Sameer Saklani

​    I have been having trouble sleeping, or perhaps being awake. I am not sure.

 

    Sometimes sleepless nights enumerate one after the other, other times I fall into a slumber which goes uninterrupted for days. Sometimes I wake from a hellish nightmare, soaked in perspiration with heart racing, other times I enter a dream so indiscernible from reality that I go on living my life as an unsuspecting citizen in an illusory realm. 

During various phases of my life, I am either a nocturnal or crepuscular or diurnal creature. I witness sunsets and sunrises, and often cannot discern which I am observing. Sometimes my circadian rhythm allows me only to witness unbroken darkness for weeks or months, and in other instances, only days of sun. 

I have realized I am a somnambulist, as well. I have awoken to find all the contents of my refrigerator consumed, or sitting on my sofa fully dressed in formalwear, or standing before my stove with all the burners aflame, or holding a butcher knife for an unknown purpose. Those are only the visually perceptible results, with other actions going unremembered and unaccounted.

As a result of these sleep-related troubles, I often find myself in a dizzied state of confusion and uncertainty. A combination of sleep deprivation and excess, erratic exposure to day and night, headaches, dehydration, daydreaming, narcolepsy, among other symptoms, have left me struggling to grasp onto a clear understanding of dream and reality. 

Sometimes I recall having fulfilled everyday obligations, such as eating, visiting the store, repaying debts and bills, speaking to loved ones, when in actuality I have done no such thing. Other times I see a dark figure walk quickly past, the coffee table transform into a large dog, insects crawling my walls, the light rippling like water, and other peculiarities which are a figment of my imagination.

I have not seen a doctor regarding this malady. It is difficult to find an appropriate time or manage the effort to consult one. There have been instances when I visited a doctor in an imagined world, and once I returned to my waking state, I was certain that the visit was true. Most times I find myself so dazed and depleted that it simply is not safe for me to leave my home unattended.

 I do not want to hypothesize on the root cause or incipience of this ailment. I can say that as I child, due to the indigence of my family, I grew up in a confined home, with several members of my extended kin, and I can recall having trouble falling asleep due to the standard noises and sounds of people existing in a small space. I would lie stark awake for hours, squeezing my eyes shut tight in futility, but that is as far as I would like to think on hypotheticals. Science itself does not have an irrefutable answer to these matters, so it is all moot. All that is relevant is that I am stricken with this affliction in the present day.

 

But never mind all of that.

 

All grievances of my condition aside, it was crucial for me to be awake and conscious on this beautiful day, for it is the day of Moly’s visit. It had been eight months since I last saw Moly, the greatest love of my life. These days without her at my side have slipped away, hollow and meaningless, devoid of joy and passion. I have been a creature extant merely for the purpose of survival, and I have been doing a poor job of that as well.

    After three years of blissful partnership, Moly and I separated for reasons beyond my understanding. I often perpend upon what faults or shortcomings drove her away from me. Perhaps I should have been more ambitious regarding my career and earnings. Maybe I should have instilled a greater sense of adventure and spontaneity within our relationship. Or possibly, she may simply have grown uninterested in my general character. 

    Recently, however, Moly contacted me (yes, she contacted me) and said she wished to meet me, on this very day. Upon hearing her desire, I was rejuvenated, and I ceased to be a man of indolence and apathy. I spent hours cleaning my neglected home, carefully tending to my haggard appearance, stocking the kitchen with pastries, savouries, and refreshments.

    Most importantly, I knew I could not reunite with Moly in any state of delirium or stupor. I could ill afford to misinterpret her words, speak incomprehensibly, doze off, appear effete, or be unsure whether I was in a real or imagined world. As a preventative measure, I had forced myself to remain awake for the past seventy-two hours (or so.) I had been consuming cups of coffee by the hour, taking frigid or scalding showers, pinching, slapping, biting myself sporadically, blaring music at full volume, among other methods of wakefulness.

