.
Suspicion confirmed. The source of tonight’s clicking sound – the one that’s pervaded and pulled me back from my ‘flying-carpet’ dream is coming from Dad’s room all right. .
Stand outside his door listening to him fingering his keyboard. Locating the source of the clicking for the first time, I go back to bed with a sense of relief and an even stronger craving for a cigarette.
.
Toss and turn for hours as I do everything I can think of to seduce pretty Sleep back into my bed, into my head. Tried counting sheep. End up doing anagrams again. Here’s a good one:
.
Desperation – a rope ends it. Coincidence?
.
And just as I’m about to make that final slip, take that last trip, Dad’s snoring shatters the calm and once again fishes me out of the depths I was slipping into and reconnects me with my desire for a nicotine injection. Recognizing the opportunity, I get out of bed and return to his room, impressing myself with how silently I manage to open the door and enter.
.
Fumble around the darkness, laying hands flat on the makeshift desk in the corner, moving them back and forth carefully, feeling for a pack of smokes.
.
In hindsight, not carefully enough.
.
Stumble and back of hand strikes and knocks over an empty glass with a clank that causes the lamp on Dad’s side of the bed to come on. My breath hitches - sticks in my throat. Suddenly, I’m still and silent as water in an ice-cube tray.
.
Dad speaks. His voice colder still. I freeze.
.
‘If I’m not dreaming, Leo, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.’
.
I go to answer, not really knowing what to say, but, damn! my tongue is numb. Sometimes I find myself forced into making rushed decisions. And sometimes I make the right ones. But most of the time I don’t.
.
‘You’re dreaming,’ I say, aiming at sounding convincing, mesmerising even.
.
.
‘Oh, you think so, do you?’ Dad raises a hand, takes a strand of fringe between thumb and forefinger and rubs it. ‘Well, we’ll see about that.’ .
To my amazement and disgust, he rips a strand of hair from his head. Oh shit! I think. He’s not fooling around.
.
You're fucked now.
.
He looks at me, rubs his eyes, looks at me again. ‘You still here, then?’
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I blink, smile sheepishly. ‘No. Not really.’
.
He raises his other arm and looks away for a second to peer at his watch.
.
‘Goddamnit! It’s 4:15 in the am, Leo. What the hell are you doin’ in here? What in God’s name do you think you’re lookin’ for?’
.
‘I’m not over at your desk. I’m not looking for anything. In fact, I’m not here at all. You’re just dreaming, Dad. Go back to sleep.’ I’d made a wrong decision and I was sticking to it.
.
‘You know what, Leo?’ he says pleasantly. ‘That’s just what I’m going to do. And so are you. Go back to sleep. You’ll need your energy for all the explaining you’re gonna be doing in the morning.’
.
Slinking towards the opened door, holding hands up before me, wiggling fingers in his general direction, I say in a slow, deep voice, ‘You will remember nothing… nothing… you will forget everything…’
.
‘Go on,’ Dad barks. ‘Get the hell out.’
.
.
Slept a short, troubled sleep. And by the time I’d fallen asleep I’d decided, over-confidently I know now, that I’d successfully sold the old man on the idea that tonight’s little episode was nothing more than a figment of his imagination.
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