Page 46 of Sleep

More strange, strangled sounds. I needed out. I needed…

“Shhhh. I’m right here.”

“Help me,” I wheezed. I had no idea what I was asking of them, but they just held on, rocked me gently side to side, their legs against my thighs so that I was almost sitting on their lap.

Being held.

“You’re fine, Jonny. You’re safe. You told me, remember? You get these big anxiety attacks when you wake up, a common side effect from all those sleeping tablets.”

Had I told them that? Apparently so.

“Where do you keep your meds? You said you have another tablet you take to help you go back to sleep.”

“Don’t…take…those,” I pushed out. Still rocking. Their lips once again against my skin. The back of my neck. “No good.”

“Jonny. I’m right here. It doesn’t matter if we go back to sleep or not.”

“You need…to sleep.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“I didn’t even…” Breathe. In. Out. Wheezy noises were coming from somewhere deep in my chest. “…feed you last night. I skipped dinner. You must be starving.”

“No wonder you don’t sleep. Sweetheart…”

“Jonny,” I corrected. I had no idea why.

“You call me Pickle. I think that gives me the right to call you whatever I want.”

“Really?” I tried to breathe in. Everything hurt. Like I had once again slept so tensely wound up that my muscles had tied themselves in knots. My shoulders felt like they were stuck against my cheeks. My back ached.

“Do you need food?” they asked. “I should’ve brought something.”

“I have…bread for…toast. There might be something…in the fridge.”

At least I was talking more normally. The rocking was driving me mad, though. Not knowing how to stop it, I grabbed the arms around me. I couldn’t let go. Didn’t want to.

“Come. Lie with me,” they said gently, tugging at me. Like I could stop what they were doing. I was totally helpless. Stupid. I was old enough to care for myself and not let myself get into this state, night after night, alone here, in this flat.

Nothing had changed, had it? I might as well have been stuck in the house in Marylebone, the one I had neglected to the point that even the estate agent had questioned if I’d had squatters living there while I’d been away. I hadn’t. I just didn’t know how to look after myself, and I didn’t even care.

“Come,” they said again, moving my limbs for me, easing my head down against their chest. Arms around me, a hand gently combed through my hair. “I’m right here. Just rest. If you’re hungry, we can order something in. This is London, I know all the places that deliver through the night.”

“Not hungry.” I was starving, but more than food, I needed this. The realisation floored me. I was gasping for breath against the chest underneath me. Skin, so much warm skin that I felt as if I were drowning. I tucked myself closer, grasping for more. My leg moved across their groin as I tried to drape myself fully over their body like some kind of needy blanket.

“It’s okay,” they shushed gently, lips in my hair.

I liked that, so, so much.

“Sometimes we just need someone to be there,” they said softly.

“No,” I gasped out. “I need—” I stopped. Because I couldn’t say it. It was awful and pathetic and so mindlessly stubborn. I wasn’t a child.

“What do you need?” they whispered against my cheek. Lips on my skin. I gasped again in shock. Or perhaps it was pleasure. Relief.

“I need you,” I admitted as my chest once more constricted. Then it relaxed, as if the water I’d imagined drowning me was slowly seeping out of my lungs. Breath in, and out again. “I really need you, Mabel.”

I didn’t go back to sleep, but after a while, they did, having not uttered another word. Gentle snoring came from their side of the bed as the light slowly rose on the horizon. My thoughts still swam. Fear. So much fear. I couldn’t quite put words to why. I’d gone to see a therapist for a while, a woman who’d tried to get me to put proper meanings to my panic.

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