Sequel: Elysian ›
Status: In Progress
Restless Insomniacs
Daria
It is 2.45 am and I have yet to fall asleep. I suck in my breath as I slip into my mother’s bathroom and pray she has taken one of her sleeping pills with a shot of bourbon so the sudden burst of bright light does not wake her. I wait staring at my reflection in the mirror for her to stir or wake at the light but she continues snoring loudly. Her bathroom, which contains the afore mention sleeping pills, is located in the corner of her room through her walk in wardrobe with no blocking door to hide the light.
I take in my reflection in the mirror, dark bags stare back at me and poke at the pale and taut skin on my cheeks, I think I have lost weight. Not intentionally, I just sometimes forget to eat during the day, hunger is not something I really feel anymore. It isn’t like I have a warm meal waiting for me at night, I usually have a note left on the fridge and money to order whatever I want.
I pop open the mirror cupboard and grab the small bottle of pills that will hopefully take me to dreamland where I can find some sort of peace. I try not to shake the bottle but my hands are shaking slighting because I am so tired. I shakily fumble out a pill and palm it just before a shadow alerts me to my mother’s presence.
“Daria?” She mumbles, a sleeping mask covering the top of her head and messing up her platinum blonde hair. I stare at her formulating a lie before I even have time to react.
My mother was one a beautiful model who until an unexpected pregnancy left her in the plus size category, was at the top of her game. She has since lost the baby weight but unfortunately the stress of raising a daughter and losing a husband has aged her beyond her years.
“I was just looking for some pain killers, it’s that time of the month,” I mumble turning back to the cupboard and grabbing a pack of Midol, “I grabbed the wrong bottle, I was just putting it back,”
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” My mother groans moving back to her room, my lie settling her back to sleep. She glances at the clock and shakes her head in annoyance. A part of me wishes she would see through my lie, see how tired I am but she is snoring and I am annoyed, with myself and her.
I hate when my mother catches me awake, it always puts me in a bad mood. I hate when people ask me if I realise the time, do they not realise I spend every minute obsessing over how little sleep I will have to survive on the next day, or that I don’t wish more than anything sleep would claim me already?
I shuffle back across my room taking the Midol with me for good measure, I lock my bedroom and chuck the pills across the floor slipping into my bed to grab the glass of water I keep on my bedside table. I am about to put the pill on my tongue and swallow when a rustle from outside my window puts me on high alert. I move slowly towards the window my hands shaking and the water in the glass sloshing over the edge and onto my bare feet. I spot a shadow on the tree outside my window, hanging precariously.
I scream as a hand reaches out to my window and pulls it open more than it already is, that is until I make out the familiar features on the face of the shadow, it is Yale. I drop the glass and the pill in my hand before helping him open the window completely, glad my mother cannot hear my screams from the other side of the house.
I glance at Yale who makes a dive into my room, landing limbs and feet first, hands flying out to right himself next to the dropped glass on my pink rug. My entire house is wooden floors and I am suddenly annoyed that I had bought that stupid pink rug, which is now wet.
“You have the best room for sneaking out or in” Yale announces slightly out of breath. I stare at him for a moment before grabbing at the cup on the floor, trying and failing to rub the water out of my rug. Yale stares around my room taking in everything. I am suddenly very self–conscious of the stuffed giraffe sitting on my empty bed.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss not daring to look him in the face, knowing that when I do my anger will dissipate, and right now I want to be a little annoyed.
“I heard about what happened today,”
“Oh,” I say almost dropping the glass in my hand all over again, Yale is referring to the drive I had taken today with Oli, after realising Yale had ditched, that had resulted in me spewing up my guts on the pavement of McDonalds, when the subject of my father came up. It turns out that Yale is one of the few people who does not realise who my dad is, of his rock star legacy. Oli not only seemed to know how he is but is also a fan which unsettled me more than I can begin to understand.
I sit on my bed placing my glass on the bedside table, Yale lays on my bed next to Mr Snuffles McSnuggles, my giraffe, and picks him up playing with the left eye which, much like me, is hanging on by a thread at this point.
“At least take off your shoes,” I say thinking of the fit my mother would make if she found shoe prints on my white, thousand count sheets. Yale obliges leaning over into the moonlight to take off his heavy boots. As the moonlight hits his face illuminating it, I find myself taking in his familiar features once more only today they are covered in bruises and blood. I gasp.
I lean forward and place a hand on his chin pulling it towards me without really thinking. Yale frowns at me as I stare into his bruised and battered eyes trying to find the ability to breathe normally again, “Oh my god,” I whisper unable to control the raggedy beat of my heart, Yale pulls away and puts space between us fiddling with his jeans pocket before turning to explain to me.
