Insomnia

Chapter 1

Midnight. I lay naked on a huge bed, a hand wrapped around me. His name is John. Or Josh? It’ll be something like that... Slowly exhaling as he falls asleep after the act, which was not as grand as I expected. And I deserved more, especially today.

My fifth book release for this year. My fourteenth book overall. And finally, the media are also curious about me. My editor sees me as his magic goose, which regularly lays golden eggs just for him. And I? I get to enjoy only the scraps of plucked feathers. At today’s launch of my book, he was smiling so broadly, I was afraid he’d eat me with joy. But then who would pay for his children’s tuition, huh?

You’re leaving? A mumble comes from behind me as I get out of bed and start looking for my dress on the ground.

Yes, I’m working in the morning.

You could stay for the night... And he’s asleep.

I put on my underwear and clothes, and grab my stockings in my hand. I sneak out of this huge bedroom of John, Josh or whoever. The marketing guys seem to be doing well these days. Or does he work in management? Who knows... It didn’t matter an hour ago, it doesn’t matter now.

The apartment is great. Furnished with a touch of luxury. High ceilings, low expectations for the intelligence of the women who follow him up here, I know it. The bright light of the full moon penetrates through the glass window; apart from that, it is darkness everywhere. And silence. The sound of my steps is muffled by the soft carpet as my bare feet bury themselves. I walk slowly past the walls, my fingers outstretched touching the cold white plaster, smoothing the surface until white dust builds up on my fingertips.

I walk into a large closet with dozens of tailored suits and hand-sewn shoes. I examine several drawers and cabinets. It’s safe, as I can hear his snoring. Lightly, I push against one of the drawers by my side. It pops open to reveal a collection of expensive watches. I try one on and observe the moonlight’s reflection. I know these types of men – expensive accessories, cheap talk.

I walk into the kitchen and grab an apple from the fruit bowl. Hopping onto the cold marble kitchen counter, I chew on it while rummaging through his opened letters that I found on the table. His account statement displays a nice amount, but when I see what nonsense items he spends his money on, I return the letters. I throw the apple into the trash and lick a few spoons and knives.

The living room holds a few dusty books on a shelf. I check the book titles – all crap. But the flat-screen TV is huge – well, well... If I could see the remote control, I would hide it. Or at least, I’d remove the batteries.

I sink into a comfortable designer chair and pull my stockings up, then sit for a while and watch the city through the big glass window. I can see the top of Big Ben and Tower Bridge. They greet me like old acquaintances. Maybe I will come today. The wall clock’s ticks echo within this quiet apartment. Each stroke of the hand sounds like it is mocking me.

Picking my purse up from the ground, where I had tossed it in a hurry on the way to the bedroom, I fling on my coat, put on my heels and head out. On the wall by the front door hang a university degree and several photos. He’s posing on a white beach in one of them, while the next one features him standing on a mountain slope. Perhaps he is actually an interesting guy. But he is not meant for me. And most importantly – I’m not meant for him.

Before leaving, I look at him for the last time through the cracks around the door. He is lying on his back with his mouth wide open. Sleeping. I walk out of the apartment and shut the door forcefully. I hear the pictures from the wall hit the ground.

London is truly alive, considering the late hour. It’s just after one in the morning. Young students are falling out of the doors of the local bars, along with all those who want to let their hair down at the weekend. What is that like? I walk through the familiar streets, that I roam so frequently. I don’t rush. There is no reason to.

Stopping at the curb, I wait for the red traffic light for pedestrians to turn green. I stand here all alone. The streets are empty; there are no cars or double-deckers on the roads. Nevertheless, I wait.

I hear laughter approaching from a distance. A group of about ten young people stops next to me. They are having fun, doubled over with laughter. They are definitely drunk or high. Although I can’t smell alcohol or weed, it has to be so. Who would be out late at night having so much fun? And besides, Halloween is months away, yet they are all wearing masks. One of them is dressed as a pirate, another as Dracula, and one of the girls is wearing a Catwoman mask. Some people really don’t know what to do with themselves.

They look to the right, then left, and quickly run across the road on a red light. Every time I see people doing this, I wonder what they do with all that extra time. About two seconds later the light turns green. I stroll across the quiet street.

