Memoirs of a Violent Sleeper

by Matt Micheli

Prologue

All of my life I have been tormented, well for at least the last twenty years of it. Tormented by ones closest to me for things that I have done unknowingly, unwillingly, and from what I’ve heard, uncontrollably.

Bad things.

Things I’ve been informed of by eye witnesses, viewers, and on- lookers, but never have actually seen or felt for myself.

Stupid things.

Funny, ridiculous things that you can laugh at others for doing.  You say to yourself, what the hell? This guy’s loony. Or, you can laugh at yourself if you put yourself in the shoes of the people that randomly catch you committing these shameless acts. All that I know is I don’t get there until the aftermath is being reviewed, the crime scene is being investigated, the crime reenacted, and the damages accounted for. This is typically when the embarrassment sets in.  A mixture of laughter and sighs of disappointment come from various directions towards you.

Scary things.

It’s hard to think of yourself as perfectly normal when everyone around you tells you that you’re not.  They look at you like you’re some sort of monster. A weirdo that can’t help it. With fear and concern they look at you.  It’s like how a pet dog would look at a small, harmless child knowing that he’s about to get dressed up, and played roughly with as if he was a non-living, inanimate toy.  Awkward smiles try to mask their disappointment. Their eyes display some sort of uncomfortable pity towards you. You don’t feel normal; you feel different.

Through my own looking glass perception, I am definitely not normal. But the reasons why I am not normal, I can’t exactly explain for myself. I can only listen to others, the witnesses of my spastic occurrences, and hope for a better understanding of what it is, exactly, that I do that propels the people that make up my life, to look at me the way they do...with pity.

 

Chapter 1

“You’re sleeping in your own bed tonight mister,” my mother sternly states as if I’ve done something terribly wrong. I’ve heard her use that tone with my brother in the past. Those times always resulted in a good old lashing, or at least him getting grounded, but never had she used that particular tone with me, that tone that leaves you frozen in fear. Uh oh. I was not looking forward to see where this would lead. Mom picks up a shirt off the floor and tosses it in the hamper and quickly leaves the room.

“Come get breakfast.” The words leave her mouth, enter the hallway and eventually reach me as she walks away.

I sit there for a minute stalling, but then realize, that will do no good. My parents always get their man. I have to go face the day, and face whatever reason my mother is so upset.

The little encounter with mom makes my trip down the stairs an uncomfortable one, to say the least. I hold onto the wooden railing as I make my way down, one step at a time. I slowly reach for the dark stained, wooden ball on the lower end of the staircase. I use the ball to swing myself off the stairs and onto the cold, brown, moist-feeling tile, still damp feeling from the cement below. I continue grasping the wooden ball absorbing through my hand the different textures of sanded, and un-sanded, wood grain finish giving me time to contemplate my next move. The ball is my safe hold for the moment.

Looking from one side of the house to the other, there are pictures of family portraits and paintings. The dark, aging wood and golden frames holding more pictures, and more paintings, from wall to wall. They go up the staircase, and into the hall, and back down again. There are more pictures than wall space. Imagine your grandmother’s house if she were a starving artist, lunatic, frame maker. Then make it darker, and definitely more cluttered, with curtains and draperies hanging over most of the windows. The smell of old dust clogs your senses.

Wondering if I am going to get yelled at, or even worse, spanked, I start to panic. I try furiously to remember if I pissed the bed. Wait, what am I talking about? I’m seven years old. I haven’t pissed the bed in years. I’m cautious, but why? Did my brother rat me out for something I’ve done, or put the blame on me for something I haven’t? Maybe he’s trying to cover his tracks? Or maybe he framed me intentionally. I’m thinking the latter. He gets his kicks from seeing me get mine. The faint, un-comprehendible sound of the morning news is coming from around the corner. The garbles clearing up, and loudening, as I move onward. I make my way towards my destination. Barefoot, the cold, slick ice-like tile soaks in through my dry, tough foot bottoms.

My feet are so tough from running barefoot on the hot, black tar asphalt during the summer months.  A  favorite game of mine is to run on the asphalt ‘till I simply couldn’t stand the burning pain.

