Ricky Jade
I toss and turn and turn and toss. Whenever I go to bed, every trouble in my mind comes out to play. Nighttime is a different kind of anxiety. It doesn’t mix well with my imagination. The kind that borders on real. I’ve finally trained myself to sleep without the light on. But if I can’t keep the floodgates closed and one thought slips through, the deluge comes in the shape of a spiral.
Before burying myself in bedsheets, I made sure that I locked my bedroom door. I checked my wardrobe and under my bed and even peaked through my curtains to make sure nothing was watching me. As I lie in bed, I still don’t believe I’m alone. It makes no sense. Nothing could have come in, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t shake the feeling.
So, I reach out and flick the switch for my bedside table lamp. I sit up, peer over the edges of my bed, and check every corner of my room. Nothing. I turn it off.
No. Not enough.
I turn it on again. No, nothing there. I turn it off again.
I still don’t believe it – just one more time. No, nothing is there. I turn it off once more.
I don’t want to check again, because maybe something will pop out this time. Or maybe now a spirit-man is laced around the lamp cord, ready to grab my arm and pull me straight to the black of hell.
With the pain of dryness, my eyes stare up at the ceiling. Eventually, I will get bored from focussing on nothing and fall asleep. The world has a green-grey sheen. My eye sockets twist like a camera lens as they adjust; the yellow tones fade, and the ceiling turns bluer and bluer. It softens. It begins to drip cold water. It pools and soaks at the cornices like mould and seeps down the walls like blood. Soon the water rises from the floor. It blends into my sheets, cold fizzes at my back, and eventually water wraps my body until all I see is blue.
Under the water, I can still breathe as if the water is simply thickened oxygen. My breaths are slow, heavy, and shallow, matching the ebb and flow of the room. All I feel is the pulsing of blood that beats in my neck. My bedroom door looms far away like the hallway of an art gallery.
I just stare at it. Something tells me that there will be nothing on the other side if I open it. The flow of the room makes me feel dizzy now, the inescapable nausea grips my throat and rattles my head.
In an attempt to still my nausea, I try to focus on something in my room. I realise I never closed my curtains properly. Now I know I’m being watched. It’s pure black on the other side. My bedroom is isolated in some void between dimensions. If I scream, it will be a distant ring in between my ears, and watcher-spirits will only hear the faint escape of breath if they press themselves against the window.
I know the walls of my room are some kind of one-way mirror, but even then, my reflection is unclear. The spirit-voices outside can see everything, whispers and jeers float and hit the glass. I can feel their eyes, but not see them.
I stiffen my face into a smile for the watcher-spirits.
I’m a zoo animal. They just watch, expecting something exciting to happen. My fancy tricks are writhing in panic and scratching my face. The onlookers like watching the zoo animal move. They savour the few minutes animals spend awake.
Suddenly I cough and stutter. Clumps of air and choked saliva sputters into the air. Tenseness squeezes at my shoulders and stomach.
And here I am, sunken into bed. My bed sheets are so thick and soft they weigh me down and keep my body heavy. The mess of my daily life pools on the floor. I see my dark eyes through the fingerprints and makeup stains on my wardrobe mirror.
Did I fall asleep?
I need to go to the bathroom. But I’m not opening that door until the sun rises.
Author: Ricky Jade (she/her) is (mostly) a life writer. Her life experiences are weird, and it’s more than enough inspiration for her writing. Her nonfiction works explore race and relationship dynamics, while her fiction dives into the speculative and surreal. Ricky is stumbling through her final year of Creative Writing, on the Editorial Board at ScratchThat Magazine, an editor at the QUT Literary Salon and a freelance copywriter. Watch her struggle balancing commitments on Instagram @rickyjadee and check out her other publications at linktr.ee/rickyjade.
Artist: Phoenix Sunrider (they/she) is an aspiring author with several works in the making. They love all kinds of animals, and add as many as possible into all their works whether that be high fantasy, magical realism, or even fan fiction. They currently have no social media platforms, but hope to develop some when more work is completed.
Edited by: E.L. Maloney and Mia Paton