I'm used to poor sleep. Tossing and turning for hours on end, waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to go back to sleep, night terrors and of course fucking sleep paralysis are nothing new to me. It was supposed to go away sooner or later, that's what they said, but they said the same thing about a lot of other stuff and that didn't go away either so I'm disappointed but not surprised. Laying down hoping to pass out doesn't work for me, never has, so pacing around the room it is, because there's something slipping and I have to chase it until I can get my hands on its roots and kill it. It's a good thing that Ariel and I are so many years apart because if she hadn't moved away before it started, we would have fought every night. My male human parent sometimes jokes about how I could have worn a groove in his precious hardwood floor if I'm in good spirits and I always laugh. He's always happy when I do, since laughing was another one of the "sooner or later" things, to come back instead to go away, to be fair, but yet.
Our bedroom is a good enough room to pace restlessly. Well, it's technically been my bedroom for the past nine years, but there's always someone else with me in here at almost all times so I feel communistic about it. Still, it's good enough, with a lot of space left after we pushed all the furniture against the walls. And the rug means no grooves.
It's as I follow its pattern that it clicks. I grab its tail and drag it to light, right before my own two eyes, and I understand. I understand what's keeping me awake. It's not anxiety, it's not frustration. It's a detail, no, it's two details. Two very real, concrete details that do not add up at all.
First of all, they waited until Monday morning, until someone else noticed his absence, to get the authorities involved. Why? It's not even a question, it's painfully obvious that they have something to do with it, somehow. They lied. And they lied about me! I wasn't the last person who saw him on Friday. It was the bus driver. I didn't even think about it in the moment, I was so distracted. Shit, shit, shit, of course the police can't do anything, not now, it's what, 4 in the morning? I am the only one that knows this and I will be until a reasonable hour, but I can wait it out productively. I can pitch in everything I know, write it down so I can make sure not to overlook anything else. Make a board.
I drop on my knees so fast the wool does nothing to soften the hit, a burst of pain in the knee and a thud loud enough to wake up at least someone in the house, the box is so far under the bed I have to crawl on my stomach, because last time I kicked it without even thinking and I forgot about it. There's so many things in there, piles of papers and permanent markers, tangled woolen threads and the phone. The phone. The thought of calling Tahani crosses my mind but it's just for a second, the stupid thing is broken and it's not like she would pick up anyway. But that's not what my little dusty expedition on the floor was for, it was because on the bottom of the box there's the bedsheet, the brownish bedsheet, it's stained, some marker leaked, but it's salvageable. I scramble to my feet and get caught on the damn rug, graze my now beloved floor with the tip of my fingers but manage to catch my balance and rush to the desk. There should be something in the drawers to stick it to the wall, yes. Tape? Blutack? Nothing. How?! The pencil case, there must be something in there, but it's not on the desk where it's supposed to be. Everything moves in this house and it's always when you need it. In the backpack. Dad brought it up, not me, and I didn't unpack this evening because I spent the day under strict supervision. I'm lucky enough to have a super cool skylight, I could find it without turning lights on left and right, unless my diligent father threw it under the desk, which of course he did. There it is, caught in the chair's castors because otherwise it would be too easy. Yanking it out is a waste of time anyway because there's only glue here and glue stick can't hold two pieces of paper together, much less keep fabric on a wall. Cool. Thumbtacks it is, but I have to go downstairs to get them.
Scouring through the kitchen furniture bore fruit at last, I got my hands on the tinkling packet first try, but I wasn't fast enough to run back in my little cave of despair.
-What are you doing?-
Dad is standing at the top of the stairs, I can see his worried, vaguely disapproving look even from where I stand.
-Drinking.-
-Downstairs?-
-Have you tasted the bathroom's water?-
-It's all the same tap water.-
He sighs as he walks downstairs, grabs my shoulder and pushes me lightly towards the kitchen again. I'm very grateful for my automatism of closing things, because when he turns on the light the room looks perfectly untouched.
-Sit, have some tea with me.-
Father-child bonding time is a strange occurrence in this house, so I do as he says. Well, it's not really because I look forward to it, but I know he wouldn't let me go anyway.
-Tea at three in the morning? We won't be able to go back to sleep.-
-It's herbal tea,- he dabbles with the pot and the cups -and judging by the noise, you weren't getting much sleep anyways.-
I sit still, safely tucking my hands under the table where he can't see them, nor the box I'm still clutching. We're both silent while the water boils and even if I don't look at him I know he's observing me, ruminating the things he's going to say once the tea is poured and sweetened and waiting won't be a good excuse for the silence anymore.
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