Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
It was two minutes past midnight and Edward John Garcia, or Ed to his friends and family, had been laying awake for hours, wondering when sleep would finally come. It had been this way for months and he was exhausted. He had tried so hard to deal with his caffeine addiction and heavy drinking, plus he had cut short his screen time on all of his devices, but still nothing seemed to help.
He was beginning to think that he might as well go back to his old ways. Yes, that was what he would do. Drink himself into oblivion in order to bury his demons, and to help him on his way he would spend a good part of each day watching sci-fi films on his large flat-screen television. Maybe if he did both of these things for long enough, one morning he would not wake up at all. Which might not be such a bad thing. His death would then spare his drinking buddies the agony of listening constantly to his sob-sob stories.
On the odd occasion that Ed did manage to sleep, his vivid dreams were divided between memories of his failed marriage, his estranged daughter, and a fantastical landscape in a country he did not recognise on waking. The latter usually presented an ancient temple on the side of a mountain, fronted by a mysterious symbol made up of nine interlocking triangles. Ed could not make head or tail of it.
The temple was in danger of imminent collapse. There were large cracks in the hewn stone walls and the roof had long ago given up and caved in. Occasionally Ed would dream of large sections falling away, crashing down the side of the craggy mountain, and ricocheting into a dark, bottomless void below. But the next time the temple appeared to him, the building would be mysteriously restored to its original state and the process of total destruction would begin all over again, until there was nothing left but a few standing stones. Ed wondered whether the temple was a metaphor for his broken life, only he seemed unable to pick up the pieces and start over.
Sometimes, Ed imagined he could hear a man calling to him from inside the crumbling structure, but as yet he had never seen whoever the voice belonged to. Was it a priest, a worshipper, or a ghost? If it was the latter, Ed hoped it was not a malevolent force warning him of what was yet to come. He was already troubled. A trick of the mind to unnerve him was all that he needed to tip him over the edge into an uncertain future.
He rolled over onto his side to look at his bedside clock. Five minutes had passed since he had started to recall his dreams, but still, it was only just after midnight. It seemed like he had been mulling things over for hours rather than a matter of minutes.
He got out of bed and pulled up the Venetian blinds, then lit a cigarette and opened the bedroom window to let out the smoke. Street lamps and security lights on adjacent houses partially illuminated the road. With the exception of a lone fox trotting down the centre of the cul-de-sac with something that looked very much like roadkill clamped in its jaws, there was no movement. Ed had already made a mental note that the fox passed by every night as regular as clockwork. As regular as his cigarette just after midnight when he could not sleep.
The fox stopped and looked up, its eyes glinting like jewels in the street light. Then it loped on, seemingly unfazed by the fact that it shared its territory with a loner like Ed, or those people lucky enough to be sleeping peacefully in adjacent houses. Ed suddenly recalled having read somewhere that regular sightings of a fox were a sure indication that one needed to rely on one’s sixth sense to solve complex problems. He immediately dismissed what seemed like a ridiculous notion and took one last drag before stubbing out his cigarette on the outside ledge.
Once the fox had disappeared, Ed sat down at his desk and logged on to his computer. He had the strongest of urges to search out his daughter, Isabella, who lived in London, but the pain of her continuing to shut him out of her life was something he found hard to deal with on a daily basis. Especially as she had never forgiven him for splitting up the family. Ed wondered whether she would recognise him if he were to suddenly turn up after what must be nigh on ten years since they had last met.
Thinking of Isabella suddenly made his ex-wife Beatrice pop into his head. He still missed her after all these years. In his case, time had not been a healer. He cursed himself for not having treated her better. If he had been less obsessed with money and big-bucks business deals, perhaps she would not have had the affair that had finally broken up their already failing marriage.
He pushed such thoughts away and lethargically flicked through hundreds of images of ancient temples, not sure how he would feel if he were to discover one that mirrored his dreams. None, however, grabbed his attention. None invited him in. None suggested that there could be a welcoming priest inside, waiting to offer him comfort or listen to his confession.
He switched his attention to the meaning behind dreams and nightmares and soon found a common thread that connected dreams about religious buildings to feelings of guilt. Several websites suggested that the dreamer may have done something in the past that they were ashamed of. Well, they, whoever they were, who had written such stuff, were right about that, he thought. For, although he had been a successful banker before his retirement, he knew he had not lived a happy life and most of his unhappiness had been brought about by his selfishness and extremely poor life choices.
Still none the wiser as to precisely what had triggered his insomnia, Ed dragged himself back to bed, and for once he managed to sleep until early the next morning. He awoke to the sound of cheerful chirruping birds outside his open window and the Sunday papers being stuffed noisily through his letterbox. Sunday was the one day he took his time getting himself together.
Weekdays, he still rose on the dot of seven, as though he was still going to the bank, when in fact he had nothing much to do apart from study stocks and shares and take care of what was left of his small investment portfolio.
An hour or so later, he had headed downtown and was sitting opposite an ex-colleague, Sam Rosenberg, at a local cafe. As usual recently, not only was Ed scruffily turned out but he was late. He took out a handkerchief and mopped the perspiration from his brow.
“Coffee?” asked Sam, calling over a waitress. “I’ve already ordered us brunch. Look, it’s here now.”
Both men sat silently while the waitress presented their meals. She poured Ed a coffee from a clear glass pot and topped up Sam’s. As soon as she had gone, Ed made casual conversation. He had spent so much time alone lately that even that was hard.
“So how’s the wife and kids?” he asked.
“Never mind them. They’re doing just fine. What’s up with you? You look terrible, buddy. You look like you haven’t slept for a month.”
“Strange you should say that. Sleep doesn’t come so easily these days”, said Ed, his thoughts more taken up with the food on his plate than with listening to Sam berating him about his lifestyle. Cooking decent meals had been low on his agenda and he was hungry. He shovelled eggs and bacon into his mouth like there was no tomorrow, barely pausing for breath, not realising at first that Sam was watching him with concern.
The AEC: A Supernatural Love Story can be purchased on Amazon.
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