Rapid Eye Movement
It’s a late April evening, the twilight makes the room become dark. All the colors fade to vulnerable shadows. In a little sofa, an old man awakes. His glasses, and his denture in a cup of water, are placed on the table beside him. He blinks, stretches out his arm, rubs the eyelids with the thumb and middle finger, and then grabs his glasses. He always grabs the glass piece, which makes them dull and dirty. He moves a hand against the table surface for his teeth, but the cup tips over, and water drops run down on the carpet.
“Damn it,” the old man swears as he drops his feet quickly to the icy floor. He has to lean on the table for two reasons: because it has become so dark it is difficult to see, and to get faster towards the kitchen (Brendan is able to walk more rapidly if he leans on the furniture). He takes with him the first towel he catches the sight of and starts to dry up the water. When he has done that, he places the denture in his mouth where it should be. Suddenly, he realizes he is thirsty, which means he has to go back to the kitchen again. However, it doesn’t really matter because it gives the opportunity to put the towel away. If his daughter could hear him think so, she would have laughed. Melissa is the most outspoken, simple person he has ever known. When she was a little girl – and even as a teenager – it was never hard to make her do things twice, whether she liked it or the exact opposite.
Right now, he misses her. He misses Melissa the same way he used to miss his wife; with something that feels like unfathomable fear. His wife Marjorie passed away four years ago, and it seems like an eternity to Brendan. If it felt like it happened yesterday, it would be easier to handle because he would no longer feel like he had been alone for a long, long time. All he has got left of her now is their anniversary photography, and the sweet odor that lies in the bedroom. The sensation of her lies like an invisible, thin veil over the wallpaper, and this gives him solace. Though, at first it made him sad and angry, just mocking him and reminding him that he was alone.
A couple of weeks after her death he started to drink. Every day he mixed himself more whiskey drinks than he was capable to remember. Usually he fell asleep to the taste of gin, and woke up longing for more – both to reduce the pain, and to stop reproaching himself for drinking at all. He built himself a subterranean world where no one succeeded to cross the threshold. He used it as a subterfuge not to live. One night – out of nowhere – Brendan’s alcohol supply was so low he could barely gather a few drops from all the bottles. That was when he stayed awake in bed all night, restless, and the sorrow had a suffocate grip around his neck. Brendan closed his eyes deeply and tried to recreate the vision of her face in his mind, but he couldn’t. The very special lines that made her priceless – his only emerald – had faded away. For hours, he supposed, he twisted from side to side in his bed as he moaned silently. Then, for the first time since he lost Marjorie, he cried. He started and could not stop before twenty-four hours had passed by, eventually he cried himself to sleep.
When he woke up by dawn, red-eyed and with swollen cheeks, it occurred to Brendan that all he had recently needed was to get the sorrow out. Not to get alcohol in. He didn’t move that day. He lied in his bed and listened to the birds singing, wishing he was a little happy so the sound of them would be more appropriate to his mood. Luckily, Melissa dropped by the next afternoon. If it wasn’t for her visit, Brendan would probably have developed a depression. He never did, but he soon found out he was – and, sometimes, still is – stricken with insomnia. Night after night he breathed heavily as he kept turning around in an endless, sleepless rest. A rest that made him awake rather than tired. He was tired during the daylight hours and drank coffee to deny it, and in the evening he took sleeping draught – after the sleeping draught he woke up totally, and remembered all the things he could do, or should have done (the things he didn’t capture enough energy to do earlier in the day).
The brilliant idea occurred to his mind: he could sleep in the day. If that didn’t work, nothing would. After all – why not try to sleep while he was tired anyway? Brendan wasn’t surprised when he finally managed to sleep again. His thriving mood convinced him that things were on their way to get better, the way they were before. He liked to do everything at night: he watched TV, cooked dinner, read. He received no complaints from his neighbors about noise (Brendan found this unfathomably strange. He had always been naturally quiet, but it was strange nonetheless). If he had an appointment with a dentist, doctor or anyone else, he had to be awake for thirty-six hours at once, so, luckily for Brendan it didn’t happen that often.
