Insomnia

 

3:12. I can't sleep again. It might seem strange, but birds are singing outside my window at this hour. Well, actually, it's just one bird. Probably a chick in a nest in the tree next door... I don't like that sound – it reminds me of early morning, and that's never been my favorite time of day. The radio plays the same thing as yesterday, the day before... I get up, throw open the window, and breathe in the icy spring air. On the night from Sunday to Monday, there are no cars driving. Everyone is asleep, the city feels as if it's deserted. There are no lights in the surrounding windows, not even the blue glow of television screens. On a night like this, I feel alone. The only one in the whole world who can't sleep. This loneliness hurts, tears me apart. The only cure is another person's voice. Even a quiet "goodnight," a sign that someone else is there. But no one will call. I won't call anyone either, because loneliness itself is humiliating, and begging for affection...

I go to bed, even though I know perfectly well that time passes even slower when you're waiting for sleep. Then, as if on cue, I hear her. Just beyond the wall, she turns on an old lamp with a yellow shade, pulls a chair away from the heavy oak desk, and sits down. In my mind's eye, I even picture a mug of steaming tea, which she places next to a stack of blank pages. When a moment of silence follows, I know she's removing the leather cover from her work tool. And then, for many, many hours, the steady clatter of the keys on an old typewriter. That's Mrs. Jadwiga, my neighbor. For as long as I can remember, her work has lulled me to sleep. Inspiration always seemed to strike her when I most needed the soothing sound of putting my thoughts to paper.

She would write like this late into the night, even until the next morning, taking breaks only for meals and to stretch her old bones. Mrs. Jadwiga is my grandmother's age, maybe even a little older. She lives alone, sometimes has friends over, and often hosts bridge parties in her small apartment. And of course, she invites all her friends over when she reads her new stories. But I'm the first to have the honor of hearing the stories she writes down. Back then, they're still unpolished, more of a working draft, as if the old lady wanted to write down all the thoughts that were going through her head at any given moment.

***

I don't really know when we became friends – it might have been when I first cried over my then-boyfriend. Seeking solitude, I went out into the stairwell. It was quite late, and Mrs. Jadwiga was returning from walking her dog. She smiled warmly at me and invited me in for a soothing cup of tea. Then, besides conversation and encouragement, she also gave me a few of her stories. I read them that same night. They were strange. Full of emotion, fulfillment, happiness, and, most importantly, they told of moments when hope dies. Out of pure curiosity, I recently asked her why none of her stories had happy endings.

"You see, Renata, I thought that if I imagined and wrote down all the worst, there would be no worse accidents. Everything was going according to plan until I realized I hadn't described one situation. The worst, the one I feared most. And what happened? That she was the one who met me…" She closed her bright, lively eyes, which were surrounded by countless wrinkles. I, on the other hand, froze, out of curiosity and a certain fear. If she wrote about the death of her "other half," about betrayals, about situations and accidents that effectively prevent happiness, what worse thing could have happened to her in life?

"It just so happens," she continued, "that I never wrote about loneliness. And now you see, I have no husband, no children… no one I could call a flesh-and-blood family.

" "But you have friends, acquaintances… love, as you wrote, is at your fingertips…

" "Yes, I did. But my hands aren't as agile as they used to be…" She looked at her old fingers as if with disgust. "…my eyes no longer see as they should. My mind, and with it I, lives in a world of fantasy. Returning to the real world would be fatal for me.

" "What are you saying…!" I blurted out. "You're here, describing exactly what you see!" You're intelligent, educated... that's what matters most in life. At least that's what everyone says.

"Maybe it's not pedagogical, but I'll tell you, my dear, what you say is bullshit." She took a sip from her cup of coffee. "Intelligence, imagination, hope... all of these things get in the way of life. Especially if they come as a package deal. Then, somewhere deep in your consciousness, the thought always germinates that there might be something more than what you have now. This conviction slowly grows until you finally let yourself be cut off for it. And then the end comes. And time flies. And you never really find what you're looking for. Although maybe that only happened to me." She smiled ironically. "Bad endings give me some kind of strength, thanks to which I try not to regret the time I wasted. Any of these stories could have happened to me..."

"I don't believe you," I replied calmly, gathering my things from the old, already slightly worn sofa. "You should believe more than anything else that one day, even an hour of fleeting happiness, closeness with that one, most important person, is better than safe loneliness and eternal longing...! You know what it's like... to be able to describe love, any kind of love, you have to experience it.

" "If you've experienced love, you don't describe it. It's sacrilege. There are no words in any human language that could describe it. Not even in the slightest..." She fell silent, looking pointedly at my scowling face. I just said "goodbye" and left.

***

4:10. Yesterday at this time... mother... Everything in this room reminds me of him. Everywhere. Always. I don't want it to be like this. The pillow is damp again, this time from tears, yesterday... I can't think about it. Space. The stars. I saw them up close. I was one of them. A supernova explosion. That's exactly how you could describe what happened in this bed. Yesterday. He was here. He was sleeping next to me.

I always thought I could only get a good night's sleep in my old room, in the apartment in another city we moved from a dozen years ago. Now, sleep, well-deserved sleep, only comes when he's there. When I know that when I open my eyes, I'll see his eyes, gazing at my body. When his hand is within arm's reach, when I feel his steady breath on the back of my neck. Only then will I fall asleep peacefully, without fear of tomorrow, without a problem, filled with happiness.

But nights like these don't happen very often.

