Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids. Sleep has evaded me the past few nights. My hair is nicely braided back, my body sinks into the memory-foam mattress, and still, sleep is elusive. I hate the way the night makes promises of dreams. It never follows through. A deep breath fills my lungs. The doctors are calling it insomnia. Mom is calling it laziness.
She doesn't understand that when I close my eyes all I can see is the darkness of my lids. It's a strange feeling. Like something is terribly wrong, but I can't pinpoint it. This emptiness settles over me. Dull pain ebbs at me. I feel it in my arms, my knees, my neck. The vague mental discomfort is what keeps me awake.
Tonight is no different. I attempt to relax. Doctors have given me all kinds of techniques. None of them are effective. Music helps occasionally so I slip in my earphones. The Neighbourhood begins singing a sleek song about sweaters. The beat brings back waves of memories. I listen for a minute. Faces flash in the corner of my mind. Remembering how things were makes me feel nostalgic. We used to sit on the roof with smoke coiling from our cigarettes and listen to each other complain. Chanelle would scoff about her parent's obsession with money. Rudy would lean against the wall and shout about how much he hated homeroom. Andrew would argue about how he despised New York. And I-I would sit there go on about my father and how he had abandoned me.
We were so stupid. I'm sure they've found somewhere else to sojourn. I haven't been up to the roof in ages... or smoked. A new person has grown beside my soul. She's as unwelcome as she is inviting. Her name is sadness. She is my only companion.
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Museums
Teen Fiction"we are all museums of fear" -charles bukowski Shilo has always faded. Like a small detail in a large painting, she considers herself insignificant in the universe. Noah is full of confidence. He's always been on exhibit for the world to see. When...