    I dressed in the suit I wore to the wedding of Moly’s sister, a deep burgundy, and prepared a charcuterie board and two flutes of sparkling water which sat atop the coffee table. I envisioned Moly and I sitting on the sofa, enjoying the snacks and refreshments, reminiscing on our past love, confessing how cold life felt without the warmth of passion, and ultimately deciding it best for us to reunite, marry, and start a family.

    Amidst my woolgathering, I heard a knock at the front door. I tried to compose my nerves, adopt a casual yet affable demeanor, and answered the door. There stood Moly. Seeing her fair skin, her golden hair, her flushed lips, after nearly a year felt surreal. She wore black athletic leggings and an oversized gray shirt bearing the name Sandleman Winery, which we had visited together early in our relationship. The thought that she wore the shirt with intentionality in celebration of our reunion delighted me.

    I could not, however, bask and exult in the presence of my sweet Moly for long, as I noticed another visitor at her side. He was a tall figure, with pale complexion, and dark wild hair. He wore a long black overcoat, hanging inches from the floor, open to reveal fitted gray dress shirt and dress pants, with a piercing red tie neatly knotted at the neck.

    “Moly,” I uttered as my greeting. “Come in.”

    I directed the invitation only to Moly, but the male stepped into my home alongside her.

    “We can’t stay too long,” said Moly, “we’re parked illegally.”

    Unable to think on the word “we” for long, the male extended his arm to me.

    “Hi, I’m Richard,” he said.

    For propriety’s sake, I gave him my hand, which he grasped firmly and shook briskly.

    Before I could offer a seat, they both sat down on the sofa.

    “How nice,” said the male, noticing the charcuterie board and promptly shoving both a piece of white cheddar and prosciutto into his mouth. He then grabbed one of the flutes of sparkling water and took a gulp to wash down the offerings.

    I wished to express my elation upon seeing Moly again, but the presence of the intruding male stifled me.

    “It’s so nice to see you, Moly,” I said succinctly. I saw the male surveying my home with a judging eye which enraged me.

    “You need to tidy this place up,” Moly said to me.

    I immediately felt my chest tighten in shame as I looked around at the surroundings which I had concertedly cleaned.

    To change the subject, I asked, “What made you want to see me?”

    Whoever this man was, it would be irrelevant once Moly explained why she had wished to reunite. Soon he would understand who I was and the history Moly and I shared. Then his presence would become a mere inconvenience rather than a hovering oppression.

    “Don’t play dumb, you know exactly why,” she responded.

    My heart gamboled as I began to reply, “Well, I think I know exactly why, my lo_”

    “Everyone is worried about you,” she interrupted.

    Her statement left me stark confused. So much so that I asked her to repeat what she had said and she once again stated that everyone, whoever that may be, was worried about me.

    “What do you mean?” I asked.

    “Your family has been reaching out to me, saying how terribly you’re doing.”

    What was she speaking of? When had I last seen anyone in my family? When had I last spoken with someone?

    “They think you’ve lost your mind or something, I don’t know,” she continued.

    Had I spoken to my mother? Where was my sister at the time? I don’t think my father has come to see me.

    “They ask me what’s going on with you, but I told them we weren’t together anymore.”

    My head was beginning to throb and spin. The male sat with his hands clasped neatly in his lap. He looked at me as Moly spoke, and I could feel it, I could feel him staring, considering how pitifully I absorbed Moly’s humiliating comments, and I hated him.

    “I told them I couldn’t help them, that I couldn’t help you.”

    I sat in a disassociated haze. I had not seen or spoken to any one of my family members. I had not seen or spoken with anyone at all. I had not been anywhere. No one believes there is something wrong with me.

    The male plainly grabbed a chunk of parmigiano while Moly spoke, making no effort to conceal his gluttony, paying no regard to the etiquette of such an action in that moment.

    I looked down at Moly’s shoes. They were gray lowcut sneakers with thick white laces. I tried to recall if I recognized the shoes. Did she wear these when we were together? Yes. I think we purchased them together. Yes. They look a bit tattered and worn. Yes. About two and a half years ago. Yes.

