September 24, 2018 | Occasus | Issue 8 | Fiction
A Cure for Insomnia
My phone buzzes loudly and the light illuminates the ceiling of the dark room I can’t fall asleep in. It wakes up Alice next to me.
“Who’s texting you at 2am?” “You know exactly who it is.” “Oh, just ignore it then and go back to sleep. Save yourself the trouble.” “I can’t, I’m worried. You know how he gets.” “Of course I know, that’s why you should just go back to sleep. Just ignore it for me, please?” “Alright, alright.” The phone buzzes again. We both ignore it as I re-adjust myself next to Alice and stare blankly at the ceiling. I focus on my breathing and try to fall asleep. This is my new nightly routine. For a while I’d convinced myself reading ghost stories helped me fall asleep until Alice pointed out that it was usually 4:30 when I’d finally doze off. For a while I’d convinced myself the white noise of a fan would help. For a while, much to the chagrin of Alice, I’d listen to audiobooks out loud with the lights off. For now, I’m sure meditation and mindfulness is the solution (it has to be) because some new science backs it. I count my breaths. In and out. I thinks about Andrew. I remember one Saturday in August three years ago when we spent all afternoon listening to the baseball game on the radio, laughing, drinking beer on my porch, promising to do the same every Saturday for the rest of the summer. I focus on my breathing. Up and down, up and down. I worry about Andrew. I remember the drunken night last January at the Casino hotel when we had to split the bed and Andrew began to cuddle me, thinking I was asleep. I refocus on my breathing. As I exhale notice the weight of my body soften on the mattress beneath me. I’m scared for Andrew. I remember the time he ran off alone, far too drunk and cocaine angry at whatever slight he was victim to that evening, instigating a fight with some bar patrons and winding up in the hospital. Or maybe he just said he was in the hospital. I never know. I focus again on my breathing. I try to empty my thoughts. My phone buzzes again. And again. And again. And again in rhythmic, percussive intervals that interrupt my breathing and focus. The disruption could no longer be ignored. “Fucking hell. It’s a fucking weeknight, god dammit dude!” Alice wakes up to this. I rip my phone off its charger and sit up. Green texts queue the homepage of my phone. 23 messages from Andrew. 2 missed calls from Andrew. 2 messages from Tess. “I don’t even want to look.” “Then don’t, Anthony.” “I have to.” The phone clicks as I swipe my thumb right across the glass of my phone. I open the texts from Tess first: He’s sending me the scary-sad shit again / says he needs to talk to u. What’s it about this time? I don’t even wanna look at the texts rn. I type back. My phone flashes a series of dots. (...) Just go look. kk fine. … … This is no good Tess. i think I’m gonna have to call him. u don’t have to Anthony I just wanna call and stay on the line until he gets home. I get out of bed and walk downstairs into the kitchen and turn the light on, the brightness blinding me briefly in the adjustment. The fridge door opens awkwardly as I grab a beer, crack the tab, twist it, take a drink, and throw the tab away. I take another sip of my drink. I breathe out, exasperated, puffing out my cheeks and forcing the air through my lips. I finish my drink. I go for the fifth of whiskey. I drink from that too. I feel a little buzzed. As I go back to pick up my phone it starts vibrating. Andrew Stafford, swipe to answer. I pick up. “Hey dude, you good? It’s pretty late. You’ve been exploding my phone.” “Not tonight man, not tonight. I just need to talk to you.” “Talk to me man.” “I’m sorry. I hate myself. I’m sorry. I hate myself and all this shit is coming at me and I can’t deal right now...” “What kinda shit though? You sound drunk, are you drunk again?” “Just stuff man, dumb stuff…” “You’re not giving me much here man, do you wanna talk about it?” “I don’t know, I don’t know. Well, yeah, yeah I do.” “Where are you right now?” “Don’t tell anyone but I texted Derek again.” “Ah fuck dude, no you didn’t. Fuck dude, come on!” “...I know, I know. I’m dumb. I’m really dumb.” “Dude, it’s alright. But I really can’t keep doing this anymore, it’s fucking 2:30am. Not the same shit again.” “He said he never wants me in his life again and that he’s blocking my number.” “Of course he did. It’s been two years Andrew. You really gotta get ove-” “I gotta go man, need to clear my head… Just gotta thin–” “–No! Dude stay on the line! You just said you wanted to talk! Where are you? I’ll talk to you until you get back to your apartment. We can talk about anything just don’t hang up.” The sound goes flat. Andrew hung up. I throw my phone at the wall. The glass screen splinters from one corner. Fuck. I try swiping at the phone but it takes me a couple of attempts to open. Must be because the screen is all wrecked. I open the messages from Andrew again. Two years ago at the music festival in Montreal, Andrew and a few of us shared our locations in the iMessage group chat. It helped us find each other anywhere in the city in case we split up. The signal was terrible in Parc Jean-Drapeau so the plan was largely ineffective. Not now though. Andrew had forgotten to stop sharing his location and I would often refer to this location tracker when Andrew was going through one of his episodes. I text Tess again. I think he’s headed towards the water Tess. … He’s definitely headed towards the water. Why does he always head towards the water? Tess doesn’t text back. I run upstairs again and grab my car keys. Alice sits up, frustrated. “Where are you going!?” “I’m going to find Andrew.” “Babe. You don’t have to.” “Yes I do.” “No, you really don’t. You don’t have to do anything at all.” I awkwardly fumble into my pants in the dark, grab a hoodie off the floor and head out. Here I go, again. The one-man clean-up crew. The fixer. The free, on call, late-night therapy session. It’s gone too far. This is out of my control now. This routine is a monster of my own creation. Andrew is two years my senior and yet I still feel like the big brother, the father, his