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Somehow it’s 3:00am again, and Isaac can’t hold back his tears for a second longer. He’d woken up some time around 1:00 -- he’d resisted the urge to check the time once he realized he was awake, hoping that not knowing would help him fall back asleep more quickly-- but once some time had passed and he realized it was futile, he heaved himself up and glanced at his alarm clock. 1:17. There’s school tomorrow, he thought, and then, fuck me.
It wasn’t like he ever had trouble falling asleep at a normal time. Most days, he could get in bed at 10 and be asleep by 10:15, and when his alarm clock went off in the morning, he was usually pretty clearheaded. But still, it was the witching hour, that middle-of-the-night fugue, when his own heartbeat synced up with the grandfather clock in the hallway and he would swear up and down that there was someone standing at the foot of his bed. When there were mouths in the shadows, arms up the walls-- that got him.
Plus, it’s Tuesday night, as if it couldn’t get any worse. The most liminal of all liminal times. Nothing to look forward to, and he’s already come down from the post-weekend positivity. He’s been pacing in circles, the time passing in syrupy seconds. He’s home alone-- thank God-- so at least he can play CDs, drown out the silence, startle at the static when the last track finishes. He doesn’t dare boot up his computer. He doesn’t want to know what comes out on the internet at 3:00am on a Tuesday night-- or Wednesday morning-- and he knows he won’t be able to stop himself from finding it if he goes down that rabbit hole.
He does try to fall back asleep when it happens. Of course he tries. Hiding under the covers like a child, promising this time, I just need to relax, I’ll do it this time, go to a safe place. Deep breaths. Count to ten, count to one hundred, count backwards in multiples of four. Isaac, imagine a barn, says his therapist, the one they brought him to when he was seven and so angry that he couldn’t walk, talk, breathe. Imagine yourself going up the ladder, counting the cows, counting the sheep, soft hay and soft sunlight.
And sometimes it works. Sometimes he can relax enough, shake off the frustration of being awake for just long enough to let his body start to fall back asleep. But the second it’s dark enough, the moment just before he slips, panic claws up his throat, and he’s out of control, he can’t see, he can’t breathe, he can’t get out. Every time. He’s trapped again. He’s sweating, freezing trapped, awake.
So this Tuesday night, this infuriatingly normal Tuesday night, normal for everyone but Isaac, this fucking freak, who can’t even fall asleep like a normal person, he can’t take it anymore. And he finally cries. Fine! Maybe it’ll help. Snap him out of it or something. He goes at himself, too, might as well, layering blood and bruises, seeing the shadows reflected on the bathroom tile. They’re always going on and on about releases, emotional releases or whatever the hell, and saying you’ll feel better when it’s out, and all that bullshit about listening to Sara McLaughlin.
Twenty minutes later, in a shocking turn of events, he feels worse. Well, he feels the same, just angrier, and more embarrassed. Stripped of dignity. He’s not even wearing a shirt anymore-- he’d torn it off while he was crying and overheating, trying to find more surface area, but now his arms are bristling with goosebumps and his torso feels so sore that he can’t make himself stand up from the bathroom floor.
He’s never felt so alone, and defeated, and his stomach hurts, his head hurts, the floor’s so cold and his head’s so hot. So, all decorum lost, he calls Scott.
What else was he going to do?
It rings a few times, goes to voicemail. Obviously. Fucking dumbass. Isaac drops the phone on the bathroom vanity, leans his head against the wall. Now there’ll be a missed call, and Scott will want to know what happened, and Isaac will have to tell him all about how he’s a child who can’t fucking fall asleep--
then his phone rings.
Just for something to do, honestly, he picks up. Can’t make himself say anything, so he just sits, phone to his ear, hoping.
“Isaac?”
It’s a woman. “Wrong number,” says Isaac, mildly, but stays on the phone anyway. His voice sounds weird in his ears, like he’s on an airplane. He sniffles, drags his hand across his eyes. His fingers feel swollen, pins and needles.
“No, this is Melissa. McCall. Isaac? Is that you?”
