The Count

I heard their careless whispers as I tried to lure my body to sleep. Sleep doesn’t come easy around these parts. Between the loud trucks honking and the street sweeper vans, I’m left no choice but to constantly count sheep. Recently their arguments have been about toys. Who bought what and why, who left it at the door step and who’s knee could have been broken. I haven’t heard his voice in a fortnight now. Last time I did, he was wheezing as loud thumping sounds and movements pushed with intent and anger followed. What sounded like a piano being smashed to the ground was last I heard between sheep 567 and 602; I closed my eyes and prayed their squabbles into background noise. I can’t remember reaching 687 but I remember the sirens. Great! I’d scarcely fallen asleep and now the sirens are here to provide me an excellent lullaby. My clock said 5:15. I have to be up in and hour. I don’t know how much of this my body will take before shutting down.
A tap on the door.
Great! Those drunken students have decided its time to keep me entertained again. I wonder if it’s a traffic cone they have today or street signs. I start picturing my fence and fleeced sheep again.

Maybe I should count Dalmatians next time,
4… 5… maybe I should count the polka dots on the Dalmatians as they jump the fence.
7…8…, maybe… tap tap tap. Dammit! Go away!!

As the taps got persistent, I had to remind myself that I was a student once and even though I might not have been an annoying menace to society and inconsiderate neighbor, these brats are people too and having them lynched with my tights may well be an unchristian act. Having them committed to a rehab clinic in the Jewish district of Iran might be a safer bet though.

Where was I? Ah, Dalmatians,
The taps turned into louder knocks, and then I heard my father’s name. It’s the police the voice says.
I definitely need to increase my valium.

It’s the police.

Great! Well, I either took one too many pills or those damn students have decided to role play again. Actually, it might be a stripper that’s come to the wrong address.
I get up to let the sex slave know that Lucy’s bridal shower party is flat 18, not 19. He needs to go back down a flight.

I open the door, apparently not suitably dressed as the man clad in the most life like police stripper costume I’d ever seen stood across from me. Far be it for a hormonal woman who hasn’t slept in..ooooh forever! to ignore those delicious green eyes that held my gaze. His eyes bled pools of ocean green encased in a delicious honey layer which surrounded his warming green eyes like palm trees giving shade to water. There was an island in those eyes, a little fortress of his own, there was something soothing about those rich pools and I either gazed or fell asleep because the next time I looked into those eyes, I was in his arms and I could smell blood.

After apologies all round and many embarrassed glances to the side, he explained the blood wasn’t mine but my neighbors. My stripper was apparently a real cop, called in because that loud bang I heard at 04.34am was Mr. Martin next door getting thumped again by his petite wife. I finished making my statement and realized for the first time that my see-through nightwear was a little too casual for present company and to make it worse I now had a hole the size of my big toe to the left of…

That was two weeks ago. I still can’t sleep and it doesn’t help much that Tony Martin Junior just yelled across the room to his mother that he knows she killed the father and it had nothing to do with self defense.

All hope of sleeping tonight gone, I await for sunlight. Maybe they’ll stop arguing? Nah, I’d have better luck running into the inspector on the tube tomorrow. I need to up my meds. Back to counting Dalmatians.

Free WriteOreka Godis