Against the Universe

09 • grover

I wake up at 4am in a cold sweat.

The remains of my nightmare slip from my memory's grasp, leaving a chilling sensation in their wake. The sinister details will be sure to return to haunt me later in the day.

It's not as bad as it used to be. Nothing compared to the night terrors I would endure as a kid, screaming as I woke up to two heavy hands grasping my shoulders in an iron grip, shaking me into a cruel consciousness. In the light of morning, I'd see the exhaustion engraved underneath everyone's eyes due to the sleepless nights I'd caused.

I'm able to keep quiet now. Suffer in silence, as I deserve to.

I lay staring at the ceiling until the feeling subsides. But I'm still very awake. Truth is, I'm scared to fall back asleep. I don't want the nightmare to continue.

So I get up, even though it's still the dead of the night, not even the ass-crack of dawn, outside is pitch black and the foxes are running around screeching. And I get ready for what's about to be a very long day.

The foxes' 'playful' shrieks are later replaced by repetitive cooing from the pigeons I'm 99.999% sure are living in our attic. I focus on their rhythm as I get into the freezing cold shower. The icy blast of water feels like a thousand needles puncturing my skin.

When I'm massaging my scalp under the stream, it hits me. A dull ache in my residual limb. I make a mental note to take some ibuprofen when I get out.

But the pain slowly gets worse. An hour later, and it's excruciating. It's debilitating. To the point that I can't think about about anything else.

I have opioids somewhere in my drawer (prescription, I'm not a junkie), but I know I'll fall asleep within ten minutes of taking them, and I'm not risking the nightmares again. So I rub on some capsaicin cream as a temporary fix.

The next few days sort of blur together. I lie to mum and say I just have the flu, so I'm left alone rot away under the bed covers, fizzling out like white dwarf.

Eventually, against my better judgement, I end up booking an appointment, which is already a nightmarish procedure in itself. Going to the hospital is even worse. I'm stuck in an empty waiting room for way too long with minimal information and a paracetamol which has zero effect, my only comfort being the mantra I repeat to myself as I rock back and forth in my seat: be strong, be strong, be strong.

It's only when a chubby nurse with colourful tattoo sleeves asks why I've been here so long that things start to move along. She gives me a sympathetic smile and mutters something under her breath about 'these stupid bloody doctors'. I get seen to 15 minutes later.

Dr Kaminski, the prosthetist, looks very disbelieving when I tell her the problem.

"It fits fine." She sounds so bored that I wonder why she even chose a career in healthcare. "You don't need any readjustments yet."

My eyes are trained on the sign outside that says NO EXCUSE FOR ABUSE. The amount of pain I'm in makes it hard to hold my tongue, but I've been waiting for ages and I'll be damned if they kick me out without even helping me.

"Great," I say tightly. "Still hurts."

Reluctantly, Dr Kaminski asks me a few more questions, and I swear at one point she fucking rolls her eyes at me. My responses all come out as a pained hiss, and I hate myself for it. I hate how weak and pathetic I sound. In the end, her only advice is to wear my prosthetic less.

This is why you're not supposed to ask for help, I think. No one cares.

Next time, deal with it on your own. After all, you did this to yourself.