When I Sleep at Night

The faces.

The faces have become a part of my daily routine. They follow wherever I go, they weep with me, they feel my grief with me, they feel me. They know who I am, inside and out. As much as I try to elude them, they always come back.

They are with me when I sleep at night.

Sometimes they are cheerful, with great, long eyelashes and twinkling smiles. These faces appear on good days, when I'm feeling my best. They pick me up with invisible arms and drift me to places unseen by human eyes. They exist only when I dream them up.

Other times, they are downright disgusting. Ridged, weathered faces with grimaces and looks of terror, other times of malice. They are pale and bloodstained. These faces appear on bad days, only adding to my terror. They take me to places of dread, my soul wriggling and squirming, trying to break free of their grasp. Their hands are awful. They embrace me, coldly, and so tightly. Ever so tightly.

Sometimes, when I feel like there is no other way, I embrace them. No matter their expressions or their emotional status, they must be with me. How I acquired them, I can't say, as I don't know.

Some days I try to eliminate them. I take pills that the doctors say will keep them away, and they do. But they always wear off. And when they wear off, the faces are angry. Sometimes they are forlorn. They tell me I'm no good, that I'm a terrible man for trying to keep them away. I weep softly, and some of them join in.

When I sleep at night, they are with me, and they always will be.

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Credited to Mainer1

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