Phantasm || Solo
Quiet evening had descended into sleepless dark once more, though the thin male sprang upward in bed, the sheets that coddled him soused with perspiration. One lithe hand is placed to the side of the bed as the other is lifted to wipe at the glistening forehead and lift away the drenched fringe that clung itself to his face. Eyes peered into murky gloom of darkness, adjusting with the light from the street lamps that crept in through the slits in the window blinds. Uneasy, soul haunted with the baleful dreams that perambulate through his unconscious mind.
These frightful phantasms came and dissipated frequently, leaving little of their essence as evidence if he were to disregard his rapid heartbeat and shuddering breaths. Rarely did he recall what dreams had spread unwelcome through his vision, yet they weighed heavily like an excrescence in his brain. Infrequently he was almost certain he could perceive… her?... behind all of it – behind the shadows and the gray there was a pigment of colour and he thought… he thought…
No.
Sleep was the malignant mistress he could not touch. These visions were non-entities of a preternatural existence.
Head turns, and the man seeks out the glow from the digital clock near his bedside. It flashes, blissfully unconcerned, 3:00 AM. Lean fingers press against temples, this ache. The man exits the burden of his bed and reaches for a coat, still clothed in nothing but the oversized flannel pajamas nearly hanging off one shoulder.
Bereft of sleep and human companionship, he searches for semblance of something to cure the dull ache he feels both in his spirit and his head. He grimaces, shivers, steps out into the early twilight. Cool, humid air punctures his dampened skin but he welcomes the discomfort – anything else to feel but this deformity that had become his existence. Still, his coat is pulled closer to his lengthy frame and slow, even footsteps carry him out into the dark and he does not return for hours to come.
When faltering feet deliver his return the sun has long since shed its light into morning day but he feigns to notice. PIN pad unlocks his door and he stumbles into the refuge of his workspace, bare feet – where had his socks gone – descend into plushness of an aged rug, and indolent body is heaved onto sofa. His eyes squeeze shut, and he heaves, choking back the fevered sobs that sting at his eyes.
Wretched self. Who are you.
There was no potion to cease this nightmare. There was no provisionary pill to cure this ailment.
What he would not give for dreamless sleep.
{{ This was my submission for acceptance to a collective. I wanted to use it for his character development as well. }}