Apparently, insomnia is destined for me; maybe it's meant to teach me something? Maybe, like Mrs. Jadwiga, I should find something to do, planning my future...?

No. That won't happen to me. I will never allow myself to be alone. Why? To spend the rest of my life watching even silly commercials, dreaming of someone to whom I could bring coffee in bed? Or wash colorful clothes at 30 degrees? It drives me crazy now when I look at all these happy families. And it's not about the children. It's about them waking up next to each other every day. That they don't have to talk on the phone, that I can just watch TV together. Because I... we only have moments—minutes, hours—we have to savor each other before we part in the evening or afternoon, and live in memories until we meet again. And each "see you later" could be the last. How many regrets will we have then? How many wasted moments? Living life to its fullest, or even exceeding those limits. "Live fast, die young." Squeezing it like lemon juice, drinking it all down and longing for more. Love until we're out of breath and believing that "the sea will part in our path." Every time. Hate beyond our lives, take revenge or forgive, regret nothing and keep searching. Because apparently, if you believe in love at first sight, you'll never stop searching.

Mrs. Jadwiga is writing. I hear the clatter of the typewriter. Tomorrow she'll read me the first page. I want to know how she'll end someone's happiness this time.

***

"You won't read this story. Maybe in a few years. But definitely not now," she said, stunning me. "Don't even ask why. I won't tell you.

" "But... were you offended?" I asked, slightly frightened. If she moved the typewriter to another room, or stopped writing...

" "Come on, child. I haven't been into insults since '69." She winked at me friendly, pouring steaming tea into a porcelain cup and sweetening it with two teaspoons of sugar. "This story is about you, Renata," she added after a moment of awkward silence. Her voice was calm, though I detected a slight tension.

"About me...?" I choked out.

"About you and your boyfriend. About your future." Tears welled up in my eyes. She didn't know.

"You can finish it now." "I pressed my lips together, trying to stop them from trembling. "We broke up. It's over. Quickly and painlessly, without unnecessary blame and..." Tears streamed down my face involuntarily, my hands unable to hold the cup, the fragments of which I later had to pick up from the dance floor.

"Why?" she asked, downplaying all signs of my weakness.

"I don't know. We argued about something. Too much of everything, we don't have time for each other, we seem to have drifted too far apart, we don't know how to talk to each other anymore..." I don't think I believed what I was saying.

"Just kidding.

" "He wants to leave," I added quietly, as if the most important reason were the least important. "For a year. To England. I can't stand that long without him. I can't live without him now. That's why we had to break up. I wouldn't survive betrayal... I want to give him freedom...

" "Renatka, think about what you're saying? 'Freedom'? Freedom without you? What good is it to him? You love him. And he loves you." Otherwise, you wouldn't have been together these past two years. You wouldn't have felt so good last night. - ...did she hear...?! - If he has to leave, go with him. Or find another solution. Ultimately, if you can't live without him, be with him. A year will pass; it's not forever. If you break up with him, he'll leave and you'll lose each other forever. You can't let that happen. Life is a struggle; you explained that to me yourself.

- I'm scared...

- I know. But don't make my mistakes, child. I was scared, and you see how I fared. Now don't waste time, just go to him. Just as you are, knock on the door, and if he doesn't open, climb in through the window... do everything you can, but don't lose what you have, and thanks to that, you have a chance at a real life...

***

I ran out into the streets. Late, 11:40 PM. The buses were no longer running, I had to run a few stops. In the distance, I saw a night bus, pulling up perfectly in front of his house. All I had to do was cross the street. I didn't see the car. The screech of tires, but too late to brake. The last thing I remember was my terror.

***

"I'm sorry, Renata. I didn't know it would end like this. It's my fault. I shouldn't have pushed you so hard; I should have thought the whole situation through, slept with her. You'd probably say you couldn't sleep. I know my typewriter soothed you, but you wouldn't have heard it that night anyway. I meant well, I was supposed to describe your future home, your children, your loving husband, your good job... but I decided to leave the ending open. For once, and only once in a lifetime. And you see the consequences. Life writes better scenarios than anyone could dream up. Or maybe I should say "more surprising and unpredictable." I hope you'll forgive me someday; I never meant any harm to you. Once again, I apologize. I'll never write another story. It's the price I have to pay for your happiness. Kisses, Jadwiga”

***

5:05. I'm alone. Again, or maybe even more. I'm not waiting for sleep; it probably won't come anymore. It's quiet behind the wall. That bolted door next door terrifies me. It terrifies me that I'll never truly speak to her again, that she hasn't heard my story in its entirety. She's dead. Peaceful? Not at all. Before she died, she told me to burn everything she'd written so far, except for the last, unfinished story. To add something of my own. Never in my life. I'll never burn what she created, and I'll never write a sequel.

I'm afraid of tomorrow. I'm afraid of every single day of my life. I don't want to be alone.

The longing hurts physically sometimes, tears you apart, you want to scream out the pain and helplessness. You want to rip veins, muscles, tendons from your arms and legs, you want to know some rational reason why you can't be with him. I know millions of reasons, but I refuse to acknowledge them. I didn't take any medication for five weeks with my legs in casts, and I'm not taking any medication now, during another sleepless night. I miss him, even though he hasn't gone anywhere. And I know we'll never be together again. I know this, but I want to believe there's some hope. That I can cheat him of the guilt he would feel every time he looked at the scars on my body, the result of the accident. I don't blame him for not braking in time. He was in just as much of a hurry as I was, unable to think straight. After all, he was coming to me to fight for our love, which still had a chance.

The irony of fate.