The Sleep

The blood was everywhere today.

I woke with the sun, as I did everyday. Upon awaking, my brain refused to let me open my eyes. This is not to be mistaken with severe pink eye. This is a defense mechanism. My stomach was crawling up the back of my throat, my imagination taunted me with images of what I might see upon opening my eyes.

My eyes flutter open.

Most of it's dry, although there is some fresh, some so fresh it was still warm. I look at my hands first. That's usually where it's the worst. I am correct. Every inch of each hand was covered, as if I was trying to make a thin layer of gloves.

I try and avoid looking at the walls of my bedroom, but I can't.

The blood has spread all over my bedroom in five days, technically four. It's on my bedstand, my carpet, my walls. It was like my walls got a new coat of paint. I am done scrubbing.

On the first day, I was full panic. I woke up covered in blood. I couldn't remember what happened the night before waking. I've decided not to leave the house. If I committed a homicide, I'd be found sooner or later. But it's been five days. If I killed someone, why have I not been brought in, and questions, or whatever they do on the overrun crime shows.

If I have murdered someone, then I've done it more than once. Every night for five days. Maybe they haven't linked me to the murders yet. Either that, or I've gone back to the same body for the past five nights, and I've repeatedly made it bleed.

This is another scene my imagination has haunted me with.

Whatever it is that I'm doing, it's bloody. And I've learned that usually bloody means violent. I've come to accept that. What I can't accept is what it means. What am I doing? I hate wondering, because of my vivid imagination. So far, however, the most gruesome act I've stumbled upon is throwing strays into a wood chipper.

I close my bedroom door, and immediately cross the hall to my bathroom. It wasn't a spiffy bathroom. The tile floor was dull, I haven't cleaned it in five days. The shower walls were stained red. The lights, lined the top of the mirror, were LED. They illuminated the room way too well.

I step into the shower, and stare into the shower head. A warm shower used to feel good. Now I'm trembling with apprehension every second of the day. I let the water erase what's left to erase from my broken mind. I'm not sure if I fall asleep, but I feel the water growing cold. So I turn it off, put on a pair of my favorite pajamas, and pour myself a cup of coffee.

The living room is basically the entire house. It's the biggest room, and only other room besides my room and the attic. It's all dark hardwood floor, as I live in a huge log cabin.

I've got an albino bear skin rug in the center of the living room, in between the fireplace and the leather recliner. Behind the couch is the kitchen, which has an oven on the wall to the right of the wall facing the back of the couch. Above the oven is my microwaves. I've got cabinets flanking each side of the appliances, and at the end of the marble counter top that make a right angle is a refrigerator. I've got a breakfast counter, with two red velvet cushions. In the room across from the kitchen is a pool table, and another fireplace.

I find a seat in the recliner and watch the fire. I watch my golden retriever nap on the hearth. All I can do is think. Can I look out the window? I can, but all I will see is my own reflection. I don't know what is out there. All I know is that there is nothing. The silence is unnerving. There is no longer the hum of life.

Even when it's silent, there is sound. You are always hearing something. I hear nothing. No cars on the street that should be outside my house, no bark from the dog that sleeps a few inches from my feet, I don't even hear the flames lick the top of the fireplace.