Wake Up

By Sarah Eike

There was a murmuring outside the heavy curtains. It pushed oh-so-gently, and its touch was featherlight. Like a piece of lint on a coat, I simply brushed it aside and continued my slumber. Unbothered was I at this voice, as one might be unbothered by the dirt at the bottom of a shoe.

This bliss was so desirable. It was the warm chocolate cake that my mother made every Thanksgiving, while my father chopped firewood for the winter to come. It was the world of fantasy at my fingertips everytime I picked up a softcover. It was the melody of the guitar every afternoon that Father would play for my mother in our living room.

Wake up, the voice, now audible, spoke softly. It was a caress on my cheek, or maybe a kiss on my hand. It was a warm finger pushing aside the loose strand of hair. It spoke so softly that one might have just imagined it. Like one imagines a friend turning into a lover. Or when one imagines a father staying in love with a mother. Maybe it’s the imagination of a toddler before they became exposed to the ugly parts of this world.

Wake up.

“No.” The word was pulled from me. It was an unwelcome confession from a lover. I withheld my consent like a mother shielding her child from the dark beasts of the world. These beasts now swirled and twirled around and around. They beat up high on wings of fire, and they sought to pull this child out and away. I was the child, and I was tucked up under that warm parental embrace.

Wake up. It was louder this time. No longer was it a feather but a small pebble in my shoe. It was a single toe stubbed at the corner of the couch and the hard grain of rice against the ridges of my tooth.

“Go away,” was my forceful response. I was being pulled by my elbow from the warm crevices of my mother’s chest. A new cold touched my fingers, ran to my elbow, then fully consumed my arm. I was shivering.

There was a shove against my shoulder, and the sleepy curtains were slowly parting.

“Go away,” I yelled. “I don’t want you! I am happy where I am.”

Wake up. It’s time to wake up. You are no longer tired. The voice turned harsh, its temper quick. It was in my face, and with each spoken word a drop of spit landed on my cheek.

A tidal wave suddenly crashed upon me, but my eyes fought their opening. It was as if my bed had been dropped into the middle of the Atlantic ocean. Soon the cream duvet was drenched, and the mattress was tipping to one side. I was scrambling backwards, pushing the covers off my body with my feet, and looking around in panic.

The sock on my foot was brought down into a cold puddle. My ears were purple and numb. My father left my mother and left his guitar. The winters were now cold, the fireplace lit only by the flames of ripped pages. The chocolate cake was now foreign. The small golden strand stretching towards that distant memory now loosened.

You are a failure.

I blinked. Then I looked around my room on the third floor. It was big and empty. It was messy.

You are a slob.

My hands were clenched tight at my sides. My feet were bare and pale. My legs were visible and spotted with small bumps. The purple pillow lay crumbled on the floor.

You are alone.

My breath was even. The cold white wall touched the center of my back. Silence was penetrating the large room. It closed me in a trap and brushed its talons against my arms. The mental monsters settled against my sides.

And I had awakened.