You cannot sleep.

by HAMISH

You can not sleep. It is late out. The booming of the thunder has kept you up. The dark creeps into your home, concealing itself in every corner. A walk will make you feel better. You lock the door to your home behind you. The first thing you feel is the serene cold of the dark streets. It is the same way you felt when in winter you had to get a drink at night and walked into the kitchen and realized that it was the only place in the house untouched by heating. It is a cold that invites you to stay in its comfort for as long as you like. The streetlights shine far above you in that familiar orange tone, which catches the thin wisps of fog that swirl at your feet. There is no noise to disrupt your peace here, save for the wet dripping of the rain. The houses around you stand dead, windows dark. You try and fail to imagine the people within them who lie asleep. You can’t imagine anyone else here at all.

From the invisible clouds above strands of water fall towards the sidewalk. They hit the puddles, sending ripples across the glistening surface. You focus on the grass on the side of you. The short, well trimmed leaves let the water flow down them and soften the soil, bringing it back on top of them. The gnarled roots of the grass are unseen, obscured by shadows. You reach your hand out and touch the lawn. The grass curls gently under your fingers and deposits the dirt and water on your finger. The cold chill of this is invigorating. You look at the road in the center of the street. It sits as a black slab, the reflective lines in the middle shining with a light that only seems to apply to them. You should walk on the road. There is nobody to hit you.

As you walk in the center of the road, the world feels as if it were all a dream. Indeed - it could be. You realize that there is a smile on your face. You walk until you pass into a place where there are no streetlights. The dark here is pure. You cannot see anything, not the houses, not the cars in the driveways, not your hand in front of you. It's as if the light just cuts off. That is, except for one house. The window shines with a golden glow, illuminating the overgrown lawn in front of it. You walk towards it. As you step onto the paving, you see cracks in it. The lawn in front of you stretches like a city of skyscrapers, reaching your knees. You look into the window.

There is a man sleeping in his bed. He is beautiful. You know that he is kind simply by looking at him. You cannot see his face from this angle, but you know it to be of a beauty that the angels in heaven above envy. His hair is fluffy and brown, and has an inviting quality. He is tall, barely fitting the bed, but you know in your heart that he would never use his height as a weapon to hurt. Why is he sleeping with the lights on? Is he afraid of the dark? You could help him. You imagine what it would be like to be friends with the man. He would be kind to you, and talk with you all you could want. He would listen to you, do anything to save you from danger. The warmth of him holding you in his arms, He is everything you could imagine, and more. If you just go in he will be scared, you need to do something for him. His lawn is overgrown. You have to help him. You need him to like you. There is nothing to mow his lawn with.

The solution is obvious. It will all be worth it in the end. He will love you. You pluck the blades of grass one by one with your hands. They become wet, the cold chill fills you with energy. The hairs across your arm resemble pins, jabbed in everywhere they could be as they stick up in the cold. The ordeal is long and difficult. You do not for a second consider giving up. You need him in your life. Dirt digs under your nails & covers your hands, which cramp and ache with a pain most terrible. You keep going, After hours of effort & suffering, you have completed your task. Your hands are covered in the green, and have become so cold they are purple. You think you should be in pain, but your hands are too cold for that now. You approach the window with nervous anticipation, and gaze in. You see the reflection of yourself. Your nose is big, your lips are small, your skin is pale, your body is big, you aren’t enough. You are too ugly for him.

You think, combing your brain for any solution. Cold tears run down your face, they feel like a wave of fire burning down your face. You look at your hands, coated with dirt and filth. You have an idea

You start with your nose. It's too big. It's giant, resembling a nose one might expect to see on a witch. With your grimy fingernails you begin scratching trying to get a grip on some flap of skin. Eventually you manage to get a hold and begin peeling away the front of your nose. You feel around inside the opening, You look for where the cartilage of your nose is. When you find what you presume is the cartilage, you attempt to snap it a bit off. As you try, you realize the combination of its flexibility will make it impossible. You look at the bricks on the wall of the house. You can’t back out now, no pain could hurt, you need him. You step towards the bricks. You lean forward and press the cartilage of your nose to the wall. You begin moving it up and down. You do it slowly so as to not sand off too much. You must switch bricks after they are coated in your flesh or they will not sand it correctly. You check your reflection in the mirror. After a while you think you’ve done enough. You gently fold the sheet of skin over the wound.

You reduced your nose. But your lips are far too small, too hollow. Nobody wants to kiss somebody with small lips. And so you open your top lip with your nails. There's more blood in there than you would think. The sanguine flow of blood drips down into the puddles, turning them a scarlet red. The tears of rain fall onto the cut. You reach for the muddy ground. You pick a clump of dirt up. Carefully you shove the soil into the incision, filling it. You leave one hand to hold the lips content in. Time for the bottom lip. Again, you repeat the process. You tear your lip open, and insert the dirt.

You must let the wounds heal. And so you wait in this night, you wait until your wounds have healed. The pain felt is dulled entirely by your anticipation. Even as your fingers grow weak holding your face together, you persist. You lie in this dark puddle of grass for an eternity. Your wounds slowly, slowly come together. Your lips swell with the plagues that lurk in the dirt, ballooning outwards. They become covered in pustules and sores of the infection. Meanwhile, your nose becomes swollen and yellow. But you keep waiting until you are perfect.

You wait,

& wait

Your face is finally healed. But finally you are enough for him. You are perfect. You walk up to the window and begin gently rapping at it, slowly getting louder.

Something is wrong. He will not wake up. You grow desperate and you knock louder still, but he does not wake. With all the strength you have, you leap through the window. Glass punctures your skin, shining in the wounds and blood like rubies. Will he hate you for breaking his window?

It's colder than outside here. More akin to that of a freezer than anything else. You ignore the cold, and the piles of clothes that line the floor as you rush into his bed to hug him. The anticipation of his warm body on yours. It drives you mad. Every fraction of a second lasts an eternity. You are in a state of pleasure so bright it burns away all the pain. Finally you reach him. He’s plastic. This cannot be. Who did this to him? You feel how cold he is. Who could do this to him, reduce him to a being of unfeeling plastic. You begin to cry. The despair takes you over. You will spend the rest of your life in agony, in that bed. You are too weak to move. You can not sleep.

HAMISH

Antinous' Ring