When There's No One Else But You and Me (𝖹𝖠𝖱𝖱𝖸)

Chapter III

Chap. III: "Welcome To Hell. Loser" Pt.I

❗⚠WARNING! BIT OF CHILDHOOD TRAUMA⚠❗

Zain and sleep got along very, very well. Mostly.

Because when Zain slept it was just him. No rambunctious two kid sisters running around the house with crayons sticky-stuck to their sweaty palms and stickers glued to their foreheads in attempt to be superheros. There were no Moms demanding the laundry to be hung and dishes to be dried. No weird uncles and boy crazy aunties.

It was just him every night in bed. Laying down, counting the little cracks on his walls until his eyes felt like they weighed a ton and he just assures himself that he's merely resting his eyes but in no time at all nods off into a sleepless dream.

Those are probably the best types of dreams, honestly. The ones where it's just a swarm of black.

It's better than the ones he use to have when he was little and had dream after dream after dream that he was the one behind the wheel that Friday morning. The one who stepped on the gas and slid over his fathers body time after time, again and again until there was no longer a lump to run over. Just slush. He'd get out of the car in most dreams and stare at his feet, and then slowly, unsteadily, looked over at his father―or what was once his father―and get on his knees, loose gravel digging into his kneecaps. Zain would start frantically grabbing at his father while his eyes stung―that same feeling when someone cuts an onion, type sting―and blubber out little incoherent noises that never quite reached his ears. His fingers―white from trepidation, would usually jump around anxiously as he'd found his hands wandering around ominously at his father and hugging close the little particles of him that he could just barely make out―most dreams it's his nose or if he were lucky maybe a thumb of some kind.

These dreams hadn't died down as quickly as he had hoped―wished―prayed they would. They only seemed to drag on the longer he had knelt on his creaky floor, hands pressed together and eyes up at the ceiling as he mumbled almost inaudibly. He prayed. He rarely ever did that. Prayed. But he was tired of waking up in cold sweats, pillow drenched and his sheets fucking soaked.

Zain usually said nothing about it whenever his Mom asked why his sheets always needed to be hand-washed when she'd catch him subtly―but not too subtly―wash out whatever had seeped into them.

But finally, he'd fully recovered! Or, that's what he likes to think when waking up sweat free and thighs shake-less. And he had every right to be fully recovered because his fathers accident happened nearly 5 years ago. When he was just 10. A wee little thing back then. Too young to wrap his hand―let alone his head―around anything else but the fact that Santa Claus isn't, wasn't, and will never be real. So someone so small taking in such a mass weight that their father―the light in a childs eyes, Mr. Superman, the one who knows all, the man with the stories―is dead only made Zain feel like he was in a dark place because he didn't have that. Which (he guesses) resulted him running him over with a car in his dreams; because why the fuck didn't he have a Superman? Why didn't his Dad stay just a bit longer so he could teach him how to fight off bullies? Why did he even leave out that Friday morning anyways?

Why. Why. Why.

☮

Zain had gotten little to no sleep. Which he almost finds comical―almost―because just a few hours prior he was contemplating if he should take the risk and go to bed at 12. But, instead, took an even bigger risk and put himself into a position that made him heady off of God knows what and completely restless. And he hasn't felt this way in a long time. A feeling almost foreign to Zain with how unfamiliar it was now, because he's been sleeping fine for 3 and a half years now.