Pencils, Dust, and Imperfection

The sleeping pill was down my throat and breaking a part inside of my body. I laid in my bed, waiting for the damn thing to take effect. It had been over an hour, and I still hadn't fallen into a worry-fire sleep.

I was tired, though. I had been dealing with a lot of sleepless nights lately, thanks to my over-active subconscious. When I tried to sleep though those restless and fussy nights, Christian and Gloria's voices were playing in a soft murmur; like a bunch of static and I couldn't turn it off. It was driving me mad with lunacy. I was hoping the pills would be that push that would finally turn off all of the static.

It wasn't right then, so I laid awake, listening to the sounds of my Oakland home. I heard my son, Joey, playing his drumset, and my other son, Jakob, playing a videogame. I heard my wife talking to someone, but I didn't know who. I tried to listen more heedfully, and I eventually discovered my mom's voice following Adrienne's.

"He's just tired," I heard Adie say. "The doctor gave him sleeping pills, but I don't his lack of sleep is what's doing this to him. I mean, I know he hasn't been sleeping, but he gets some rest. I just don't think the severity of what he's going through and a few missed hours of sleep every night add up."

"From what you've told me, I don't think so either." my mom replied. "The rest couldn't hurt him, but I don't think that's the underlying cause."

"Ollie, he couldn't possibly be any worse than he is now," Adrienne said, a slight sense of lament drenching her words. Her voice got softer and lower, as if she was afraid that I could hear her when she said, "Blackouts and auditory hallucinations. I know that he's depressed--I can tell," she paused before adding, "It has to be MPD."

"Don't say that, Adrienne," my mom said. "Let's not get too ahead of ourselves and assume the worst. We--"

"What else could it be?" my wife interrupted. "You said it yourself--sleep deprivation can't be the underlying cause. It has to be more serious."

"We'll get the results of the blood test next week," my mom reminded. "Hopefully we'll know for sure then. Until then...I just want to remain hopeful."

I felt a little foolish when a tear rolled down my cheek, but I couldn't help it. If Adrienne informed my mother, then my whole family knew, and so did Mike and Tre. I wonder what she told our sons, if anything.

Oh, suck it up, Armstrong.
Your crybaby antics make me embarrassed to corrupting.

Maybe you should stop it then.
Let Billie's mind at ease.

Both of you, stop. I need to sleep.

Nobodys' stopping you.

We are, so shut up!
Get some rest, Billie.

The rest won't help him.

Shh! And you don't know that.

For once, can you both just shut up?

Yes, we can.
Well, I can. I don't know about Christian.

I could, but I don't want to.

Well, you can't always get what you want

I had slowly, but surely been getting tired, and the pill must have really worked because I fell asleep despite the bickering between the figments of my poor mind.

So, I fortunately finally fell asleep, but it wasn't worry-free like I had been hoping. While I rested, my mind was going haywire and creating a chimerical delusion that I don't think I could even call a dream; it was too strange and peculiar to be classified as one.

There was some guy just sitting on the floor of a small, white room. He looked a little like me, but he wasn't; he had black glossy hair that was spiked up a little in the front. He wore a leather jacket and black pants and shoes. I didn't know who he was or why I was dreaming such a thing up, but you can't choose what you dream.

All of the sudden, I head the distinct sound of a flat line that I had heard when I was at the hospital. The random guy stood up and tore into his chest. He ripped his skin apart with his fingernails until his muscle was exposed. I could see blood through his black shirt as he dug his hands inside of his chest. He soon pulled out his beating heart; the valves in terrible condition. He squeezed it, but nothing happened.

In the dream, I was able to see everything perfectly. I was able to study the heart that rested in his hand and realized that it wasn't a heart at all--it was a hand grenade and it exploded.

I awoke

Stop it, Christian!

What? It was cool, right, Armstrong?

You made me dream that?

Dreams are creations of the subconscious, since we are your subconscious, we can control your dreams.

But why did you make me dream that?

I didn't. Christian did.

Because we're still here.

I barely slept. If you are in my head, because of slept deprivation, I'm going to have to get a good night's sleep.

Check the clock, Armstrong.
You slept for eight hours.

I turned onto my side to check my alarm clock. I did the quick math and realized that Christian was right; I had slept for eight hours and Gloria and him were still in my head.

Told you it wouldn't work.