“You should see the other guy,” He grins only to wince as he stretches his split lip. I resist the urge to nag him like a mother about how stupid and dangerous fighting is, but I remember as those words are about to tumble from my mouth that I am myself covered in bruises.
“Come on,” I sigh standing and offering my hand like he has done for me so many times, and lead him to my bathroom. I make him sit on the edge of the bath-shower combo and reach into my first aid drawer for bandages and anti-sceptic spray I had grown used to after learning to ride a bike and then a horse.
“This is gonna sting,” I say swabbing a cotton ball in the disinfect spray and dabbing it lightly against his lip. I am kneeling in front of him and I am suddenly acutely aware of how we are breathing the same air. His breath and mine are mixing in front of my face and it is making me dizzy, he smells so familiar and foreign at the same time, like my father but not if that makes any sense.
“Used to it,” Yale mutters with a wink but I can still feel his body tense as I dab as gently as possible at his wound. “D,” He says as I continue to stare at him begging him to say more so I can gain my composure, “Can I spend the night here, my mum will freak if she sees I got into a fight… again” I nod my head ever so slightly in agreement, afraid to break the intensity that floats between Yale and I.
Yale clears his throat and looks around my bathroom and the sliver of my room visible through the door. I move away from him and busy my shaking hands with getting him a band aid, “Who did you fight?”
“This looks like a three year old's room,” Yale observes ignoring my question, under the light of my bathroom tucked away in my most private area in my most tired state the truth just slips from between my clenched teeth and sleepy lips.
“I don’t have the heart to change it. My dad designed it the moment he found out he was having a baby girl,”
“Daria?”
“Yeah?” I lean back and begin cleaning his knuckles with the same tenderness as I had used for his lip, his reaction tells me that no one has been tender to him in a while and that makes my heart hurt.
Yale is a good person he deserves someone who loves him, I am just not sure if that person is me. My skin brushes his and I have never realised what strong hands he has, they are littered with scars and I cannot help but compare them to Alex’s hand, his hands are evil. But Yale… Yale’s hands are beautiful.
I shake my head chastising myself for letting my lack of sleep affect my mind. Yale is not beautiful; he is just Yale. I glance into his eyes as he begins speaking and for a millisecond I am left breathless because I was wrong he is beautiful. “I took care of Remy and Oli,” He glances at his battered hands and nods solemnly,
“Daria?”
I don’t answer this time, I am not sure my voice could possibly work at this moment, “I won’t ever let anyone hurt you again,” And for tiny millisecond I think I can tell him everything, the feeling disappears as fast as it appears but the sinking sensation in my stomach reminds me of it for the rest of the night.
I take in my reflection in the mirror, dark bags stare back at me and poke at the pale and taut skin on my cheeks, I think I have lost weight. Not intentionally, I just sometimes forget to eat during the day, hunger is not something I really feel anymore. It isn’t like I have a warm meal waiting for me at night, I usually have a note left on the fridge and money to order whatever I want.
I pop open the mirror cupboard and grab the small bottle of pills that will hopefully take me to dreamland where I can find some sort of peace. I try not to shake the bottle but my hands are shaking slighting because I am so tired. I shakily fumble out a pill and palm it just before a shadow alerts me to my mother’s presence.
“Daria?” She mumbles, a sleeping mask covering the top of her head and messing up her platinum blonde hair. I stare at her formulating a lie before I even have time to react.
My mother was one a beautiful model who until an unexpected pregnancy left her in the plus size category, was at the top of her game. She has since lost the baby weight but unfortunately the stress of raising a daughter and losing a husband has aged her beyond her years.
“I was just looking for some pain killers, it’s that time of the month,” I mumble turning back to the cupboard and grabbing a pack of Midol, “I grabbed the wrong bottle, I was just putting it back,”
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” My mother groans moving back to her room, my lie settling her back to sleep. She glances at the clock and shakes her head in annoyance. A part of me wishes she would see through my lie, see how tired I am but she is snoring and I am annoyed, with myself and her.
I hate when my mother catches me awake, it always puts me in a bad mood. I hate when people ask me if I realise the time, do they not realise I spend every minute obsessing over how little sleep I will have to survive on the next day, or that I don’t wish more than anything sleep would claim me already?
I shuffle back across my room taking the Midol with me for good measure, I lock my bedroom and chuck the pills across the floor slipping into my bed to grab the glass of water I keep on my bedside table. I am about to put the pill on my tongue and swallow when a rustle from outside my window puts me on high alert. I move slowly towards the window my hands shaking and the water in the glass sloshing over the edge and onto my bare feet. I spot a shadow on the tree outside my window, hanging precariously.
