TANGLED SHEETS

During a writer's workshop I once attended, the attendees were given photograph prompts to write from. One of them intrigued me and I chose it to write a short fiction piece in first person point of view.

TANGLED SHEETS

I had one of those no-sleep-in (you can insert your own city here) nights. Not switching on the light, I crawled out of bed. I knew I was leaving a tangled mess of the sheets I had so carefully folded back early in the evening. Nights were like this often since the attack.

Experts contintually tell me I need to set a new routine at bedtime. Go to bed at ten after a nice warm soak in the tub with a cool glass of wine. Only one glass, not the entire bottle. Both should soothe me, comfort my inner angst, offer me a relaxed approach to the dark of my bedroom. It hasn't helped.

Someone else told me maybe I should leave a small light on and play soft music. At first, the light seemed like a good idea; it dispelled the darkness I had found engulfing me that night. It also created shadows on the wall, the ceiling, among the corners--all of which caused my heart to pound so loud I couldn't have even closed my eyes much less found sleep. And the music, even my favorite soft oldies stuff, covered up the chance that I might miss--as I had on that night--the jimmying of a lock or footsteps down a hall.

When I rose from my bed each night, I left the light off. I crept through the darkness through the unfamiliar rooms, dodging furniture shapes in a new arrangement. Slipping a finger between the blinds I peered out on the street from four stories up, needing to know if anyone lurked below. I didn't dare open the refrigerator for fear the light would give my position in my own home away. The fact that I had moved, left a home and an area that was ingrained in my soul, made no difference to my head. There was no safe place to my way of thinking.

So--I wandered around the fortress I had created for myself--rechecked the alarm system, putting my ear to the steel door leading into a well-lit public hallway, listening for any sound out of the ordinary, if I knew what that was anymore. Somewhat assured, I found my favorite chair, curled up in it, hugged myself tightly, and breathed deeply until I could force myself back to that bed--the bed with new soft, pink sheets and a large pillow to hug closely for added protection.

If I didn't turn on the light, I couldn't see the damage restlessness had done to the bed. But I was sure, well, hopefully assured, that when I once more am able to sleep and wake in a refreshed state, I won't find a knife-wielding stranger standing beside me, or see my own blood when I look in the mirror, flowing from wounds I am accussed of causing myself because I screamed and fought back. And those tangled sheets won't look the same as they had that night.

One day, or some night, I will have the freedom to accept peace, comfort, and that wonderful sleep.