A Rush of Blood to the Head

I've Been Thinking Too Much

John Carter laid there in his bed, staring unblinking at the ceiling. The last time he took a glance at the time, it was just fifteen after five in the morning; it was now seven. He couldn't sleep, and it wasn't for lack of trying. He was overthinking — again. Past relationships, both romantic and not, replaying old conversations and wondering if he could have said or done something different. Would he? Probably not.

Five past now.

He could feel his eyes getting heavier by the second, but it wasn't happening.

Why the hell didn't I take those melatonin pills Carol offered?

Because you're an idiot?

He grabbed one of his pillows, shoved it onto his face and screamed long and hard.

His insomnia would bite him in ass later, for sure — Benton would rip him a new one — but he couldn't sleep.

With a frustrated groan, he ripped the sheets and covers off and got up. Still crumpled by sleep, he padded to the kitchen for a much needed cup of coffee. Much to his chagrin, he had none.

He slammed the empty pot down, glaring at the machine as if it were at fault for not magically making coffee. "Great start," he mumbled.

Eying his apartment door, the thought of leaving and going in early popped into his head. He wasn't supposed to be on for another five hours, but at that point, he would prefer a few surgeries over recalling everything he ever did, sending himself into madness.

After stuffing his duffle bag and himself into his Jeep, he drove off. Some part of him begged not to go, that he should have just stayed in bed — having been awake for over twenty-four hours, he could have used some rest — it was better to keep his mind busy on other things.

He stopped at a red light, two cars ahead of him. He couldn't help but find himself slipping out of consciousness. His eyes popped back open; he shook off the drowsiness and slapped himself.

"Come on. Five more minutes and you're there."

For a moment, one brief, glorious moment, he stopped thinking. In fact, he stopped everything. He stopped caring, worrying, blinking, moving, breathing...

The only thing that snapped him out of his trance was an irate commuter behind him honking their horn incessantly.

He gasped and his body jerked, though his seatbelt kept him from making a full jump out of his skin. Already taxed from lack of oxygen for a short time, his heart beat a samba in his chest.

After he collected himself, he waved apologetically out the window and drove off.

Okay. Note to self: definitely talk to Doctor Greene about that.