Method of Mancy

The shaking’s back again, following in the wake of pain. Pain that has started to physically manifest across my ribs and around my lungs. A deep, real ache in my chest every single day for the past week or so that makes me tremble and shiver like a winter’s night. I can’t seem to drown it out, but god have I been trying. I’ve tried hours of space and time flying across my screen, hours of CDs spinning around in the stereo. Busy, busy, busy. TV, music, any sound at all. But it doesn’t work. I still ache. And I still shake.

The dreams have gotten worse. So much worse. An endless barrage of wish-fulfillment saturating my mind while I sleep, drenching me in a reality so vivid and tangible that vanishes the moment I open my eyes. Always something lovely, always a dream come true. And always, always shattered by the buzz of the alarm clock ripping me out.

–

I sit in the den, curled up in my corner of the couch in pajamas, reading a book. Music plays softly from the stereo in the corner of the room. Something calm, something jazzy. It’s cold and dark outside, but warm and peaceful in here. It’s not late just yet, but the evening is coming to a close, so I relax while I wait.

Suddenly a sound catches my attention–the metallic scratching of a key in the door. He’s home! I snap the book shut and scramble to get off the couch to meet him at the door. I turn around the corner of the desk just as the door cracks open to reveal–

07:00 AM

I slam my hand down on the clock and push myself up onto my elbows, squinting in confusion at my surroundings. I’ve moved rooms. All the lights are out. Where‘s my lover?

Did I fall asleep waiting for him to come home? But I’m in bed. I wouldn’t have gone to bed without him. If I fell asleep waiting, I would have woken up on the couch. But I must have because I just woke up to the sound of him opening the door.

I turn my head toward the bedroom door, waiting for him to come in, but there’s no sound or motion behind it. Right, the alarm clock woke me up, so that must have been last night. But how could it be morning already? He only just arrived. He was just walking in the door a second ago. I’m missing time. I don’t remember. Where is he? I reach out across the bed and only find empty sheets. But it’s too early for him to have left already. 

I shake my head. I blink again and again at the darkness of the bedroom, trying to make sense of it. The aftertaste of sleep tries to pull my head back down to the pillow, but instead I just stare at it. I run my fingers across the golden satin of the pillowcase and realize there’s a pillow on each side of me with one sandwiched right in the middle–a bed made for one. The three pillows in a row, same as it is every day. I look back to the clock.

07:04 AM

I stare at it without blinking, letting the time burn into my eyes. Three pillows in a row, same as it is every day. Every day? That doesn’t make any sense.

07:05 AM

The room fades out of my peripheral vision until all I can see are the dim yellow numbers of the clock.

07:06 AM

Three pillows in a row, same as it is every day.

07:07 AM

Three pillows in a row, same as it is every day same as it is every day same as it is every day same as it is…

The confusion withers away, replaced by the ice blooming in my chest. The key wasn’t in the doorknob; it’s still hanging on the rack, untouched for the past 54 days.

07:08 AM

The alarm sounds again and I switch it off and sit up. I try to take deep breaths, but my hands are already starting to shake. It was so real. It all felt so real. The texture of the couch, the satisfying clack of the book, the sound of the key in the door. But most of all, the joy I felt when I heard it, the excitement as I rushed to meet him. It was just a dream–a manifestation of brainwaves during unconsciousness. But for a moment, I really believed he was here.  

The weight of reality settles across my shoulders and I sigh as I turn toward his side the other side of the bed. It’s the most disoriented I’ve ever felt while sober. Time to get up. I swing my legs down so my feet touch the cold, hard floor. Time to make the bed. I pull the sheets up to the pillows and smooth out the comforter. Why can’t I just have nightmares instead? I drape the blanket over the foot of the bed just the way he likes it. I gather up the throw pillows and arrange them on top just the way he used to. Why couldn’t I have had a nightmare instead? 

I leave the empty bed behind and walk out into the den, clicking on the desk lamp as I go. Another lamp here, another lamp there. Pink, green, and yellow light spills onto the floor, but the room is still mostly in darkness. Why couldn’t I have had a nightmare instead?

Then, the weather channel on, water bubbling in the kettle. Why couldn’t I have had a nightmare instead? Blanket up to my chin, tucked into that same corner. Why couldn’t I have had a nightmare instead?