Chapter 13

John knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore; it was simply too terrifying. More than that, he was now absolutely sure that he must have been walking in his sleep while having the nightmares, as the next day after he had dreamt of having his tooth knocked out, his gums around the lower incisors and his lower lip were swollen. Perhaps he hit the wall or the door while walking, provoking the tooth loss in the dream and that was the result. Such tendency would also explain the bruises on his belly.

John couldn’t find anything to do, any spot to sit in the apartment. Molly was coming back in three days and he was unable to move out. He had nowhere to go. He had no money, either, apart from the four hundred dollars he still had in his bank account. At one point, John recalled that many years ago he opened up an account for Mickey. He had deposited one hundred dollars every month until Mick was twenty-one, so there must be a tidy sum of money, just waiting for him, reaching out to him at that very moment. Lifted by the thought, John smiled to himself, and started walking around the apartment to get ready to walk out to the bank. Too bad, Mickey, your dad needs this money much more than you do. Just as he was putting his shoes on, it occurred to him that Mick was already twenty-three. The account had been his to manage for almost two years now.

“Son of a bitch!” John shouted and kicked the wall, leaving a dark stain on the beige paint. He sighed with resignation and sat on the small hassock in the hallway. For the first time in weeks he thought he needed to smoke, that he no longer cared about the smell. Molly would never allow him to smoke in her apartment, so he put his jacket on and left the place. A few minutes later, he was sitting on a bench in a small park near Molly’s apartment block, smoking slowly, enjoying every second of his cigarette. The moment he inhaled the smoke’s smell he flinched, but fought the feeling and, as he was inhaling, deeply, steadily, without any rush, he felt he was finally calming down. It was a beautiful, very pleasant early July day; warm, sunny, and simply perfect.

The dreams were his conscience knocking to the doors of his psyche, he was absolutely sure of it. He had to admit, he had done some pretty ugly, pretty nasty things in life, but all he could say was that he was doing his best to live according to the one life-one chance philosophy. He was the master of his fate, and he wanted to try out everything in life, feel no regrets, even if it meant having marriage problems, even if it meant breaking someone’s heart. John felt good about himself. It wasn’t as if he never warned any of his lovers that it might be difficult being with him. He told every single one of them he was married. It was crazy, but the story about the husband doing his best to save his always-drunk wife made them even more engaged, even more interested in him, as if he was some kind of a hero, a guy who needs to be appreciated and saved. They all dug it, so why wouldn’t he use it?

John flicked the cigarette, flinched, and took his phone out of his pocket. He searched for Cindy’s phone number and, sighing heavily, bent his head and dialed it. She picked up after three rings.

“What do you want, I’m busy,” she said coldly.

“Hi, Cindy, how are you?” he replied, politely pretending her distance made no impression on him.

“I’m okay. I’ve already taken everything from the apartment, you can go back there.”

It wasn’t until that time that it occurred to him he still had some things left in the luxurious apartment. His clothes, and he had only some of them at Molly’s house, some CDs, some books. It wasn’t much, but where was he supposed to keep it now? Not at Molly’s, not at the two-floor apartment. Damn it.

“You’ve found a place to stay?” John asked slightly surprised.

“Yeah, I have.”

“Where?”

“Far from you,” she replied quickly, “that’s for sure.”

“Oh, come on, Cindy,” John said softly. “Can’t we act like adults and just talk? Normally?”

“I don’t know, can we? I mean, why are you calling me in the first place?”

John inhaled, released the smoke, and scratched his chin with his thumb.

“I-I need a place to stay,” he said, clearing his throat.

“And why is that my problem?”

“Well, I mean, I thought that since you have something…” John replied scratching the back of his head with embarrassment. It felt very awkward, no doubt, but he had to try. Maybe she’d feel sorry for him, maybe she’d help him if for no other reason than because of their past?

“Oh, you’ve got a nerve, you asshole,” Cindy hissed. “How dare you?”

“Calm down, okay? Listen, I wouldn’t be asking if I really, really had no other choice.”

