Brightside

Brightside

My brain takes a minute to transition from dreaming to reality. It’s an uncanny experience even though you would expect me to be used to it by now.

Clear droplets fall from the edge of the kitchen sink and my toes are pressed in a puddle of warm liquid.

A moment ago, the repetitive buzzing sound from my bedroom was a civil defense siren, warning me of a hazardous leak from a nuclear power plant and that the whole world was about to explode.

Storages of volatile uranium had become unstable. A nuclear chain reaction was about to occur. The end of humanity. Flesh and bone instantly turned to carbon.

A recording of a woman’s voice was repeating over the loudspeakers in the city’s crumbling skyline. The prevailing wind direction.

Chances of precipitation from the dark skies, clouded with nuclear fallout—the radioactive residue that remains in the atmosphere.

For those not in the general vicinity of the blast, it’s radiation sickness—exposure to ionizing gamma rays.

Be on the lookout for symptoms such as nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite, hair loss, and skin lesions. Bodies melt and fall apart within days.

In reality, the only thing that has sprung a leak is me. The noise is becoming even less obnoxious now that I realize that it’s only my alarm clock.

The woman’s voice is from the television, the weather highlights from the Channel-6 friendly forecaster, Sierra Preston.

Today is going to be cold. Winter isn’t over yet. But later this afternoon, the sun will ease some of these bitter temperatures.

There’s no surprise here. This was bound to happen. It’s something I’ve experienced my entire life. Something I’ve grown accustomed to preparing for.

Noctambulism—Sleepwalking.

My vision focuses. The light from the windows seems brighter than usual. There’s no threat of death from a nuclear explosion but I fear something just as awful—I’m going to be late.

My white boxer shorts are crumpled around my ankles and soaked in yellow. The floor is bare, and my toes are numb and turning red from the cold surface. The bottom of my white V-neck T-shirt is the only thing covering my limp private part.

There’s a reason you’re not supposed to wake someone while they’re sleepwalking. Some people believe that it’s harmful to them, but the truth is that it takes time for the consciousness to resurface from the subconscious.

During that time, the dreamer might react as if they’re still experiencing whatever scenario they have playing in their heads.

It’s like stepping into a cold shower. You have to let the water warm up gradually. Otherwise, it can be somewhat uncomfortable. For some, it takes no longer than a few seconds. For others like me, it may take a minute or so.

Rushing through the hall, I’m careful to remove my clothes and not to let anything drip from them. I toss my soiled garments into the hamper and turn the knob on the shower’s faucet. As far as adjusting the temperature, there’s no time for me to wait. It’s like bathing in ice water but the more I shiver, the faster I scrub and rinse.

It’s not until I’m finished and ready to step out that it becomes warm enough to tolerate. My skin hasn’t completely dried before I put on a pair of clean white boxers and black dress socks.

The translucent plastic sheet draped over the television blurs the weather map on the screen. In addition to the other tarps from the couch and tables, I roll them together and toss the wad into the kitchen closet. My pantry has shelves stocked with spray bottles of all-purpose cleaners, rolls of paper towels, and stacks of drop cloths. There are no rugs on the floor. The hard surfaces are okay to leave uncovered because they’re easier to clean.

Last night while lying in bed, just as I was about to doze off, there was a jolt that shot through my body.

A hypnic jerk—The reaction to the sense of one falling.

It doesn’t happen often, but it’s my warning sign that I’m going to wake up some place other than where I fell asleep. When this myoclonic jerk happens, I have to force myself to get up. All the furniture, carpets, and appliances have to be covered in plastic before I crawl back into bed.

This is about as much as I can do to prevent soiling anything.

Nocturnal polyuria—Urinating while asleep.

When I was younger, around the age of ten, I came into my parent’s bedroom in the middle of the night. My mother tells me I didn’t answer when she asked what I needed. Standing there, staring at the covers, I pulled my pants down and peed a steady stream into her open purse that lay on the floor.

“Felix Sherman Hines,” she said, trying to wake me. “You’re making a mess!”

In my head, Mom’s purse was a black bowling ball with a sparking fuse that was burning down to the explosives inside. It needed to be extinguished. There was limited time to intervene a deadly explosion.

In reality, I snatched her purse from the floor and ran to the bathroom, tossing it and all of its contents into the toilet. Her cosmetic compact let out tiny bubbles until it filled with enough water to sink and came to rest at the bottom next to her wallet and some coin change.

Luckily, this morning, my shriveled super-soaker had been aiming at the kitchen sink. Oddly enough, my sleeping brain knows to inform my body where it’s not allowed to pee. If something is protected with plastic, it never becomes a target. Had I left the television uncovered, somehow my other brain would have thought it needed a dousing.

My electric razor, as well as my toothbrush, hair comb, and other toiletries, are kept on top of the medicine cabinet. I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach them. If they were stored at closer range, they could also become candidates for aiming practice.

Shaving is something I’ll need to do in the car today, since time is working against me. There are two minutes I set aside each morning for brushing my teeth. However, that time will have to be shortened. I could brush them while getting dressed but it’s important not to make a mess of my clothes.

One of my dress socks is shorter than the other. But finding a pair that matches and changing into them will set me back at least a minute. This is time I need to spend wiping up the puddles left in the kitchen.

It’s not so much the mess that bothers me. Cleaning up is easy. But sometimes a scent can get stuck in your head and stick with you for hours to come.

Hyperosmia—a heightened sense of smell.

This pee problem isn’t something that I’m proud of. It’s something that I live with for now, something that I’m able to manage, something I was told I would outgrow.

There’s a long running prescription I’ve had stashed away for this ailment. I don’t like to take it often because of its side effects. Well, general effects really.

These tiny, purple pastel pills reduce the body’s ability to pee. Take one before bed.

I’m not completely cured but since these incidents don’t happen as often, I don’t take the pills regularly.

This morning, the bottle seems a little light. It doesn’t rattle when I shake it and I pop off the top to see that it’s empty.

This matters because it’s important.

I have to rid myself of this disorder. To have any kind of relationship or normal life, I have to free myself of it. I make a mental note to call in a refill.

According to the clock, I only have fifteen minutes to get to work. My arrival time has to be perfect. It has nothing to do with my attendance record and nothing to do with getting into trouble.

But there’s something I have to do.
Something I have to check on.
Something I have to verify.

And if I don’t arrive at just the right moment, if I walk in a second too early or too late, everything will be ruined.