His life is still like this. He is happy and sleeps in the day. Often, before he decides to go to bed, he is touching the bedroom walls that carry within them Marjorie’s smell – apparently the source of all his sorrow. Her smell follows him to sleep, and, occasionally, he tends to dream about her. She was the love of his life. Brendan struggled to always look handsome, try to reach her level of beauty (which would be the same as attempting the impossible, he thought) instead of accepting his awkward self.
What he dreams about mostly, is the two of them making love. Like the first time, in a cottage by a lake in Scotland. Or other times, that included beaches, tents and their bed on the wedding night. Once, it happened on the basement floor – this sexual intercourse caused painful limbs for days.
Or rarely, when he doesn’t dream about her for a change, he wakes up plain of sweat; feeling like Marjorie has crouched in a corner of the room, staring at him. He is not looking at her at those moments, because he is afraid that eventually, he will not be able to see her anyway. Every time this happens, he cannot sleep for a couple of days. Sleeplessness has always been an aphrodisiac for Brendan. So, the combination of these two things – love and sleeplessness – ends within hours of masturbation.
Masturbation embarrasses him. At the time, if he looks at himself in the mirror, his face will be dark under his eyes and scarlet-colored everywhere else. That whole embarrassing feeling disappears as he is falling asleep once again.
The sound of footsteps brings Brendan back to reality.
“Hello, Dad,” Melissa’s voice says, and she gives him a hug.
“What are you doing up so late?” he replies.
“Couldn’t sleep. So I thought I’d maybe come for a visit.” She looks a bit startled, and the look in her eyes makes him smile.
“I’m glad you did. Have I ever told you how much you look like your mother?” he asks her, and as she shakes her head. Brendan knows how sentimental he must look. And he believes, when he falls asleep after dawn this time, he will dream about his daughter, too.
The End
It’s a late April evening, the twilight makes the room become dark. All the colors fade to vulnerable shadows. In a little sofa, an old man awakes. His glasses, and his denture in a cup of water, are placed on the table beside him. He blinks, stretches out his arm, rubs the eyelids with the thumb and middle finger, and then grabs his glasses. He always grabs the glass piece, which makes them dull and dirty. He moves a hand against the table surface for his teeth, but the cup tips over, and water drops run down on the carpet.
“Damn it,” the old man swears as he drops his feet quickly to the icy floor. He has to lean on the table for two reasons: because it has become so dark it is difficult to see, and to get faster towards the kitchen (Brendan is able to walk more rapidly if he leans on the furniture). He takes with him the first towel he catches the sight of and starts to dry up the water. When he has done that, he places the denture in his mouth where it should be. Suddenly, he realizes he is thirsty, which means he has to go back to the kitchen again. However, it doesn’t really matter because it gives the opportunity to put the towel away. If his daughter could hear him think so, she would have laughed. Melissa is the most outspoken, simple person he has ever known. When she was a little girl – and even as a teenager – it was never hard to make her do things twice, whether she liked it or the exact opposite.
Right now, he misses her. He misses Melissa the same way he used to miss his wife; with something that feels like unfathomable fear. His wife Marjorie passed away four years ago, and it seems like an eternity to Brendan. If it felt like it happened yesterday, it would be easier to handle because he would no longer feel like he had been alone for a long, long time. All he has got left of her now is their anniversary photography, and the sweet odor that lies in the bedroom. The sensation of her lies like an invisible, thin veil over the wallpaper, and this gives him solace. Though, at first it made him sad and angry, just mocking him and reminding him that he was alone.
