Sleep Peacefully
Authors: NC Marshall
Sleep Peacefully
Copyright © NC Marshall 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be
reproduced in any form other than in which it was purchased and without the
written permission of the author.
Contents
My
last intention is to scare you. I wish you no more pain than you have already
suffered, but this is the only way I know how.
Remember
when we were kids? You would take my hand and lead me to wherever we were
going. I would follow you without question, mirroring your every move, trusting
your judgement and knowing that you would get me to our destination safely.
Well,
now it’s my turn to lead you.
You
should see it here, it’s just like everyone imagines, but better. Only, I can’t
explore this place in the way I should without your help. I am trapped, and
feel as though I have metal shackles tying me to a world I should no longer be
a part of.
Please
trust me, and let me show you. Because if you open your eyes and take a good
look, you will see what is there in front of you, and always has been. You will
see the truth...
It’s
the night that I will always remember as if it were yesterday. I can still
recite every moment, running it through my mind like scenes extracted from a
well-written play. I can recall every last detail with remarkable clarity.
Unfortunately, though, this wasn’t a play; there was no set, no cast or props, and
I had no understudy to step in and seamlessly take my place if required. This
was reality. It was my reality, it was my life, and in less than ten minutes
time it was going to change forever.
It
was approaching the middle of January, the tenth to be exact. It was the early
hours of the morning following the coldest day we had experienced in a while,
and had just turned twenty-three minutes past two. I knew this because I hadn’t
slept a wink. I’d been awake all night, with an awful dose of a winter flu bug
that had struck everyone I knew. I’d had it for a number of days, but it wasn’t
easing in its ferocity and I couldn’t seem to shake it. Even though the
temperature in the room had dropped drastically since I’d gone to bed a few
hours earlier, I lay with the covers thrown back, hot and bothered, growing
increasingly more aggravated.
The
illuminated digital numbers on the clock next to me gradually increased. I lay
watching them slowly roll by, the seconds crawling forward one by one. I
counted them silently as they passed, wishing them to move faster so that the
daylight would break and the long night would be over.
I
wriggled my body, trying to loosen my aching muscles, then shifted from the
cramped-up position that I had adopted, moving my legs and spreading them out
across the other side of the double bed, which was cold and empty. I was alone
that night; my husband had been working away that week, like he often did. It
didn’t bother me, not anymore, I was now used to sleeping alone. My arm had
gone dead from staying in the same position for too long. I removed it from
underneath my pillow and wiggled it, resulting in a rush of pins and needles
running from my elbow to my fingertips.
I’d
pretty much given up on the idea of getting any rest at all that night, and had
been contemplating going downstairs to get myself a hot toddy. It was a cold
and flu remedy that my dad had always sworn by. The welcome haze of alcohol
induced slumber seemed appealing, and I was just about to make a move when my mobile
phone rang from somewhere beside me.
I
glanced once again at the clock. It was two-thirty a.m. on the dot, and even
though I was wide awake, the shrill tone of the phone ringing out into the
silence still made me jumpy. I searched around, blind in the darkness, moving
my hands in the direction of the sound, and eventually found the phone buried
under the bedclothes.
I
remember squinting my eyes at the caller display, its brightness making my
vision go momentarily blurry. However, my eyesight quickly returned to normal,
enabling me to make out the caller's identity; it was Matt, my brother-in-law.
Before I even held the phone to my ear, a terrible and gut-wrenching feeling of
dread hit me. It was almost as if I’d half-guessed his reason for calling. Of course,
there was no way I could have possibly known. I hesitated a few seconds and
tried to clear my throat before I finally answered.
“Hello,”
I whispered, my voice croaky. My throat felt like I’d swallowed a pint of
broken glass as I spoke. The line was silent. I was just about to hang up,
assuming that Matt had called my mobile by mistake, when I heard the faint
sound of breathing coming from the other side of the line.
“Matt,
is that you? What’s wrong?” I felt myself physically tense up, my whole body freezing
from head to toe as I waited for his reply.
