‘Since you ask, my problem is sleep,’ the Lost Girl said.
‘How so?’ Sam asked her.
She slipped her hands into the pockets of the hoodie she had on – it was black with an anime character on the front – then drew her shoulders inwards, making herself small.
‘It scares me,’ she said, immediately looking towards her lap, concealing her face behind her hair. ‘I’m scared that if I fall asleep, I’ll die. That I won’t wake up again. Or that someone will attack me while I’m sleeping.’
‘Christ,’ said the Boxer.
She glanced up at Sam hesitantly and he nodded, encouraging her to go on. Now that he was paying close attention, he could identify the puffy skin around her mouth and eyes, perhaps even a faint trace of jaundice.
‘What you’re describing is more common than you think,’ he assured her. ‘It’s called somniphobia.’
‘Yeah, I googled it. But it’s like . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know where this came from.’
‘It may not have come from anywhere. Or rather, it may not have originated from one simple source. Many phobias can have multiple causes and complex triggers that combine or overlap.’
‘I used to sleep OK, but then I got this idea in my head that I was going to die in my sleep and it wouldn’t go away and . . .’
She stopped to pick at a speck of something in the corner of her eye, and as she did so the sleeve of her hoodie rolled up slightly, exposing what appeared to be some small cuts and abrasions on the inside of her wrist. From the way the Artist caught her breath, Sam gathered she’d noticed, too.
‘I’m just so tired.’ Her voice cracked. ‘All the time. Like, sitting here right now I’m not even sure how much of this is real or even if it is. I have headaches. I can’t eat.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Sam told her.
‘You poor thing,’ the Artist said.
‘Have you tried sleeping pills?’ the Librarian asked.
‘No.’ She shuddered. ‘They’d just make it worse.’
‘Exercise?’ the Athlete suggested.
‘Sometimes.’ A fragile smile. ‘If I have the energy, which isn’t often.’
‘What happens when you do sleep?’ Sam asked her. ‘You must sleep sometimes.’
She tugged the sleeves of her hoodie down over her hands, gripping the material under her fingernails. They were chipped and painted the same dark purple as her lips.
‘It’s horrible. I have this thing where I keep sort of choking when I’m drifting off. And I’m never really sleeping properly because I’m all clenched up and scared and sort of trying to keep one eye open and . . . I just want it to stop.’
She stared at Sam, pleading, the room falling still and silent around her.
This is what they all wanted, he knew.
For their phobias to just stop.
The challenge for him – perhaps the most difficult part of all – was to help them with that without promising more than he could deliver.
‘Coming here is the first step towards making it stop,’ he told her. ‘Admitting your difficulties, seeking help. You need to give yourself a pat on the back for doing that today. Really, you do.’ He waited until she nodded and smiled faintly, then he allowed another few seconds to pass before turning to the Athlete. ‘You said you’re a hypochondriac?’