I try to block it out.
Night after night, he does this. And then as soon as he wakes up, he starts again.
It’s okay,I tell myself.Just focus. Just write.
But it’s like quicksand, pulling me deeper into frustration and exhaustion.
The shaking stops briefly, and I exhale, hoping for peace.
But then the moaning begins.
It’s not just a sleepy groan. It’s guttural, almost animalistic. The sound of distress—unsettling and persistent. The noise worms its way into my thoughts, unraveling any focus I’ve managed to muster.
I glance over, and Timmy’s eyes are open. “Timmy?” I ask cautiously.
His gaze flicks to me, but it’s vacant, unseeing. Then he starts talking—jumbled, incoherent words spilling from his lips, half-slurred, as though his mind is disconnected from his body.
“Timmy, are you awake?” I try again, louder this time.
He bolts upright as if electrified. “You woke me!” he roars, his voice sharp and venomous. “I’ve told you not to wake me! You’re lucky I didn’t hit you!”
My heart pounds. “You had your eyes open, and you were talking to me,” I say, trying to steady my voice.
“Well, I was asleep!” he snaps. “How many times do I have to tell you not to touch me when I’m asleep?”
I take a deep breath, willing myself to stay calm. “Timmy, it’s ten-thirty in the morning. I’ve been trying to work for the last four-and-a-half hours while you’ve been shaking the bed and making these moaning noises. I can’t concentrate.”
His gaze shifts to the TV, and his lips curl into a sneer. “You’ve putthisshit on for when I wake up? Fuck, you’re a piece of work. I see you.” His words drip with malice, his tone like a venomous whip lashing at my skin.
“I was watching something entertaining while I worked,” I reply, shrugging off his anger. “You were asleep, so I put on something you don’t like. I didn’t think it would bother you.”
“Like I’m not absorbing thatcrapsubconsciously while I sleep! And you have the curtains open so people can see me sleeping?How dare you!”
I resist the urge to yell. “I waited until after eight-thirty to open the curtains. I like to see the ocean for inspiration while I write. You know I don’t want to feel trapped in the dark room, especially when there’s a view of the water right there.”
“You’re so fucking selfish,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Always putting yourself first.”
The irony hits me like a punch to the gut. I swallow it down. “I’m trying to make things comfortable for youandget some work done,” I explain, my voice measured but strained.
“Whatever,” he hisses, throwing himself back onto the bed.
Later, I’m deep in concentration, lost in the flow of writing. The world outside my story has faded—it’s just me and the words. Then, suddenly?—
“BOO!”
Timmy lunges toward me, his face twisted into a menacing expression. His voice is sharp, guttural, designed to pierce through my focus and shatter my calm.
I scream, flinching so hard that I jerk backwards and almost hit my head on the cinder block wall behind me. My heart pounds like a war drum, my skin tingling with an all-too-familiar rush of adrenaline. It’s not just a startle—it’s a full-body reaction, a direct trigger for the PTSD I’ve worked so hard to manage.
“Why would you do that?” I gasp, clutching my chest. My voice wavers, a mix of shock and anger. “Oh my god, Timmy!”
He shrugs, his expression unreadable. “You woke me up earlier,” he says flatly.
My mind races.Is this revenge? Is he serious?
“That was an accident, and I apologized,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “So you decided to get some kind of revenge by purposely triggering my PTSD?”
He shrugs again, his nonchalance like a slap to the face.