“Natalie,
something’s happened, it’s Jess, she...” Matt stopped mid-sentence and paused
for a while before he continued. It was obvious something was terribly wrong.
His voice barely resembled the one I knew, his words coming out rushed and
muddled. I could tell he was in shock. I waited. He was trying to speak while
choking back quiet sobs. He wasn’t making a lot of sense at first. Then he
managed to compose himself a little and said three words that hit me like a
forceful blow, three simple words that I won’t ever forget.
“Jess
is dead.”
I
remember thinking I’d misheard him at first, surely I had? But then the
harshness of reality kicked in, and I knew I hadn’t. My left hand shot up to
cover my mouth, desperately trying to hold back a scream that threatened to
escape from my lips. My right hand lost its grip on the phone and it dropped to
the floor. It landed silently on the carpet face down. I could still hear the
sound of Matt’s muffled, distraught voice coming up from it.
I
pinched at my bare arms, digging my nails deep into my skin, desperate to wake
myself from the nightmare I had entered. In the dim light, I could see the
marks I had created, but I didn’t wake up, I
couldn’
t wake up. Putting
my hands over my ears, I shook my head, trying to block out the sound
of
Matts's voice.
This can’t be happening. I’m dreaming, I must be dreaming.
Wake up Nat, for God's sake wake up!
Reluctantly,
I removed my hands from my ears, my already foggy head grew heavier, and the
bedroom started to swim around me. Everything felt strangely dreamlike and
progressed in slow motion. My lungs were burning and my heart hammered at
lightning quick speed. I clenched my chest, trying to inhale more air, I felt
as though I couldn’t get enough, as though my airways had closed up.
I'm
going to stop breathing. Do something!
After
a few moments of frantically trying to catch my breath, I reached down to
retrieve the phone. But as I did I knocked over a full jug of water from the
bedside cabinet, which was still there from my bedridden day before. It fell to
the floor, some spilled out over my bare feet and the remainder settled in a
large pool near them. I steadied myself against the bed, blood pounding in my
ears and stood up shakily, feeling lightheaded. I tried to move my legs, but my
knees buckled and I wobbled backwards. Eventually, I found my balance, rooted
my feet to the spot, and bent down to scoop up the phone. Pressing it back to
my ear, I prepared myself for what Matt had called to tell me.
Jess
had fallen from a cliff top earlier that night. The police had shown up at
Matt’s apartment shortly after discovering her body on the rocks below. Her
handbag and ID hadn’t been far from where she had landed, so it had been easy
to contact her next of kin.
I
think he told me more, he’d gone into detail about what the police believed had
happened, but at that point I couldn’t take in any further information. My
brain had stopped working, it simply couldn’t absorb anything else. My little
sister was dead.
I
can’t recall much after that brief conversation with Matt. After I hung up I
remember feeling totally numb. I’d slid to the floor, sitting cross-legged on
the wet patch of carpet near the bed. Water soaked up through the thin material
of my pyjama bottoms, but I remained in the same position, staring at a blank
space on the wall of the room, unable to move. My skin felt cold and damp, and
my body shook profusely.
The
almost full moon outside shone brightly through a gap in the curtains, creating
a perfectly straight line of white light, which settled on a chair at the far
side of the room. For a brief moment, I even thought I saw her. Jess. She was
sitting on the chair, her posture relaxed, with one foot up on the seat tucked
under her leg and her head cocked to the side, as if carefully studying my
state of despair. A look of concern clouded her delicately featured face. I
shook my head and she disappeared.
I
sat there in the dark for quite a while before realising that I was going to
have to call my mum. Matt had found it hard enough to tell me; he wasn’t going
to be making any other calls. My hands trembled violently as I tried to find
her number on my phone. I was still conscious enough to know that it was my
responsibility to alert the rest of my family about Jess’s death.
After
two botched attempts at making the call I was successful. Mum answered on the
third ring, and I took a deep breath to steady my voice before I slowly started
to tell her that her youngest daughter was dead. To this day, it’s the most
difficult thing I've ever had to do.
