8th August, 2016
Today I pulled a twig out of my beard. It was small and thin, a few millimetres in diameter and about an inch and a half long. The stick was dark brown and similar in colour to my beard, so much so that I’d assumed it was hair before I pulled it out.
Having odd, thick beard hair is a family trait I guess. My dad used to joke that he’d have ‘tree trunks’ growing from his face. My own beard is so thick and coarse that I would frequently give myself ‘hair splinters’ whenever I trimmed it, as the thick little pieces would get lodged in the skin of my fingers and palms.
I gripped the twig and quickly realised this wasn’t a normal hair. What worried me most was how much it hurt to pull out, and how much I bled afterwards.
I live in the suburbs and work in the city. I rarely walk past a single tree, let alone shrubbery dense enough to have something impale my face and not notice immediately. I could see some remnants of my skin on the base of the twig, so the fucker must’ve got in deep. Is this the sort of thing you need tetanus shots for? I wasn’t sure. I put some antiseptic cream on the small wound that had been left, stowed the twig next to my sink, and left for work.
10th August, 2016
Last night I dreamt of the woods. I was walking through the dense thicket of trees, with only infrequent beams of moonlight to illuminate a path. In my waking life, I am in every respect a city kid. I think I’ve only ever walked through a forest two or three times in my life, including that one trek I went on in Crete through the mountains. Never at night. So why did this scene feel so familiar?
I woke up feeling oddly at ease, but tired.
I found another twig in my beard, but in a different area. This one was more immediately identifiable as it had two small prongs on either side. It hurt more to pull out, and bled more in consequence, but I got it out. I’m beginning to worry that I have one of these weird one-in-a-million diseases. You know, that might be causing my follicles to develop ultra-thick facial hair, because this little bitch honestly felt attached this time.
I snapped the top of the twig and it broke away into sharp, fibrous pieces. Definitely wood. I put it next to the one I extracted two days ago on my bathroom counter, again used some antiseptic cream, and went to work. If it happens again I’ll do… Something. Go to the doctor, call my parents. Visit the local garden centre? Hah. Truth is I have no idea what I’ll do, so I don’t want to think about it.
11th August
Why am I so tired? I’m finding everything exhausting. The light from my computer screen feels like it’s burning out my retinas… As a web developer, this will cause problems. Every few minutes I have to look away, to the ground, out of the window to the Thames in the distance. This city is dear to me. In all my travels I’ve always thought London had a special magic that couldn’t be replicated. So why am I finding it all so nauseating today?
The high rise buildings cobbled in with the old stone, the ugly glass and concrete and the lone trees you find in odd spaces that feel isolated and sick. Even the river is walled in and imprisoned. Right now, everything feels like one of those terrible zoos in Asia, where all the animals are malnourished and mistreated to serve some unseen manager, a profiteer in suffering. Are all cities like this? I stew on this feeling all day.
I tell my boss I have a headache and get to leave early. This is mostly true; I can’t cope with the screens anymore.
The fluorescent lights on the tube make me gag. I used to love that sort of fake lighting. I’d go to shopping malls and airports and I remember being filled with energy at how new and modern and bright everything felt. But standing on this train with the rows of fabricated, off-white lights is bothering me far too much. I can almost hear the faint screech of each individual bulb, over the rattle of steel on steel underneath – another unpleasant noise. All I can think is that I want to get off. I close my eyes and exhale deeply. The escaping air picks up its own noise and timber, ending in a deep, guttural moan.
The train shudders to a stop, and with a crack several of the lights bust – then those that survived also flicker out. There are a few noises of fear and shock, but in typically British fashion the resounding atmosphere is one of annoyance. There’s no announcement from the driver – the radio must have blown, too. I feel… Accomplished? That’s ridiculous. This isn’t my doing. But I wish it was. The darkness is a relief.
A few minutes later the train rumbles back to life. The lights come back on, bar the few near me which seem to have broken for good. The driver warbles an apology, something about electrical problems, and that the train will now terminate at the next stop to investigate the cause. There’s a sea of dissatisfaction from my fellow travellers but as I step out onto the street I’m overjoyed to be in the night air.
I get home almost two hours later. It’s dark and my senses feel overloaded. I feel like my beard is full of twigs. I decide to shave the whole thing off. My clippers get about halfway through before they give up, so I take some heavy duty scissors from the kitchen to cut down the rest so I can cut down the bulk of it in order to use a razor. I vaguely remember there being a lot of blood, and a lot of pain, as the mix of hair and twigs fall into the sink, but I may not be remembering correctly as I pass out in bed as soon as I’m done.
20th August
My flatmate tells me to shower. “You reek” she says, her nose upturned. Thing is I have showered. Cleanliness is important to me, and by my own nose I smell fine. I tell her this. “No I know man, you always smell good, but I dunno what it is… Kind of like, wet dog? Damp and a little mouldy. Did you wash your clothes properly?” Maybe I didn’t. I decide to get changed. Thing is, there has been a weird buildup of mildew in my shower the past few days. Maybe there’s something in the pipes which is making me smell. I clean the walls and the glass door, then de-scale the shower head. I stand outside and let the now dazzling unit run for twenty minutes. It looks fine. I guess I don’t need to call the landlord.
Tonight I dream of the forest again. I was nervous before falling asleep but I’m glad I went back to that place, even if it was just in a dream.
