I wonder every night if what I'm dreaming is real or fake. One minute, I'm spread out on my cosy bed. The next, I'm in the middle of the forest staring at a still-swinging version of myself. By the time, I noticed the hung body is actually myself I wake up in a panic screaming for someone to let me down, to help me, to save but noone hears my screams. Thankfully, by my third scream I'm woken up by her. She usually grabs my face and whispers to me that everything will be okay and that she wouldn't let anything hurt me. I still don't understand how she deals with me. In the mornings, I'll catch her downing 2 or 3 cups of coffee before she can even get dress for the day. It usually causes me to apologize a hundred times for how horrible I am for keeping her up at night. Usually by the 50th, "I'm sorry." She'll tell me to shut up and that it was okay. But it wasn't okay. Not to me it wasn't.
YOU ARE READING
Another Sleepless Night
Художественная прозаMax was eight-years-old when he found out why he was unable to sleep at night. While sitting in a stuffy hospital room the words rolled out of the doctor's mouth. "Max has sleep terrors which stems from his PTSD as a child." After that, Max forced h...