I enter the residential area where I live. The nice part of London, lots of greenery. It’s quiet here; my steps on the concrete sidewalk echo between buildings. A dark-haired guy with a tattoo on his neck and a ring in his left ear walks past me. He often returns home late at night. He and his girlfriend have one of those expensive talking parrots. A red-haired woman exits from the building on the right. She lives on the third floor diagonally across from my apartment. She likes to cook late at night. The old man from the second floor is outside on the lawn with his poodle – health problems. The poodle, not the man. He’s out with the dog three times each night – at eleven o’clock, at two and at five o’clock. Then his wife takes over. I know them all. But they don’t know me.

It is a few minutes past two o’clock at night when I get home. My apartment is spacious, quite luxurious. I’ve lived here for several years, but I don’t have lots of furniture. The walls are decorated with pictures of places that I would like to travel to, and I have a decent collection of books. Otherwise, the apartment is furnished in a minimalist style. I don’t like all those stupid trinkets; they are just dust collectors. And you? Do you like to clean them?

I walk into my large office, where ideas are born to finance my little place. Although, sometimes I have helpers. I pull out a few letters from my purse, letters from fans and stalkers. The boundary between them is so thin it’s difficult to tell. Who is nice and who is creepy?

Lee often pays my rent. Gary sends flowers every Tuesday. But I don’t like flowers and I have to pay rent. So what is adequate and what is over the line?

David got the farthest. He writes to me every week. In the last letter, he proposed to me. I might send him my used socks – it always pleases him to get something in jail. I may even include my underwear. Some extra pieces – some for his friends, too.

I step closer to my big window, slide it open and sit back down in my reading chair. My apartment offers stunning views of London. It was the reason why I picked this place. I can see everything from here. The glow of the London Eye illuminates the dark sky. It faces Big Ben, whose bell can be heard in the distance on quiet nights. The city is slowly falling asleep. Lights are gradually disappearing. And I see everything.

The married couple living on the second floor in the building opposite me go to bed early; their apartment is usually dark by 10 pm. The yoga teacher from the fourth floor is in bed by one. She practices naked in her bedroom before she goes to bed. How can anyone be so flexible? In the apartment above, a woman leaves at half past eleven in the evening every other week to go to work. Only a few minutes later, her husband’s mistress comes in. They usually say goodbye around 2 am. Every Friday night, the window on the seventh floor opens, and a young girl crawls out and flees via the fire escape. Just like when I was young! She has my respect. She even manages in heels.

To reach the more distant buildings, I use my telescope. Every night, the guy on the sixth floor watches porn, the woman below him sitcoms. Next to her lives a young guy who smokes weed and plays video games late into the night. A woman below him has several cats and likes to paint with acrylics on a canvas until dawn.

Zoos around the world welcome the curious who want to see exotic animals. They press their noses to the glass, stretch out their hands through the bars. And when they are eager to see more, they visit the wild. They take a plastic water bottle, a backpack, annoyingly big shoes and binoculars; they crouch at a distance and wait. They want to see animals in their natural habitat. They are wondering what animals do when they think no-one is watching. That is exactly what happens to people behind the closed doors of their homes. In their natural environment, they throw away their masks and behave like who they truly are. I know it. I see them. During the night.

Slowly, all the lights go off. They depart to another world, which is not a place for me. Only a few shining lights remain in the otherwise total darkness and silence.

I sink down onto the couch, peel my stockings off, take off my dress and turn on the TV. My only company is a bucket of chocolate ice cream and a notebook. It’s just a few hours after the launch of my new book and the internet is filled with photos from the event. I glance at them all. I look nice, cute. Exactly how the media and my publisher want me. It’s a game that I enjoy. During the day.

Three o’clock in the morning. I consider whether to still go somewhere. Are you waiting for me? Do you miss me? There are sitcoms on TV; I have seen them all about a million times already. I know them by heart. On a laptop, I click on the website with the launch photos and live streaming webcams.

I have discovered streaming webcams during my long nights spent on the internet. I launch my favorite pages and I have virtually the whole world in front of me. Streaming live from places such as Paris, Madrid, Prague, San Francisco... The whole world is online. Within reach.

