“I have.” A lie, and he nods as if he knows I’m lying. “One tablet every night an hour before bedtime, and yet, the dreams are getting worse. I’ve gone from wandering through a strange room and empty halls to being sliced open and bleeding out. This isn’t normal, doctor. I really think I’m suffering from night terrors.”
“Let’s go back a bit, Gabriella,” he says, hand gliding across the page of his notebook, the ink filling up line after line. “When you started seeing me, these dreams had a twice-a-week frequency with sometimes bouts of self-induced insomnia in between. No?”
“Yes.”
“Six months ago, they had become a three to four per week occurrence. No?”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“Almost every night.”
“Almost?” His brow raises, and I know what’s coming next. “Have you been staying awake for days? The truth, please.”
“The last three weeks, I’ve been having trouble falling asleep.”
“Elaborate, please.”
Running a tired hand down my face, I let out a harsh breath. “Sometimes, the meds don’t work. Sometimes the Melatonin doesn’t so much as make me yawn.” He goes to open his mouth, but I hold up a hand. “And then there are those nights when I try them together and fall asleep only to wake up with my heart beating out of my chest two hours after crashing.”
“Why didn’t you call the office? We need to know these things.” His lips purse, and he begins to type something on his laptop, his lips moving but I can’t make out what he’s mouthing. “I’m going to send in a new script for a different medication to your pharmacy on file, and you’ll be discontinuing the other. This one’s just for sleeping and should keep you there throughout the night. You’ll also be leaving here with one for bloodwork.”
I grumble. “Hate needles.”
“And I hate the smell of lavender, but my wife insists we use it in every room of our home.” At that, I laugh and he chuckles a bit, yet his amusement dies just as fast as it came. “And your stress levels? How are you managing? Are you working out or walking—”
“What are the possible side effects?” Cutting him off is rude, but I’d rather he answer my question instead. This one matters. “Because the last one always made me sick the next day.”
“That’s something that varies from medication to medication. We won’t know until you try it, but please call my office right away if you experience any sudden headaches or bleeding from your nose and mouth.”
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath but he heard, his sad nod telling me as much. “What about the possibility of these being night terrors? Don’t you have some form of testing that can be done to rule it out?”
“I’d rather you start the new medication and see how it goes. If no change, we will move on to the next step.”
“Next step?”
“Another medication, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll do an MRI scan to rule out a physical cause. If neither is found to lead us anywhere, then we will begin a series of tests—polysomnography—to determine if you are indeed suffering from night terrors.”
“How long before we can reach that stage?”
“I’d like to see you in a month again. That is, unless you’re having a problem with this new prescription.”
“Thirty days?” My laugh is sardonic, my chest tightening and I rub the area. I’m sure he can sense the ire beginning to mount within. “Are you kidding me?”
“I’m sorry if that’s not the answer you were looking for, but there’s a procedure to each treatment that must be followed.” Dr. Silva takes his glasses off and places them atop his desk along with his pen. Both are atop that stupid notebook I want to smack him with and then burn. “Please trust us, Gabriella. Trust me that I will do what’s best for you and your mental and physical health.”
“Sure.” Because what else can I say? He won’t listen.
My primary didn’t either.
They think it’s stress-related. That it’s manifesting in vivid dreams.
“Great.” He stands and so do I, following him to the door that he holds open for me. “I’ll see you in a month, and I think you’ll have good news for me. And please remember: keep the stress levels down and always take your meds.”
12
Gabriella
“Black. I’m going to need a lot of black,” I whisper to myself, standing in the middle of the acrylic paint section of a specialty art store while debating brands four days later. After my walk around the block with Mr. Pickles today, I’ve felt energized yet restless. I’m also running on nothing but coffee, determination, and the hour-and-a-half power nap I allow myself once a day.
No sleeping at night. No meds; the new or old ones.
Not a damn thing. This is the euphoric stage right before I crash, but I’m willing to take the risk. After getting home that day, I looked up the side effects to my new “night time” supplement and it’s much the same as the last, but with the added possibility of oral bleeding and headaches from hell. It’s in rare cases, I understand that, but I’m just not in the mood to add to my already heavy plate of bullshit.
So instead, I’m evading while sticking to the primary objective for my pieces. Because there’s this uncontrollable beckoning that’s leaning toward a dark and depraved setting where few have truly ventured into: the jungle. Be it the Amazon or Sri Lanka or any other large rainforest, there are legends of tribes and animals who live on these sacred grounds where money means nothing and you hunt to survive. It’s a delicate balance, perfected since the beginning of existence, and I’m giving in to this temptation.
More so after recalling my conversation with Tero about snakes.
Because they are majestic. Animals that solely survive on instinct and have no need for greed. They kill to sustain themselves, not for gluttony or power.
That is something they wield naturally without anything more than existing.
“Hunter versus prey. Life and death.” In my mind, I see trees and vines in different shades of green and contrast with a single predator highlighted in each piece. Both human and animal. “Now, which shade fits best for the base?”
There are two that I love and use, but a new one on the market has just a hint of metallic that my eyes are drawn to. It’d be perfect for the night sky, and will stand out, become reflective with the lighting being used.
“A lot of customers are choosing that tone this week,” comes from a male voice just behind me and I shriek, dropping the bottles in my hand. They don’t break, but instead roll beneath the gondola likely never to be found again unless someone gets on their knees, and with the man wearing a store uniform standing close, that person won’t be me. “My apologies.”
“You scared three years off my life.” At my grumble, he holds his hands up but makes no move to step back. He’s too close, and I don’t like it. He also doesn’t say anything after, and I’m confused by his just standing there. Just like the coffee house a few days ago. How uncomfortable he made me feel then too. “Can I help you?”