I Can't Get No Satisfaction

I can’t sleep. I feel terrible. So much is wrong, I can hardly write it. Lying stiff as a board, glaring into darkness, skin burning, blood throbbing, a deep dull ache, gnawing until I give in and rise from bed.

I’m so very tired. And everything hurts. I’m meant to wake in three hours, followed by a hectic ninety-minute commute to the worst job I’ve ever had. I’m supporting seven-year-olds with serious behavioural problems. The worst of them, Joshua, spends a good deal of time plotting and attempting to kill me. My shins are purpled with evidence of his clunky rubber shoes.

The red of an alarm clock beams through the dark, a flashing reminder of dwindling time. I dread the piercing sound at 6am. I’m awake. The realisation settles like a pregnant cloud on my chest. Nothing has changed. Another day facing the ruin of my life.

I listen to my boyfriend’s breathing. Is he awake? I’m really sad. We’re going to split up. As usual, we had a stupid fight (too stupid to write). He instigated it as I climbed into bed, thus murdering my chances of sleep. He’s so fucking passive-aggressive. It’s hard work. Everything is hard work.

Often, we’re fighting before I realize what’s happening. He’s tricky like that. He’ll drop a bomb and fall out before the smoke has cleared, leaving me alone in the fog. After fighting, I wanted so much to forget it, to feel better—I slid down his legs, taking him into my mouth, his penis springing to action…

he flips me over and enters the race, a epileptic contender. I grasp for something, anything, my grip loosening as he nears the finish. The dark seems endless as he jets inside me. Full, but I feel so empty.

But how can I tell you? Surely you know it already? Sex has become a pointless exercise. Empty a cartridge and chuck the rifle over your shoulder. It’s time for a nap.

Except that I can’t sleep. I’m meant to be waking in two hours and I can’t sleep? I steal away, menstrual blood running down my thighs, the white screen pierces the dark and burns my weary eyes.

I have a sore throat. I’ll call in sick. I can’t call in sick. I’m trapped. I desperately need the money.

Which is worse: getting back into bed or not getting back into bed?

I can’t remember what Sun Tzu writes in The Art of War about backing your opponent into a corner. Will the underdog rise when ultimately trapped? In the eleventh (fourth, actually) hour with nothing to lose? Or, lacking the possibilities of escape and retaliation, will the underdog be vanquished?

The blood pools and the stain grows on the armchair cushion beneath me.

I'll turn it over later.