I wake up and through the pitch black I can see the full-length mirror next to my bed. Through the gloom, it looks like there’s a silhouette behind me. The details are indistinct, but it’s vaguely human in shape, although the head is large and antlered. I feel comforted, and still overwhelmingly tired, I fall back into a sleep—this time, it’s dreamless.
22nd August
As I’m showering, I notice the mildew build up around me with alarming speed. It’s not the pipes, it’s whatever is being washed off of me.
My beard is growing back with a similarly worrying pace. It’s only a few millimetres long but it’s already so coarse and rough that I know it’s not human hair. I don’t quite know what to do. I should be more alarmed, but at this point just being in the house is making me exhausted.
Most of the day is spent sitting in the dark. I keep thinking back to what could have triggered this. Following horror movie logic, there should have been some sort of encounter… Playing with a Ouija board, reading some dark transcript from a book hidden in a library, having a heated run in with a scary old lady. But my life has been uneventful. I work, I eat, I sleep. If time and money allows I’ll meet up with friends and go to a pub or shoot pool or something. If not I’ll just sit on my computer and play games.
I keep writing these diary entries on a laptop with the brightness turned way down. I still hate it, but something tells me it’s important to document each day.
My hands and my feet itch. They’re flaking and gross. I guess we can add athelete’s foot to the list of my current ailments. Do you get athlete’s hand, too?
Can’t bring myself to shave again. It’s just too painful. As I get into bed I feel something crawl on my face. Swatting it away I turn on a lamp, and see a large brown spider on my pillow, just smaller than the palm of my hand. Arachnophobia has plagued me ever since I was three, and had a run-in with my uncle’s pet tarantula. However this new bedfellow doesn’t bother me, not me it. It is unresisting and unhesitant as I pick it up. I look around the room and spot there are three other similarly large spiders sitting at different spots on the wall. There are also numerous moths and a dozen or so small beetles. We’re a fifth floor flat and aside from a few flies we’ve never seen a single insect in the house.
Carefully putting the spider on my bedside cabinet, I get back into bed, and start to sleep. Back in the darkness, the silhouette is again beside my bed. I smile at it in the mirror.
27th August
I take the opportunity to go and see my parents. There’s a sense that I won’t get many chances to see them again.
My dad comments on my stench. He tells me I need to invest in better deodorant. He earnestly asks me if I want to drop some washing over, if my machine is broken or whatever. My mum chastises him—she doesn’t smell a thing. Maybe she’s being polite, but her face belies no revulsion as we hug. The stench is written across my dad’s face.
Rosco, their dog, seems apprehensive of me. He’s not aggressive or particularly frightened, but more like a type of… Reverence? That sounds ridiculous but it’s all I can think of. He doesn’t want to play like he usually does, nor is he eager to climb up and lick my face. It should be sad. I held Rosco the whole car ride home when we picked him up as a puppy. We grew up together. But right now, his attitude feels oddly fitting.
I can hear my dad talking worriedly with my mum in the kitchen. She doesn’t see anything wrong but my dad seems to have picked up on a number of red flags. I flick through our family album. Auntie Nell, Auntie Jill, my grandmother, my sister. On my mum’s side of the family, the side I’m closest to, it’s very female dominated. I’m the only boy still around.
I flick to the photo of my Granddad John, my mum’s father. His story is a little tragic. Abandoned as a baby, he was raised in an orphanage until he looked old enough to talk his way into the Merchant Navy. He was quite foreign looking – dark hair, sallow skin. We assumed he was Greek or maybe even Turkish, but out of curiosity I splurged on one of those genealogy tests that said I had a lot of Finnish DNA – in fact, a rare haplogroup that was most commonly found in the Sami people. That was a surprise for all of us.
He met my grandmother in his early 20s, had three daughters, and then went missing while out at sea.
“Mum?” I call out, “How old was Granddad John when he went missing?”
“Oh, god… I’m not sure. 28? Maybe 29? Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
I keep thinking of how I celebrated my 29th birthday, just a few months ago.
4th September
I can see him more clearly now, the silhouette, in all the mirrors. I can’t see the details, but I see the solidity of his black shape and antlered head in my own reflection.
I haven’t been to work in well over a week.. They stopped trying to call after a few days. They’ll probably send me a termination notice, if they haven’t already.
My flatmate doesn’t talk to me anymore. I stick to my room so I can be away from the lights and the screens and the fake manufactured noise of the TV, the microwave, the refrigerator. I’ve unplugged all of my appliances so I don’t have to hear the electricity whining through them. I keep my window open as I whisper to the growing number of insects that are taking up residence with me.
I think they’re talking back to me. I’d say it’s crazy but we’re past that. I think they’re telling me, in a dozen tiny voices and whispers that we’re all going to go on a journey together.
My beard is now a few centimetres long and I am fairly sure is entirely made of twigs. I found two twigs in my hair, too. The skin on my palms and the soles of my feet seem to have calcified. I won’t need shoes for the journey.
I think I have to write a goodbye note. One to my flatmate, one to my dad. I have a feeling my mum will understand. None of my aunts really questioned the fate of Granddad John.
Will I meet him again?
I think this is the only way to stop being tired. Maybe that’s what the exhaustion is. The journey has been happening for 29 years. Now I need to go home.
5th September
minun täytyy mennä takaisin alku
Submitted September 05, 2016 at 08:45PM by SerSonett http://ift.tt/2ctu8T3 nosleep
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