Sleep

An insomniac braves the edge of madness when he becomes obsessed with a painting.

Sleep

By

Andrew T. Gordinier

I am an insomniac. I always have been. When I was a child my mother would sit in an old rocking chair holding me while she sang softly in a vain effort to lull me to sleep. When I was a young man I would spend my nights reading book after book, a habit that has earned me a distinguished pair of reading glasses. Now as an adult I usually lay awake and watch my wife as she breaths deeply and listens to the silent music of her dreams. When work demands that she travel our home feels empty and pointless without her at night, so I walk.

Robert Frost once wrote: “I have been one acquainted with the night.” I cannot say that I know what he felt exactly, but I have some idea. There are wonders to the world at night that we ignore too often. The simple magic of fireflies in the woods, as they flicker and dance through the summer leaves like the fairies of myth. The sad vigils of the street lights as they stand against the night only to go unnoticed by the travelers they watch over. Then there is the strange quality that shop windows take on when the streets are empty. It’s as if the assortment of mannequins, dolls, statues, and empty clothing become more the watcher and less the subject.

It is because of these facts and my empty home that I walk for hours and miles while my wife is away. Returning home only long enough for a catnap and shower before work. It becomes such a habit that when my wife returns I am briefly tempted to sneak out and wander the night, but then I catch the rhythm of her breathing and stay to watch her beauty as only I see it at night. So when my wife had to leave for a two-week trip I was at once crushed and elated. I would miss her but I also savored the time ahead that would allow me to walk at night.

True to our habits we spent a romantic night together before she left. It was our way of catching one last breath of the each other before the world swept between us. A pleasant movie and dinner at our favorite restaurant then home. Where I found myself torn. Do I lose myself in the eyes of the lover in my arms or the one slowly creeping in across the landscape? My wife would be pleased to know how easily she held my attention in the end, as she always has.

The next morning I kissed her goodbye, knowing that the two weeks would be long without her. Knowing that two weeks would pass too quickly in the company of the night. I spent the day at work distracted and distant. I was impatient to walk the town and see what new surprises the night held. As I sat and ate dinner alone I watched the sun set and wished for the company of my wife. The colors faded on the horizon while I drank the last of my wine and thought about how the night was a fascination to me. Then it was dark at last. The sun had set and faded beyond the horizon and the moon had crept in with her children the stars. I pulled on my shoes and locked the door behind me as I left. Setting out in a random direction and trusting fate to guide me, I was not to be disappointed. As I wandered near the park a few deer bounded from between the houses and disappeared into the shadowed trees, a large buck paused to look at me before turning away. No doubt they had been raiding someone’s garden. As I walked on I passed houses that were dark and silent against the night, except one. A parent had left the porch light on for their daughter. Who now stood on the doorstep clumsily approaching her first kiss. I smiled and slipped down a different street, I had a clear recollection of my first kiss and had no desire to make the situation any more awkward than it already was.

The road was one that led me into town. Slowly the homes gave way to small shops and stores, each in a building that had once been a home. I wondered what it must be like to walk into a store and know that it was once the family home. Then these shops gave way to more traditional shops with actual storefronts. Most were filled with mannequins displaying the year’s fashions but there was also a bookstore and a gallery. That’s where I found her, or should I say the painting? I’m still not sure.

I glanced into the gallery’s window and was struck at once by the majesty and magic of the painting I saw there. It was a painting of a large pool surrounded by willow trees with branches that hung to the water. In the foreground there was a set of marble steps rising up out of the calm water, they lead up to a low patio that was almost overwhelmed with vines and flowers that seemed to spill out into the frame. Standing knee deep in the pool at the base of the stairs was an angel. Holding her gown against herself in an act of modesty while she shyly looked to the one side. Her long hair hung lose and wet, complementing the lines of her face and partially exposed figure. As if the content of the painting were not enough to knock the wind from me the manner in which it was painted brought home a final mesmerizing blow. The brush strokes wrapped and twisted around each other in an almost hypnotic pattern. The colors of the painting though deep seemed simply to slip into one another despite the clear definitions between them. This all brought detail to light that I had not expected and yet at the same time I caught glimpses of things that seemed to be hidden in the simple shapes of the trees in the background. It was hard to hold my eyes on them because I could not help but slide back to the angel and the gentle curves of her body and wings. I had never seen anything like it before.

I must have stood there staring at that painting for the better part of an hour before I could pull myself away. Even then the image of it haunted me. Nothing the night had to offer compared to the painting. Nothing the night could ever offer could compare to the painting.

