He tries to sleep.
He really does.
He tries everything he can think of.
He meditates.
He masturbates.
He counts sheep.
He counts the cracks in his ceiling.
He comes to the revelation that "falling asleep" isn't always an accurate statement; as he tosses and turns in his sweat-soaked sheets, he decides that tonight, sleep in not a fall, but a climb. He tries his best, he really does, but the oasis of sleep, the relief, the sweet, sweet solace, is far beyond his reach, tantalizing him, so close, but so, so far away. As 3:30 AM burns from his bedside, and his heart pounds out one-hundred-and-forty-beats-every-fucking-minute, he accepts that this is now technically day 3. He took the speed early Saturday, and he's still under it's influence. Day 3, and he hasn't slept, he hasn't eaten, he hasn't felt a single second of relief from it. It's Monday morning; if he had to guess, he'd say he's lost ten pounds by now, and he wouldn't be far off. On some level, he knows he needs food, but his body tells him no; his body tells him food is disgusting. His mouth drys up, and his stomach threatens to empty itself at the thought of it.
He's going to crash today. He knows it. He's right, by the way. Today at work, he'll start off strong, despite his lack of food or sleep. However, the amphetamines will eventually relinquish their hold on him, leaving him to finally feel the consequences of the hell he's put his body through the past few days. He will suffer as his body has suffered, and believe me, his body has suffered. Customers will avoid his checkout counter, choosing those with much longer lines rather than the one ran by the red-eyed, angry, exhausted skeleton, as he eyes the food in their carts, incapable of producing a smile, genuine or fake.
He will crash today, and as he crashes, the seconds until his shift ends will grow exponentially, stretching from
seconds, into
minutes, into
hours, into
days, into
He'll leave a few lifetimes too early, abandoning his counter, not caring about his job, desperate to be reunited with his filthy fucking bed in his filthy fucking apartment where he lives out his filthy fucking life. He'll be fired for it. He will lose his job for leaving early, and not showing up at all the next day. As he lays in bed, finally being blessed with the relief of the hell he's brought upon himself, it'll be worth it.
I have always wanted to read a good sleepless night story, and my, you pulled it off brilliantly. I applaud you sir, for expressing my anger in one of the greatest pieces I've read. Ever.


They say when they finally attack, all the impostors will peel themselves. In order to tell if you have been assimilated, check for a zipper somewhere near your pelvis.