Life as an Extreme Sport

the fog of not asleep

Close my eyes, glazed with sleep and sticky. See him, from the corner of the closed eyes, blue darkening to black. But if I try to focus he shifts form, to a large spider, hairy and threatening, drumming front legs against the ground in a bass staccato I can feel. I look away to turn him back to a man, predatory and coming.

The front door opens, and two shapes – men? – drift in, almost gliding on the wake of white froth. They stop at the foot of the bed, at either post, and wait.

I open my eyes, sticky and glazed with sleep. I know I can’t continue to fend it off, but I rub them wearily and resigned, hands numb, chest cold, dropping off to sleep again and the scene replays and I wake and the scene replays.

What will happen when I finally fail to wake? What will the dream be, how will it finish?