Insomnia

Sleepless nights were the worst.

Lying awake staring at the ceiling, thoughts creeping in over the walls of his mind unbidden and entirely against his will.

It was these quiet and dark times when his inner monologue scared him.

During waking hours, within the safety of sunlight and society's eye, the voices were kept at bay. They never even scratched at the walls asking to be let in. It was easy to forget their seeking and snarling, their begging and grumbling. Life was too full, to loud... They were simply too quiet to be heard over the din of everyday living.

But at times like these, when the world was asleep and he was not... It was as if the voices knew that it was their turn to play, their turn to be heard.

They would whisper and scratch, knock insistently and repeatedly, waiting to be acknowledged. The more he ignored them the more desperate they became.

Maybe that was why they were so loud right now... He'd spent years trying to shut them out, over time the effort growing more and more deliberate. He couldn't remember a time they weren't there, but he could certainly remember a time he didn't notice them. He missed his youth and naivite...

Now it was all he could do not to crack under the pressure... The voices painted vivid pictures, crimson stained and coloured by animal abandon... They would get clearer and more defined, and he would find it hard to breath for the pure need they would elicit in his gut. He would be convinced that he could just give in, do what they asked of him, and that the incessant hum, the needling high-pitched whine, would just STOP and he'd be able to breath again.

...

He would eventually fall asleep, nails digging into his palm to distract from the physical pain of resisting, and he would be blessed with a thick dream-free slumber. He would wake up to face a new day and the sunshine would keep the ravenous voices at bay for another twelve hours or so, and he would pretend to be just another normal boy with normal problems and normal feelings, and he would do such a good job pretending that he'd even convince himself,

Until the next sleepless night, when the voices would rouse from their restless waiting, hackles raised and ready to fight the good fight once again...