Little Mort

Mort was afraid to sleep. Really. Completely terrified to shut his eyes. The whole concept had always freaked him out, you know. Is he a butterfly dreaming he is a man? Or a man dreaming he is a butterfly? The whole Zen Buddhist OBE dimensional shit. 

Oh, and also, the slimy shadow thing with the claws. Mort imagined that when he fell asleep the thing jumped from the bureau unto his chest, and slipped its fingers around his throat. He’d awake, coughing, barely breathing. Fits and starts. He never got so deep into sleep for fear the thing might have its way.

Sleep apnea they call it.

At least that’s what his mother said, as well as, a string of girlfriends, his wife, and his doctor. He’d recently succumbed and took a sleep monitor home. It was clunky and claustrophobic. It was not an improvement.

So, when he woke up panting for breath, his wife asked, “What does the monitor say?”

“It says, I just died in your arms tonight.”

“It must’ve been something I said—”

Cute. But, jokes weren’t far from the truth. The doc said he had severe obstructive apnea and a cardiac arrhythmia to boot. Nothing a good sleep wouldn’t cure.

Now, a hulking CPAP purrs on the bureau. Mort doesn’t fight the black tunnel of unconsciousness beckoning. Drawing him near instead of dragging him down nails clawing the walls. He gingerly takes a step into sleep. Then another.

Shapes line the tunnel. People. Shades of them anyway. Cliché. His dead pop-pop. His college roommate who OD’d. A coworker who had a car wreck.

Oh, and also, the slimy shadow thing with the claws. He’s there too, of course. Waiting at the end. Mort digs deep in his chest for the coughing fit that won’t come.

ZeroFlash