by Cady Vance
Never Sleep
Copyright © 2015 Cady Vance
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electrical or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval without permission in writing from the author.
Cover design by Paramita Bhattacharjee
Interior design and layout by Cady Vance
Dedication
For my late grandmother, who is very missed.
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One
While no cure has been found for Stage IV Chronic Insomnia, the Clinic has made significant progress in developing effective treatments for your condition.
- The Chronic Insomnia Handbook for Patients
They come in the night. The Sleep Clinic is cold when the curves of the moon knife into the black sky. And as I watch the last rays of sun melt away through the barred window of the sterile, white room I’ve called home for the past three months, I can’t stop my hands from shaking.
One hundred and twenty-seven days. It’s the longest I’ve gone without sleep.
I don’t turn when the door cricks open. Instead, I hug my arms to my chest and shiver underneath the thin cotton gown they make me wear every night.
“Thora,” Doctor Clark calls out in his typical soothing tone. “It’s time for your Polysomnography in the lab.”
“You mean my experiment.”
He sighs. He always sighs. “You’ve been awake for a record number of days. Studying you and your brain activity may very well be what ends up curing you.”
“Or you could just put me out of my misery,” I mumble under my breath, too low for him to hear. Whirling, I pad across the room before following Doctor Clark’s balding gray head into the florescent-lit hallway. I want to squint against the glow but I can’t. My eyelids are too weighed down by an anchor dropping further into the sea.
We trek past the empty common room stuffed with leather armchairs and bookshelves lined with dog-eared paperbacks. They try so hard to make this section of the Clinic—the part for long-term patients like me—seem cozier and homier than the visiting rooms, but it still feels straight out of Grey’s Anatomy to me. It’s nothing like my four-poster bed at home, my corkboard dotted with printed-out photos, my walls plastered with posters of my favorite movies.
Nurses flitter by as my feet thud step by sluggish step. Two guys dressed in all black catch my gaze where they lean against the wall outside Doctor Clark’s office. I’ve never seen them here before, and their eyes are far too bright for them be patients. Curiosity nibbles at my brain, but I’m too tired to ask who they are and why they’re dressed like spy-wannabes, loitering in a place home to those who watch the hands of the clock go all the way around every night.
Still, I wish they didn’t have to see me shuffling by in this whisper-thin hospital gown.
We reach the end of the hall, and Doctor Clark opens the door to Sleep Lab Three. I wish I was strong enough to keep my head held high as my feet carry me inside, but all I can see are my navy blue hospital slippers shuffling on the black-and-white-tiled floor.
***
The scraping of chair legs on the floor sounds like a knife slicing into my eardrum. A slice that echoes and echoes and echoes…
It reminds me of the scrape my chair legs made on the kitchen floor at home when my parents told me they were sending me away to this place. For good. Until they found a cure for my insomnia. I’d pushed out my chair in a rush of emotion, and it crashed onto the ground, chipped a little wooden piece off the top. That “destruction of property” only made them more convinced it was time for me to come here, certain it was evidence of my floundering ability to survive.
“See, Thora, you need help. You can’t even stand up without breaking something. I’m just glad you weren’t in it when you crashed it onto the floor.”
“Dad, I’m mad! Not Collapsing at the dinner table!”
“Thora, look at me,” Doctor Clark says.
I peel my eyes open and swivel my head sideways to see him peering at me from a metal folding chair by the stiff bed, the cotton sheets whispering against my ear. My red bangs fall into my eyes. A nurse with sharp features and a tight bun places the first disc-like electrode on my forehead, casting dark shadows against the sheets. The electrode is cold and hard against my pale skin.
“You know the drill, kiddo.”
Kiddo. I roll my swollen eyes at Doctor Clark’s lame attempt at bedside-manner speak.
