I did everything right, but still, sleep never came to me.
I shut the blackout curtains to block the light of the streetlamps. I made myself a cup of hot valerian root tea (and then a cup of warm milk when that didn’t work). I read a book on my tablet, turning off the blue light, and I made sure it was nice, fluffy romance instead of an intense horror that I normally preferred to read.
But none of these things got my mind of the nightmares—or at least the things *you* believed were nightmares.
The memories were so vivid to me: the red eyes—especially the red eyes—the wide grin exposing sharp teeth, the coarse, dark fur, the stench of rotting flesh, and the heavy weight on my chest that seemed to grow heavier as I struggled to push the creature away until I fainted.
It was true that it had been impossible to move as the ugly demon had sat on top of my, pinning my arms and legs to my sides. It was true that I had felt paralyzed and helpless. It was true that there was a term for this sort of phenomenon.
But it never changed the fact that I had been afraid, alone, and *awake.*
I had no desire to make myself feel that terror again, and everytime I would feel myself drifting into unconscious, my body would instinctively jolt itself back into wakefulness, and I would lay in my bed trembling as remembered that night when I had felt so *violated.*
Then, once I realized that there was nothing there—that those red eyes and that foul odor was nowhere near—I would have to start my nightly rituals all over again.
Some nights I would have to do this three or four times before I gave up and started about my day early, and there others days when I managed to get one or two hours before my exhausted mind realized that my body had betrayed it.
So, forgive me, if tonight I creep into your room, and I slip into bed beside. I was too old to do this, you said to me often, and while I agree, I would rather set aside my pride for just a few hours of rest.
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