I didn’t seek friendship. This was one of those “every boy in the class invited” sleep overs. His name was Jimmy. I knew he didn’t want me there. I didn’t want to be there. I kept to myself. Talked very little. Had my pizza. Had my ice cream from those giant Neapolitan tubs. We stayed up late playing hide and seek. I wasn’t even aware of the time until Jimmy’s mother announced it was bedtime.
There was at least a dozen sleeping bags in the living room. I was getting nervous. What if Sleep showed up? He was always there. All the boys crawled into their sleeping bags. Giggling. Laughing. Telling ghost stories by flashlight. They asked if I knew any ghost stories. I shook my head and passed the flashlight to the next boy. I kept to myself. Eventually one by one we all fell asleep. Except me. I laid with my eyes open listening to the soft breathing of peaceful sleeping. Sleep never came. I laid awake all night having the best time of my life.
The next morning there was frantic knocking at the door. Jimmy’s mom answered the door and it was my mom. She was crying and shaking.
“Get your things. You need to come home. This was a mistake.”
I quickly gathered everything and we left in a hurry. No explanation. No goodbyes. We got into the black Camry parked in the street.
“He killed himself. Your dad. He killed himself. We are staying at Grandmas.” She was hysterical. I’ve never seen anything like this. “This never should have happened.”
We drove. And drove. It seemed like hours. Quick bathroom breaks. Snacks. Water. Back on the road. We drove more. It was tense. Quiet. We never spoke the entire time. How come I never met Grandma I kept wondering. What happened? Why are we going? I was full of questions but i didn’t dare ask them.
The time on the clock read 7:14 as we pulled into a driveway of a small house. My mom got out of the car then went to the trunk. She pulled out several suitcases and dragged them to the front door leaving me in the car. The door opened and a diminutive woman opened the door. Grandma looked ancient from what I could remember. Skin sagging. Eyes sunken in with deep red circles. She made eye contact with me and motioned me to come. I grabbed all my belongings and I approached.
“I have a room for you already set up. Let me show you. My name is Rita. It’s good to finally meet Kim’s boy. You look so much like your father when he was your age.”
She was sweet. Caring. Kind. I had another realization that day. I never felt that from my parents. After many years of therapy I coined the term “business partners”. My parents felt like business partners. That sleepover and my first meeting with Rita was my introduction to feeling welcomed. Even if it was forced or someone was obligated.
I lay in bed that night. The blankets pulled up to my chin how I always do. Out of the corner of my eye Sleep walked in from the corner. He sat on the edge of my bed. I waited for him to speak.
“You kept your eyes open last night. Everyone dies. Your father wanted me to give this to you” His tone wasn’t malicious. It was matter of fact.
Sleep reached his long thin arm to me with a piece of paper crumpled in his fist. He turned his fist over and opened his hand. I grabbed the paper from his hand.
“Now you know.” That was my dad’s handwriting all right.
“What do you…” I began to yell.
“Don’t you ever speak to me or I will hurt you. You will never escape me.” He snarled. I sensed anger in his rising tone.
“I’ll find a way!” I hurriedly shouted at him. No sooner after I finished he reached out to my hand with his own then grabbed my index finger and snapped it. I cried out in pain but he put his hand against my mouth and put his face next to my ear.
“Close your eyes. Don’t open them ever again.”
Tears streamed down my face as I quietly lay in fear. For the first time I felt afraid of him. He never hurt me. He never did anything like this. I closed my eyes and waited.
I heard a knock on the door. Rita was on the other side.
“Your mother left for your safety. And for her own safety. I think it’s time you understand. Get out of bed and meet me in the living room.”
I was so numb. I was overloaded. My curiosity was going to be satisfied. I showered then got dressed and headed to the living room. Rita was sitting on a black leather couch with what appeared to be a photo album on her lap.
“Listen to me. I will hand this to you. Don’t ask me anything. I know your young. This is now yours. It belonged to your parents. Now that they are gone it falls to you. We will never speak of this. You will never speak of this. No one will ever be hurt again if you keep silent. Don’t keep this in your bedroom. Put it back on the shelf when your done.” She handed me the thick book and walked out.
Inside was handwritten notes. Letters. Pictures. Dates. I was just so tired. Black and white pictures of people I’ve never seen before. Names. Family curse. Sleeping sickness. Insomnia. Decades. Generations. Cures. Don’t have children. This was too much. I wanted to talk to Rita but after what happened yesterday. I couldn’t. I knew deep down something terrible would happen.
