It’s 2 in the morning, and the insomniac is still awake.

If you were to look into the room, you wouldn’t be able to tell––his eyes are closed, covers slung up over his head, and the indent in his pillow is deep. He tries to convince his brain that it’s time to sleep, but it isn’t working. 

Now he kicks the blanket off his body and sits up. It’s too hot, that blanket makes him sweaty and uncomfortable, and the ceiling fan doesn't help that much. A sigh escapes his lips. He can’t sleep without burying himself in his blanket, but sweet Jesus is the room hot right now. A glance at the clock on his nightstand tells him it’s two in the morning.

Two in the morning? It had to be later than that. All that effort trying to sleep, and now he is wide awake, staring at the clock that shines dimly with faint green numbers as if it is somehow tired. It p*ssed him off. Enough’s enough––if he can’t sleep, then he won’t. He flops on his back, on top of his blanket, and stares at the ceiling. He figures he’ll just lay there until the sun comes up––unmoving, unthinking. But the thoughts come anyway, even though he makes no effort and doesn’t necessarily want them there. 

He sees images of the girl he met a few weeks ago at that party, oh, Lord, he doesn’t want to relive that. She looked at him like he was a little kid, the way he stood there, stammering and babbling and swaying like an idiot. He rolls over and groans, his stomach tying into a knot. Somehow he’s embarrassed just lying there. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, but that doesn’t work either. The clock tells him it’s only been a minute. He stares at the ceiling more intensely, tracing the fan as it spins, but he can feel his brain tossing and turning.

In a whirl of new thoughts, his mother is the one who makes herself known. They fought over Thanksgiving dinner a few nights ago.

“I don’t get it, Mom. I just don’t get it. Every time we sit at this g****mn table it’s always something.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m crazy! I’m not f***ing crazy.” She stood up sharply. The legs of her chair scraped against the wood floor. For a moment, their eyes had met.

He slaps himself and flips onto his stomach, breaking eye contact with the ceiling. That is the last thing he wanted to think about, yet as hard as he buries his face into the stripes of his pillow, he can’t smother his mind.

There had been tears in her eyes, and for a brief moment, a knife had driven itself through his heart. His mother’s face contorted with several things––pain, anger, sadness, grief––and it struck him like a blow to the head. This was his fault. He had done this to her.

She stormed out of the kitchen and disappeared upstairs, leaving the young man alone with the uneaten turkey and the empty plates set across from him. He stared at the bottom of the staircase, a part of him wishing she would come back downstairs so he could try Thanksgiving again, part of him glad he could finally slow his breath. 

But there is no peace. There is nothing peaceful about letting dread fester. The night drags on for too long. “I know you’re not crazy, Mom.” “I’m sorry, Mom.” “I love you, Mom.”  

Those words snagged on the prongs of his pride. The insomniac falls asleep without dreaming.