I cross a few of my favorite cities. As usual, I begin in Los Angeles, where it is still a hot and sunny day. I could get used to L.A. weather... Then I check out New York, the city that never sleeps. We would be the perfect fit... I visit a few white Caribbean beaches. At the end, I come back to my hometown – London. The webcam shows almost an empty city. Apart from him.

He has sat there every night for several months, watching the city. Primrose Hill, the top of Regent’s Park. He is sitting with his legs crossed, a hood covering his head. The webcam is behind him while he’s facing towards the center; I have never seen his face. He sits there every night for about three to four hours. And I watch him every time I’m not out for the night.

He draws my attention, piques my curiosity. Whenever I watch him, I get a strange feeling in my stomach. He is so far and at the same time so close. He is sitting somewhere out there in the night, watching the sleeping city below. It feels like we are spending the night together, even though we are both alone.

How strange is a stranger to you? When can you consider someone close to you? Where do you draw the line and when do you cross it? When you get to know his face? His name? His dreams? Or his fears?

Half past three. I’m out of ice cream. It starts raining. A clear sign that I will stay at home today. I’ll come tomorrow, I have plans.

I walk up to my library and choose a book to read. You might be thinking, Who reads at this time? Shouldn’t she go to sleep? No. Why? Because I have not slept for more than twenty years.

Back to top

Chapter 2

"The Cat Princess is your fifth book this year, Sara. Where do you get your energy for writing?"

You know, Mark, it’s mainly due to my love of children, and that I understand the importance of guidance during early childhood. Crap, it’s all just crap. I am repeating phrases written on an index card prepared by my agent. Thank God I’ve got it. I’m better at writing on paper than talking on air.

So can you tell our listeners whether you are writing another book?

Yes, I am currently working on a new story for children, but I can’t tell you anything else. I cheekily wink at the morning show host. It is six o’clock in the morning; he is drinking coffee, which doesn’t seem to be helping that much. What is like to be drowsy?

"Thank you for taking the time to come to our morning radio show. For all our listeners, again, this was Sara Nickson, children’s author. Her latest book, The Cat Princess, can be found right now in all bookstores. After a short commercial break, we’ll have a competition and you will have the chance to win a copy, personally signed by Sara."

The host pushes the button, removes his headphones and turns to me. The dark circles under his eyes remind me of massive swings.

Before you leave, Sara, can you please sign this copy of your book? It’s for the contest. Would you like some coffee?

No, thanks. I don’t drink coffee. I don’t like caffeine.

He grunts loudly and takes a noisy slurp from his coffee cup. So how do you look so lively and awake so early in the morning?

I respond with just a smile. I’ve been keeping this secret for years now.

* * *

Here it is: a breakdown of all the signings over the coming weeks. I finished it last night, says Gina, my literary agent, as she hands me several papers.

We are passing through the radio studio, which is awaking in the morning rush, surrounded by presenters, technicians and administrative staff. People are chatting, passing papers around while holding on to their coffee cups with the radio station’s logo. It looks like chaos, yet everyone knows what to do. The smell of fresh coffee fills the hallway; the sun outside the window is slowly climbing up in the sky.

Gina seems to cope well with getting up so early. She is wearing one of her costumes and her dark curly hair is combed to one side. Despite the early hour, her makeup is perfect. Apparently, people pay more attention to women with lipstick – yet Gina doesn’t need it at all. For one thing, she talks quickly and incessantly, so she can’t be ignored, and secondly, her pretty face and thick hair almost always attract all eyes in the room.

I walk beside her, trying to keep up with her fast pace, typical of all agents, brokers and dealers, whose careers depend on time and contracts. She’s telling me about all my upcoming book signings; I just nod and pretend to listen. I know how it goes – I have done quite a few of them. They all seem to follow the same pattern. Mothers, children, smiles, autographs... you’ll see.

Gina hands me a copy of my latest book. I run my fingers across the hard cover. Eagerly I pop it open; I can smell the paper, the scent of a new book. Nothing smells more wonderful than a new book. I promise. Being freed from the past. A chance to forget today, a possibility of a better tomorrow. The escape from reality, a venture into a new world. It entertains, teaches and guides us... It stops time or makes it tick faster. It encourages us to laugh or cry, or forces us to think. And we let it.

