w r e c k a g e ✓

the wreckage of his sleeping pattern

❝He looks like a dead man walking. Its kind of disturbing.❞

▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂

HE LAID IN bed flat on his back with his hands tucked behind his head.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

He shut his eyelids tightly, his pace of breathing slowed. He stayed still. Didn't move an inch. He had wiped his head of each and every thought just itching to pop up.

Everyone says you look scary.

His eyes snapped open and a frustrated groan escaped from in between his lips. He continued on with looking up at the ceiling, tracing the back of his head and sighing uncomfortably.

Go to sleep.

He would if he could.

He leaned over to take a glimpse of his clock.

3:57 a.m.

So far he had tried counting to four and closing his eyes fifteen times through out the night and early morning.

A year ago he was able to go to sleep without a fight, but after the death of his younger brother he could no longer close his eyes with out jumbled thoughts and pained images running through his mind.

It was your fault.

He knew. His parents knew. No one else did though. They didn't care to know. He suffered alone. He suffered against sleep.

"Just let me close my eyes without seeing his eyes flash through my mind. All I see in them is death," he begged.

He ached and turned every night. He couldn't take it anymore.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

He closed his eyes.

"Why did you let them do this to me?" A scratchy whisper questioned him.

His brother.

Those eyes stared back at him again. He saw red this time. Quickly, he snapped back awake and rose up from his bed.

"Let me sleep!"

Not everyone gets what they want.