you’re lying in bed, asleep, when something changes in the air.
you’re wide awake now, with your eyes closed, and that electric-fuzzy, off-pitch hum let’s you know that if you tried to move you wouldn’t be able to. You remember this feeling and remember that if you try to move and then can’t you will panic and the fear will set in much earlier than it will if you just pretend you don’t want, desperately, to open your eyes, get out of bed, and run.
your mind’s eye shows you pictures of it on the stairs. then a flash of it on the landing. then a flash of it’s shadow moving under the door. then a flash of it in the corner, next to your dresser. then a slow motion scene of it walking towards the bed. and where is that humming coming from.
inside you’re moving, throwing off the covers, throwing open your door, running down the stairs. screaming.
outside the only thing moving is a tear down your sleeping face.
then it’s gone and so is the humming and you can move now and you sit up in bed to find your room exactly as you left it just darker.
you go back to sleep and when you wake up in a few hours you won’t remember it right away. you won’t remember it when you’re shutting off your alarm or when you’re taking a piss or turning on the shower.
it’s when you’re eyes are clenched tight against the shampoo that you will remember.
it’s when you’re eyes are clenched tight and you are washing your face that you will remember.
it’s in that split second when you are pulling a t-shirt over your head that you will remember.
maybe it’s mild epilepsy.
fuck. you hope it’s mild epilepsy.