The Sleepless

Night One:

Ari longs for me most at times like these. Her head lays heavy on the golden comforter. The exhaustion of unanswered questions weighs it down. She wants to scream unrestrained and cry unrelenting; however, she cannot reason either of those actions with her mind. Therefore, her empty eyes simply stare at the blank wall. 

Her trembling arms cradle a stuffed bear to her relentlessly burning heart. If alive, the chubby cream-colored creature would have suffocated to death. It is all loose cotton inside, though. The bear’s little stitched mouth frowns at me. It knows I should not be here. Ghosts cannot change anything. I lower my head. Oblivious to the exchange, Ari shivers and curls in on herself.

“I am a walking contradiction.” She murmurs into the bear’s synthetic fur.

“Yes, you are.” I answer, though she cannot hear me and never will again. “How can your whole body freeze when your heart burns?” I lie down next to her and tilt my head. The bear’s black marble eyes stare back at me with suspicion. 

“She was never cold when I was where you are now.” I tell the bear, stretching my paws out before me. “It’s not your fault. You have cotton where I had blood and bone.” Its marble eyes glint at me in the moonlight. 

“She was never lonely when I was where you are now.” I continue. “It’s not your fault. How can you reassure her of your presence? You have no muscles that twitch, nor lungs that expand, nor a heart that beats.” I let out a breath, knowing I will never again have those either. Ari curls her knees inward. She, on the other hand, is alive. Her eyes squeeze shut. They water.

“Every step towards the future seems like a question.” Ari’s voice croaks.

“What kind of question?” I inquire.

“What am I supposed to do? What are my options?” She pauses. “The future seems so dark and the answers unknown.” Her lips tremble in astonishment of their feat. They actually articulated a comprehensible thought. Her eyelids, on the other hand, do not move. They remain glued shut.

“That’s because your eyes are closed.” I try to nudge her cheek with my nose, to no avail. Ari cries into the bear - tears streaming. The bear and I have some commonality. It does not mind the rain and neither did I - when I was where it is now. 

“Open your eyes.” I say again. Ari continues to sob. She clutches the bear as if it is the only lifeline in the middle of a vast empty sea; and, perhaps, to her, it is. 

“Open your eyes!” I yell. Nothing. Ari continues to cry. 

“Open your eyes, Ari!” I am desperate now. But, of course, she cannot hear me.

Night Two:

I find Ari collapsed on the carpet - unmoving. Anyone else may presume her dead but I have witnessed this routine many times before. With a frown, I warily glide towards her. I sit and inspect her heavy form. 

All the signs are there. Her wool socks are presents from six Christmases past. The shirt is from a summer camp eight or so years ago. This one is old, the blanket, I do not know how long it has been. It is loved and, therefore, well worn - once her sister’s, now hers. However, the most telling sign is her eyes, red and raw. I was correct, all the signs are there. It is one of those nights.

“I made a mistake again, more than one.” Ari finally speaks. She is alive.

“That’s how it is, it’s never just one.” I answer, matter-of-factly. Ari twists away and pulls the blanket up over her shoulders. I stare at her back, willing her to turn back around. Ari’s hair has woven into a nest of thoughts - matted from the tossing. I wait and wait. She never turns back to me. Still, I wait. After some time, I conclude, she has fallen asleep. 

“Always remember,” I whisper to her sleeping form, “you are a star in your dreams. A day without a mistake is a day not lived.” 

Night Three:

This is new. It is her bedroom, late at night, she is not sleeping; but, this is new. Ari sits cross-legged on the carpet. Her hands fidget with an orange peel. I lie down and gaze upon the orange with round eyes of longing. She does not offer me a slice - that is not new. While her hands grow in tang, her eyes are elsewhere. They appear captivated by the wall. 

Paintings cling to nails, photographs grasp hands with tape, and sticky notes hold on with everything they have. Ari, however, is not entranced by any piece of this spectacle. Her gaze does not leave the blank wall - the space in between, the space of waiting. She watches the lamp light shine off the white paint. It bounces, leaving a trace of gold behind. With a tenuous tether, Ari reigns her thoughts in from the drifting clouds. She breaks from her trance enough to speak. Barely.

“Why do people say to let go of the past then fret over things that have already happened?” She asks.

“We are all contradictions.” I mimic her old wails.

“The thing is, they never explicitly specify the past when they say that.” She continues - not listening.

“Does the past need specifying?” I was never the literary type.

“Therefore, it means to let go of the past in general. Anything that has past is the past. It does not matter how long ago.” Ari delivers the words with care - like they are magical but delicate and brittle. “The past is a month ago, a week ago, a day ago, an hour ago, even a second ago. The best time to trudge forward is always the present.” 

If I could smile, I would. I cannot; therefore, I do all I can. In the dead of night, I stay by her side and listen. I sit there until light breaks through the window. The sun sweeps its arm and paints a streak of gold across her peaceful sleeping form. I disintegrate into floating particles of dust and light as the new day dawns.