As the window rattled loudly, he contemplated closing it. But that meant getting up out of bed, and that seemed like a task too many. Get a grip, Gardener. You can’t live like this. If she wants to talk she’ll come to you. He remembered what Karen had said about communicating with her. The thought sent his body into a cold wince. How am I ever going to talk to her? I can’t do it. It’s too hard.
The wind worsened, making the noise in the bedroom unbearable. Why couldn’t Nicky be awake? At least then she could get up and close the bloody window. I’m surprised the wind hasn’t woken her yet. I hope it does.
Five minutes later the noise became too much, so he leaped out of bed and raced over to the window, shutting it in record time. Then, as if on fire and heading for the nearest lake, he sprinted over to the bed and climbed back in, making sure no body part was hanging out—apart from his head; he needed that to keep an eye on any unwanted guests.
As the night went on and the morning drew near, any hope of sleep seemed futile. He had gone past terror; now all that he was left with was a new routine of insomnia. Could his life get any more complicated?
Sighing loudly in defeat, he got out of bed and quietly left the bedroom. He made his way down the stairs; each creaky footstep made him flinch for fear of waking Nicky. Reaching the bottom, he quickly turned on the hallway light, his fists clenched high like a boxer, and gingerly entered the living room. Stepping in, he blindly reached for the light switch, and the creepy room came alive with light. He let out a long breath of relief when he saw that Christina Long was nowhere in sight. Walking over to the TV, he switched it on and sat on the couch. When the TV sprang into life, its high volume made him jump with fright and panic. He frantically located the remote control from the side of the couch and quickly turned it down. Scanning the channels, he sat back deep into the cushion, completely exhausted, praying that he would fall asleep eventually.
He found a TV program about the mafia in the ’70s, and for some reason it had gripped him, even though he had no interest in the subject. Every torture scene in a mafia movie always made him sick to his stomach. He could watch any gory horror without a care in the world, but when the story was based on fact and not fiction, suddenly he became uncontrollably squeamish.
The hours slowly passed and the sun began to ascend, bathing the room in a dark blueish color. Although his eyelids started to feel heavy, a slight panic washed over him at the thought of morning coming and still no sleep. Getting up off the couch, he made his way over to the cupboard at the other side of the living room. He reached in and took out a thin blanket, and carried it back over to the couch. Lying down, he pulled the white blanket over his body, still watching the TV, and squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position. He could feel sleep was just around the corner. But the idea of the morning light seeping through the curtains prevented him from dropping off.
About halfway through yet another mafia documentary, he closed his eyes, only to open them almost immediately. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just fall asleep like a normal person? He closed his eyes again, only this time he managed to keep them shut for nearly five minutes. But his head was filled with thoughts of work, and Nicky, and anything to do with the last two weeks of hell. Frustrated, he fidgeted, trying to find a better, more comfortable position. Finally he settled. And sleep seemed plausible.
The sound of the door handle turning startled him, sending him into a cold sweat. Turning his head to face the door, eyes wide, his breathing increased, he could see the door quietly open. He clenched the blanket tightly as his body tensed up. Please be Nicky. Please be Nicky. Please be Nicky…