Counting Sheep Pills

My bare foot taps absently against the cold tile floor, rapidly hitting it again and again as my toes involuntarily flirt back and forth with the frigid ground. I’m far too aware of the hardness of the old wooden chair I’m sitting in. The vertical rails of the backrest bite into my skin, cold and rigid as I shift restlessly in the uncomfortable relic. It creaks loudly with even the slightest movement I make, emitting the most unpleasant sound against the silent backdrop of the night.

Despite my discomfort, I stare straight ahead, gazing at the bottle on the small kitchen table in front of me. My eyes adjust to the darkness surrounding me, the writing on the label only visible by the sparse moonlight trickling through the single window on the opposite end of the room.

Two pills and I’ll be asleep within the hour.

At least, that’s what it promises.

Considering I haven’t slept in almost two weeks—a reality I still can’t come to terms with—and the fact that my brain is still reeling from the grossly inexplicable, traumatizing episode at the diner this morning, I’m pretty skeptical that anything in a commercial bottle sold over the counter can put me out that quickly.

If it works at all, that is.

I normally wouldn’t even consider taking anything like this. I don’t do medicine of any kind. I don’t even take multivitamins because even those give me that uncomfortable clinical vibe and remind me of things that are better off forgotten. I haven’t stepped foot into a hospital in years. And I have absolutely no intention of doing so.

Ever again.

Not after what happened the last time…