“Oh.” It takes him a second. “Oh. Shit. Sorry. Did I wake you up?”
“No! No, of course not. I just got back from the hospital. Just weird timing. Perfect timing, actually.” She’s slurring a little, rambling-- she must be almost as tired as he is.
“Where’s-- uh, I don’t want to be rude, but--”
“Scott’s sleeping over at Stiles’s. But he had to leave his phone and laptop here. He’s grounded.”
“But he went to a sleepover?”
“Grounded doesn’t include Stiles’s house. We gave up on that a long time ago.” Melissa laughs, but she’s clearly beat. “Sorry for surprising you. Just heard the phone ringing and thought it might be an emergency. But I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Oh, don’t be. Nothing wrong with bothering a teenage boy in the middle of the night. It’s not your fault you got his mom.” She laughs again, a single breath. “Well, good night.”
“Good night.”
Isaac can hear her breathing still, waiting for him to hang up.
“Are you still there?” he says finally.
“Yeah, I’m here,” she says, and her voice goes down at the end of the sentence, and he can tell she’s picked up on something in his voice that he can’t hide anymore, not at this point in the night, something that makes him feel like he’s shrinking inside and, softening, crumbling.
“Oh. Sorry,” he manages.
“For what, honey?”
And the honey splits something wide open inside him, something that’s been sore and aching for the past three hours, looking for an excuse to break. “I just--” Suddenly, his face crumples, and he makes an involuntary noise, halfway between a hiccup and a sob. “I can’t sleep. I just wanted to talk.”
Isaac hears Melissa shift on the other end of the phone, practically sees her straighten and focus, assessing, preparing. “I can talk.”
“I just wasn’t feeling good. I don’t-- I don’t know what to do.”
“Are you sick?”
“No. I don’t think so.” He can’t stop his voice from wavering, and he knows he should hate it, but he doesn’t have the energy or dignity to care. “I’m just tired.”
“Oh, baby.”
“Sorry. It’s fine.”
“I’m honored that you called my idiot son in your time of need,” she says, teasingly, but gently. “Do you need help? Do you want to sleep here?”
“No, it’s okay. Sorry.”
“Isaac, I can come get you.”
Isaac can barely speak around the lump in his throat, the hot tears welling in his eyes. “I’m okay.”
“I’ve got my shoes on still. Engine’s probably not even cool yet.”
“No, please. Really. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t, baby.” Melissa swallows. “You didn’t. Don’t apologize. I’ll be there in ten.”
“Okay.”
“Do you need me to stay on the phone?”
He closes his eyes, and the darkness is a dull throb. “No.”
“Hang in there. You’re going to be okay.”
“I know.” But he’s crying again, full tears and sobs, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “Okay,” he chokes out, for some reason. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Hang on.” He hears her car start.
Later, Isaac meets her in the foyer, and by then he’s just a pile of sweat and bones, swallowed up by the cotton-mouthed ache of being awake too late and trying not to cry for too long and being so alone that it hurts. She’s saying something about oh, Isaac, look at you, poor kid, and she can see the bruises, cuts, scrapes on his arms and torso but she doesn’t even react, doesn’t punish, doesn’t yell, just softly touches the blood, lifts him into his room, sits him on his bed and holds him. Before he knows it, he’s clinging to her jacket, burying his face in the fabric while sobs scrape their way out of his throat. I’m here, we’re here, we’ve got you here, she says, but it’s not enough, it’s not enough, I don’t want to stay, which he says out loud, and she doesn’t even flinch, just says I know, baby. Eventually, he takes a real breath. She gets him water and presses a wet washcloth on his forehead, then watches him drain the glass. By then it’s past 4:00-- the sun’s threatening to come up, and finally, Isaac lies back, stinging, aching, Melissa’s cool hand on his back, moving in light circles.
Thank you, he wants to say, and she hears it somehow, because she whispers that you don’t have to be sorry and you’re safe and you’re going to be okay, and somehow, awfully, magically, when he finally relaxes, finally feels safe enough to face the world and stay awake, finally feels okay, ready, grateful-- Isaac falls asleep.