“I’ll be here the whole time on the other side of that window. If things get too bad, I’ll come right back into the room. If you become aware you’re in the middle of a hallucination—”
“Push the button. I know, I know,” I say, my voice scratching my dry throat. “You don’t have to tell me the same thing every night.”
The next electrode smacks against my forehead before the nurse moves on to my chin. Overhead lights bore into my eyes. When I shift against the thin, hard mattress, I hear the scratching of chair legs again as Doctor Clark stands and gently places the remote-control device in my left hand. The one I have never, ever pushed. He smiles, and I frown. I don’t care how hard he tries in the friendly, fatherly department. This nightly torture makes him Number One Enemy in my book.
After the nurse attaches the last electrode, the lights dim through my closed lids. Like the absence of light itself will bring on natural sleep or hallucinations or whatever it is they really want from me. Doors open and close, but I lie here immobile as everyone else shuffles about, every muscle in my body tight with tension. Doctor Clark may be my Number One Enemy, but this bed is Number Two. If I were ever going to fall asleep, it wouldn’t be here and it wouldn’t be now, not when I dread the next few hours more than anything.
It’s like they know this, too. They don’t want my sleeping brainwaves. I know they don’t. They want my insomnia ones, from what happens to me during total exhaustion when darkness falls, during what they call Pavor Nocturnus.
Even the word itself sounds like something that crawls up the back of your spine and burrows into your head to give you waking nightmares.
But I will fight to stay clear-headed and make it through the night. I will never stop fighting. Not even now.
***
Someone in the room is breathing heavily, even though the doctors and nurses normally leave me alone in here. Doctor Clark hides behind the two-way glass, watching me from a distance, watching the scribbles of my brain waves on paper. Maybe a nurse stayed inside here with me. Some new approach to the Polysomnography.
And then I realize the heavy breathing is coming from me.
Brain is so muddled.
Hard to hold onto my thoughts.
That breathing noise is loud, loud, loud.
I know I am awake, but the world feels like a dream. Almost as if I am both awake and asleep at the same time. But no, that’s not even right.
This is nothing like sleep.
***
I am somewhere.
I open my eyes, but the world is a yellow blur.
I thought I sat in darkness, but wherever I am now is as bright as the sun. I squint and then wince when my pounding head rackets against my skull. When I reach up to hold myself steady, my hands smear something slick. My stomach becomes a tornado. I look at my fingers. They are stained with red.
The stark room before me shatters into a million tiny puzzle pieces. I blink and find myself staring down a twisting, writhing hallway. When I try to focus, I realize it’s my high school. I’d recognize our Tiger red-and-yellow decor anywhere. A long row of beet-red lockers curve and then snap into place again. Curve and then snap into place. Curve and then snap into place. Their weird
dance beats in time with the throbbing in my skull.
History is next period. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. I’ve been too tired to study, and I can’t remember any of those damn dates we’re supposed to memorize. If I fail another test, my parents will send me to live in the Clinic.
Panic grips my chest as a heat wave shudders through me. Freshmen passing by have balloon-shaped heads. I’m afraid if I move one single inch, they’ll burst.
Must get to history class. I try to force my feet to move.
Curse, snap. Throb. Curve, snap. Throb. Bright red balloons explode into a shower of black splotches on a pulsating whiteboard. The black dribbles down, morphing into notes about the Civil War, but my eyes are too blurry to read what the letters spell.
Suddenly, the lockers snap into giant yellow Tiger claws that tear through my skin, shock waves of pain shooting through every inch of my insides.
I rip my mouth open wide and scream.
It’s not real, Thora, some part of me says deep down inside.
It’s not real. I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the hallucinations, but they’re still there, slithering over the back of my eyelids. Balloon-head Doctor Clark. Balloon-head nurses. Laughing at hyena pitch by a row of lockers that curve and snap, curve and snap, like the mouth of a shark as it opens and closes on its prey.
And then I remember. The button. This is a hallucination. I know it, though it’s hard to hold onto the knowledge of where I really am. Press the button.