We
soon found out that Jess was drinking heavily that night. She had been going
through a few personal problems at the time, and turning to drink to kill the
pain wasn’t out of character for her. The police had carried out a brief
investigation, but nothing suspicious was found. They believed that she had
been up on the cliffs alone, probably just walking, which she used to do on a
regular basis so it was nothing out of the ordinary. She would have been
unsteady on her feet under the influence of alcohol, and had roamed too close
to the cliff edge. The surface there was very unstable and she could have
easily lost her footing, sending her into a sheer drop to the rocks below.
For
over eight months now, I have lived with the pain and persistent torture
brought on from losing my sister that night. For all this time, I have had no
reason to believe that her death was anything more than a tragic accident...
until now.
1
I
awake to a bright mid-September morning. The sun is shining through the dipped
venetian blinds and casts an almost-blinding glow against the white cotton bed
sheets I am wrapped tightly in. I turn over onto my side, stifling a yawn, and
rub my eyes. My neck is stiff from the position I’ve been sleeping in. I move
it from side to side, trying to loosen the knots which have developed, while
attempting to focus on the time shown on the clock sitting on my bedside table.
Did
I dream last night? If I had, then the warmth of the morning sunshine must have
washed away the memories. I am instantly grateful that I can’t remember, at
least not yet anyway. I know the memories of the dream will most likely return
to me at some time later in the day. They always do.
I
glance out of the bedroom window down towards the driveway below. Dan’s car
isn’t there, I must have just missed him. I’m surprised by the fact that I must
have been sleeping so soundly that I hadn’t even heard him get dressed and
leave for work.
After
getting out of bed and padding across the thick carpet, I pull a dressing gown
off the back of the bedroom door and throw it on.
Once
out in the hall, I peer into the bedroom next door to ours. Our son Josh lies
spread across his whole bed. His little body is clothed in red pyjamas, a
picture of a cartoon dog sits in the centre of his small chest. The bedclothes
that he had been wrapped in have now been kicked free, and lay in a crumpled
heap at the foot of the bed. He clutches tightly onto a giant stuffed blue dinosaur
that is taking up as much room as he is. The sun beams in from the large window
and through the thin voile curtains behind his head, making his already light
blonde hair look white. I’m not surprised he’s still flat out as he’d endured a
full-on day yesterday at his friend’s birthday party. Five-year-old kids do
have a lot of energy! I gently close the door and decide to let him sleep a
little longer before I wake him to dress for school.
I
creep downstairs and go into the kitchen, switching on the coffee maker as I
walk past, then head to the fridge to find the milk, and grab a mug sitting on
the drainer. I am not capable of functioning on a Monday morning, or indeed any
other morning without a strong cup of coffee inside me to start the day. The kitchen
smells of a mixture of burnt toast, strong coffee and remnants of Dan’s musky
scented body spray. I smile as I see a note stuck onto the front of the fridge,
secured with our son’s multicoloured alphabet magnets:
GOOD LUCK, KNOCK EM DEAD, XXX
The
words have been scribbled across the paper in large letters, written in pale
blue crayon. Dan’s messy handwriting is easy to recognise. This was a perfectly
normal method of communication for my husband; over the eight years that we
have been married, I’ve had numerous notes posted in various locations around
the house. Usually, these are reminders to pay the gas bill or buy bread, that
sort of thing. Although I would class myself as an organised person, I have the
worst memory for mundane day to day tasks. This one, however, is a good luck
message for the job interview that I have later on today. I smile to myself
again, mindlessly stirring my coffee and start to open cupboards to prepare
breakfast.
Although
the interview isn’t until later this afternoon, I already feel anxious. I put a
hand on my stomach and rub it, pressing hard in a circular motion, attempting
to disperse the butterflies I can feel flying around inside its walls. I
haven’t worked for over five years. I resigned from my full-time job as a
personal assistant when I was seven months pregnant with Josh. Since then, my
work has been looking after Josh as a full-time mum and housewife.
