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Insomnia - Part Two
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Insomnia - Part Two |
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Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612Hurricane Alley |
Insomnia Two Just before I went to bed, I read what I was asked to write last night. ‘Asked’ because I think I had no choice. Esther, my Insomnia-Apparition, gave me her story. I sighed as I read it. Abuse. It seems to always slip into my words somewhere. I write about it more than any other subject. I’ve never been abused. Not physically. Perhaps emotionally. Yeah..emotionally. Maybe that’s why I spend my life constantly turning away from people. But Esther? I can’t turn away from her. There she is in the middle of a long dark night. The only entertainment other than bad 70’s movies and infomercials that could lull me to sleep. She didn’t come to me for three nights. The first night, I didn’t sleep because I expected her. The second night, I slept fitfully, hoping she wouldn’t show. But last night, I almost wished she had. There is nothing to do between midnight and six a.m. I count the times I’ve watched reruns of Seinfeld. I watch the rehashing of news on CNN and FoxNews and MSNBC. I know these people who sit there in that glowing box in my living room. Would they still keep talking if everyone in the world turned off their TV? Who would know? Does a tree make a noise when it falls in the woods? Ah! Philosophy. And then tonight. I left a fan on in my room. White noise can be helpful to lull someone to sleep. Unfortunately I’m not just someone. I’m me. Queen of the Insomniacs. World Insomniac champion. Nobel prize winning Insomniac. Sigh. At first I thought there was something caught in the blades of the fan. Suddenly the night was cut by a high whirr…. I sat up quickly and there she was. Her long hair seemed to be caught in the blades. The fan wasn’t running, it just sat there stuck with Esther’s hair clogging the mechanism. I blinked. And she wasn’t there. I lay down and turned over on my side. And there she was! Looking at me from the edge of the bed. It was as though she was sitting on the floor her chin resting on the edge of the bed. I nearly screamed! She moved her head and then I saw it. There was a blotch of hair missing from the back of her head. Her skull shined pink in a spot about 4 inches in diameter. I looked back at the fan, but it was running smoothly, no hair in sight. There was no blood. There should have been if it had been violently pulled out right? I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to know. Really. I didn’t want to know. ** Esther woke up. It was Sunday. She hated Sunday. They always went to church and pretended to be a happy family. She sat between her mother and father and they all held hands. Everyone in the church smiled at them. They were the perfect Christian family. Like a beautiful chocolate Easter egg that Esther got one year. It was perfectly formed, intricately decorated with soft pink frosting. She hated to eat it. But she was a kid. And kids loved candy. So she cut it open with a knife. It was rotten inside. A maggot crawled out of the center and dropped to the counter. She almost puked. She threw it away. After church they went home and sat down to eat. They didn’t talk at all. She only heard her father’s voice at night when he yelled at her mother. Heard it from the distance of the tree in their yard. Heard it from her hiding spots in the neighborhood. Heard it in church. Always talking to someone else, not her. He never talked to her. Her parents ‘took a nap’ after dinner. Esther cleaned up and then went to her room to read a book. In all her ten years, she never suspected that the other kids in school didn’t live exactly like this. And then her life changed. There was a knock on the door. She went to the top of the stairs and watched as her father opened the door. He stood there. Taller than her father. Big shoulders stuffed into a brown jacket. Esther’s mother walked out of the bedroom and in a flash, flew at the man in the doorway. “Get your coat.” The man said. And Esther’s mother raced into the hall to grab her coat. “Esther?” she called. “put your coat on and come here” Esther did as she was told. And in just a few minutes she was standing on the porch looking back at her father. The big man was poking his finger into her father’s chest. Spitting wet words into his face. Words she never heard before. She thought they must have been bad words because her mother covered her ears. And then they got into a car and drove away. She listened to her mother talking to the man. Thanking him for coming. Thanking him for getting her letter. Thanking him for taking her back. Thanking him for forgiving her. Thanking him for letting them come home to him. She called him Daddy. Esther realized the big man driving the car was her grandfather. She’d never seen him before. Never thought about him. And now she felt scared. Odd. Scared. Afraid of what was going to happen. She had a routine. She lived in her routine. Stay outside until the lights when out. Sit quietly in church. Clean up after dinner. Read her book. Be quiet. Don’t talk. And now this. She twisted her hands together, breathing slowly. And then she slept. It was getting dark when the light in the car woke her up. “Come on Esther!” her mother whispered as she pulled on Esther’s arm to lead her out of the car. And then they were inside a big house with a lot of strangers. Everyone talking at once. Old ladies crying. A man shouting the same kind of words the big old daddy used. And there was a warm embrace. A woman with white hair who smelled liked cheese. “Come on you must be starving.” She said as she helped Esther take off her coat. Then they flowed together as a group into the dining room. A huge table was in the middle of the room and it was filled with dishes and food. Esther was led to a chair in the middle of one side of the table. Her mother sat next to the old daddy. He smiled at her and patted her hand. Esther watched her mother smile realizing for the first time that she was pretty. And then food was put on her plate. Chicken and potatoes and peas and tomatoes and gravy and a biscuit. Esther suddenly had to go to the bathroom. But how to ask? Who to direct her question to? She imagined wetting the upholstered chair, leaving a forever stain of her embarrassment. She stared at her food, concentrating on constricting the muscles that controlled her bodily functions. “What’s wrong with you?” the old daddy yelled. Esther looked up and found everyone staring at her. “Eat! I worked hard to put this food on the table. Now