Infinite, Sometimes

1

He was lying on his bed, head pressed against the wall in the absence of a headboard, with his knees bent and raised to support his computer. He furiously typed whatever came to mind, as he was never one to pass up a possible lyric or poetic remark. He spilled his every thought while the glow of the screen, his digital canvas, created a foggy aura that made the blackness of his unlit bedroom seem like it continued forever. The contrast of light and dark hurt his eyes if he tried to look away to gather his thoughts and make words form sentences in his head, so he just directed his attention to the clock in the corner of the screen. 2:17 AM.

The paint on the computer was chipped and scratched from two years of tough love and the once frosted black keys had grown shiny in just the spot where thin fingers struck them. They were worn and reflective, just like him, and he kept typing. Every night without fail, he confided in his dearest friend his every thought, feeling, and secret. It was a one way conversation he was glad to have, appreciative of the only time he felt as if he was being listened to, and as the screen displayed to him perfectly every word he typed, he knew he was understood completely. It was like having a friend sit across from you, nodding compassionately and sometimes repeating your thoughts, simply for justification and to make sure you knew you had his complete attention. The slight vibrations against his thighs and the quiet, dull hum were enough to weigh his eyelids down, blinding him just long enough for him to slip away momentarily into a world he dreaded every night.

He didn't know where the dreams came from. He never knew what caused them to happen. All he knew was that when he slept, they would be waiting. Staying awake until he felt sick from energy loss only made them worse, but avoiding sleep bought him some time in which he was the only thing that could occupy his mind. If he slept, he had no control. He had taught himself to distinguish between awake and unconscious, but knowing where the line was drawn made no difference to him. When he slept, he was frozen. Unable to move and completely engulfed in whatever his mind decided to throw at him, he felt too vulnerable. It took every ounce of energy he possessed to jerk himself awake, a sharp physical jolt to his entire body being the only thing that could wake him up during these times. He knew it had to be done and he knew it would fix the problem, giving him enough time to rub his eyes and turn himself over, which allowed him to dissolve into a more peaceful sleep if he was lucky. But it was hard to do. The dreams were intense and real, and he was able to hear the voices and feel the hands, able to cry the tears that they pulled out of him. His dreams, whatever they were, took pleasure in taunting him. They usually won the battle and he was left trembling inside, unable to shake himself the little bit that he needed to escape. They would defeat him, and all he could do was feel the terror until he fell into a deeper sleep that forced them to leave him alone. A while after first closing his eyes, the dreams would slip back into hiding. He figured they always left to begin writing the next night's horror story.

The sensation of his computer beginning to slide sideways onto the bed brought him back to where he needed to be, just in time to keep him from an early encounter with his demons. He pushed the machine back to its original position and directed his gaze to the light that was quickly entering through the doorway. The figure of his father appeared, slightly hunched over and half supported by the doorknob.

Oh God. Not now.

"School tomorrow, Ryan. Sleep." His father's voice was scratchy and loose from a lifetime of cigarettes and it was wavy and confused from the night's endless supply of alcohol. Ryan could always sense the kindness in the man's voice, regardless of what the drug made him say alongside whatever actions it made him take. It was this hint of kindness that tore at Ryan every time he was forced to leave his dad alone to fight with himself and lose consciousness sometime later on the couch. Some nights, Ryan just wasn't strong enough to lay vulnerable in his own bedroom, in the house with his father. He never wanted to run from the good man that was hidden inside somewhere, but sometimes he was left with no other choice.