Awake

Awake, things were always the same. The window by my bedroom was always closed, the wooden floor in the hallway was always quiet— no creaking or erratic footsteps bundling about outside by the kitchen. The sound of incessant doors closing and opening wouldn’t make me jump in sudden fright, making me rush to the source of the noise, my pulse in my ears. I couldn’t hear the haunting sound of my fine china breaking or my shoes being scattered across the bedrooms like a ghost craving to destroy my space.

Yes, awake was better. Awake things were still, and nothing could change. If I ran from sleep, I could keep away the evil, hollow sound of faraway laughter, the sharp nails of that terrifying shadow crawling across the darker corners of my apartment, and the creeping chill that would slither up my back and find solace at my nape.

Awake, it didn’t come, or at least I couldn’t physically see it. Awake, I could tell what was real and what wasn’t. Awake, the colors around me were duller, but at least I wouldn’t forget them to be reality; in dreams, things changed.

Asleep, things would always change.

The window by my bedroom was always open, letting in the fresh summer air; maybe a bird or two would perch by the glass and lightly tap the screen before flying away. My wooden floor would be thumping and slapping harshly with feet outside my room, running amok across my home. A door would slam shut, and I would have to run and chase the culprit down, making sure to demand a good reward for the sudden fright. Things would break, but none of it mattered because everything was replaceable. Things were replaceable. People, humans, were not. My shoes were everywhere, some by the couch, others used as makeshift things that made no sense except to one person. 

But sleep took me. It always took me, despite my valiant attempts to outrun it. In dreams, I would forget why sleep was so horrifying. 

“It’s the last one, Molly; you can’t keep taking them, or else you’ll get a… sugar overdose,” I warned, amused, closing the lid of our cookie jar and placing it behind me. The dewy grass under us was muffled by a picnic blanket we’d brought alongside our lunch. 

“Did you always want to be a mother?” Molly asked, laying back down on the blanket, arms crossed behind her head and looking up at the clouds making every shape under the sun. I thought of an honest answer.

“No, at first I didn’t, actually,” As I plucked a few strands of grass while arranging my thoughts, Molly sat back up, surprised.

“Really? Mother of the year, every year at school didn’t want to be a mother at some point in her life?”

“Believe it or not, I wanted to be an actress,” I admitted playing with the blades of grass and staring at her through squinted eyes. The sun had definitely come out. 

“Wow, I never thought I’d hear you say something like that,” Molly rested her head on her knees, tucked against her chest, “What stopped you?”

“Life, my own fear, my mother, an unexpected pregnancy? A lot of things. It was clearly never meant to be. I’ve always firmly believed everything happens for a reason.”

“I could’ve been the daughter of, like, a Jennifer Garner or something,” She said, seeming lost in the daydream of her own imagination. I threw my head back and laughed as loud as my chest allowed. Molly remained slightly skeptical while staring at me. 

"You're crazy."

“Seriously, why didn’t you audition for anything?” Molly scratched her forehead covered by her bright blonde bangs, her hazel-green eyes looking at me through slits, as tiny as mine. The sun bothered us the same way. I wondered what a good answer would be, but my alarm clock blared. I frowned. Molly kept staring at me, waiting for an answer. I wanted to reply, I wanted to keep explaining myself to her, to ease her curiosity, to take her inside and put away the food and wash the dishes and help with her homework, and wake her up in the morning for school, and welcome her home afterward, and sit to lunch again the next day, and hold her hand when there was a thunderstorm- our foreheads together as the crackling bolts of electricity would light up the night sky and filter through our room. I wanted to hold her face as close to mine as possible, and brush the tawny hairs at the base of her neck, and feel her eyelashes flutter closed as she fell asleep beside me, her chest rising and falling under my arms, her breaths loud and strong by me an ear when the rain stopped, her rustling and her cold feet digging into my leg. I wanted to watch her wake up, and I wanted to see her yawn from the boredom of a year-long routine. I wanted to hear the bathroom door slam shut because she was so tired she couldn’t control her strength so early in the morning. I wanted to hear her spoon clink against the ceramic bowl filled only to the middle with milk and Cocoa Puffs. I wanted to help her find her favorite light-pink socks she wore to school almost every day, and I wanted to brush her hair as she brushed her teeth lazily without even really looking at herself in the mirror. I wanted to pick her up after school and smell her sweaty scent fill up the car as she told stories of her day running around with friends, getting in trouble, making plans for her weekend, and asking for permission to hang out. I wanted to hear her sing as loud as her lungs would allow when her favorite song would come on shuffle and laugh at her when her voice would crack horribly after a high note. I wanted to see her fall in love, drive my car, get her period, drink her first beer, ride her bike without training wheels, do her makeup, discover her passions, figure it all out, and be there for all of it. I wanted to see her beautiful smile every day for the rest of my life. I wanted to do everything over and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over again. 

Then, I would finally, finally, open my eyes, and my bedroom window was closed. My hallway wasn’t creaking with sudden footsteps outside my door, and my shoes weren’t in disarrange. Instead, there was a ringing silence.

For a few seconds of absolute bliss, there was a pocket of time where I would forget.

I would forget Molly was gone, and I would forget I wouldn’t be able to get her by my side ever again. I would forget that I couldn’t’ track down her scent anymore or feel her warmth on her side of my bed. I would forget that her coat wasn’t next to mine on the rack and that her school bag wouldn’t make me trip on my way to the laundry room. I would forget that her clothes were in boxes, and the passenger seat of my car wasn't adjusted to her height anymore. I’d forget that I couldn’t recall exactly how her laugh used to sound when she was tired from a long day, and I’d forget that her favorite cup would remain unused by the cupboard at the back of the kitchen, where I had stopped daring to venture. 

Awake, I was safe. I was safe from forgetting, so I could spare myself the heartbreak. But, sleep would come no matter my resolve, making me succumb.

So, another morning would arrive, and I would curse sleep for taking me into a place where pockets of Molly existed, pockets that I could never live in forever.

Someday, sleep will not be as painful as it is today, but until then, sweet Molly, wait for me in all my dreams; I’ll be sure to visit you always, even if awake is easier than asleep.