The next morning as I went about my routine my mind kept floating back to the painting and the angel in it. I kept thinking about the shape of her face, the way her wings were folded, and the way she shyly looked to the side as if to avoid the stare of the observer. As I drove to work I already knew that I would walk past it again that night, no, I would walk to it.

Work was only the time that I owed, I did not want to give it up nor could I see why I should when it kept me from seeing the painting. A few of my fellow coworkers commented on how distracted I was. Saying that it was “out of character” for me. I hardly noticed or cared, I could only think of the painting.

That night as I watched the sunset I forced myself to sit down and eat. It was a chore that did not hold my intreast though and I was constantly looking out the window to see how much longer I had to wait. I still clung to the idea that I could only walk when it was dark, even though this no longer had anything to do with the night. A fact that did not seem wasted on the night, as darkness fell storm clouds started gathering on the horizon. The storms growled and rumbled as I locked the door behind me and set off towards the painting.

Once again I walked along the edge of the park, nothing stirred there but the wind. There were no lights on further down the street and I could not even recall which house had been witness to one of loves first sparks. Not that these things mattered to me as I walked. They were simply landmarks to mark my progress, part of a scenery that was almost interesting but failed to distract me. The storm that had been distantly grumbling had slipped overhead and was starting to roar and bellow. The night was proving her self to be a jealous lover. I didn’t care. I hardly even noticed the first heavy drops of rain as I approached the gallery’s window. What I saw there made the deluge that fallowed unimportant.

It was different.

Or was it?

I looked at the painting and once again was enthralled in the majesty of it, but it felt different somehow. Not different as in lesser, different as in greater than it was before. What was it though that had changed? It took me a few moments of careful examination before I decided that it was the angel’s gown. Yes. It was her gown; I could have sworn she was holding it higher last night. Or was it just my imagination? I moved closer to the glass and strained to examine the painting closely as I started to doubt if anything had changed at all. All around me the storm flashed its anger. I was unable to decide if it was in fact different or not, suddenly I felt helpless in the face of this indecision.

I was drenched and still I stood there in the rain unmoving and uncaring to the world around me. Had it not been for the policeman who stopped to see if I was all right I would have stayed there all night. As it is I am unsure how long I was there, at least hours. I can say that with certainty only because by the time I arrived home the night had turned to a dull gray morning.

I wandered through the house numb to all but thoughts of the painting and the debate of if it had changed or not. I knew that I should get at least a few moments of sleep, that I should at least eat something, but those thoughts slipped away easily. In the end I only showered and changed my clothes before work and still arrived at my desk late. A fact that normally would not have been of great concern, but my appearance must have betrayed my state of mind. As I attempted to go about my work I drew stares from my coworkers and could hear half whispered comments. There were some comments I could not escape; these came in the form of a conversation with my boss.

He wanted to know if I was all right, if everything was o.k. at home. I did my best to try and convince him that I was doing well, but to no avail. He looked at me calmly and suggested that I take a couple of days off, that I “pull myself together”. I attempted to argue with him, to suggest that I was fine and did not need time off. I was not worried about the money nor dismissal from my job, I saw though that if I had nothing to do during the day I would only find myself back at the gallery time and time again. If in fact I ever left. My boss would hear none of it though. He simply said I had more than enough vacation time and that I should take advantage of it and get a few days rest. I could tell by the set of his jaw and the way his hands stopped their usual fluttering that there was no arguing the point. I drove to an empty house that I normally called home.

I shed my clothes as I wandered through the house. Tie in the entryway, shirt in the kitchen, shoes and socks in the back hallway, and my slacks in the bedroom. I did not so much as lay down on the bed as sink into it. I tried to sleep, to at least catch an hour or so. I tried and failed. Instead of sleep I found myself staring at a picture of my wife that graces my nightstand. It was a picture that I took on our vacation about a year ago. She was posing against the base of a statue. Legs together and elbows on knees looking at me over the rims of her sunglasses with a smile she usually reserved for the bedroom. It was one of those pictures and moments where there is no question and no doubt about anything. It only made me realize just how much question and doubt seemed to be lurking around the edge of my life suddenly. I needed to do something to resolve things, to either forget that painting or...

I got out of bed and began dressing. I knew what I was doing and where I was going. I was surprised how long it had taken me to come to the realization of what I should do, but once I saw it there was no doubt. I had to posses the painting. Not in the sense that I should own it, more the sense that I should somehow consume it with my soul and literally make it a part of me. I finished dressing, found my checkbook and drove to the gallery.