I remember standing in the middle of the old dusty warehouse of my first publisher and holding my first book for the very first time. A few years have passed since then, but to me, it feels like it was yesterday. I tore the plastic of the stack of books on a huge palette, picked one up. I hugged the book like a newborn baby. I stood there like a proud mother, but luckily no one had to sew my intimate parts together after the birth of my book. Such a beautiful moment ... It’s that feeling that drives me to write on. Have you ever thought about writing a book yourself?

I sign the books, then draw a picture of a dragon. I’ll tell you why, when I have more time. If I forget, just remind me.

We pass through the busy reception and I quickly say goodbye to Gina, who is on the phone to one of the bookshops I have a book signing event with tomorrow. I’ll take you with me so you can see the madness. I push the heavy entrance door of the radio station and step into a brisk morning in London.

I’m surrounded by tired humans heading to work. Dark circles under their eyes, a smudge of toothpaste on their chins and a tiny coffee stain on the shirt of a young man passing by.

But I feel fresh and awake. Even if I didn’t want to be, I have no choice. I cannot be drowsy or sleepy. All words that have to do anything with sleep avoid my existence till – wait! My phone is ringing.

Sara, promise me that you’ll come tonight. Almost all my furniture was finally delivered last night, and you have to see it. I’m only missing one cabinet that I ordered, but apart from that, the apartment is finally furnished.

Sure, but you own me one! I say back into the phone wedged between my cheek and my raised shoulder.

I am standing in front of a newsstand, paying for a stack of magazines and a daily paper. The front cover of one magazine shows a young, pretty, smiling girl. Long blond hair is combed to the side, her hands holding a book. She looks nice, innocent. Oh, yes – it’s me!

Oh, please! If it wasn’t for me, you’d be sitting at home with a bucket of ice cream in front of your PlayStation.

He’s laughing. My brother Ben. Whether I had broken my favorite doll, or received a note from school, he was always laughing.

Well, fine, but don’t try to set me up today, OK? No SINGLE mates or anything.

Don’t worry, I won’t put you through that. Have you seen today’s press? You’re on the front cover of a few magazines!

Oh, yeah. I just bought some of them.

"Young writer Sara Nickson publishes her fifth book this year. How does this girl do it? he reads the headlines. If they only knew, then..."

Then my publisher would want me to write three more books each year.

Anyway, see you at eight o’clock. Don’t bring anything.

You know me, alcohol has no effect on me, and I wouldn’t try to get my brother drunk!

I hang up, but I can sense there will be yet another of my brother’s friends who will try to hit on me tonight. It’s always like that. But I am alone. Sara is alone. Sara is all alone – I hear it at every family gathering. And where is your boyfriend? Oh, you don’t have one? If I had a pound every time someone asked me, I wouldn’t even have to write.

But they don’t understand. How could I ever be with someone? Just imagine. In the evening, your lover retires to bed and you watch soap operas and play video games until he wakes up in the morning. Or you try to hide it from him. But that wouldn’t really work. A real relationship cannot be built on secrets and lies. Especially not a secret that I keep to myself.

I have tested it over the past few years. There is no real option. I can’t tell the truth and I cannot lie. The only way out is to find someone for one or two nights and then quietly disappear. I simply cannot be with someone who needs sleep. And someone who needs sleep couldn’t bear to be with me.

Yes, I have had a few relationships – if you could call them that. It was never easy. Things were complicated, because of my insomnia. The older I get, the more often I ask myself: Does it ever make any sense? To try it out with someone and think it could turn into a serious thing? How could that work? So I end things before they even start.

Relationships are built on communication and trust. I read this in the book I got from Ben a few years ago (I’m sure it was a reference to my love life). I’m fine with communication – I have a bigger problem shutting up! But trust is not for me. Every person I’d like to get close to, I see as a threat. A threat to my secret and to my feelings. It’s thin ice that I would rather not try to cross. The ice has broken under me once before – years ago – and since then I’ve refused to get back on it. And honestly, I haven’t met anyone for whom I’d be willing to get back onto my feet, with the weight of my own body and my secret, and make the leap forward.

But I like you... You know how to listen... Maybe I can share a story or two with you... Would you like that?