“Yeah, calling me as your last resort…I’m not so sure if that’s supposed to convince me to listen to you or if I should just hang up like right now, John, honestly,” Cindy replied. “You’re not my problem anymore, John. Deal with your problems yourself.”

“I thought we were grown-ups, Cindy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I know we’ve broken up, but we spent some great time together, we have a history, you and I, and I thought that perhaps you could, you know, lend me a hand, when I’m in need.”

“We didn’t break up. You broke up with me somewhere between the temptation to hit me, and kicking me out of the apartment. For me, that would be all as far as any loyalty is concerned,” she replied and was about to hang up when he spoke quietly.

“I can’t sleep, Cindy.”

“What?”

“I-I can’t sleep. I haven’t been able to sleep well for a while, and I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, having no idea why he started telling her all that in the first place. She was the first person in many days he was being honest with. At least he was trying. Perhaps he felt so depressed by the nightmares, he had to get it out of his system, let someone know that he was unhappy. That he felt haunted.

“Are you still having the nightmares?” she asked, and John had a feeling he heard traces of compassion in her voice.

“Yes. That’s exactly what’s happening. I have no idea what to do. It’s kind of ruining my life,” he admitted. It was true. The lack of normal, deep, relaxing sleep wasn’t the only problem. He felt he lacked energy due to the omnipresent feeling of anxiety, the physical wounds he had been experiencing, the tiredness caused by it all.

She was quiet for a few seconds and finally took a deep breath and said firmly: “You know what it is? You know what’s happening?”

“What?”

“Your conscience is killing you, you know? It’s finally getting you. You’re a bad person, John, you really are, that’s the truth,” she said and hung up.

“No, wait, Cindy, you don’t understand, it’s – hello? Cindy? Bitch,” John whispered, then shook his hand, and crushed out the cigarette butt. As he was doing it, he looked at his left hand, covered in fresh plasters, at his ring finger, and it occurred to him he had no other choice, but to ask Margaret for help. The single thought made him cringe, but what other options did he really have? No, he couldn’t do it. Perhaps Molly would let him stay a bit longer, maybe he’d convince her, but he had to know if he had any other option. If not plan A, then B. If not B, then C. John smiled bitterly. His life philosophy somehow no longer sounded so good.

John went to a nearby café and had a light breakfast. He wasn’t exactly hungry, but didn’t want to go back home. Being alone, locked in the four walls was becoming unbearable. And that fucking belt. John was sure that either he was slowly losing his mind, or someone was making really nasty pranks on him. There wasn’t anyone around the house apart from him for almost two weeks, however, so how would that be possible? He was going crazy. That was the only, well, sane explanation.

As he was eating his blueberry pancakes, lazily cutting them into pieces with his fork, his mind was, as usual, wrapping around the nightmares he had been having for weeks. John couldn’t help but wonder if he should use a plural form or singular, after all it was basically one nightmare, only shown in episodes. A part of him felt that perhaps it would be wiser to just see how it would end, to stop worrying, and just get it over with. Then again, he was too scared to do it. The single thought of falling asleep again made him queasy and it immediately made him anxious. Although he knew perfectly well that it was only a dream, the realness it represented was puzzling and scary. In his dreams, he was able to smell everything, feel everything, and all those things people, the witnesses were saying, those things were all true. Dreams could be weird, sure, but not in such a calculated way. It would be weird to talk to a sheep dressed up as a belly dancer in your sleep, but to hear your life’s history described chronologically by your wife, step-son, lovers, to feel terrified and humiliated like that, to witness real, physical pain? Maybe he should see a shrink.

When John walked out of the café and was heading towards his car, he knew one thing – he did have to go and see Margret and beg her to let him stay for a few nights. Until he could land on his feet. It seemed that not divorcing her was actually a good decision.

It was around noon, but it was Saturday, so there was a pretty good chance that Margaret was home. John turned the key in the ignition and a few seconds later, he was on his way to the house, which he’d thought, he’d hoped never to be inside again.