Months passed and I learned more about my family. Grandma Rita was full of love and I felt like I belonged for the first time. She insisted on home schooling me to protect me. I protested at first but then she pulled out a newspaper from the town I lived in. My old school burned down. Everyone survived except my class. The cause was unknown but I knew. I didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t talk about Sleep.
My thirteenth birthday came and Rita baked me a carrot cake. There was something odd I couldn’t put my finger on. If she was my grandma why wasn’t she in the book? No mention. No pictures. Deep in my heart I knew I can’t ask. I know what would happen. My birthday was still fun though. Probably one of the more happier times in my life. That night was still the same as every other night.
“Sleep is here. Don’t open your eyes or I will hurt you.”
I grew older. Rita reached out to the school board. Mentioned a medical condition. She was able to convince them I should get a high school diploma. I graduated high school. A week after that Rita sat me down again on that familiar black leather couch.
“I’m going to die soon. I kept the promise to your parents and now it’s my time. Will you be ok without me? I will help you get a job. There is some inheritance but not much because… well. I’ll help you as much as I can. Promise me that if you do work please only work in the mornings. You understand?”
Rita helped me get on my feet. I couldn’t go back to my childhood home but Rita promised I could have the house when she passes. I got my first job at a hotel working reception. I got a car. I started saving money. I was at a strange peace in my life despite not sleeping. Despite having this dark cloud over my head. He called himself Sleep but I could never sleep.
Shortly after my 22nd birthday Rita passed. She left the house. And I was suddenly alone. But I wasn’t. I had Sleep. I had my family book. I would go over it every month or so. Seeing if I missed anything. This particular reading a certain word popped out. Unobservable. It was followed by another phrase. Speak not and see not.
I wanted to test something. I bought a video recorder from a pawn store several miles away and set it up in my bedroom. I turned it on and pointed it at my bed. That night. Nothing. Sleep never came.
The next morning I went over the video footage. It was just me. No shadowy figure. Nothing. I wrote my notes and theories down. Unobservable. See not. See not. I went back to the section where I saw that passage.
“Sleep only came when one was alone. If he knew he was being watched or if others were there he would not show up. Dire consequences would follow if he was observed.”
A chill ran up my spine and at that exact moment I heard sirens speeding past. I turned on the local news. A raging fire broke out and burned several stores down in a city block. In the center lay the wreckage of the pawn store. No survivors.
That night I waited for Sleep. I had the camera off.
“Tricks won’t work. You will close your eyes. Death will follow if you test me.” I knew not to talk back but another idea popped into my head.
The next night I hid the video recorder underneath laundry in a basket outside the room. I moved the basket inside the room. It was haphazardly pointing at my bed. Sleep came as he always does.
“Did you get it out of your system? You cannot escape me. Don’t open your eyes or I will hurt you.”
The next morning I moved the basket out of the room. I dug through my laundry and hit the stop recording. I really didn’t want to see the tape. I needed the right moment. I went to a nearby therapist office and passed the receptionist a note about how I’m nonverbal and needed counseling over trauma.
Over the coming months I began building my case surreptitiously. Note by note. Session by session. Weekly. I started about my sleep problems. My insomnia. Bullying in school. My dad’s suicide. My mom abandoning me at a woman’s house that wasn’t even related to me. I slowly was giving Ms. Brown the puzzle pieces.
After 6 months I entered her office with a large bag containing a tape and my family history.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes. To begin the session? I think you are really opening up and doing so much better.” She responded cheerily.
“What I am going to tell you… you can’t speak it out loud. Promise me this.”
“Ok. I promise.”
“We will only communicate in notes. Please remain silent.” I didn’t want to scare her.
I began writing my essay. Everything I knew. Yeah. It was crazy. It was weird. This needed to end. Someone has to help me. I have no one. I pushed several pieces of paper over to her. I took out the tape and I took out the book and pushed those to her as well.
Ms. Brown was going over everything with a furrowed brow. Studying intently. After a long 15 minutes she was finished.
“That…” she started.
I leapt out of my chair and immediately put my hand over her mouth.
“You promised!” I shouted at her.
“You can talk?!?!” She exclaimed after I removed my hand.
“That’s not important. You promised. Don’t say anything about this. Take the tape home. I will see you next week.” I grabbed my book and ran out the office. I think I just caused someone’s death. Hopefully she understands.
That night was the same as always.
“Don’t open your eyes or I will hurt you.”
The next morning at 8 o clock my phone rang. Probably a telemarketer.
“Is this Rick? Hey. This is Deborah. Ms. Brown I mean. We need to talk.” She hung up the phone.
She believed me.