I
enjoyed my job before I left. I know not a lot of people can say that they like
their chosen profession, but it’s true, and I do feel lucky for this fact. I
had been a personal assistant to Stephanie Coleman for almost six years. Steph
had been, and still is, the senior editor of a well-known fashion magazine, and
was a great boss to work for. I learnt a great deal from her over the years
that we worked together. However, after a lot of deliberating, I eventually
made the decision to resign and focus on raising our son.
Now
that Josh has started school full time I already feel a bit of a loss, surplus
to requirement in many ways, I suppose. So, when my friend Kate told me of an
opening for a personal assistant at the marketing firm her sister works at, I
jumped at the opportunity. I quickly submitted an application form and was
offered an interview a few days later.
It’s
not that we are desperate for the extra income, that's not what it's about. I
need something to keep my mind occupied, as these days I find that if it isn’t
firmly focused it will stray, usually onto things that I don’t want to think
about. I’m glad I have been lucky enough to spend every day with my son for the
past five years. As he grows, and his personality and traits develop, so does
the love I have for him. Josh will always be my number one priority and has
been since the day he was born.
As
if reading my mind, a little voice behind me breaks through my thoughts.
“Hi
Mummy,” says a still sleepy Josh. I look through to the dining room where he
stands. He’s holding onto the back of a dining chair with his little hand. The
giant blue dinosaur is still clutched firmly in the other, its long spiked tail
trailing the floor. I can see he has attempted to dress himself for school this
morning; his socks are odd, and his school uniform sweatshirt is on inside out.
My son’s bright blue eyes look at me intensely.
“Well,
good morning sleepy head!” I say, moving towards him. “So good of you to join
us this morning.”
Josh
giggles and dramatically hoists himself onto the chair, picking up the glass of
orange juice that I have already placed on the table for him. I put down his
breakfast and he tucks in hungrily, preparing himself for the day ahead.
*
A
short while later I drop Josh off at school, waving to his bright smiling face
as he enthusiastically disappears through the school entrance, joined by his
new teacher, Mrs Johnson, who he has taken an instant shine to. From what I
understand the feeling is mutual. My heart flutters as I climb back into the
car and start the ignition. I can remember the day he was born so vividly, it’s
as if it were only yesterday.
He
had been a month premature and so tiny and fragile, it's hard to believe when I
look at him now. He has grown into such an independent little boy, with the
nerve and courage to tackle anything that comes his way. Those are parts of his
personality which I’m sure he must have got from his dad.
I
suddenly imagine my son going off to university, meeting the girl of his dreams
and then leaving home to start a family of his own. It’s silly, as I know that
that is miles off in the future, but time is passing too rapidly. He is growing
too quickly, and I worry that I will blink and miss a second of it.
*
I
arrive home and hurriedly jump into the shower to start getting ready for this
afternoon. I want to try to leave as early as possible. My interview isn’t
until two, but I know that it will take me at least half an hour to get into
the city, and I don’t want to heighten my already raging nerves by arriving
late.
After
my shower, I dry my hair and then start to apply my makeup while practicing
answers to some of the questions that I am likely to be asked in the interview.
Once my makeup is on, I change into a plain black trouser suit and a cream lace
blouse with short sleeves. I put on my jacket and reluctantly pick out a pair
of black heels, which, to be fair, are possibly a bit too high, but they make
me look tall, which I feel might give me a little more confidence.
Once
I finish getting dressed, I stand in front of the full-length mirror in our
bedroom and study the reflection that stares back at me. My dark blonde hair
has lightened quite considerably; probably due to all those sunny park outings
that I spent with Josh over the school summer holidays. I still have a slight
tan from our family holiday in Santorini back in August, which gives my face a
healthy glow and makes me look slightly younger than my thirty-five years. My
hair lies on my shoulders in a natural wave, and my large eyes are a deep
hazel; a constant and painful reminder of the girl who used to be my sister. My
eyes start once again to fill with tears as I reach for a tissue and dab
fiercely at them so that my makeup doesn’t get ruined.
Jess
had only been twenty-nine when she died. There had been a five year age gap
between us, but the resemblance confirmed us as sisters. Jess had
poker-straight golden blonde hair which had hung way down past her shoulders.
