The fever burns as my limbs twist and tangle among the cool sheets, the blankets long kicked aside. My head presses against the pillow, my nose drawing deep breaths against the fabric while overhead, a fluffy feline stirs and admonishes me with a chatty meow for disturbing her slumber.
I don’t sleep well alone; I take the pills and medicate in other ways, but these lonely nights end with a body flailing against the queen-sized mattress in the dance I have engaged in for a decade. When I am alone, with no prospect of rescue from my padded spring-coil prison, I reluctantly accept this misery. But when there is the hope of a hand clasping mine as my back is pressed against a firm chest, sleep is a vicious sadist that refuses to grant me my way.
There is so much more than sleep at stake. The opening of the bed, of the home, is the sheddding of armour, a dismantling of carefully constructed defenses on what is all too often a battlefield. My scars ache anew on the longer nights, their brands upon my brain the careful reminders of why I sleep with an eye open. A soldier never forgets.
But you pressed yourself through the chink in the fence, winding your way to my quarters. You enter without reservation, defiant and determined. You enter and I submit, allowing you to take control. You rule me, your touch impossibly smooth, your voice low. I need more than the comfort of sleep; I need discipline.
Day Sixty-Seven: Discipline – Nine Inch Nails