The Cure for Insomnia

    I suppose the terrifying insanity started on my thirtieth birthday—oh, not that it bothered me to turn thirty, mind you, but it was what happened afterward.

    My friends tried hard to surprise me with a huge birthday bash. I knew they were up to something, but I let them have their fun. I oohed and aahed and acted surprised when I walked into the restaurant, and if it made them happy, then it made me happy.

    My boyfriend, Steve, disappointed me, though. Oh, I love Steve. He wasn’t the real problem. It was his friend, Eddie. See, I don’t like the guy, and I keep telling Steve that Eddie’s a bad seed, but you can’t tell men anything, know what I mean? The guy is one weird dude. My eyes hurt just looking at him and his tattoos and piercings are everywhere.

    Anyway, after all the shenanigans were over, it was time to open the gifts. And I’ll admit, my posse came through. Andrea gave me my absolute favorite Jimmy Choo perfume (I can’t live without it), and Nora gave me a gift certificate for a spa day. Cheyenne gave me a gorgeous Coach purse—the one I had been eyeing for months—and the list went on.

    After all my friends had come forth and presented the queen with their offerings, Steve ordered another round of drinks. That’s when Eddie took me aside and handed me a hastily wrapped gift—you know how men wrap stuff up. Well, I hadn’t expected Eddie to bring anything, but I thought it was a friendly gesture given that I had difficulty hiding my dislike of him. I kind of shook it, and that made him laugh. I unwrapped the parcel and opened the box. It was one of those noise-canceling machines for use when you can’t sleep. I smiled politely and asked him why he thought I needed it.

    “You use this at night when you go to sleep, Delia,” he said, grabbing the machine from me and thrusting it inches from my face. “See? You can play different sounds,” and he turned it around to show me the many buttons. It looked complicated. “This one’s for green noise and this one’s for pink noise.” He continued schooling me on the various buttons. “This is brown noise.” He pulled out the instruction pamphlet and waved it around. “Steve said you have a problem sleeping.” He patted the machine. “I’m telling you, this baby will help. Trust me.”

    He handed me the machine and I thanked him. He smiled, and a yellowed tooth with a rhinestone fixed to it sparkled back at me. He turned and went to where Steve was talking to some of our friends.

    The party ended around midnight. Some in our group had to work the following day, so we all left together. I kissed Steve, and we parted ways.

    Back at my apartment, I showered and got into bed. Reliving my exceptional party kept me up and sleep was eluding me. Around three o’clock, I got up to get a glass of milk. Mr. French, my trusty feline, followed me into the kitchen, knowing I’d pour some of the milk into his bowl.

    As I sat there enjoying the ice-cold milk, I thought about Eddie’s gift. I told myself, what the heck? I certainly wasn’t getting any sleep my way. I finished off the milk and put the glass in the sink. Mr. French was licking his paws, so I went into the living room and grabbed the machine. I glanced over the instructions only briefly. I mean, how hard could it be? Taking it into the bedroom, I made room on my nightstand for it and plugged it in. I turned it over and elected the green noise. Hey, I’m as green as the next person, so I figured I’d start there.

    At first, the sound it made grated on me. It was like a high-pitched squelching sound—yikes—but as I sat on the edge of the bed and listened; it became almost hypnotic. I’d give it a chance and if it did work, my opinion of Eddie would be raised a notch, or at least half a notch.

    I adjusted the volume and slipped under the cool sheets, closing my eyes, and praying for this to be an easy solution to my insomnia. Mr. French hopped onto my bed and snuggled in, and before I knew it, I was gone.

    The following morning, I awoke, and to my surprise, found that I had fallen asleep immediately and felt quite rested. I stretched—Mr. French also stretched—and I walked toward the bedroom door, yawning. I may have been well-rested, but I still needed that first cup of coffee.

    As I exited the bedroom, I tripped over something. I looked down, and all the books from my bookshelf were stacked neatly in front of my bedroom door. What the—? I scratched my head and looked over at French. Could he have done all this? I didn’t think so. This was too eerie, and honestly, it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. I walked around the pile, gawking at it, and then tentatively walked into the living room, where I got the shock of my life. My sofa, chairs, and other furniture were piled up in the middle of the room. Now I knew my cat couldn’t have done that. Someone had to have broken in. My heart started pumping and my first thought was to run back into my bedroom and lock the door. After I had calmed down, I examined my front door and all the windows but found no trace of anyone having entered my apartment. I must have given a key to someone.

    I called the police. When they got there, they found the entire situation unusual, but their hands were tied as there was no sign of a forced entry.