As I opened the door a set of wind chimes was briefly set into motion, filling the air with soft and gently random tones that broke the silence. I looked around to get my bearings and a young lady approached me asking what she could do to help me. Without hesitation I said that I wanted to purchase the painting that was on display in the window. She explained that the picture was entitled “The bathing angel” and the artist was a local man who had recently won several awards. I smiled and simply asked how much it was. She seemed slightly offended that I was so to the point but named a price that was not beyond my reach. However it would go a long ways towards crippling my savings account, a small price to pay for my sanity.

While the check was verified with my bank I paused to examine the painting. Only to find that to my horror and oddly relief that it was different again! This time though there was no doubt. Now the angel had a halo, a very thin golden band that hovered a few inches above the crown of her head. There were thin wisps of gold that strayed from it and slowly wandered up, fading slowly from gold to red as they climbed and faded. I drew a deep and ragged breath in an effort to calm myself.

Eventually everything was taken care of and the painting was loaded carefully into the backseat of my car. I caught the sales lady looking at me oddly as I left. I could only imagine what she thought of me, I could see her saying later that an eccentric art collector had come in and bought the painting on a whim. Let her say what she wanted to who she wanted, I had what I needed.

When I got home I set up a couple of chairs to act as an improvised stand to hold the painting, crude but effective. Then I carefully carried the painting to the living room and arranged it so that the light of the evening sun would fall on it perfectly. I poured myself a glass of wine and sat down to stare at the painting. Even though I owned it I still did not feel like it was mine. I still felt that it was more a part of the world than something I had paid for and taken home. Had I taken possession of it or had it taken possession of me? I stared at the painting and debated this for a long time, pausing only to move a lamp over it at sunset.

It was late when the phone rang and pulled me out of my musings. I walked into the kitchen and answered the phone more to end its irritating noise than see who it was. I was not surprised to hear my wife’s voice, I was surprised at how relived I was to hear from her. After we had asked how each other was doing she explained that things were going well with business and that she would be home the next day. I found myself smiling at the idea and told her that I would pick her up at the airport. I closed the conversation by explaining to her just how much I missed her. I could hear the smile in her voice as she returned my sentiments.

I hung up the phone slowly and stared at it for a moment. I felt as if the brief and tenuous contact with my wife had restored some sense of where I had begun to slip. Of where I had begun to lose myself and allow this glorified collection of paint, clothe and wood to hold me. I wanted to walk out the door and see what the night held. I wanted to walk into the living room and prove that the painting had no sway over me by destroying it. I wanted to listen to the rhythm of my wife’s breathing as she slept. I wanted so many things but I feared that if I moved I would lose my hard won peace of mind.

At length I decided that I had to face the fear that was at the base of this all; would the painting be different again? I poured myself another glass of wine before returning to the living room. I avoided looking at the painting until I was sitting across from it and could no longer avoid it. I took a sip of win and looked at it.

Nothing had changed.

I smiled and slowly enjoyed my wine.

I put the empty glass down gently and listened to the wind as it slipped around the house and through the trees outside. It was a soft and soothing sound that seemed to match the feeling of the painting, like music that was perfectly written for a still moment. As dawn approached I decided that I had better eat and wandered into the kitchen. As I stood over the sink scrambling eggs in a bowl I glanced out the window. The trees were still and unmoving yet I still heard the soft music of the wind. The implication of this fact slowly dawned on me and was fallowed by a familiar sense of helplessness. I knew it was the painting. I had no doubt in what was left of my mind. I poured the eggs down the drain and walked back to the living room feeling defeated.

I sat down and looked at the painting. The wind slowly began to change pitch and tone until it was no longer music of a still scene. It was quickly becoming a whisper. I could not understand the words; they were still lost in the slipping tones. In my heart though I understood enough to know it was directed at me and me alone.

I turned on the television and put the volume as high as it would go. I could still hear the whispering. I turned on the stereo and turned the volume all the way up, I could still hear the whispering. I put cotton balls in my ears and pressed cushions to my ears. Yet I could still hear the whispering! In a moment of desperation I ran to the garage grabbed a can of gas and on my way back through the kitchen I grabbed a pack of safety matches from a drawer. One way or another it was going to end.

I stomped into the living room like a man ignoring the please of doomed children. I unscrewed the lid of the gas can and lifted it to pour it on the painting…. And could not. I stood there poised to destroy the painting with the television yelling at me, the stereo consoling me, and the whispering gently calling my name. I put the lid on the gas can and returned it to the garage, throwing the matches away as I passed through the kitchen. I turned off the television and the stereo. Then I sat down in front of the painting and cried till it was time to pick my wife up at the airport. I quickly showered and dressed in clean clothes, and then on the way out the door I draped a piece of black cloth over the painting. Even now I am unable to explain why, it simply felt like I should.

