Insomnia

techgrrl@pobox.com

Jim Ellison was having regrets. Serious regrets. What-the-hell-was-I-thinking regrets.

Before, he thought he was going crazy--hearing things, seeing things, getting goosebumps at the oddest times. Now, he wasn't crazy. He was learning to enjoy the senses, even. God, he'd eaten a piece of Rafe's birthday cake the other day and had nearly melted with the pleasure of it all. It was like a party going on in his mouth, like fireworks, like--he couldn't describe!

He'd tried to tell it to his new temporary roommate, but Sandburg just didn't get it. The guy kept trying to take notes.

But now, he was beginning to think that crazy was all right, crazy was okay, having blackouts and memory flashes and hearing spikes would be just fine, thank you, compared to this endless tossing and turning and wishing he'd never made the invitation; wishing he'd just had strength and hadn't buckled. It was horrible, keeping him awake nights now. He had traded sleep for sanity, and was considering demanding a refund. And the thought crushed him with guilt, because it was only for a week, after all. And that half gone.

Jim sat and turned and punched his pillow and bit his fingernails. He rolled to the other side of the bed where it was cool and refreshing, and back to where it was cozy and warm. He counted to one hundred. And fifty. Eight. But it did nothing to ease the irritated tightness between his shoulders or the invisible weight of self-doubt that sat on his ribs and made it hard to breathe.

The realization of how much this was affecting him made him angry.

Come on, Ellison! You're overreacting! And it was a rallying cry. He was stronger than this! He was a veteran! He'd killed people! He'd been married! He was balding! He was a survivor! There was no way he'd let some little thing like this keep him awake at night!

Mind triumphant over the matter at hand, Jim Ellison smiled, closed his eyes, and relaxed. He drifted off, and breathed deeply, and sank into...

...wakefulness.

There was no help for it. Jim got up, considered putting on a shirt or a robe, rejected the idea, and padded down the stairs. It had to be done. For the sake of his health, his dreams, his self-esteem, and Blair's life, it had to be done.

He pushed the curtain aside and walked stealthily into Blair's room. Which seemed rather silly once he thought about it. But dark nights were for tiptoeing, no matter how sleepless they might be.

Blair lay on his back, sprawled on Jim's old futon. Arms and legs went every which way. And his faded red T-shirt was wrinkled and hiked up, leaving his stomach showing like some thin hairy version of Winnie the Pooh.

"Blair," Jim whispered. To his disappointment, there was no change. "Blair," he said softly. If someone had said that to me, thought Jim, I'd have leapt out of bed.

And he said "blair, Blair, Blair!, BLAIR!, B L A I R ! ! !" and he was touching his shoulder now and shaking him, and it was rocking him like a boat in a squall...

Finally Sandburg made a last snorting sound and opened his eyes. "Wha--" he mumbled, pushing Jim away with clumsy, sleepy hands.

"Wake up, you've got to stop--"

"Nmmmnmh." Blair squeezed his eyes shut again.

"I'm serious, wake up, this has been driving me nuts!"

"Yeah. 'Sokay."

"Blair!"

"Yeah."

"Sandburg, look at me." His eyes were still closed.

"Yeah."

"You sound like Rain Man. Wake up!"

"M'wake. What." His eyes were still closed.

"You're snoring, and I can't sleep!"

"Neither c'n I. Go t'bed, Jim." Blair scratched his own stomach absently and rolled over onto his side, away from Jim.

"Don't roll onto your back again," Jim warned authoritatively.

"Nope."

"I mean it."

"Yep."

Jim gracefully climbed the stairs back to his own bedroom. A whisper chased him, and his ears caught it, as they were meant to.

"If you didn't think 'bout it, it wouldn't bother you."

Jim almost said something back, but held back. Now what kind of an argument was that? Was Sandburg saying that he worried too much? Or was it just circular logic, as in, if you didn't worry, you wouldn't be worried. And worrying about worrying was a new psychological low, even for Jim Ellison.

So Jim thought about it for a while, and it all became a dizzy blur--this was much better than counting sheep--and soon he lost track of consciousness altogether.

Five hours later, the sunrise woke him. And Sandburg was still snoring like a cow.