A couple of weeks after her death he started to drink. Every day he mixed himself more whiskey drinks than he was capable to remember. Usually he fell asleep to the taste of gin, and woke up longing for more – both to reduce the pain, and to stop reproaching himself for drinking at all. He built himself a subterranean world where no one succeeded to cross the threshold. He used it as a subterfuge not to live. One night – out of nowhere – Brendan’s alcohol supply was so low he could barely gather a few drops from all the bottles. That was when he stayed awake in bed all night, restless, and the sorrow had a suffocate grip around his neck. Brendan closed his eyes deeply and tried to recreate the vision of her face in his mind, but he couldn’t. The very special lines that made her priceless – his only emerald – had faded away. For hours, he supposed, he twisted from side to side in his bed as he moaned silently. Then, for the first time since he lost Marjorie, he cried. He started and could not stop before twenty-four hours had passed by, eventually he cried himself to sleep.
When he woke up by dawn, red-eyed and with swollen cheeks, it occurred to Brendan that all he had recently needed was to get the sorrow out. Not to get alcohol in. He didn’t move that day. He lied in his bed and listened to the birds singing, wishing he was a little happy so the sound of them would be more appropriate to his mood. Luckily, Melissa dropped by the next afternoon. If it wasn’t for her visit, Brendan would probably have developed a depression. He never did, but he soon found out he was – and, sometimes, still is – stricken with insomnia. Night after night he breathed heavily as he kept turning around in an endless, sleepless rest. A rest that made him awake rather than tired. He was tired during the daylight hours and drank coffee to deny it, and in the evening he took sleeping draught – after the sleeping draught he woke up totally, and remembered all the things he could do, or should have done (the things he didn’t capture enough energy to do earlier in the day).
The brilliant idea occurred to his mind: he could sleep in the day. If that didn’t work, nothing would. After all – why not try to sleep while he was tired anyway? Brendan wasn’t surprised when he finally managed to sleep again. His thriving mood convinced him that things were on their way to get better, the way they were before. He liked to do everything at night: he watched TV, cooked dinner, read. He received no complaints from his neighbors about noise (Brendan found this unfathomably strange. He had always been naturally quiet, but it was strange nonetheless). If he had an appointment with a dentist, doctor or anyone else, he had to be awake for thirty-six hours at once, so, luckily for Brendan it didn’t happen that often.
His life is still like this. He is happy and sleeps in the day. Often, before he decides to go to bed, he is touching the bedroom walls that carry within them Marjorie’s smell – apparently the source of all his sorrow. Her smell follows him to sleep, and, occasionally, he tends to dream about her. She was the love of his life. Brendan struggled to always look handsome, try to reach her level of beauty (which would be the same as attempting the impossible, he thought) instead of accepting his awkward self.
What he dreams about mostly, is the two of them making love. Like the first time, in a cottage by a lake in Scotland. Or other times, that included beaches, tents and their bed on the wedding night. Once, it happened on the basement floor – this sexual intercourse caused painful limbs for days.
Or rarely, when he doesn’t dream about her for a change, he wakes up plain of sweat; feeling like Marjorie has crouched in a corner of the room, staring at him. He is not looking at her at those moments, because he is afraid that eventually, he will not be able to see her anyway. Every time this happens, he cannot sleep for a couple of days. Sleeplessness has always been an aphrodisiac for Brendan. So, the combination of these two things – love and sleeplessness – ends within hours of masturbation.
Masturbation embarrasses him. At the time, if he looks at himself in the mirror, his face will be dark under his eyes and scarlet-colored everywhere else. That whole embarrassing feeling disappears as he is falling asleep once again.
The sound of footsteps brings Brendan back to reality.
“Hello, Dad,” Melissa’s voice says, and she gives him a hug.
“What are you doing up so late?” he replies.
“Couldn’t sleep. So I thought I’d maybe come for a visit.” She looks a bit startled, and the look in her eyes makes him smile.
“I’m glad you did. Have I ever told you how much you look like your mother?” he asks her, and as she shakes her head. Brendan knows how sentimental he must look. And he believes, when he falls asleep after dawn this time, he will dream about his daughter, too.
The End