Back to top

Chapter 3

I squeeze into a tight black dress and put on my makeup. My hair is down – it needs some freedom, right? I slip on my high heels, grab a thin coat. I’m heading out.

For many years, Ben lived just around the corner from me, but he found a bigger apartment not long ago, of course on the other side of London. He works as a computer analyst in one of the international companies with a London office. He’s been promoted recently so he decided to move.

Yes, I miss him and wish he was nearer by. We have been close since our childhood; he isn’t just my brother, he’s also my best friend. When we grew up we decided to live near to each other. But that’s how things go, right? Life just goes on. I simply have to get used to it.

Sara, you’re here! What have you got here? Ben greets me and grabs a bottle of wine out of my hands.

It’s to celebrate your new apartment, Ben. For your guests, not just for you. I kiss him on the cheek and walk into his apartment.

Everyone thinks we’re twins, but that is simply impossible. Ben is a year older than me. We both have blond hair and dark eyes. He’s no longer the little boy who used to pull my hair. He is a grown man now. Not only tall, but broad in his shoulders. Girls like him a lot, and every now and then one of them breaks his heart. And then it’s up to me to help him heal.

Look, look, he whispers in my ear, while he puts my coat aside, that’s Jessica. She works with me. He secretly points towards a brunette in his living room.

Another one on your radar? I say, and his face lights up with a cheeky grin.

Well, what about you and Josh from yesterday? I saw you two leaving together from your book launch...

So his name is Josh. And I would have wondered about it, haha.

Well, you know how it goes. I roll my eyes. When I left, he was dead asleep.

Sara, you have to forgive us, we’re just ordinary people, he says patronizingly. "We need a bit of sleep, unlike some."

I don’t blame him. Just... how could that work?

Josh is a great guy, I’ve known him for years. You should give him a chance. Or anyone else. He makes a hand gesture towards his new apartment, where several dozen people are having a good time.

"Sure, that’s a great idea. Just imagine the dating. Hi, I’m Sara. I live in London and I’m a successful writer. And by the way, I was in a car accident as a child. I suffer from total insomnia, so I never sleep. But don’t worry, you can still close your eyes and go to sleep. I’ll watch you all night long as you sleep until dawn comes," I say mockingly, with eyes wide open in a crazy stare.

Ben explodes with loud laughter, losing it completely while clutching his stomach.

You’re terrible! he says jokingly as he pokes me.

As if you were any different.

I leave him with that remark and look at our childhood photos on display. I can’t believe how quickly we have grown up. It feels like yesterday we were fighting over dolls and cars. I used to take his cars and he used to steal my Barbie dolls. It was a perfect trade based on curiosity. He was interested to know what was underneath the Barbies’ dresses, and I wanted to know what was under the hood of the cars. We haven’t grown up from those games.

Suddenly a tall dark-haired man approaches. His hair is slicked back and he’s dressed in a nice dark suit. His presence is followed by a sensual men’s scent. His wrist shows off one of those expensive watches, like the one I tried on last night – by the way, I did return them, OK? Just so you don’t think anything bad about me.

Hi, can I offer you something to drink? he asks me.

An ironic question, seriously. Offering me a drink in the apartment of my brother. My brother’s booze. And the worst part is that I can’t even get drunk. Not that I don’t want to, but I really can’t.

I was about seventeen when it hit me – alcohol does nothing to me. But really nothing. My record is four bottles of vodka – in one evening. I drove home that night in my friend’s car. The police stopped me and breathalyzed me. I blew 0 percent. So yeah.

Uh, no thanks. I shake my head. I’m not drinking today.

A big night last night? He winks at me. He has nice facial features. "You’re Ben’s sister Sara, right? That writer. I saw you today on the cover of Right magazine. I’m Griffin." He holds out his hand for a handshake.

Griffin. Another name that I will definitely not remember tomorrow morning. Yes, you guessed right. What do you do for a living, Griffin? I’m hoping that if I say his name more often, I can print it into my memory. Actually... I’m lying. I don’t care about his name. I’m more interested in his cheekbones. They don’t look bad at all.

But Griffin starts to talk and talk and I’m wondering if it’s worth it. He is saying something about his business and his projects, enthusing over his large house in Wimbledon Village, and I wonder if I would rather spend tonight