A Short Story I'm Proud Of : )
The House on Kennedy Street, Part 1
Ryan stops running his hands anxiously over his face, turning to address his freshly-woken friend in the hallway, “I swear this shit is driving me mad. I feel like a crazy person.” Every single morning, it always seemed to be the same. If it only happened a couple of times here and there, it would not have been such an issue. But as it was, it came every single night of every single week and it all felt hopelessly intolerable.
Burying his head into his hands again, he hears the sound of his close friend coming to sit beside him. Ryan leans back, resting his head on the old, faded cushioning of the couch. For a freebie off the streets it is surprisingly comfortable and seems to carry out its function in a more or less successful manner (at least, as far as sitting back is concerned.) It's the same damn couch that he tries to sleep on every night, as all of the other bedrooms in the rented college house have been claimed.
Ryan is looking randomly throughout the room and only turns to look at his friend once first spoken to, “Come on, don't say that.” Chris wraps one of his arms around his friend, pulling him close for a moment before releasing him. “So, what's wrong?”
Even though he knows his friend has good intentions, Ryan is frustrated all the same by the question, “Come on, what do you think, if you were to guess?” Finishing, he stops for a moment, realizing himself. Even though he notices that Chris doesn't look like he was even aware of the harshness, Ryan still makes a point to keep himself a little more in line. “I'm sorry, I don't mean to be such an asshole to you, it's just that I couldn't sleep again, so I'm still up from last night.”
His friend nods his head, understandingly. “It's alright, I understand why you'd be pissed. I myself got a full eight hours last night and I'm still exhausted.” On that note, Ryan's roommate glances outside, looking at the earliest rays of sunshine. “Gahhh, it's so early, what time is it even?” He yawns, “Six or somethin'?”
Ryan doesn't need to wait even a moment to know the answer. “It's five forty seven.” Though his friend didn't notice, he had been rapidly sliding his cellphone open and closed throughout their conversation. Back and forth, back and forth, his fingers continue their work, making a rapid kind of click-clack sound in between glances. He can't help it, his “clock-checking”, as he refers to it, is simply another aspect of his general anxiety that currently remains unconquered. Like his ever-present shadow, insomnia.
“Well, what time did you try to lay down?” His friend's question jogs his memory, and as he begins recalling the activities of the night before, Ryan unknowingly rises from the couch. With that, he is walking slowly into the adjoining kitchen.
“I tried to go to bed right around the time that everybody left, so close to one or so.” He reaches the kitchen and turns sharply for a complete 180, bringing himself back again. As he paces to and fro, he glances at the digital clock by the television, which reads 5:51. Even though he knows he's doing it, he can't stop himself. This encounter has happened so many times before, even within this same hour, that he has written each instance off as a tolerable regret. He would regard it harder if he was able to, but that was another hill for another day.
His friend talks with a slightly changed tone, which grabs Ryan's attention, “You should have gone to bed earlier than that... Look, I know you don't really have any personal space to go lie down when you're tired and everyone's hangin', but you could always use my bed and I could go sleep in Eric's room on his couch.”
Ryan sighs before replying, “Thanks for the offer, but that would be kinda a dumb idea, because his couch is so ridiculously uncomfortable to sleep on...” Click clack, click clack, and it's 5:55. The repetition of digits is notable to him, as is practically every other conceivable combination that the clock can conjure.
“Well then, you and I could just swap for the night. I'll sleep on the couch and you can sleep in my room and it will all work out this way.”
Ryan understands that it would help, even if only ever so slightly, but he still refuses the offer, “Don't worry about it, Chris. Besides, it's not like it's ultimately going to make a difference.” Listening to himself speak makes him wish he could vanish, but he continues, “You don't understand how nothing helps. No matter what I've tried, my body just won't... let... me... sleep.”
His statement reminds himself of the endless list of potential treatments that he had tried on his quest to rest- dietary changes, working out to the point of complete and utter physical exhaustion, relaxing for long periods of time where his only expenditure was the pressing of the television remote, a vast assortment of sleep-promoting products which includes herbal teas, allergy pills, and brand after brand of high-powered pills that still rendered his body unphased, even as they extended into the realm of the new and untested. And while some worked partially and some didn't work at all, nothing gave relief that lasted longer than a week or two.
“Last night I didn't sleep. Yesterday I got two hours. The day before that I got possibly three if I was lucky, and the day before that… I didn't sleep at all.” His voice trails off, suggesting a trend of repetition, were one to check. As his words fade, he is interrupted by the feeling of Chris's hand rubbing his head. Immediately, his body physically responds, as he relaxes like liquid into the cushioning.
“If I were a cat, I would be purring,” he thinks to himself as he grows more and more tired. He thinks of the many times before when his mother would sit beside his bed and rub his head, sometimes waiting with him for hours until his deep breathing finally began. He wonders how his family is doing, so far away in New Mexico. “Thank you... so much...”
“It's not a problem, buddy. I know this helps and I don't mind doing it.” Ryan's eyes open for a moment to see his friend yawn. But Chris continues for another ten minutes or so, all of which seem to stretch into one everlasting moment. Ryan thinks to himself that he could die and be happy, here on the couch.
He wakes to the sound of his friend closing the blinds. Feeling the time catch up with him, he almost mumbles when he tells his friend good night. “You mean good morning,” Chris corrects him as he enters his room down the hall. Ryan laughs to himself as he tosses and turns a little before finding a comfortable indent to lay in. It seems the couch ain't all that bad after all. His head resting on top of his folded arms, he glances over to his side before falling asleep.
It is 6:11 on the clock and he has to wake for school at 7:30. He pauses for a moment, letting it all sink in...
Smiling, he finds the fact hysterical.