Insomniac
There’s a difference between not being able to sleep and having insomnia. When you can’t sleep, your mind is telling you to stay awake, tormenting you about something you did or about something you have to do. Insomnia is half of your brain begging you to lie down while the other half screams about the millions of other things you should be doing instead. The more nights insomnia holds you within its grasp, the more your dreams and reality become one in the same. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in months.
To be honest, I haven’t felt completely awake in years. My typical night routine involves hours of tossing and turning in bed, followed by stuffing my face with leftovers while watching 90’s action movies or playing video games until my eyes burn. Then, I sit on my balcony and wait for the sun to come up and laugh in my face once again.
There was a point to this story; I’m sure of it. Or maybe there wasn’t? I hate when that happens. I tend to remember things I’ve imagined more than I stuff that’s actually happened. Although lately, it’s hard to tell the two apart. I can’t remember what I ate last night, but I can still picture the man in the wolf suit from two weeks ago. Wait…that’s the one. The man in the wolf suit.
He was real; I’m sure of it.
Two Fridays ago, I’m sitting on my 7th floor balcony, looking down into the courtyard of my apartment complex, waiting for the sun to rear its ugly head once again. “Courtyard” is a strong word. It’s just a little patch of gravel with a bench and a rusty lamp shining down from overheard. The spot is typically reserved for drug dealers and fatigued vagabonds, but on the rarest of occasions, you get your drunken, late-night make out sessions. That night happened to be of the rarest variety.
It was late, like, I don’t even care what time it is anymore late. An intoxicated couple had stumbled from the darkness and thrown themselves onto the bench, nearly missing it in the process. She was blonde and giggly, wearing a pink dress that looked too tight to walk in. He was dark haired, in slacks, a half-opened button up shirt, and maybe penny loafers. You know, fuckboy attire. Anyway, the show was sloppy and passionate, and I had nowhere better to be (as usual), so I figured I’d just watch to see where things went.
That’s when I saw him — the man in the wolf suit.
I thought he was a dog at first. It was the way he was walking on all fours, sheepishly peaking his grey and white head into the spotlight — his bushy tail wagging behind him as he cautiously approached the couple. They didn’t notice him until he climbed up on the bench right next to them and started licking the guy’s arm. To my surprise, they didn’t react like most people would when greeted by a friendly neighborhood doggo.
They both jumped off of the bench and Fuckboy started punching the pooch in the head while Pink dress screamed various expletives from a safe distance. He didn’t see the bite coming though, and before any of us knew it, Mr. Button up was on his back, clawing at the blood that was bubbling around his throat. Pink dress ran off into the darkness, screaming wildly — her legs only able to move a foot or so apart at a time. She was quickly silenced.
Obviously, I was freaked out. I ran back inside, dialed 911, and explained the situation to the operator as best as anyone could in my zombie-like state. A few minutes later, there was banging on my door. When I opened it, I was greeted by a pair of very large and very pissed off men in badges.
They berated me for 10 minutes about the story I had “cooked up.” I tried explaining myself, but I could tell by the way they were looking at me, that they thought I was on shrooms or something. When the three of us walked to the scene of the massacre, there was nothing to be found. No blood, no penny loafers, nada. One of them pulled out his ticket book, ready to write me up for wasting their time, but I heard something something in progress over their radios and they were both gone just like that. I headed up to my apartment to get back to whatever it was I was doing before. He was waiting for me inside.
He sat just like a dog — legs bent at each side, arms straight down in front. Even his tongue dangled out of his mouth. Up close, the wolf suit was disgusting in every way. Its hair was matted with black clumps and it was stained with a rainbow of unsavory colors. He smelled like he hadn’t showered…ever. His grizzled face was wet with oily blood. I wanted to run, and I could have, but for some inexplicable reason I stepped inside and locked the door behind me.
He talked a lot. I don’t remember what about exactly. I just remember watching the purple and red pieces of flesh fall from his chattering lips. I kept rubbing my eyes, trying to force the hallucination out of my mind, but he just kept talking louder and faster. Then, all at once, he stopped. He crawled over to me on all fours, stood up on his hind legs, and put his mouth right next to my ear. He whispered, “go to bed.” I don’t know why, but I listened.
He followed me into my bedroom. My heart pounded wildly as my body carried me against my will. He sat at the foot of my bed with a smile on his face as I climbed up and slid under the blanket. Then he crawled over to the side of my bed and just sat there for a while — licking my hand with his leathery tongue. No matter how much I tried to pull away, my body remained stiff like corpse. At some point, my eyes felt heavy and I somehow fell asleep to the nauseating sound of him panting in my ear.
The next day I jumped out of bed, ready to fight or run or scream. But I was alone. Then I ran over to my closet and threw the sliding door open, half expecting to find a blood-stained wolf suit on a coat hanger inside. I imagined that I was the one who had eaten that couple and done who knows what else in some sort of a cannibalistic fugue state. It wasn’t there though. In fact, the wolf suit, the blood, they weren’t anywhere to be found.
For days, I tried chalking it all up to one hell of a hypnagogic hallucination, but the more I think about it, the more real it all feels. I remember his smell. It was too pungent to forget, too specific. I swear, I catch small hints of his acrid scent when I enter and leave my apartment.
I keep seeing him out of the corner of my eye, his whispers coercing me, but when I turn to look, there’s no one there. When I’m on my balcony, I can feel him standing behind me on other side of the screen door. But he can’t be real. If I could somehow sleep this evening, I know that my sanity would return and the man in the wolf suit would stop leave me alone. Problem is, I already know that my mind has other plans for us tonight.
