The Insomniac

I woke up on a Tuesday morning and found myself stuck in a snow globe. I had to blink to make sure it wasn’t a dream. You see, I had difficulty sleeping. My husband got me pills, very useful he said, but they made me woozy. So I stopped taking them. Instead, I would wake up to nightmares. Then stare at the walls and count the squeaks of a night lizard until our duet of breaths and squeaks, would be punctured by a long sigh. My husband.

He always woke up at 4 a.m. He did not need an alarm. He died in calm sleeps every night and was born again when the invisible rays of the early morning sun clapped four. I would pretend I was fast asleep until he would utter a bye, looking at his shoes, and click the lock.

But tonight, when the lizard squeaked, and I opened my eyes to welcome the walls closing in on me, I found myself shielded by glass. There were no walls, no corners. The globe was round, and the glass cool to touch. Gigantic trees with needle like leaves clasped peaked icicles that met them halfway through. There was Up and Down, separated by crushed ice floating on water. I crawled on the sides because I could not swim. I scaled the snowy triangle peaks, tasted the air, and dived into the cheery coniferous spring. I found I could crawl upside down, without falling. I squeaked. The world was round.

My husband gave a long sigh. In the deadly quiet, he tumbled out towards the coffee machine, eyes half closed, toilet seat still up. He poured the evening’s cold liquid, sipped, scowled, mumbled a bye and left. My side of the bed looked shadowy, and creased, empty but perhaps not void enough to be of alarm.

The Insomniac

And here I was, licking the cool glass, the boundaries of my kingdom. From the ends of grasslands guarded by pointy trees to the icy comb toothed sky. I could command the snow. I could summon the wind. At the end of it all, slowly creeping in, a glorious, blinding, sun.