La mia Scrittura

Mind’s Eye
By Samantha Hardy


It’s three in the morning and he’s finally left. I’ve been lying here, waiting for this moment. I’ve been pretending to sleep so I wouldn’t have to have a conversation. Everyone probably thinks I have some kind of sleep disorder - falling asleep right after sex. If guys were smart, which I get the feeling this guy is, they would get up, get dressed and get out when they are supposed to.
I wait with my eyes closed tight, my body still, until I hear the front door snap shut. I can still smell his cologne – he put way too much on. For a second I lay there, my eyes open, staring at the moonlight leaking through my window. I’ve officially lost count.
Sitting up in bed, I rest my feet lightly on the ground and hold my head in my hands. Another sleepless night, I know. Originally, I’d gone to the bar to drink myself to sleep, but that didn’t turn out like I’d planned, which nothing ever really does.
Across the room, I pour myself some brandy and light a smoke. I lean against the gray walls of my bedroom, staring up at the ceiling, taking long, satisfying drags. A drink and a smoke after sex, this is probably as close to perfect as it can get.
I have to admit though, it was pretty good. I might even consider calling this one back – maybe. Probably not. Yeah, right.
Four hours. Four hours until I have to get up and go to work. Four hours until I have to spend eight hours behind some cubicle editing letters and speeches that are so terrible, the writer should just go and off himself before his career does it for him.
Brute comes over and nudges my leg with his nose.
Oh, Brute. You’re the perfect man, you’re obedient, you’re sweet and kind, and you don’t have any mommy issues. Too bad I can’t tell my mom about you. If she found out my perfect “man” was a boxer, she’d have an aneurism.
I open my night table drawer and search through it looking for something that will knock me out. Tylenol, Advil, Valium, Lunesta, Sonata, Clamazapan– gotcha! I pop two Clamazapan into my mouth, wash it down with the last of my brandy and crawl back to bed.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing I know, I’m being awoken by a choking sensation. I literally feel like I’m being strangled. I wake up, gasping for air and feel for my neck. There’s something wrapped around it! I tug and tug, yank and yank, and finally I’m set free, just as I’m sure I’m about to pass out. For a minute, I gasp for air. As I rub my neck, I look down at the red and blue striped tie in my hands. How the hell did that get wrapped around my neck? John must have forgotten it when he left. Or was it Jack?
I get up and go to the bathroom for a drink of water. I put the tie down beside the sink, making a mental note to put it in the drawer with all the other things they’ve forgotten.
I take a few sips of water and decide it’s not worth going back to sleep. Although I feel groggy and half dead, I will have to get up in about an hour to go to work. Maybe I should call in sick.
I light a smoke while I run the toothbrush through the water and smother it with toothpaste. I rest my smoke on the side of the sink while I brush my teeth. Toothpaste and cigarettes - my favorite breakfast.
Deciding to dress before I indulge in yesterday’s coffee, I grab the tie. Without warning, a surge of electricity courses through my body and flashes of light fill the room. Suddenly, I can’t see. It’s dark. All I can see is a figure, a large figure, about three times my size. The figure smells like moth balls and like the stuff mom puts on my ears when they’re infected. I feel sick to my stomach. Hands come out of nowhere, wrapping themselves around my neck. The hands are strong…and thick. I can’t get them off. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. I think I’m lying down. It feels like there is an elephant lying on top of me. I’m suffocating. I know what is going to happen, deep down I know, but I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
With another surge of electricity and bright lights, I’m back in my bathroom, the lights above the mirror blinding me. I look down to the see the tie on the floor, crumpled and dilapidated.

