Vaguely Inspired

Alan watched as the blaring red lights of the clock radio reorganized themselves to demonstrate a new minute and blinked as the string of light piercing across the room, the only surviving bearer of illumination, caught his eye. He surveyed the damage. To his right the windows were covered in whatever loose garments were accesible hours earlier when light first started creeping over the horizon. He had even relinquished his only blanket to the task. To his left was the scattered remains of his stereo, the victim of a frustrated bout to attain a noise level suitable for the task of sleeping. His knuckles still throbbed from an angry moment when his prayers for relief were left unanswered. The wall still bore the scar of his retribution.

The pinhole beam, emerging from the only uncovered portion of the most distant window, did not provide enough light for Alan to really see anything. His memory and hours of uniterrupted contemplation were the only real methods of visualization. He remembred each action and the consequences distinctly. They were the only occurences to break up empty hours. He remembered the textures of his stored garments. They'd left a distinct feeling on his skin when Alan ripped through the dresser desperate for material thick enough to block the morning sun. He remembered the taste of blood and frustration. The flavors invaded his mouth when he first began to beg for a few moments of rest and had bit down on his tongue. He remembered the sounds of soothing ocean noises. The noises, produced by his late stereo, were a miserable attempt to relax himself into sleep. He remembered the exact order of events for each minute of the long combat -- although there were very few events to keep straight.

Alan stood up suddenly and leaned heavily against the wall next to his bed as he'd done every few minutes for the past nine hours. He couldn't stay still although his muscles protested each command to movement. His shoulder brushed against the wall's open wound, gushing cement dust and paint chips. At exactly nine o'clock in the morning eastern standard time Alan coughed.

The previous night was less brutal. Alan managed to fall asleep a mere six hours after lying down. He even stayed asleep for a good three hours before the sound of his parents on the stairs brought him out of a peaceful state. After the first night he rode his bike to the grocery store to buy something to allow him to sleep. He hoped that the exercise in combination with a strong medication would aid in the inevitable rematch. It didn't.

This night he'd long since overshot his parent's morning preperations and remained awake long into their first few hours at their respective places of employment. Alan felt the carpet around his bed for the discared bottle. As the night progressed he'd indulged himself in more and more of the supposed sleep-bringing liquid. Earlier he worried about taking more than the recommended amount, a label clearly displayed the risk, but as it got to be later and there was no affect, he felt less inclined to care.

Alan walked over to a mirror, flipped on the light switch, looked at himself from head to toe and sighed. He uncovered his windows, pulled on a shirt and headed downstairs to the kitchen. Maybe the next night would bring some relief.