Tried With Fire - (Ruth Harris Series)

Chapter 2

I didn't sleep at all that night. It was horrible. I had really expected to: after over 60 hours awake every single bone in my being felt weak. Before Hunter came home that night I'd had two portions of dinner, three cups of tea and found myself snacking on a family bag of crisps while I read my book on the sofa, but none of it gave me any energy. Hunger wasn't my only symptom of insomnia - I had also felt disconnected from myself all day long, and could only keep my head when Hunter's magic hands touched me. Admittedly, I am far more accustomed to overtiredness than most people, since I've struggled with intermittent insomnia since I was eight years old (being frequently raped and developing Dissociative Identity Disorder will do that to a kid), but I thought I was over that hurdle. I hadn't stayed awake this long since I found out I was pregnant with Olivia!
               That's why when Hunter walked upstairs with me at eleven o'clock, on that cosy Friday night in January, I fully expected to fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

But I didn't.

Hunter did: he'd been worked like a dog that week, so after brushing his teeth quickly and taking off his suit he flopped into bed and lay there, senseless, until nine o'clock the next morning. I, on the other hand, went through the usual motions of putting a few lavender drops on my pillow, brushing my teeth and hair, taking off my makeup and dressing gown, slipping under the covers...

and nothing.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, I listened to the mocking clock until midnight, which was when I couldn't stand it any longer. There were no voices in my head, nor caffeine in my system, no stresses to dwell on; there was no reason for my brain to torture me like this.
               With only a flicker of hope remaining, I rubbed some lavender lotion into my skin and lay back down, taking slow, deep breaths. In, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, out, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,...

1am, still nothing - and not the kind of nothing I wanted. I wanted total nothingness. I wanted to be unconscious. If Hunter had been awake just then, I might well have begged him to knock me out with the kind of sucker punch he'd only ever used on Mike - my abusive ex-boyfriend, now dead.

At 2am I started to cry. Three nights. Three, consecutive, sleepless, nights. What would I feel like in the morning? Most likely hungry, irritable beyond rationality, unable to mince my words, disconnected, weak, and the cherry on the top would be a migraine with the intensity of eleven fatigued minds. So, I cried.
               Turning onto my left side, I wiped my sore eyes and watched Hunter sleep for a while. For the first ten minutes I had my typical thoughts:
'Aw, look at that serene face. He's so handsome. I can't believe he's mine. I don't deserve a god like Hunter. How come he hasn't aged a day since Olivia was born? Wow, look at those beautiful, dark eyelashes, and that delicate nose, and how the hell can I get a complexion like that? His beautiful, sharp jawline may as well have been chiselled by Cupid himself! And this body, Mamma Mia...'
               I softly stroked over each of Hunter's features as I marvelled at them. But then the ugly thoughts started to speak up, like oil leaking into the ocean surrounding my mind:
'How come he gets to sleep so peacefully? I work hard too. It's not like I get fancy lunches and dinners every day, or a company car like he does. He gets to work with well-mannered, professional people, while I get pushed around by mentally ill loons who don't even want my help, all week long! Where are my privileges? Where's my £60,000 a year? Hunter looked right into my eyes earlier, and had no idea I haven't slept since Tuesday night. I have to work ten times harder than he does to interact with people and even get out of bed every morning. I have to work bloody hard to come across as 'fine' and 'sane' and 'sociable'. But no one cares about that - oh no! No one asks me how my day has been, or how I'm feeling or if I need anything. Just because I advise people who are struggling, it doesn't mean I'm not struggling anymore.'
               I tried my best to shake the jealous, self-righteous thoughts out of my head, but they continued to gush through me until I had to leave our bedroom for fear of smacking poor, oblivious Hunter over the head.
               On the verge of screaming now, I tied my robe around me crossly and stomped downstairs. 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower' was lying on the coffee table. I picked it up. Reading before bed is supposed to help you sleep, and yet 10 chapters had done nothing to tire out my eyes. Why was I still so awake, when every part of me felt close to collapsing?
               I threw the book onto the sofa and dropped down next to it. My stomach rumbled, but I refused to fuel it.
'Somebody take over and sleep for me. Please. Anybody.'
'Oh, Ruth.' Charity sighed. I held my breath. Her soothing, elderly American voice could often help me feel sleepy. Of course, that night it did not. 'You know it doesn't work that way. If I took over your body, you would only feel more jittery and out of touch with reality in the morning, and no more rested than if you hadn't dissociated at all. Keep trying. Sleep will come.'
'When? It's nearly four o'clock!'
'...I'll pray for you.'