‘…o.’
The same voice, at the same time every night, rouses me from sleep. It’s that hazy boundary where my drowsy consciousness drifts against the sharp edge of an insomnia-laden subconscious.
‘…ont.’
I don’t know.
Whose voice is it? Who is he?
Whether it’s a hallucination, a memory, or a nightmare—he wakes me every night at the same time.
‘Don’t fall asleep!’
…!
At his command, I wake, drenched in cold sweat, struggling to peel back my hair clinging to my face like wet seaweed.
The time is 12:03 a.m., exactly 180 seconds past midnight.
In the dense darkness, where it’s impossible to tell whether my eyes are open or shut, the only thing I can do is count the sound of the ticking second hand.
One, two, three… up until the 3,599th, and then the 3,600th second.
Then, a soft, fading sound.
A subtle click, followed by the sense of something receding. The sound of the hallucination ending, or perhaps the sound signifying its end. At last, I feel a faint relief, leaning my bare, sweat-chilled body back against the damp sheets.
“…Can I sleep now?”
I asked, but there was no answer.
The lingering, chilling fear from that voice, and the confusion it draped over me like a shadow, finally began to mutate into something like sleep in the early hours of dawn. In the faint blue light, my eyelids slowly sank shut.
I was fifteen, around that time.
When my foster father was murdered, and my mother began to be devoured by schizophrenia.
That’s when my insomnia started.
Whether it was a hallucination, subconsciousness, or a nightmare, something would always wake me around midnight.
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