I scream as a hand reaches out to my window and pulls it open more than it already is, that is until I make out the familiar features on the face of the shadow, it is Yale. I drop the glass and the pill in my hand before helping him open the window completely, glad my mother cannot hear my screams from the other side of the house.
I glance at Yale who makes a dive into my room, landing limbs and feet first, hands flying out to right himself next to the dropped glass on my pink rug. My entire house is wooden floors and I am suddenly annoyed that I had bought that stupid pink rug, which is now wet.
“You have the best room for sneaking out or in” Yale announces slightly out of breath. I stare at him for a moment before grabbing at the cup on the floor, trying and failing to rub the water out of my rug. Yale stares around my room taking in everything. I am suddenly very self–conscious of the stuffed giraffe sitting on my empty bed.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss not daring to look him in the face, knowing that when I do my anger will dissipate, and right now I want to be a little annoyed.
“I heard about what happened today,”
“Oh,” I say almost dropping the glass in my hand all over again, Yale is referring to the drive I had taken today with Oli, after realising Yale had ditched, that had resulted in me spewing up my guts on the pavement of McDonalds, when the subject of my father came up. It turns out that Yale is one of the few people who does not realise who my dad is, of his rock star legacy. Oli not only seemed to know how he is but is also a fan which unsettled me more than I can begin to understand.
I sit on my bed placing my glass on the bedside table, Yale lays on my bed next to Mr Snuffles McSnuggles, my giraffe, and picks him up playing with the left eye which, much like me, is hanging on by a thread at this point.
“At least take off your shoes,” I say thinking of the fit my mother would make if she found shoe prints on my white, thousand count sheets. Yale obliges leaning over into the moonlight to take off his heavy boots. As the moonlight hits his face illuminating it, I find myself taking in his familiar features once more only today they are covered in bruises and blood. I gasp.
I lean forward and place a hand on his chin pulling it towards me without really thinking. Yale frowns at me as I stare into his bruised and battered eyes trying to find the ability to breathe normally again, “Oh my god,” I whisper unable to control the raggedy beat of my heart, Yale pulls away and puts space between us fiddling with his jeans pocket before turning to explain to me.
“You should see the other guy,” He grins only to wince as he stretches his split lip. I resist the urge to nag him like a mother about how stupid and dangerous fighting is, but I remember as those words are about to tumble from my mouth that I am myself covered in bruises.
“Come on,” I sigh standing and offering my hand like he has done for me so many times, and lead him to my bathroom. I make him sit on the edge of the bath-shower combo and reach into my first aid drawer for bandages and anti-sceptic spray I had grown used to after learning to ride a bike and then a horse.
“This is gonna sting,” I say swabbing a cotton ball in the disinfect spray and dabbing it lightly against his lip. I am kneeling in front of him and I am suddenly acutely aware of how we are breathing the same air. His breath and mine are mixing in front of my face and it is making me dizzy, he smells so familiar and foreign at the same time, like my father but not if that makes any sense.
“Used to it,” Yale mutters with a wink but I can still feel his body tense as I dab as gently as possible at his wound. “D,” He says as I continue to stare at him begging him to say more so I can gain my composure, “Can I spend the night here, my mum will freak if she sees I got into a fight… again” I nod my head ever so slightly in agreement, afraid to break the intensity that floats between Yale and I.
Yale clears his throat and looks around my bathroom and the sliver of my room visible through the door. I move away from him and busy my shaking hands with getting him a band aid, “Who did you fight?”
“This looks like a three year old's room,” Yale observes ignoring my question, under the light of my bathroom tucked away in my most private area in my most tired state the truth just slips from between my clenched teeth and sleepy lips.
“I don’t have the heart to change it. My dad designed it the moment he found out he was having a baby girl,”
“Daria?”
“Yeah?” I lean back and begin cleaning his knuckles with the same tenderness as I had used for his lip, his reaction tells me that no one has been tender to him in a while and that makes my heart hurt.
Yale is a good person he deserves someone who loves him, I am just not sure if that person is me. My skin brushes his and I have never realised what strong hands he has, they are littered with scars and I cannot help but compare them to Alex’s hand, his hands are evil. But Yale… Yale’s hands are beautiful.
I shake my head chastising myself for letting my lack of sleep affect my mind. Yale is not beautiful; he is just Yale. I glance into his eyes as he begins speaking and for a millisecond I am left breathless because I was wrong he is beautiful. “I took care of Remy and Oli,” He glances at his battered hands and nods solemnly,
“Daria?”
I don’t answer this time, I am not sure my voice could possibly work at this moment, “I won’t ever let anyone hurt you again,” And for tiny millisecond I think I can tell him everything, the feeling disappears as fast as it appears but the sinking sensation in my stomach reminds me of it for the rest of the night.