The Boogeyman P1
“I haven’t been sleeping,” I say to the women across from me. I like to think it comes out as a normal statement of fact. Something you might share with a parent or friend, a passing comment with no weight. They might reply with some platitudes or advice on how to sleep better, but not a prescription for sleeping pills.
Her lanyard swings as she turns from the computer to me; it reads: Dr. Laurel Kirk. She looks like a typical professional woman; hair tied up out of the face to be taken seriously and to remove any attraction pervy or creepy patients or coworkers might attach to her. Her face set neutrally which hopefully reads as no judgement, otherwise this appointment will go differently than I hope.
She doesn’t know me, nor has she seen me. I drove three hours away to the next city to see her. The web search I perused said she was a ‘dream doctor’ and no matter what you might tell her, she tackles the problem with logic. I don’t know how true that is, the reviews didn’t mention what they might have told her or how exposing any secrets they shared were.
The stern look on her face gives me pause though. She seems concerned enough.
“How long have you been having difficulty?” Her body is still turned towards the computer, ready to put this in my patient file—or well, someone’s patient file, I gave her a fake name. I smack my lips together, tasting the waxy lip balm as it slides over the cuts I’ve bitten into them.
“Uh,” one on hand I could tell her it’s been almost a month of nearly overdosing on caffeine, pills, and energy drinks, but I doubt she would take the statement without explanation. “A while.”
She frowns, types it into the text box, “More than a week?”
My eyebrows raise. I know how I look; the dark circles meet the end of nose, my eyes are more red than white, and my hands and legs shake on a steady three second interval, and I’m fairly certain my skin sallow. “Yeah, more than a week.”
“Have you went to a sleep clinic?” She tilts her head, looking for easy solutions. Part of my respect lowers for the suggestion.
“It was—” body litter the ground as blood dries on my chest, the attendant going to wake me now slouched on the floor along with the other participants— “inconclusive.”
“Do you have any respiratory issues?”
“No.”
“Any stressors?”
She is a thorough doctor, some credit needs to be given. The clock on the wall reads 4:28 and if my math is correct it will show up around 6, that gives me very little time to answer these 120 questions AND pick up the prescription or whatever solution she prescribes. My head pounds, I know I shouldn’t be angry—she’s doing her job, one I would let her do in better circumstances—and be grateful I made it to the clinic in time but fuck.
I don’t have time.
I sigh. “Let me make this easier for you. I have been to sixteen clinics, emergency, and pharmacies who’ve asked me the same questions. No, nor do I have any history of sleeping disorders like sleep apnea, narcolepsy, RLS, parasomia, EDS, nor do I have an irregular circadian rhythm. At this point, I have prolonged insomnia. I don’t work shifts, I take walks, I stop using technology an hour before bed, I tried Eszopiclone, Temazepam, Zaleplon, and while I really want to try another prescription I need something less addictive and something more lasting.”
Her face stays neutral, maybe a bit tighter at my outburst, and her fingers type out my response. “I wouldn’t recommend another drug, if the heavy lifters aren’t successful. With cases like these we normally suggest therapy, sleep or otherwise, for three weeks.”
Saliva pools in my mouth at the thought. “I don’t have three weeks.” I stare intently at her eyes knowing if I don’t I’ll see it out of the corner of my eye. Lingering. I’m cutting it too close.
A month earlier
“It’s 1200 sq ft, two bedroom, one bath, and it comes with a parking spot but you can rent it out if you need extra cash,” the realtor replies sweeping her hands to show the place off.
It’s kinda small, a real landlord special with painted outlets and drops littering the floor, but it comes pretty cheap—cheaper than a lot of other places closer to the campus. “It’s nice. Smells better than the on-campus dorms at least.” I try to ignore the water stains and the narrow hallway leading to the bedroom.
“I know it’s not fancy but your budget puts limit on these things.”She leans toward me, “Dollarama has a sale on decorations for the holidays, you might find some decent lighting or something to make it homier?”
I laugh, at least she’s honest. “Yeah, I might do that.”
“Okay, I’ll show you the rest of it. It doesn’t come with in-house laundry, it used to, but there is a laundromat down the street—the owner gives this neighbourhood a discount every Friday to make the business look busy.” She laughs, I don’t. I’ll have to look up a hack for Coinamatics since the discount can be no more than 20%.
“That’s kind of them.” It would be better if they had a sympathy discount—100% off for sad people and those who live in the shitty neighbourhood down the street—or something more substantial.
She shimmies down the hallway out of a nightmare, too tight and taller than the rest of the apartment. She points to the closet halfway down. “This serves as a linen closet, it has a basin to hang hand-wash items, if you want.”
The closet bifolds catch and squeak as she opens it. I ooh and only wince a little when it catches again as it closes. I’d rather rip those out.
“Am I allowed to make changes?”
“Minor ones. The landlord doesn’t care if you paint or hang stuff up but you’ll need approval for major changes. You’ll lease has his email, he won’t care normally but his husband might.”
