It’s 2:00 a.m. and the old man is sleeping. He keeps me up most nights crying out his nightmare prayers to God. I guess something behind his eyelids looks too much like Hell. His words come out tangled up and twisted. I listen to him, lying in bed scared those dreams will be mine one day. The doctor said people in his condition often have trouble sleeping. I didn’t tell the doctor that before Mom died, and before his condition, they slept in separate rooms so that she wouldn’t wake up with bruises on her arms from where his fists swung at things that haunted his sleep.
She said it didn’t happen much. But now, with half his mind gone and the other half going, seems like these fits come on most every night.
When he wakes, the old man says he doesn’t remember anything about his dreams, but he’s always drenched with sweat and sore from shaking. His bones must remember. You can see it in the way he limps around the place.
It’s 2:00 a.m. and the neighbor girl’s light comes on. I can see it out my window. Just for a second and then off… Read more »