I’d always kept my hair cropped much shorter, and it was a naturally deeper
shade of blonde. We were both petite, but Jess had been a few inches taller
than me in height and had a much more slender body than my own. However, our
mannerisms and facial features, our eyes in particular, were a dead giveaway to
the fact that we were related.
I
shrug off those thoughts as I don’t want to get worked up. I have an interview
in a little over an hour, and I need to stay focused. I want this job, and feel
that if I keep a level head and try to boost up my self-confidence levels, I
have as good a shot as the next person. I grab my handbag and steady myself on
my heels against the wooden floors as I head downstairs and down the hallway,
then out into the mild September air.
*
I
keep the car radio on as loud as I can bear all the way to the city centre. I
tap to the beat of the music on the steering wheel while singing along to the
songs, hoping it will help keep my mind off the fast approaching interview and
push me to relax a little. I can feel my stomach churning as I get closer to
the city, closer to the now virtually inevitable. I start to question what the
hell I think I’m doing, and then immediately scold myself for the self-doubt.
The
traffic is surprisingly light considering the time of day, so the trip doesn’t
take long, and I luckily manage to find a parking space close to where I need
to be. After climbing out of the car and paying for a ticket, I grab my handbag
from the back seat along with a leather bound folder and notepad, which I bury
under my arm in an attempt to look as professional as I can.
I
head towards the main business sector of the city where the company is based,
and take a shortcut down a narrow cobbled alleyway. I pass a small cafe that
Jess and I used to visit regularly. There’s a brief pang of jealousy while
looking at the women sitting inside, loosening up and chatting lazily amongst
themselves. They’re most likely sharing private jokes and exchanging juicy
gossip as we had once done. I tear away my stare, bow my head towards the
pavement and carry on walking towards the tallest office block directly ahead.
The
sky is becoming very dark as I approach the massive glass doors of Wallis and
Spoors Marketing, a stark difference to the bright sun and cloudless blue sky
from only a few hours before. This morning’s weather report had said heavy rain
storms were heading our way, and I am only now starting to trust the prognosis.
I can see the reflection of the looming grey clouds behind me in the glass
panels as I swing open the heavy door. After stealing a quick glance at my
watch, I head over to the large reception desk; it’s nearly one-forty. Perfect,
that should give me time to find where I need to go, and try to train myself
how to breathe like a normal human being again before the interview begins.
At
the desk, I am greeted by a miserable-looking receptionist. I catch her
attention and flash my most brilliant smile.
“Hello,
my name is Natalie Parker. I’m here for an interview with Mr Wallis at two
o’clock,” I say in a hopefully confident tone, not allowing the smile leave my
face.
The
receptionist doesn’t even bother looking up from a state-of-the-art flat screen
monitor in front of her.
“Seventh
floor in waiting room number two,” she responds uninterested. At the same time,
she stands and turns towards a metal filing cabinet, then hands me a pen and
visitor note. I fill in my details with a slightly shaky hand, and she provides
me with a pass holder and lanyard to put around my neck. This clearly states
that I am a visitor, and therefore makes me feel even more out of place than I
already do.
“Thank
you so much for your help,” I answer, in an overly sarcastic tone that I can’t
resist. The telephone rings and she turns away to answer it, not even managing
to give me a second glance.
That was
a
superb first impression,
I
think to myself as I turn and head towards the lifts situated at the opposite
side of a massive expanse of gleaming marble floor.
I
sit in the waiting room, fidgeting like crazy. I can’t seem to stay still, and
my heart is racing at an abnormal level. I can sense myself getting hot as my
nerves increase. Irritated, I tug at the collar of my blouse and try to steady
my rapidly tapping foot.
Come on, Nat, pull yourself together.
The room
is as strikingly modern as the rest of the building's interior, with gleaming
floors and plush chrome furniture facing massive floor to ceiling windows which
look out over the bustling city below. I spot a small coffee machine standing
in the corner and notice I still have fifteen minutes to spare, enough time to
throw back a quick coffee, I’m sure.