Sleep Paralysis

Chapter One

Kathy Jenkins was having a bad day.

No, scratch that. Kathy Jenkins was having the worst day. At five minutes to six that morning she'd farted, yawned and fumbled to stop her alarm clock from blaring out 'Johnny B. Goode'. She liked the song well enough; it was a few years old by now, but she still felt it was one of those songs that they'd be playing years from now. Slipping out of bed, tightening her hair into a rough bun, and looking herself up and down in the bedroom mirror, Kathy finally thought she looked decent enough to go outside and have her first cigarette of the day. She licked the rolling paper and squeezed it tightly between her fingers. I'll give it up soon, she thought as she slid the thing behind her ear and gave the lighter a disapproving look. Looking back at her in the glistening silver was the weary face of a woman who knew all too well that she was lying to herself. She coughed, a thick stream of mucus collecting in her throat before she cleared it. There was a loud sigh as she turned into the living room to see the shadowy slumped figure of her boyfriend, ass up in the air and his crisp shirt now stained with booze and vomit, sleeping soundly.

Outside on the porch the air was cool, the sky was a pale salmon pink as the sun began to rise in the East. It was late autumn, the newspaper sat flapping softly in the morning breeze. Apparently, the Pope was coming to America, now there's a title for a big budget picture Kathy Jenkins thought. She laughed at that, laughed hard. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed, not since she'd found out about him anyway.

Lighting her cigarette, she let the thoughts of all that fade away, choosing instead to inhale deeply and wish that it had all been just a bad dream. She exhaled, and a moment later opened her eyes. Shit, she thought, still here. She felt cold, but not from the morning breeze. It was the thought of it all, the pain and the self-pity at not having noticed it sooner. How many people had known? How many friends had she sat and had a coffee with or gone to the summer fair with, all the while they knew every sordid little detail and hadn't said a damned word. There was a clump in her throat, she swallowed hard but still her lip quivered and the tear that had formed in her right eye slowly made its way down her pale skinned cheek until she wiped it away like she had done to so many more.

Inside, the loud snoring began to meld into a collection of rough coughs and mumbles. He was still asleep, dreaming probably. He'd always done that. He was always mumbling, always jerking, and tossing from side to side in a constant state of uninterrupted dreaming. Kathy shivered at the thought of lying next to him and inhaling another deep drag she tried to put her mind on something else. Looking up, she saw the estate agency sign hanging limply, it had been kicked off again by the schoolboys as they passed by. Good, Kathy thought as she dabbed the brightly colored end of tobacco on the porch railing and flicked the thing into the dirt bed below. She sat down on the old rocking chair, a gift from Uncle Tad when she'd moved out here six years ago, and sighed heavily.

Tad was dead now. Less than six months after that last family thanksgiving dinner, where everything had seemed good and the future of Kathy Jenkins heralded much in the way of exciting opportunity. It was cancer that got him, spread through him like butter on toast. He died, comfortably according to the nurses, softly singing the last few lines to a Rolling Stones song that Kathy had never heard before. She grasped the side of the chair and squeezed; a rare smile formed for a moment as she thought back to Uncle Tad's questionable performances as good old Saint Nick at various family Christmases. He'd always wanted to be an actor, had even worked with Hitchcock at one point, though he never revealed exactly what as. Kathy always thought about whether or not that story was true, but in the end it didn't matter. Who cares, it was a damned good story all the same.