Sleep Is Death

Journals to a Journalist

I sat mermaid-style on a knitted blanket, removing my clothes article by article. The attic was so cold that my arm hairs stood and wouldn't relax. I had goosebumps along my arms and chills down my spine that made me shiver now and then.

She gave me the old brown chest that was once buried behind a pile of books and boxes. I smacked it with a wet rag, like someone beating dust off their rug, and I wiped away cobwebs.

My notebook was at the bottom of the suitcase; it was my last item that, for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to tuck away like my jeans and shirts.

I leaned my back against the cot between a corner and the dormer window and stared at the exterior.

I felt my stomach churn, knowing if I flipped through it, it would be like reopening a wound.

Then I heard the ladder creaking and someone grunting between each creak. When I saw the blond tips of Ethan's short, spiked hair, I exhaled.

He stood at the hole and sat his hands on his hips. I watched his chest rise and fall as he scanned the room. "Looks like you've made yourself at home."

I let out a mix between a scoff and a chuckle and said, "As best as I can." I looked around too. "It's a bit cramped up here."

"Yeah, I figured it would be. If it makes you feel any better, I tried to convince her to give you a different room." He stepped closer, and I cringed at the thought of him falling through the weak boards.

They were just as noisy as the ones on the ladder, but he didn't seem to notice or care. His heavy combat boots stomped like cinderblocks, finally ceasing next to me.

Ethan plopped down on the side of the bed and reclined on his elbows. He had a black tattoo on the inner part of his right arm, something in a language I didn't know.

"My name's Helen, by the way." He gave me a wry smile and tipped his imaginary hat.

"Nice to meet you," he said. "I'm Ethan." I slightly tilted my head and raised an eyebrow. He slowly cracked a genuine smile, and I did too. "I know you know my name, but I figured it'd be polite to tell you myself. It's formal, y'know?"

"How old are you?" I squinted my eyes, showing my top row of teeth.

"I'm twenty-three," he said, dragging his words matter-of-factly. I just said, 'Oh,' and he raised an eyebrow. "What, do I look older?"

"No, not at all. I just figured you were younger." He sat up, tugged down his grey T-shirt, and set his elbows on his knees.

"Really? How young are we talkin'?" I lowered my head and chuckled to myself.

"Eighteen or seventeen," I told him, and it was true. I didn't give him much thought when I first saw him, but from his lanky frame and lack of facial hair, I thought he was in high school.

"Thank you, but flattery won't make me switch rooms with you." I snickered at his remark and the coy smirk he gave me.

"Oh, please," I said, scoffing. I nudged my head to gesture toward the view of the town. "I'm the luckiest girl here. Do you have a bay window?"

"That's not," he interrupted himself while squinting at me as if he were unsure if I was joking or not. He shook his head as he relaxed his face. "Anyway, I'll let you enjoy your penthouse suite. If you need anything, let me know."

"Alright, thank you." He stood up and walked toward the ladder. As he bent down to leave the attic, my eyes glazed onto my notebook. "Hey, Ian?" He stopped moving, half his body already out of the attic, and his hands were tight against the sides of the ladder. "Didn't you say you worked for the news?"