I consider whether to heed the self-imposed curfew now or wait for the next one to go off in an hour. It’s similar to the first, but involves some swearing designed to get my attention. Looking back at my screen, I concede the proposal is as good as it’s going to get. Any changes I make now will be little more than nit-picking.
Besides, I’m tired. The kind of tired that comes from weeks of snatching sleep between dreams. The kind that turns my eyelids to sandpaper and makes my bones ache.
Maybe, just maybe, if I go home now, I’ll be able to drift off for a while.
Tucking my phone and laptop into my backpack, I turn off my computer and take the elevator down to the parking garage. The streets of Brisbane are still busy when I pull out into traffic, but it’s after nine, so it should take me less than twenty minutes to get home.
A yawn stretches my mouth wide and I reach out to flick on the radio, turning the volume up high. An old pop song blasts out of the speakers. I remember when it first came out. Claire sang it non-stop for days, her high-pitched shriek reaching across the short distance between her room and mine.
“Will you please shut the hell up,” I’d yell, yanking the door open to scowl at my sister. “You sound like a bleating goat.” My complaints only made her laugh—and sing louder.
The music cuts off mid-note. Silence gathers in its place. I keep my gaze locked on the road as I return my hand to the steering wheel.
In my head, I begin listing the tasks I want to complete tomorrow, starting with the highest priority and working my way down. The list grows quickly and thinking about it is exhausting all by itself. I can get everything done, though. I know I can. All I need is a few decent hours of sleep. If only I could get some sleep.
A car horn blares.
My head jerks upright.
Gasping at the flash of oncoming headlights, I wrench the steering wheel to the left, swerving back into my lane—and out the other side. The front wheels jump the curb with a massive jolt. An electrical pole looms in front of me. I slam on the brakes. My eyes squeeze shut as I brace for the impact. Two words flash inside my mind.I’m sorry.
The car skids to a stop. There’s no sudden onslaught of pain. No shattering of glass or twisting of metal. Just the pounding of my own heart; the harsh sounds of my panting breath in the confined space.
Forcing my eyes open, I’m confronted by the electrical pole on the other side of the undamaged windscreen. Unable to drag my gaze away, I reach down to undo my seatbelt and then yank on the door handle until the door swings open and I tumble sideways into the dirt. Trembling legs take me to the front of the car. The gap between the front bumper and the pole, barely visible in the darkness between the glare of the headlights, is so narrow I’m not sure I could slide my hand between them.
That’s how close I came to breaking my promise.
A truck roars past. I jerk around to face the road less than two metres away. What if I hadn’t woken when I did? What if my ill-timed nap had lasted one second longer? I’d already drifted into the wrong lane. If I’d hit someone. Head-on. Sixty kilometres an hour.
My gut lurches. Falling to my hands and knees, I empty the contents of my stomach onto the ground. A few bites of sandwich. A lot of coffee.
Pulling myself upright, I stumble back to the car and dig inside my backpack for a water bottle. I rinse my mouth, spitting the last of the foulness into the dirt.
The car door closes with a slam. Refastening my seatbelt, I start the engine and reverse away from the pole before pulling back out onto the road. I’m two minutes from my apartment building and my system is flooded with adrenaline, so I don’t have to worry about falling asleep behind the wheel again tonight. But there’s no denying the truth any longer. I have to do something about my insomnia, before I make another mistake I can’t take back.
TWO
______
TRISTAN
Out of Order.
The familiar sign is sticky taped over the buttons of the elevator in my building.
With a resigned sigh, I enter the nearby stairwell and start up the six flights separating me from my apartment door. The wood of the banister is smooth beneath my hand as I climb, my feet thudding heavily on the treads. One step after another.
On the final flight, I pause. Three steps from the top. Just for a moment, a breathless heartbeat, before continuing on.
Inside my apartment, I lock the door behind me and sag against the wood. The spike of adrenaline caused by my near miss has dissipated now, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
Dragging myself upright, I make my way into the kitchen and dump my backpack on the counter. The freezer is filled with its usual assortment of pre-packaged meals. Without bothering to read the label, I take one out and stick it in the microwave. Several minutes and onebinglater, I sit at the dining table to eat.
The food is bland. The meat, I think it’s beef, is tough and tasteless. Maybe I should switch to a different brand. Tossing the last of it in the bin, I wash my fork before going into the bedroom. For the first time in months, I leave my work behind.
I need sleep. The severity of my deprivation isn’t just inconvenient anymore. It’s dangerous. I’m dangerous.
Shedding my clothes, I drop them into the hamper, then rifle through them to pull the business card George gave me from my pants pocket. The damned thing will make a mess of my laundry. Discarding it on the bedside table, I go into the ensuite for a long, hot shower. Steam gathers as the water sluices down my heavy limbs. I take a deep breath. My muscles begin to relax. If ever there’s a time I’m going to sleep, it’s now.