unprofessional mentor, the wholly unqualified amateur psychiatrist. Andrew refuses to go get professional help. Beyond suggesting the idea of anti-depressants to a doctor in passing, nothing much has been done to solve anything. That meant he had to admit he wasn’t just a victim of gross misfortune and circumstance. That meant he had to play an active role in overcoming his instability. Anytime I suggest getting professional help it is met with a limp, vacuous “I’m trying,” and the conversation ends there. Any further encouragement is always again met with the same lazy, conversation-terminating response. We both know this is a lie. He’s not really trying at all. He lies all the time about feeling better. Maybe it’s to pacify me. Maybe he’s trying to delude himself. Sometimes I believe him for a while. That is until he has another one of these episodes. I hate this about Andrew. I race along Lakeshore road in my father’s black Mercedes, the speed limit posted standing only a mere suggestion. I think about getting in a high-speed chase with the police. Maybe they’ll follow me to Andrew. I can throw my hands up, point to Andrew and shout, ‘He’s here, look! He’s the dangerous one! You deal with him! You guys are kind of professionals, no?’ Maybe I can instigate a fight with Andrew and maybe in all of Andrew’s blind, drunken emotion he’ll kill me. I hope Andrew has a weapon. Something sharp. I want there to be blood and viscera everywhere, a real mess to clean up. I think about dying a martyr. Andrew will no longer be a threat to anyone. Maybe himself, but not to me. Not to my time. Not to my patience. All of his problems will no longer rest on my shoulders. I think about driving into oncoming traffic, or a post, or a half wall outside a gated community. My body crumpled in heap of glass, metal, and wiring, my lungs breathless, eyes empty, and on my face a wicked smile. Eternal sleep. That’s one solution. I look at my phone. Andrew - Location - Lakeside Park. Turning south onto Navy Street I pass the old historic Oakville homes, all of them Georgian style with the original family names and their professions inscribed into signage by their doors. There’s monuments to the founders of the town. I think I deserve a monument. I picture a big, decorative statue being erected for my service to this town and more specifically, Andrew. I’m cast in all bronze, handsome as ever, on a rearing horse. I heard somewhere that a mounted soldier with a horse on two legs means that they died in battle. I think that’s suitable. I park the car at the end of the street where the land begins to slope downwards toward the waterline and where the concrete pier shelters the harbour. I get out of the car and look towards the pier. Andrew is standing at the near side of the jetty. Under the full moon I can see his short, pudgy body dressed in shorts and an ugly hawaiian that didn’t match. He was wearing black sneakers with white ankle socks. The guy just couldn’t pull it together. Walking towards him, I called out: “Hey buddy, going swimming!?” Andrew turned around, surprised, but not, to see me. “Thinking about it.” “I’ll be the lifeguard, I have my bronze medallion! It’s expired but who’s checking?” Andrew didn’t laugh. He walked towards the end of the pier, drunk, staggering uncoordinated from left to right and back again, as if the weight of his thoughts were tangible and gravity was doing its best to topple him. “Woah there Drew, let’s get you back to the car. Let’s sleep this one off. Let’s get you home.” “No.” “You and I both know its nothing. You’re just drunk. You’ll wake up tomorrow and we’ll laugh about it. You’ll apologize like you always do and things will start to get better.” “It’s not nothing dude. It’s never just been nothing.” “Look man it’s three-thirty in the morning, do we really need to do this now? We do this every week.” “It’s been a rough couple of weeks.” “It’s been a rough couple of years, for both of us.” “You have no idea.” “I think I do. Look, I’d love to stay and chat but I’m tired as fuck and would love to get back to sleep, Alice is here for the week.” “Glad you have somebody.” “Don’t be like that. Let’s go.” I reach for Andrew’s arms in an attempt to pull him towards the car but he rebuffs me, shoves me, and I almost trip. This motherfucker. “Dude, lets go man. Come on, let’s not fuck around.” “Just listen to me man! I just want to talk!” “Not tonight Drew, I love you but not tonight. Please not tonight. It’ll be the same conversation we have every single time. Every. Single. Time.” I tug at Andrew again and again he pushes me back and I fall. I stand up again, brush myself off. Fuck this guy. Fuck it all. “Dude. Don’t.” “What do you care? You don’t care about me. Nobody cares about me.” “Why else would I be here at this hour?” I no longer fucking care. “I don’t know!” “We’re going. We can talk in the car.” I grab Andrew firmly and yank him towards the car. I feel an impact on my jaw. Did this guy seriously just punch me? I turn quickly and land a left hook into Andrew’s ribs. It’s followed with two more punches to his stupid, sad face. Andrew crumples to the concrete. It’s easy to fight drunk people. They fall easy and never really punch that hard, but Andrew in particular is soft as hell. Looking down I could see him crying, covering his face and rolling his shoulders in a way that seemed to mock a cry, pantomiming the act of it. I grabbed his phone and threw it into the harbour. No more texts tonight. “This is fucking pathetic. I’m leaving. I don’t want you speaking to me anymore.” I had to leave. I didn’t feel sorry. Nothing good would come of this. I could hear Andrew calling for me unintelligibly between the weeping. Once atop the slope I could no longer hear Andrew and turning one last time to look at the darkening pier I saw that it was devoid of any figure. That was the first night I slept well in years. I was glad, hopeful really, to hear rumours that he was doing better a couple months later on. Then again, it’s Andrew. You can never know with him. |
BLAKE ZIGROSSI lives in Oakville, Ontario and is completing a Specialization in English and Cultural Studies at Western University.