After drying off, I climb naked into bed and pull the covers over me before arranging my weighted blanket on top. I bought it after reading an article about how they improve sleep. It doesn’t work for me, but I like the feel of it, so I use it anyway.
Once I’m settled in a comfortable position, I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. This is it. I’m going to sleep now. I repeat the phrase inside my head. Over and over. Slow and careful.I’m going to sleep now. I’m going to sleep.
Headlights flash across the back of my eyelids. A car horn blares. Tyres screech. A girl screams.
I jolt upright as the car jumps the curb—eyes wide and breath gasping.
The room is dark. Still. My head jerks towards the clock. 11:13pm. I’ve been in bed less than an hour.
Frustration roars through me as I press the heels of my hands against scratchy eyelids. “Fuuuck!” My heart is a jackhammer in my chest and my palms become damp with a growing sense of hopelessness. I can’t do this anymore. It’s too damned hard.
Flinging myself out of bed, I stomp into the kitchen and dig through the back of a cupboard for my bottle of scotch. The simple act of my hand closing around the glass neck is enough to trigger memories of long-ago nights with Walter. He was even worse at sleeping than me. When things got bad, we’d spend hours drinking and fucking ourselves into a stupor. The hangovers were feral, but at least we got some rest.
The idea of drinking alone is different—less grungy, more pathetic—but I’m running short on options. At least with alcohol, as long as I don’t go overboard, I’ll still be able to wake myself up if I need to. That alone gives booze an edge over the pills I have stashed in the bathroom. Once they’re in my system, there’s no escape until they’ve worked their way back out again.
Back in bed, I flick on the lamp and unscrew the bottle cap, tossing it onto the bedside table. My gaze catches there, on three little words.Sleep with Me.I pick up the card and study it once more.The space where meditation meets slumber.
The concept sounds like bliss, but I’ve tried a half dozen meditation apps and none of them has ever worked. Turns out, I don’t like having someone natter away in my ear. It’s not relaxing. It’s annoying.
Lifting the bottle, I take a long swallow of scotch. The harsh liquid coats my throat before sliding down into my stomach with a familiar warmth. I wonder what became of Walter. Did he survive his demons? Does he hate me for the way I ended things? If he doesn’t, he should.
The second mouthful reminds me how shit I’m going to feel tomorrow. My father will know what I’ve done the instant he catches sight of me at work. He’ll see it in my bloodshot eyes, smell it seeping from my pores.
Holy hell! Since when is drinking this fucking depressing?
Rolling my eyes, I recap the bottle and put it aside. A few minutes later, I’ve paid the couple of bucks to download Sam Stephenson’s app and installed it on my phone. Even if it doesn’t work, it’s got to be better than the pity-party the scotch brought on.
The app is basic to the extreme, obviously thrown together on a tight budget. Finding the list of meditations, I choose the longest one. It’s titledMeditation No 6.Wow. Catchy.
I turn off the light before lying down and putting in a pair of earbuds. A bell chimes to signal the start of the meditation. A voice, presumably Sam Stephenson, begins to speak.
The voice is calm and gentle, with a subtle roughness that stops it from sounding too melodic. There’s depth to it, richness. The words are eloquent, well-spoken, but not posh.
I like this voice, actually. At least, I like it better than any of the other apps I’ve used.
Sam directs me to get comfortable and close my eyes, to focus on my breathing. Nothing new there, but I follow the instructions all the same. Motivation is everything and I need this to work. There is nothing I want more than to sleep with Sam.
One corner of my mouth quirks upwards at the random thought. Sam’s voice is smooth, seductive, and a spontaneous heat sparks in my veins. My cock stirs, lengthens. The urge to touch myself is there, but I curl my hands into the sheets, ignoring the base cravings of my body.
I don’t want to be distracted from the timbre and cadence of Sam’s voice. I want to lose myself. I want to sleep.
“This is the time to shed the worries and the should-dos of everyday life,” Sam continues. “For these few hours of solitude and slumber, you are only you. Freed from the cares and responsibilities of the world. This is your time to simply be.”
I breathe deeply as I listen. Allowing the words to penetrate my mind, to flow over and around me.Work. Please work.
“Whatever burden you carry with you, whatever it is you feel unable to let go of, now is the time to put it down.”
My mind stalls. What?No!
“Your burden is heavy, and you need to rest. Place it down next to you. It will not be lost. All is well. Now is the time for rest.”
My jaw clenches and the subtle warmth inside shifts from arousal to anger. My burden, as he calls it, is mine to carry. I will not let go.
“Nothing that belongs to you is ever lost. You will shoulder your burden better tomorrow. You are tired. It’s time to rest.”
No.The word is still there, a violent slash across my mind. But my body… my body is yielding.
Because Iamso very tired, and I’ve carried this weight with me for so long. Maybe it would be okay to put it down for a short while. Just long enough to rest.
