A Bout of Insomnia
- Dec 9, 2022
- 3 min read
by Will Musgrove
I blame the time I stuck a fork in an outlet for why I can’t sleep. I was four, and mom was in the other room because dad was somewhere else. How’d I get the fork? Have you ever gone to set the table and thought: Don’t we have more forks than this? That’s how I got the fork. The shock singed off my little eyebrows, shriveled my fingernails into miniature raisins. Now, I get an occasional electric shiver, an occasional bout of insomnia.
Mom says it was because dad left. Why I introduced fork to outlet. She claims dad was an electrician but not much else. She says I missed him, that I was trying to find a way to bring him back. I don’t know. Some kids are just dumb.
With all the extra time awake, you’d think I’d get a lot done, but there’s nothing to do at three in the morning. There’s nothing to do but scroll through social media and wait for dawn. The world isn’t meant to function at this hour. How do I know? The lack of new content.
I reread a coworker’s five-hour-old post: “A lady at the bank said I looked like Brad Pitt.” Attached to the post are two pictures, one of my coworker and one of Brad Pitt. Looking for differences instead of similarities, I compare the two men.
Mom used to compare dad to an avant-garde harmonica. Whatever that means. Did he play the harmonica? After every question: “No, no, no.” If she were here now, she’d tell me to stop worrying and go to bed.
I want to, mom.
“Sleep,” I whisper, hoping my cell phone would power off.
I want to curl into the fetal position. I want to dream, to wake up rested and anew. You don’t choose insomnia. Insomnia chooses you. Another coworker once told me the best way to fall asleep is to imagine all the energy leaving your body, starting at your toes and ending at your head. I tried it but got scared the energy escaping was the energy that made me me and quit at my thighs.
Knock, knock, knock.
Someone’s at the door. No, it’s raining. Lightning. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Boom. I do the math in my head. Close. A friend request. Why should I be his friend? Why should I forgive? The answer’s no, no, no.
Lightning. One Mississippi. Boom. He’s right on top of me. I slide out of bed and retrieve a fork from the kitchen. Outside, rain slicks my thinning hair. Do I get it from him? No, no, no. I point the fork at the clouds like a knight drawing his sword.
Current charges the silver prongs like a revving engine. And there he is, Zeus, a petty god reliant on belief to exist. Hidden in the clouds, he chucks decades’ worth of lightning. I close my eyes. I get it now. I’m still dreaming. I’m still four. I’m still waiting for dad to come home.
Will Musgrove is a writer and journalist from Northwest Iowa. He received an MFA from Minnesota State University, Mankato. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in TIMBER, The McNeese Review, Oyez Review, Tampa Review, Vestal Review, and elsewhere. Connect on Twitter at @Will_Musgrove or williammusgrove.com.