The drive to the airport was a blur of roads and cars; I arrived there without knowing how I had gotten there. My wife was waiting for me and waved me down as I pulled up. I helped her put her luggage in the trunk and we did not kiss till we were both in the car. It was the sort of kiss that is less than an open overture and more than a gentle kiss hello. As I drove home she turned to face me and explained the fun and misery of her trip, occasionally touching my arm or shoulder for emphasis. It was this gentle contact and conversation that I clung to as I drove home. For a new fear had occurred to me. My wife and the painting, what would happen?

Upon arriving home my wife commented with a sarcastic scowl that the place was such a mess. I had neglected the dishes and my clothing still lay where it had fallen the other day. Then she found the painting. She asked me what it was without removing the black cloth, I found myself unable to answer because in truth I did not know myself anymore. She leaned forward and pulled the cloth away. There was a tense moment in which I wished I had burned the glorious thing when I had the chance.

She stood there for a moment, then turned to me and smiled. She put her hands to her face and turned back to the painting saying that she loved it. This did nothing to ease my fears because I was not worried about if she would like it or not. I was more concerned with what would happen the next time she looked at it. She asked where I had found it so I told her about finding it in the window of the gallery and shamefully admitted the damage done to our account. She wrapped her arms around my neck and whispered it was worth the price. Then she kissed me in a manner that was an apparent overture.

My wife stepped back slowly and looked at the painting again. I waited breathlessly for her to exclaim that it was different, but she did not. Instead she smiled and suggested that we hang it over the bed, she felt it would be perfect there. I found myself unable to argue the idea and together we carried the painting to our bedroom. We talked and flirted briefly while we hung the painting. Once it was securely in place there were no more overtures, there was only the desperate passion of the moment.

Afterward my wife and I lay against each other and I listened to her breathing slowly slip into a familiar deep rhythm. I could see the moon just cresting the trees through our bedroom window and watched as it’s pale light slowly drifted down the wall. I knew that there was something about to happen. Every time I started to feel like I was getting my sanity or life back something new proved me wrong. I dreaded what could be next. I felt I no longer had the strength to withstand much more. I took advantage of the moment to watch my wife sleep and listen to her dreaming. I gently brushed a few strands of hair from her face and marveled again at the wonder of her.

She had once asked me why I sat there and watched her sleep all night instead of watching television or reading. I tried to explain to her what I saw in her sleeping form and heard in the rhythm of her breathing. I am sure she didn’t understand it fully, if for no other reason than I do not understand it fully. In the end the only good reason I could give her or myself was that I loved her. This is what I was thinking of as I watched her sleep in my arms. Then I blinked and everything was different.

I was no longer in my bed. I was lying on a pile of soft green leaves and dark fragrant flowers that I had never seen before. I was no longer in my bedroom. I was on a patio overlooking a calm pool of water surrounded by giant willows. The woman resting in my arms was no longer my wife. It was the angel.

Slowly she disentangled herself from my embrace and stood up, there was no pretense of modesty. She stretched her arms and legs and then folded her arms across herself and stretched her perfect wings. I found myself wondering if my wife would forgive me for an indiscretion with such a perfect creature, not because I was going to but because in my mind I already had. The angel then turned gracefully and waded out into the pool. I sat upright so that I might not miss a single motion or gesture.

As she bathed I could see that she was changing. She was becoming the image of my wife, if not actually becoming my wife. Each splash of the water shifted and blended her appearance gently till she was no longer the angel and not yet my wife. Then she turned and walked out of the pool and knelt next to me. She warmly put her hand on my arm.

“It’s all right.” Her voice was my wife’s. “Rest now.”

Then I blinked and everything was different.

I was in our bed, in our bedroom, and the rising sun was gently warming the room. My wife was holding me and gently kissing my forehead. I somehow felt complete and safe again, more so than I had ever been before. My wife looked at me with a gentle expression on her face.

“You’ve been asleep for almost ten hours.” She said gently.

Then I confessed everything that had transpired since she had left, even admitting my transgression with the angel. Her response was simple; “Dreams are like that sometimes.”

Authors Note:

Thank you for reading my story. This is one of my early works and experimental in many ways. If you like what you see follow me on facebook and explore some of my other works.

https://www.facebook.com/andrew.gordinier.3