Don't Move

“Don’t move.”

The voice fills my body with ice. My lungs seize up, my eyes spring open, my muscles spasm. I do not move. But my lungs start to burn, and my eyes dry out, and my legs start to twitch. I let out the breath, I blink, I wiggle my legs. 

It wasn’t real. Of course it wasn’t, it never was. Just a product of the place the mind slips between wake and sleep. It always was. 

The fear though―the constant thrumming of my heart in my throat, the cold sweat on my upper lip, the lightheaded and dry mouth of hyperventilating―it was real. It should not be back. Not after all this time. I have dealt with it. 

It’s too late to call the doctor. It’s too late to call anyone. But the pills. Half a bottle, on a shelf, behind a mirror, accumulating dust. I have not touched them in six months. I have not needed them for over twelve. 

The childproof cap releases in a push-and-pop and the pills shake out. Pill. One pill shakes out. One singular pill sits on my palm, nestled in the crevice of my heart line. Half a year ago this bottle was full enough for overdose. Now there isn’t enough to satisfy one dose. 

I take the pill. 

In bed again, I feel the relief slowly pass through my body as a wave of drowsiness. My legs feel leaden. My eyelids droop. My thoughts move from the rational, to the world of the subconscious.

“Don’t move.”

   

    My breath catches and I stiffen. I force my eyes open. There is nothing there. There is never anything there. Still, I cannot calm my racing heart―though the pill is doing its best to tamp all feeling. My eyes are dry; I have forced them open, but I cannot force them closed. They are convinced that it is there. They have to stay vigilant.

But the pill. It is stronger than my force of will. Again it acts swiftly, taking my legs and eyes and mind with it. In between sleep and awake I am aware of a pleasant humming that is present in the walls; a vibration from the pipes or the heating or the air conditioning or any other thing that a house needs. 

And then I am aware of its absence. 

“Don’t move.”

I shoot up. I am certain that I will catch it running out of the room this time. But no. There is nothing. There is always nothing

But I felt its hot breath on my ear. Felt the way it grazed my neck, like it was petting me. Felt it get on the bed, crouch down, lay next to me. My skin erupts in goose bumps. I shiver. I do not think I can sleep. 

I will call the doctor. It is late, but I can no longer bear the brunt of this alone. But the phone. It’s not on the nightstand. Not plugged in to the six foot cord, purchased for bedside purposes alone. It’s not in the bed. It’s not in the bedroom―nor the bathroom. 

The hallway. So daunting. Dark as pitch. I cannot see my own nose on my own face in the hallway. No. Not tonight. Not now, when I cannot even put a foot out of the bed. I will try sleep again.

I toss. I turn. The pill tries hard to help. But my legs kick out when I start to drift off. My eyes will not stay closed. My mind―my mind is weary.

So my eyes flutter closed. And my legs still. Sleep comes.

“Don’t. Move.”

“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” I scream it. My eyes are closed and my mouth is dry and my fists pound the mattress. My voice hits the four walls. Stops dead. I want the silence. I want to go to sleep, and for it to be morning. I want to call the doctor and for this to be their problem. 

I let go of the breath I did not know I was holding. I open my eyes. 

It stares at me from the foot of the bed. Smiles.

“You moved.”

 

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A short story, because I needed a distraction from the 0 progress I was making in my novel. It's not my best work, but it's not my worst, and I love playing around with my style in stuff like this!