    Willing myself to focus, I said to Moly, “Why are you here then?”

    “To tell you that they keep reaching out to me!” she said, her genuine indignance now managing to seep out.

    “What do you want me to do?” I asked meekly.

    “Talk to your family! Let them know we’re not together anymore and that I can’t help.”

    This was Moly’s true intention of coming to see me. 

    “Okay,” I answered in a rueful tone.

    She emitted an audible sigh and then returned to a more seemingly sympathetic state. Her face settled back to softness after having been contorted in annoyance.

    “Look, this is Richard,” she said, gesturing to the loathsome male sat beside her. “He’s a good friend of mine.”

    A friend, she says.

    “Okay,” I responded, more as a question than statement of understanding.

    The male gave me a suppressed smile, which I saw in my peripheral vision, as a manner of reinserting himself into the scenario.

    “He’s a psychiatrist,” explained Moly. “He specializes in neuro- something or psycho_”

    “Neuropsychiatry and Psychosomatic Medicine,” clarified the wretch.

    “Right. He’ll be able to help. Let your family know that we’re not together and you’re receiving treatment.”

    I offered no response as I could not find any appropriate words. I sat muted, which Moly interpreted as my submission to her proposal.

    “Listen, I need to check on the car, make sure it hasn’t been towed,” said Moly as she promptly stood.

    How long had she been here, I wondered. Has it been an hour? It seems like no more than two minutes. What time did she arrive? What time is it now?

    “Get Richard’s contact information from him,” she instructed. “Oh, and do you have any change? There’s a toll-station we have to pass and I hate breaking big bills.”

    What toll-station is she referring to? What route are they taking? Where are they traveling? Why are they traveling together?

    “No, it’s okay,” said Richard before I could offer a reply. “We need to get gas, anyway, we can get change then.”

    Satisfied with the solution, Moly moved towards the front door as I followed behind. Before exiting, Moly stopped and turned to face me.

    “It was nice to see you again,” she offered as a parting pittance. “Take care of yourself, Sandleman.”

    Why did she refer to me as Sandleman? That is not my name. Did she refer to me as Sandleman? My head is in pain and everything sounds as if it were placed behind a concrete barrier. I may have misheard. I may have just noticed the text on her shirt again and imagined hearing the name aloud.

    She extended her hand towards my shoulder, as a final gesture of farewell, but retracted her arm back to her side, millimeters before making physical contact with me. Then she opened the front door and was gone, like the final beat of a heart escaping a man’s chest.

    I felt the presence of the male behind me.

    “I can give you my office number, or even my personal number actually,” he said.

    How benevolent of him to assist and nurse such a sick, deranged creature as myself. How kind of him to offer a diagnosis stuffed into his head by the most prestigious of universities.

    “How do you know Moly?” I asked, my back turned to him.

    “Just a friend,” was the meaningless answer he provided.

    How thoughtful of Moly to introduce me to her precious friend. Now she will no longer have to be bothered by my meddlesome family.

    “Let me get pen and paper,” I said to Moly’s friend.

    I went into the kitchen and opened the drawer in which I kept my notepad. The drawer, however, was empty. I shut the drawer and reopened it. Nothing. My notepad was always there, I was certain of it, I am still certain of it, and suddenly it had vanished. 

    Looking around the kitchen for something to use as makeshift paper, I noticed instead the butcher knife resting inert beside the sink. I did not recall leaving the knife there, it was as if the knife had materialized itself in that spot on its own accord, to announce its existence to me, to showcase its perfect utility.

    I saw the male reach for another piece of cheese as he waited for me to retrieve the notepad. I took the butcher knife in hand and moved towards him.

 

*

 

    Moly pounds furiously on the front door. She screams and pleads for me to let her in. I lie in bed, still and stolid, patiently waiting for the noisome racket to transmigrate my soul back into wakefulness. She has been battering and bashing at my door for minutes, hours, perhaps even days. I am truly not sure.

    

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