    “By any chance, was consumption of alcohol involved in your activities last night?” the one cop asked. I was so humiliated. I had to tell him that yes, it was my thirtieth birthday and yes, we overindulged a bit. He gave me a patronizing smile and put his notepad back in his jacket.

    I phoned Steve and told him what had happened, and he could offer no explanation, either. Oh, yeah—his explanation was aliens had ransacked my place. Why do men’s brains always go to aliens?

    Anyway, I was working from home that day, so I straightened the place out and concentrated on my job. Later that evening, Steve came over and took me to dinner. We discussed the strange occurrence, but since we were just banging our heads against a brick wall, we turned to other topics. Around ten, we parted ways, and I headed back to my apartment.

    After a long, hot shower, I sat on the edge of my bed and looked at the noise-canceling machine. I turned it over and pushed the pink button. Maybe pink would be my color. Again, I adjusted the sound level and got under the sheets.

    When I awoke it was Saturday, and I was meeting my girls for lunch later, so I rolled over to get more rest—rest, that I had discovered, had come blissfully. So, maybe pink was my color. As I turned over, I saw a man lying there, his back to me. Steve! Steve must have spent the night although I’m positive he had gone back to his place. We had had no alcohol at the restaurant, so I couldn’t be drunk. I had never given Steve a key to my place. I blinked several times to make sure I was awake. I gently put my hand on Steve’s back.

    “Steve? Sweetie?” I shook him lightly and when he turned to face me, I screamed like Frankenstein’s monster had crept in bed with me. The man was a total stranger—and was buck naked. His long hair and beard were matted, and he had a demonic look in his bloodshot eyes. He reminded me of Charles Manson. He echoed my screams and pulled a sheet over his form. I jumped so fast out of bed that poor Mr. French screeched and shot out of the room.

    “Who are you? Get out. Get out! I’m calling the police.” I glanced around for my phone but remembered it was on the kitchen counter. I kept screaming for him to get out, but he just stood there, a sheet covering his privates, staring at me with those crazy eyes. What was going through his brain?

    I was in fear for my life, for sure. I had a full-fledged psycho in my apartment, and he was here to murder me. I was sweating and my mouth had all but dried up. I needed to change tactics. 

    “Please don’t hurt me. I’ve got money,” I cried, my body trembling. I thought maybe if I could muster a tear or two, he’d feel sorry for me and not kill me.

    He kept staring at me and finally, he said, “Who are you?”

    I was stunned. “Wha—?”

    Just then the man dropped the sheet and ran out of my apartment, naked as the day he was born. It was at least fifteen minutes before I could get myself together. Still shaken from the experience, I called Steve.

    “What’s going on with you?” asked Steve. “Are you on something?”

    “Of course I’m not on anything! How dare you say something like that?”

    How could I explain? I told him I wanted to stay close to home that day and I’d see him later in the week. He agreed but offered to stay with me if I wanted him to.

    The day passed slowly and all I did was binge some of my favorite shows online and stuff myself full of chips and chocolate. Then, once again, it was time for bed. I had to admit, even though strange things were happening in my life, I was sleeping better than I ever had before. Maybe my insomnia had been cured.

    Again, I checked out the noise-canceling machine. This time I would try white noise. Setting it, I placed myself under my sheets and turned off my lamp. Instantly, I was out like the proverbial light.

    Again, I awoke the following morning feeling rested and ready for the day, but when I looked around me, I wasn’t in my bed, or anywhere in my apartment, for that matter. I was in Fern Hill Park! But how could that be? Fern Hill Park was at least two miles from my apartment complex! Okay, so now I was getting scared. It was freezing, and I didn’t know if that was why I was shaking so hard or if it was from fear. Perhaps it was a combination of both. Looking down at myself I was shocked to see I was still wearing my pajamas and was barefoot. Now fully awake, I looked at my hands. Both were covered in blood. My first impulse was to wipe them on my pajamas, but when I went to do so, I found my jammies were already soaked in blood. What was happening? Was I going insane? Panicking now, I looked around to see how to make it home. I looked down at my unshod feet, mostly because they hurt. I guess making the trek from my place to here had caused all the cuts, bruises, and blood. Then my eyes fell on something that brought up last night’s dinner and the contents of my stomach spewed onto the grass. All around me were what looked like body parts, parts of dead animals, to be exact. I gagged as I viewed the legs, tails, heads, and bodies of dogs, cats, and birds that appeared to have been savagely torn apart. I tried in vain to scream but there was no sound. I was going mad! Had I done this? Worse yet, when I ran my tongue around in my mouth, I tasted the dry blood on my tongue and the metallic tang made me retch again, my stomach heaving for several minutes.

