Now I Lay My Head Down To Sleep

A glimpse into Sesome's life as he attempts to go past surviving to living, a scared up pit bull helps him along this journey.

Humidity rushes from the bathroom, into the hallway tendrils of hazy white reaching out before disappearing. Mixing the warm air from a hot shower with the chill of the rest of the apartment. Not bothering to flip the light switch to his left, Sesome took a few steps down the hall to his bedroom. Immediately through the door was the bed. The full sized bed took up most of the bedroom, a small closet towards the left of it. Closed tightly. The sound of the daytime traffic is like a normal lullaby, the sunlight pushes through the thin blinds small streams of lights through the tiny lines. Thirty-seven spaces to me exact, that is how many let in the small amount of light.

A horn of the train sounds of just as he slides under the gray comforter, settling onto the pillow, not minding the water that pools on his pillow from his hair. Slowing his breathing to fall asleep right before the train would disappear. It passes every day, around four p.m., different spaces of time though. Most likely different trains Sesome rationalizes, he's never seen the trains only heard them. A strange flutter rises from his chest as the sound suddenly becomes too faint, much sooner than the dark haired male was used to. Swallowing hard he turns onto his stomach gripping the pillow, still trying to keep his breathing slow. He had to sleep, he had worked at ten p.m. and had not slept the last four days. Now that he had a job, he couldn;t let frivolous things like a trains duration, his wrapped left hand, and constant sting reminded him that sleep was a must. Being a cook in dinner from the night to the morning rush was demanding, he needed to sleep.

The pills were supposed to help, but the racing of his heart rarely let up, he could not be so dependant, he had to do work. Work hard to live, work hard to live. And so he drifted off as he forced his breathing to be slow, fighting down the pounding in his ears, the utter wrenching in his gut. He forced himself to be still, lay on the bed and sleep. Or at least not allowing himself to even flex his fingers until this was achieved. Eventually, he must have drifted off. Awoken by a loud sound, pain, and very confused. By now night had fallen, yet not ten p.m. Tasting blood, Sesome clenched his hands, not bothered by the sharp alert of the wound on his hand. If anything it grounded him, but only a soft wine drew him to open his green eyes. Burning with tears the first thing he saw were a set of yellow eyes staring back at him. Technically they were brown, but to Sesome they always seemed yellow, glowing yet translucent. Another low wine and a large tongue lapped at him. Only then realizing he was on the ground, more specifically the closet.

Letting out a weak sob, he clung to the yellow-eyed being. The yellow-eyed being was a large pit bull. Scars maring its' dark fur with white, scared up and left to die in the cold streets Sesome had found the dog.

The End

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