My fingernails dig hard into the plastic, and it gives way under the pressure. Lightning explodes behind my eyes, thunder roars in my ears, and my head shrieks with pain.
Blackness consumes me.
***
Reality crashes down around me when Sleep Lab Three comes into focus, my ears ringing from my violent screams. I fall silent and bring my knees up to my chest, hugging them tight against my body. Hot tears pour down my face. My head still feels as if it has been singed by fire.
I don’t care that what happened isn’t real. It feels real. I don’t even care I finally realized I was in the middle of a hallucination. All I want is for it to stop forever.
I don’t know how I do this every night.
I press my palms into my swollen, red eyes and fall back onto the bed as Doctor Clark bustles into the Lab. His beady little eyes are lit up with excitement.
“Thora, you pressed the button. You became aware?” He leans down so close, I can smell the tangy orange scent that seems to follow him around everywhere. “Your brain waves were off the charts. I can’t believe we finally did it.”
“We finally did it? You mean me. As you watched safely from inside your stupid cubicle,” I snap. “I can’t do this anymore. Give me the meds. Please.”
“Thora.” I want to slap the soothing tone right out of his throat. “You built up a tolerance to the benzodiazepines. You can take them, but it won’t help you sleep, and it’ll only hurt your progress away from the withdrawal symptoms…and with your Polysomnographs. Which you just made enormous progress with. You should be delighted, kiddo.”
“I don’t mean the sleeping pills,” I say through clenched teeth. “Something stronger. I know you have it.” I stare right into his sharp green eyes and silently dare him to lie to me straight on like this. Again. “I know you guys have meds that will make me sleep.”
“We have nothing like that, Thora.” His gaze is unflinching as he lies to me.
“Give me the meds.” I throw the words at him, my hands clenched by my sides. Blood rushes into my ears, and I imagine my face must be as red as the streaks in my eyes.
The door cracks open, and Nurse Lucianne pokes her head inside. “Everything okay in here?”
“Yes, I think Thora is just experiencing some emotional stress as a side effect of her Lucid Hallucination. Can you please note the results of this latest Polysomnography for us, Lucianne? I’ll also want a recording of the waves to review once I’ve walked Thora back to her room.”
Oh great. Lucid Hallucination. He’s already come up with a term for it.
The nurse nods once and gently shuts the door behind her. Doctor Clark pats my hand awkwardly, sliding the button controller out of my shaking fingers. I didn’t realize I still had a cling-form grip on it. “No medication, Thora. I’m sorry.”
“Fine,” I say, turning my face away from him, not at all surprised he won’t admit it. Maybe it’s time to take matters into my own hands. Tear down this Clinic to find the meds when he’s too busy to monitor my movements. Not that a time like that will ever come now that I’ve had a “Lucid Hallucination” as he calls it. I doubt I’ll be able to yawn without someone noticing. And then jotting it down.
I can’t be his lab rat anymore. I can’t.
“Come on.” He stands. “Time to go back to your room. I’ll walk you.”
Yay.
***
Relief shudders through me when I step back inside my room with its familiar hospital bed and wall-mounted television. The night is almost over. My stupid Pavor Nocturnus is over. Now I can change into my tee and jeans and watch movies all day, drown out the images of nurse heads exploding into a shower of red. Escape from my reality the only way I know how.
“How are you feeling?” Doctor Clark’s soothing tone irritates my relief away.
“Like hell?” I slump into the stiff armchair covered in rough, flowery fabric, folding my legs underneath me.
“I think that’s only natural after your new experience.” He hovers at the door. Maybe if I close my eyes, he’ll go away, but I know I’m not that lucky. “I’ll be in the Clinic for an extra shift in case you experience any abnormal side effects. If you feel anything different at all, anything uncomfortable, make sure to alert someone as soon as possible.”
