From the age of twelve onward, sleeping seemed like a bad idea.
Sleep, and something might happen in the night.
The fighting kept us all up.
It was loud and it was scary.
Sometimes things would get broken.
Sometimes someone would storm back out and go drinking again, only to come back and scream some more.
Sometimes someone got hit.
Sleeping seemed like a bad idea.
What if someone were killed in one of these fights?
What if you woke up and found out that someone was never coming back?
Would you have a home?
Sleeping seemed like a bad idea.
Sometimes the fight would boil upstairs and burst into your room and get all up into your face.
You had to be prepared for anything.
You couldn't be caught sleeping on the job.
Someone was mad.
They were mad, and it was your fault.
So you had to pay attention.
You had to listen, to see, if the attack came, from which direction it might be coming.
You had to gather Intel and launch a counter-attack.
You could do better, be better.
Tomorrow you would remember to do the dishes, you would clean your room, you would fix dinner if you noticed no one else doing it, you would do whatever anyone else wasn't doing, you would do absolutely whatever it took not to have another sleepless night.
Except sleep.
Because you had to be prepared.
You had to think of every possible thing thst might go wrong and attempt to solve problems before they even happened.
If you could just do that one thing, then maybe you wouldn't keep being caught unaware.
Maybe you could stave off disaster.
Maybe.
But the next day always dawned with a new set of rules, and all your efforts would be for naught.
Still, sleep seemed like a bad idea.
So many times.
So many times when I can't sleep, it's because I have this uneasy, fearful feeling that won't go away.
Sleep seems like the last thing I should be doing.
I can't sleep.
I might miss something.
There is no fighting anymore down the stairs.
The house is still and empty but for me.
But I can't sleep.
