Respira [Emma/Vasco blitz]

I think the night might be trying to pull me apart.

Not the physical pull like my arms are strung up and someone is twisting a crank to cinch the rope tight. But that as the days drift past sunset, no matter the heaviness under my eyes, I can’t lay my head down to sleep. I’ll lay back against the pillow and stare up at the ceiling. I’ll count to a hundred, or a thousand, and wonder how high I have to go to drink in some rest. Sometimes I’ll turn on my side and watch the rise and fall of Emma’s chest underneath the covers, and her listen to the little snores that escape her lips. I don't touch her, or dare to wake her. At least one of us should have the benefit of living in our dreams, uninterrupted. 

Maybe it’s to make up for the time I stole, the months where I passed in and out of fevered sleep, when I was sick enough to live on dreams. Maybe the world has come to collect some sort of debt, as though all the hours I stole sleeping are past due. It’s a thought that comes back, time and time again, that I have to pay for all the trouble I’ve caused. The sickness, the riot, the pain of my family, the way I promised them –

I don’t know how much I’ll sleep for the rest of my life.

That night, when it’s dark and I’ve sat a good hour staring at the ceiling, covers tucked under my arms, all I can think about is that I’d rather have anything, feel anything, than as tired as I did then. Just a moment of something else, a feeling that doesn’t weigh me down, or pull, pull like it’s going to rend me apart.

“Emma?” I whispered, face fresh against the cool of the pillow, “Are you awake? I can’t sleep.”