    Suddenly I heard voices! I quickly ducked back behind the bushes. I couldn’t let anyone find me in this condition. What would they think? I didn’t even know what I thought. 

    It was only two joggers—whew—that was close. They didn’t spot me. After the joggers passed, I had no choice but to head toward home. Fortunately for me, it was too early for many people to be astir.

    I finally made it home. Strangely enough, my apartment was unlocked. Who was doing all this to me? Was I really going mad? Were my friends trying to play a trick on me? If so, I wasn’t laughing.

    I showered, fed Mr. French, and sat on the sofa most of the day, shaking like a leaf. My phone was ringing constantly, even well into the night. I had to answer it at some point. Scrolling through the list of friends who had called, I saw Steve’s name seventeen times. Inhaling deeply, I knew I’d have to confide in him. He’d think I was nuts, but I also knew he loved me, and I needed to tell someone what was happening. If I needed psychiatric help, then so be it—whatever would get me out of this nightmare.

    I finally got up the nerve and called him.

    “Where have you been?” he screamed into the phone. “We’ve all been worried sick about you!”

    When I explained—or tried to explain—it came out all wrong.

    “That’s it, I’m coming over.” The call ended. I let out the biggest sigh of relief. Steve would save me. Good old Steve.

    When he finally arrived, he was a great consolation to me. He made me dinner, fed Mr. French, and helped me shower and get into bed. He read some short stories to me, and we called it a night.

    “Wait a minute,” I said, “I want to turn on that machine Eddie gave me. I have to admit, other than all this weird stuff that’s been happening, I’ve gotten the best sleep ever.” I turned the machine around and pressed the brown button this time. Soothing noises soon simmered in my brain, calming me down. Steve covered me with a blanket, kissed my cheek, and laid down next to me. We both dozed off with Mr. French snuggling between us, purring almost as loud as the noise machine.

    I had slept well past eight o’clock the following morning and felt wonderful. I rolled over and opened my eyes. My face was inches away from a man’s back! Oh my God! That psycho man had returned! But then, I pulled the sheet away and saw the familiar Celtic tattoo on Steve’s hip. My heart slowed down a pace and I laughed at my silliness. All would be well. I knew Steve would fix everything. I scooted myself over and put my arm around him.

    “Good morning, my love.” I rubbed his arm sensuously, hoping for a morning romp. “Wow, you’re freezing. You should have brought your pajamas over.” I kept rubbing his arm, but he was like a block of ice. I reached farther over his shoulder so I could run my fingers through his chest hair, but they felt matted and stuck together. What was going on? When I pulled him gently toward me, his body flopped onto its back. What I saw almost gave me a heart attack. Steve’s chest had been sliced open from neck to navel, his stomach and intestines hanging limply off the side of the bed, the blood dripping onto the rug. Fat, squirming maggots wriggled in and out of bodily crevices. The putrid smell of decomposition rose from the body. Steve’s eyes were gone and all that remained were two dark red holes, dried blood framing what had been gouged out.

    Leaping out of bed I stepped right onto Mr. French’s dead, bloodied body. Screaming uncontrollably, my brain couldn’t fathom what had happened. I only knew that somehow, I was responsible. I couldn’t call the police. I couldn’t face the horror of what I had done—or live out the rest of my life in jail.

    Shaking, I ran to the kitchen and rifled through the drawer for the largest knife I could find. Seeing a huge carver I grabbed it and looked heavenward, praying for forgiveness but also for some understanding as to what had happened. I begged for the strength to do what now needed to be done.

    Returning to the bedroom, I gazed at the carnage. Stepping over the body of my poor cat I said, “I’m so sorry, Mr. French. You deserved better.” I got back into the bed and curled up next to Steve’s rotting corpse. Lying on my back, I gripped the knife tightly in my hand. Looking over at what was left of Steve, I whispered, “You deserved better, too, my love. Forgive me?” I pulled my head back toward the headboard and stretched my neck taut. Closing my eyes tightly, I took a deep breath and stared silently at the knife now hovering over my throat, knowing what needed to happen.

~ Epilogue ~

    Several days later, after the police had bagged all evidence and the crime scene cleaners had finished their macabre task, Delia’s belongings were given to charity, as she had no family.

    The noise-canceling machine sat on a shelf at the thrift shop for several weeks until, one day, a young man spotted it. Picking it up and reading the instruction manual, he said, “This will be a perfect gift for my grandmother. She says she never gets a good night’s sleep.” Placing it in his cart next to several other items, he walked to the checkout counter.