eat!” Esther gasped at the loudness of the old daddy’s voice. Without thinking she reached down and grabbed a handful of food and shoved it quickly into her mouth. It was mashed potatoes and gravy. Her fingers were now covered in the white and yellow mess. “I knew it!” the old daddy yelled. “You lay down with an animal and you beget an animal! I don’t allow animals at my table!” He rose quickly and stomped over to Esther. Esther sat in fear of what would happen. She felt the first trickle of pee as she tried to hold onto herself. The old daddy pulled her from her chair by her hair. He pulled the chair back and pushed Esther down onto the floor. “If you eat like an animal you’ll be treated like an animal!” He shoved her under the table where she cowered midst the legs of the other people sitting there. She peed onto the rug and then moved away from the wet spot. The conversation began again. As though nothing had happened. Esther reached up to rub the spot on her head where the old daddy had pulled at her hair. A few strands of hair came out in her fingers. She pulled at her hair. The pain was sharp at first. After a few minutes she focused on just the feeling of each strand being pulled from her head. The sound of voices faded. It was just her hand pulling the hair out of her head. Strand after strand. She lay down and slept. ** Being a writer isn’t easy. Being an insomniac writer is worse. Crying before sleeping only gives you a headache in the morning. I woke this morning with swollen eyes and a headache. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Maybe it’s time to see a doctor. I don’t believe in apparitions. Esther surely isn’t real. Her story has to be fiction. I don’t believe in ghosts. God, I hope she isn’t my muse. I need to sleep. [This message has been edited by Poet deVine (04-25-2003 02:25 AM).] |
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Janet Marie Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554 |
this was difficult for me to read for personal reasons, particularly part 2, so its hard to comment, but I did want you to know I had come back as I had said I would on part one, and you already know from previous posts of yours how I feel about your prose, and one could even say the fact that this effected me, speaks to your writing ability. If this is fiction...that speaks even more so...if this is from personal experience...then heres hoping you get some relief from the insomnia. |
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Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612Hurricane Alley |
Thank you Janet. I do have insomnia. And wanted to write about what it's like. At one point I wondered what would happen if I started to see things in the middle of the night - apparations. This caught my fancy and I thought up Esther (she named herself by the way). I lay in bed one night and wondered, as a writer, what would I do if I saw her? I thought I would write about her and since my poetry is gone right now, I turned to prose. Her story wasn't going to go this route. I seem to be drawn to write about abuse for some reason. In fact in this part of the story, when she turned her head and I saw the bald spot, it wasn't even planned. It just 'wrote' itself. Then of course I had to find a way to bring Esther's story to that point. I felt I was done with the family life scenerio and wanted to give Esther's mother a way to move on. 'Old Daddy' came into being. I'm not sure how the story will progress. How Esther moves on her life. It's her story after all. She'll probably tell me soon. (Tonight if I can't sleep). Thank you for reading. I am sorry if you were pained by what you read. I would not cause anyone pain on purpose. Sometimes the darkest secrets need the light to help heal them. |
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QjQ Member Elite
since 2003-04-18
Posts 3756U.S.A. |
this story has much inspiration and you must keep writeing about her, your visions are cherished by this write. "It matters not how you answer, It matters only if i hear you" |
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Ringo 
since 2003-02-20
Posts 3684Saluting with misty eyes |
This needs to be put into novel form. I know you have the skill to do it in the poetry forum, but this needs to be done in complete prose. The mixing between the "real" and the "imagined", or the past and present, or whatever it is just absolutely draws the reader in and keeps them. I usually check the site to see who's posted what. Now, I find myself jumping on here to see what happened during your latest bout of insomnia. When the morning cries and you don't know why... |
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regards2you Member Elite
since 2002-10-01
Posts 3940California |
This is so powerful. Exactly what Ringo said re the mixing between the real and fantasy.... I enjoyed your comments to others about how this has come about. As a novice, I sit back in awe of you...and so pleased you take the time to explain where you are in your writing, switching poetry prose....and how this transpired... Wonderful writing I enjoyed...do hope you keep adding to it... A novel...oh yes...it would be great! Hugs, Pat  ..without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.. |
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Kahlil Senior Member
since 2003-04-12
Posts 1881 |
this is very fascinating, i agree with the above comments |
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nakdthoughts Member Laureate
since 2000-10-29
Posts 19200Between the Lines |
I caught myself holding my breath until the end, Sharon. I was hoping so much that the older daddy wasn't going to be mean... M |
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ljossberir Member
since 2003-05-04
Posts 81Ny, USA |
I know! I was hoping so much that the old daddy was like the good guy in this story. Sadly enough, it seems like theres more bad people out there than good. This part 2 blew me away, it was just as amazing as the first. You are an excellent writer. -matt |
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KristieSue
since 2003-01-31
Posts 1460PA, US |
Sharon my god...I could sit and read your writing for hours and hours. I can imagine I wouldn't put them down to eat or sleep. I'd become and insomniac myself. Maybe I'd find my own muse *w*. Some of that writing rang true to my own family. Much of it affected me and brought back memories...maybe you're a like of my muse.... keep writing, please, because I feel like I've put down a book at the best part of the chapter! Failure isn't failure if a lesson from it is learned ~ KS |
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