“I’m fine.” I reach for the television remote sitting on my bedside table. Before I’m able to click the “ON” button, a dozen sharp knives stab my forehead. I choke, doubling over, dropping the remote to the floor. The knives pierce my skull, twisting and turning and slicing my brain to pieces. I grab at my hair, trying to wrench out the knives. Hot, white light steals my vision.
My face meets the cold, hard floor.
Two
Stage IV Insomniacs should be kept under constant observation in order to prevent serious complications.
- The Chronic Insomnia Handbook for Patients
I groan and pry my eyes open. The first thing I see is Doctor Clark’s weathered face hovering over mine. Ugh. He shines a sharp light into my eyes. I blink rapidly and shift my head. Drumbeats pound against my forehead.
“What happened?” I’m surprised my voice comes out steady when my skull bones feel on the brink of shatter. “Did I Collapse?” The sudden burst of energy I usually get after a Collapse treatment is achingly absent, but from what I can remember, I pretty much morphed from Neverendingly-Awake-Thora into Heap-On-The-Floor.
“No, you didn’t Collapse. You had a fainting spell of some sort. Most likely a complication of your Lucid Hallucination.” His voice sounds at the edge of delight, like he is excited by my “development” but trying to reign it in. I don’t like it.
“Another side effect?” I rub my knuckles against my eyes but that only brightens the spots in my vision. “A real one? Or one like the excuse to explain why I’m tired of believing the lies about the meds?”
“I see your attitude is firmly in place.” He snaps off the light, and I notice I’m in my own bed in my Clinic room. I’d recognize those barred windows and generic flowered curtains anywhere. Nurse Lucianne, my main nurse, stands behind him with her pixie face and petite frame. She’s young. I can’t help noticing, since she’s standing right next to ancient Doctor Clark. I think that’s why they assigned her to me, to make me feel like we’re on even ground. Doctor Clark points at the clipboard she’s clutching. “She’ll be fine. Just keep a close eye on her throughout the day. She can use the common room, but she shouldn’t be active.”
Nurse Lucianne
nods and jots down notes on the clipboard. Since we’re in my room, I really must not have Collapsed—when my body completely shuts down into a weird coma-like state—like Doctor Clark said, or I’d be finding myself coming to in a crazed emergency room, machines beeping and whirring all around me. Pain and light shooting through my entire body. I shake my head to get rid of those thoughts.
“Too active?” I ask. “It’s not like you usually let us go running through the place like it’s our very own personal jungle gym.”
“And I know it’s not for lack of trying,” Doctor Clark says, and this time he smiles. It’s like my past attempts to level up from couch potato amuse him. Like I’m some sort of overactive puppy in need of tranquilizers. He even gives me a quick pat on the head. “Rest. If you feel unwell again, let us know right away. Nurse Lucianne will be near you for the rest of the day. Bye kiddo.”
Arg. So, my lack-of-privacy meter is going into the red zone today.
After Doctor Clark and Nurse Lucianne shut the door behind them, I cross the room to my generic wooden wardrobe. It houses a couple of empty coat hangers, my favorite pair of jeans and a few basic t-shirts. I toss the hospital gown into a crumpled pile on the floor and shrug a gray long-sleeved tee over my head. Sighing, I pad over to the ever-present barred window, thankful to see the pinks and oranges creeping into the horizon. Morning is finally here, but I feel as if I’m stuck inside the nightmare.
***
A few hours later, I step inside the long-term patient’s common room to see my brother in a recliner by the water cooler, an unopened book on black holes and antimatter in his lap. We’re the only two long-term patients here right now, so the common room is pretty much ours, and it’s the closest thing to an actual home atmosphere. Though it’s still nowhere close. The walls are blank other than a poster of a kitten and a sign detailing the rules and regulations for those of us who are Stage Four insomniacs. Artificial flowers sit in an artificial vase on the coffee table. And there are too many old copies of Highlights magazine to count. At least they let me bring part of my DVD collection with me when I first moved in for good.