My mother, the centrepiece of me recurring nightmare, seems to suffer from this problem too.

She told me as a kid, and that's when this all started.

I suppose that it could all be psychological, but even so, it's frustrating, and no amount of thinking is going to get me to sleep.

With bare feet on the cold tiles of the bathroom, I slide open the cabinet above the sink. Inside lies a number of things I'll admit I've never seen before.

Dad's aftershave, cologne.

Mum's eyelash curler, beath pillow.

It seems that all of these things have had better days.

Quietly rumaging through - it is the middle of the night - I come across what I'm looking for: the sleeping pills my mum gets prescribed. Or, she used to, until she was able to come off them a few months ago.

I grab a little tube and give it a shake, hearing the rattle from inside. It sounds like there are quite a few in there.

These ones are probably a little old - mum just puts them in here when she gets more - but I'm not bothered. The newer ones would be in her room, unused and untouched, only a few months old. I don't really want to risk going in there in the night.

Scuttling back to my room, I place the pills on my bedside table and sit on my bed.

The End

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