I return from work that day more worn out than ever. I can barely keep my eyes open, my head is pounding and my body feels like it’s been shoved in a shredder. I throw myself into my Lazy Boy, Brute joining me on my lap. Although I tell him over and over that he’s not a lap dog, he doesn’t seem to take notice. That’s okay, today I don’t mind.
I lean my head back on the headrest and close my eyes. I don’t mean to fall asleep, and I don’t feel myself doing it, it just seems to happen out of nowhere.
I wake up, what feels like minutes later, my face wet from drool, my mouth like cotton. Slowly, I wipe away my saliva, and as I get up to go for a drink, I notice something in my hand. In a haze, I raise my right arm onto my lap and open my hand. It’s a small pink ballerina, like something out of a child’s jewelry box.
Where did it come from? I don’t own a jewelry box like the one this ballerina would belong to, I haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid. How could I have gotten something like this while I was sleeping? Was I sleepwalking?
Somewhat disturbed, like all things, I choose to push it to the back of my mind. It’s too confusing to think about, and honestly, I don’t want to know.
I put the ballerina on the coffee table and make myself a drink – a drop of Pepsi with two shots of whiskey, no ice. I sit on the couch, swishing the liquid around in my mouth, eyeing the mysterious ballerina.
Still watching it, as if it may get up and walk away, I light a smoke and take long, slow drags as I watch.
Fed up, feeling slightly delusional, I get up to throw the figure in the trash. As I wrap my fingers around the tiny toy, a surge of electricity courses through my body and the room, once again, fills with flashing lights.
Suddenly, I hear the soft tinking of a nursery rhyme. I look to my left, and see a white box covered in flowers, open and singing its song on a small table.
I realize that I have no idea where I am, but this music, this soft melody, is drawing me in. I am unable to concentrate on anything else, feeling suddenly calm and serene.
My heart thumps in my chest when I hear the pounding of footsteps from somewhere behind me. I hold my breath, hoping that if I hold it long enough, and wish hard enough, the footsteps will pass my room. But, I know in my heart that this is not true, somehow, I know that this isn’t the first time I have been scared like this.
The door swings open, and as if surprised, I swing myself around, knocking over my jewelry box. It falls to the ground, the lid ripping off, the beautiful ballerina rolling underneath the bed. I wish I were the ballerina.
The steps become louder. I can’t see the figure, just a large shadow slithering into the room. Once again, that noxious smell fills the room – the smell makes me sick to my stomach. Large hands grip me at my waist and I can feel its hand slide up the back of my shirt.
I’m thrown back into reality. My hands are shaking and I’m nauseous, the stench of alcohol and musk quickly dissipating. I look around, unable to find the tiny ballerina anywhere. Suddenly, I come to the realization that my face is wet. I reach up to touch my cheeks – they’re wet. Are those tears? I couldn’t possibly be crying, I haven’t cried in over ten years!
Shakily, I make my way over to the kitchen and pour myself a straight-up whiskey. I slam it back and pour myself another. Without being fully aware, lost in my confusion, I light a smoke and sit at the kitchen table. Somewhere in the background I can hear a radio DJ blabbering on about something, and Brute at my feet, rubbing his nose. But I am frozen, unable to pry my eyes away from my mind’s eye, unable to hear anything but the tinkering of that jewelry box.
“…The story of a young boy who couldn’t remember his biological parents, even though he’d been adopted at the age of five.”
These words pull me out of my dreamland, enticing me. For a split second, I think I feel some sort of recognition, some type of déjà-vu, but it’s gone before I can grasp it.
Angrily, I switch off the radio. I need to get drunk. I quickly feed Brute and head out the door to my usual watering hole down the road, where I am greeted with familiar smells of alcohol and sweat. I inhale deeply – I’m home.

It’s the next morning and he’s still in my bed. I don’t know who he is or when he’s leaving, but I know how he got here and where I got him. I don’t know because I remember, I know because this is what I do.
It’s not that I intend to do it; it’s not that I deliberately go out seeking a male companion; it just seems to happen – every time.
Without warning, he stirs and rolls himself over, taking his first large breath of the day. He opens his eyes halfway and smiles. “’Morning, sunshine.” He moves to stroke my hair, but I hop out of bed, wrapping the sheet around my naked body.
Ew. Why is he still here? I should put a note on my door warding off men who think I brought them home for anything but sex.
“You were mighty drunk last night, love.” The man says to me, following me with his eyes as I walk towards the washroom.
I say nothing. Something about this guy gives me the creeps, makes my skin crawl.
“What’s your name, love?”
I stare at him for a few seconds, and then turn my back on him, shutting the bathroom door.
What the hell is going on with me? I’m having these crazy dreams, sleepwalking, picking up strange men – well, stranger than normal.
I’m breaking down – that’s it. I’m having a nervous breakdown, completely losing it. I might as well put myself in a loony bin now.
Lost in thought, I don’t pay attention as I pull down my pants and sit on the toilet. I stare at the wall as I pee, and just as I’m about to pull up my pants, I notice something peculiar.
I sit back down to get a closer look and notice tiny circular rash-like spots on the insides of my thighs. What the hell are those?
I walk over to the sink and light myself a smoke as I prepare to brush my teeth. As I take my second drag, I look into the mirror and notice my disheveled look. As I suck on the cigarette, I watch as the cherry burns red, and it dawns on me. I rip the cigarette from my mouth and move it towards my bare legs. What the –
Rage fills my insides as I stare at the cigarette burns on my legs, looking from them to the door.
“You sick fuck!” I yell, practically knocking down the door. “Get the fuck out, right now!”
The man looks at my naked second half, a look of alarm in his eyes. “What did I do?”
“This,” I point violently to the burns on my legs.
He laughs nervously. “I didn’t do that.”
“Oh, yeah?” I ask angrily. “Then who the fuck did?”
The man looks angry now. “I don’t fucking know, you tell me. You’re the freaking nutcase.”
I gawk at him. “Get the hell out, right now!” I run over to him and begin pushing his half naked body out my bedroom door.
“Relax,” he says, annoyed. He grabs his shirt and tie and heads down the stairs. Then he turns back to me, rage in his eyes and says, “Fuck you.”
I grab a shoe, the closest thing to me, and throw it as hard as I can, missing his head by inches.
Without another word, he stalks out the door, slamming it behind him.
What the hell is going on?