I’m still gonna rip those bifolds out. “how often is maintenance performed?” I ask as she reaches the end of the hallway and nudges the bathroom door open. It smells murky and probably a little wet. I push on a wall and it doesn’t budge, so at least there isn’t collected moisture in there.
“Once a month, someone should be down tomorrow to check the plumbing and heating, if you have any concerns.”
Too many to count and of course, she didn’t give me a time they would arrive—I’ll just block my day off, will I? “Okay.”
She shows me the bedroom, hardly large enough for a twin bed and a dresser length-wise. “This is the smaller of the two rooms, most of the units only have one room, but they renovated this unit and so you’re the lucky one to get two rooms.”
The window has those shitty brown blinds with broken ends and string which never works in either direction you pull. The window is cleanish with no screen. The realtor walks into the next room across from this one and flicks the light switch on. It flickers, and for a moment I wonder if it will stay on, and stays on with the harshest cold light. “I might just get a lamp for this room.”
“Yeah, overhead lights kinda suck in this whole complex.” She gestures to the room. This is slightly larger, a twin bed would fit with no problem, same with a dresser and bookshelf. “This is the ‘main bedroom’, it expands most of the hallway (about 15-20 ft roughly) so you get more room.”
“It more rectangular right?”
“Yeah, it makes it kinda narrow but you still get more room. If I’m honest, the other room is slightly larger than a bathroom just so it counts and they can charge you extra for it.”
“Yeesh.”
She shrugs, “it’s not my favourite part of my work but, it is what it is. So what do you think? Ready to sign the lease?” She walked us part into the kitchen/living room which is only separated by an island/oven counter.
“I mean, I doubt I’ll find anything better before they jack up the prices closer to term, so yeah.”
She frowns, “we can make the lease a shorter term, if you want? I know you wanted to sign for six months but we can go three.”
“No, six is fine. I can try to find a better place after my thesis work.”
The sounds of my scribbled signature and page flipping fills the silence for a few minutes. As I reach the last two pages, she asks what my thesis is about.
“I study brain waves during sleep to measure the activity and how that correlates with dreams, mainly nightmares.”
“Oh?”
“Obviously, people have studied the REM cycle and how eyes relate to the activity in our brain. I want to study nightmares.”
She didn’t ask any questions, just nodded and then we finished the paper work. I wouldn’t have been able to give her a reason, had she asked then. I suppose I was always curious of my nightmares. Why they lingered, why the brain used up energy to scare itself. Now—I wish I had more time to find the answer.
Moving in alone is hard. The furniture is impossible to carry so you have to drag it around, damaging one end or breaking it, and you have to accept that some of your things are going to be left at your parents house or storage. The dorm I moved from came with a care package: a couch, a table, and shitty tv. I stole the couch and table.
They barely fit in the new place. the couch is technically a love seat and is heavily stained with pasta sauce. The table is almost a dinner tray in size. I group them together and try to lug my mattress and ikea twin bed frame in. They fit without issue but the bedroom dwarfs it. “Better than the dorms,” I groan out as I drag the dresser in. I make it and fall face first onto my bed. “I should’ve hired someone to unpack.”
The bags and boxes line the living room as a torn box lays beside the counter, a pot has been rip from it. The water boils as I debate whether to have the noodles plain or try to find something to coat it with. I remember that I haven’t bought groceries and sigh, plain it is. At least the water works, even if the maintenance people never showed up to check the place over.
Is this place closer to my professor’s office, yes, but at what cost. There is no sound here. No ambient humming of electronics or outlets buzzing. Not even the flash of a smoke alarm. Just my awkward shuffles against the tile and the water boiling.
The dorm’s walls were thin, I could often hear people talking as they past my front door from my bedroom. And the university had construction on the other side where my window faced. My roommates had parties and friends over. There was some sound in the background to drowned out the tinnitus and the beating of my heart. Thinking about it gives me the chills. I strain the noodles and wander through the apartment, seraching for a fan or a speaker. Even headphones.
Eight boxes labelled ‘bedroom’ later and I still haven’t found anything and it is past three in the morning, I give up. I did find my duvet though.
Tonight I’ll sleep in the silence.
I leave the pot on the stove and brush my teeth and scrub my face before yawning into my room and burrito the white duvet around me. 3:07AM, not bad for the first night.
two hours later
I lift myself up from the floor. Duvet no where to be seen. I stumble to the light and flick it on. It stutters briefly and I catch a glimpse of hand print on the wall. “What the fuck?” The light clicks on and there is it. A single hand print right under the light switch. I look at my hands and find them clean. I search the room and there is only the one.
A bang echoes from down the hall, maybe in the kitchen. I jump back from the door.
The door is firmly locked.
Surely the maintenance people have normal working house and wouldn’t just break into the place…right?
AN: just go along with it. I know there’s probably mistakes about REM or anything at the doctor’s office, I’m creating a vibe.
