EACH NIGHT HAS ITS OWN MEANING

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he swears there was something out there with me that night. something not human. trying to remember is like sewing dryer lint together. too many holes splitting apart. he said it was like all the lights went out. my lights. said i got up from bed in the middle of the night, took the milk and the thawed steak out the fridge. the rusty knife by the sink. who knows how much time elapsed, walking around with empty eyes. using my fingers without having to think.

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on monday at work ryan told us about a man who had killed his family while he was allegedly sleepwalking. i told him how mom put chimes on all the doors when i was a kid because i would leave the house and go outside. once, i went into the garage and sat in the car with the wrong set of keys. i dreamt mckenzie was teaching me how to drive. mom found the keys in the passenger side the next morning. in my dream we crashed into the front gate, smoke draining out the hood of her black mustang. i didn’t mention the time in california when mom heard me crying and woke up in the middle of the night. concerned, she walked across the hall to my bedroom where i was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out the window. when she called my name, i turned slowly to stare at her, saying nothing. lights off.

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medical professionals agree that you should never wake a sleepwalker. google tells me that no one knows for certain why we sleepwalk, but that it's genetic. like everything, it runs in the family. i know that he isnt telling me everything that happened that night. all i know is that he found me with red all over my hands. blood. he said that he carefully inspected my hands, arms, wrists. no cuts, blisters, bruises. nothing.