"At Three O'Clock in the Morning"

"At Three O'Clock in the Morning"




She lay awake in her bed because she couldn't sleep. It was one of those restless nights that are filled with the inescapable dread that another minute has to creep by before you can sleep. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another.


But the moment of sweet ecstasy, as you slip soundlessly into the silos and slaughterhouses of slumber, NEVER comes. 



So she lay. With only the yellow-tinged streetlight shining dimly through the dingy pull-curtains lighting her prison of a room. Dolls with happy faces and sparkles and tiaras stand guard along the walls, on shelves, and piled in the closet as sentinels of despair, failure, and a return to the small, cramped self that she was seven years ago. Seven years! And yet this room seems unchanged like your tired pajamas on that cold day that you never did change out of them. Each plush Ty, Disney character, football ticket posted on cork only now fades into a costume of the gaudy, the bile, the overdramatic that REEKS of adolescence. The stench of puberty strewn about the walls of a once joyful and comfortable room. 


The covers on the bed are off!


The faded gingham is balled and tossed into the hallway--ANYTHING to be away from her. Her sheets remain, only for some distant hope that sleep may grant her a single escape from the waking nightmare that surrounds her: a room screaming out her inadequacy, her inabilities, her loss, her suffering. a nightmare that screams her pain and burns it into her eyeballs!


But she climbs to the shelf. 


One poor doll after another. Thrown onto the vacant bed. Vacant as her heart is trying to feel.


The princess goes. The Sugar-Plum Fairy goes. The castle goes. The Skydancer, the snowglobe, the plastic flowers, the childhood crafts. All: gone. Into the abyss that was once a bed. 


Breathing heavy with such passion, such anger, such distress, such longing, such hurt, such remorse, such thrill, such despair, such constant belief that there IS something better to be had; there must be.


She places her hand on a book. What a constant and cliche friend. They've been with her forever: the books, the words. She reaches for the embossed metallic letters, with a name that sounds something delightfully like family to her ears. And she reaches for the second, read just after the first on one of the many nights spent under the bright, happy ceiling light or in the warm, cozy backseat of the car or in the classroom safely avoiding socialization. A smile finally reaches her sad eyes.


The shelf fills quickly, too quickly! There are so many dearest titles that call her just a little back to herself. Reminds her to pause in the confusion, in the loss, in the desperation, in the sleeplessness. 


"No, dearheart. We're still here. We're still constant. We're ready to be picked up again EXACTLY as you left us."


But they still have adventure, they still have mystery, they still have intrigue... How many secrets can one sentence hold?! SO MANY! So much joy flits through her heart in a flickering moment of self once more. 




And then it's out once more. Exhaustion seeps back into her heart, into her bones. She tosses aside the castaway toys as shadows on her mind. The weight that pulls into the oblivion of past is yet to be gone. "Will it be gone?" she thinks.


She lies awake in bed. Blinking, once again, that slow, tired blink that suggests Sleep has passed your time zone. Though perhaps heavy books and worn covers will lend some balance. Perhaps they'll lend weight to her eyelids. As they blink. And stare. And blink.


At three o'clock in the morning.


written by EAG
November 29, 2011
1145pm