Reminiscent to walking on hot coal.

Reminiscent to inflicting a great deal of pain to yourself for no real reason, or reward.   But, you do get some cool, black calluses on your foot bottoms. It makes total sense.

Looking at He-Man looking back at me from my favorite He-Man pajamas, I start to regain my composure. I am once again ready to eat my breakfast in confidence, thinking that mom maybe hadn’t meant anything by what she had said. Or maybe she just wants me to sleep in my own bed, in my own bedroom. Just maybe, my limp ninety-eight degree body, lodged in between mom and dad, wedged in between them like a sweaty, clammy, jumbo-size wiener in a small deli style bun coming up and out the ends, doesn’t exactly provide them with a pristine sleep environment. Just maybe I ruin their comfortable, eight hours of, what should be peaceful, cell rebuilding, rejuvenating sleep. Or, just maybe, I’m too fudging old to sleep with my mommy and daddy. Maybe it’s time that I start to think that that sort of thing…a seven year old kid still wanting to sleep in between his parents, is just a wee bit creepy.

The early morning sun shines onto me through the windows, illuminating me. It is shining between the curtains, spotlighting me, warming my half-numb, half- asleep face.  My eyes squint due to them not being prepared for such a vast display of morning sunlight. I continue on my path knowing that the table is only a few moments away, right around the corner, into the light.

I hear forks, and other metal eating utensils, scraping ceramic plates. There are sounds of cups and glasses being lifted off an old, wooden table, sipping and swallowing. Then comes the sound of enamel teeth entering the crusty, half burnt, charred outer layer of toast, then being tossed about and chewed ferociously; the toast being a small lifeboat battling sky scraper tall waves, in a violent ocean during a hurricane storm. The toast being thrown from fang to molar, back and forth, left to right, for several seconds, only until more teeth invade the toast’s blackened, hard protective shell. The smoky smell of bacon and maple syrup combine, mixing together, forming the ultimate nose sanctuary…nose Heaven.

Breakfast. A seven-year old kid’s drug of choice.

My anticipation builds as I make my way to the table.

“There’s the little perv now,” my brother cynically spouts.

“Davey! Your Breakfast.” Mom looks over at him. She looks through him as if to say shut your mouth Davey.  The burning intensity of her piercing eyes burns a hole right through my mean, older brother. It works as his eyes look down to his plate, and breakfast resumes.

Davey’s a typical twelve year old brother. He’s got short cut hair, combed forward. There are bits and fragments of adult hormones hitting his bloodstream as he begins to enter puberty. He thinks he’s a man because he’s showing signs of underarm hair growth. He always talks about how cool he is, except when he’s talking about how lame I am. He has quite a collection of porno magazines, hidden under his bed, which he brings out when his jerk buddies are over. He’s a typical twelve year old. My typical, shithead brother, nor anyone else at the table says another word as I prop my elbows up on the table.

Sitting at the head of the table, dad is engulfed in the bad news, terrible news, of others reading headlines, and more headlines, of others’ misfortunes. Murders, robberies, a world at war, stocks crashing, interest rates and other boring adult lingo no seven-year old kid would ever want to read. He’s holding his Express Newspaper, folded over in one hand, toast in the other, eating and reading all at once. Smoke is rising from his fresh, just topped off by mom, steaming hot cup of coffee. Sitting directly in front of him, the cup displays to all that he is the world’s #1 Dad.

King of his throne.

King of our castle.

“Morning dad,” I say. His eyes don’t come out from behind the paper that is consuming him. There is no acknowledgement to my good morning gesture.

I look over at Betsy sitting behind her bowl of Fruity Oh’s, red, green, yellow miniature, processed donuts floating on the milky surface. She snickers and nervously looks down, away from me, avoiding any eye contact with the freak boy across the table from her. Her fiendish grin prolongs as she stares down at the table in front of her, staring through it, obviously thinking of something other than the table; something involving me. Through her grin, I almost sense a little bit of embarrassment for me. Betsy focuses on some deranged vision in her head laughing under her breath.

I feel all eyes directed on me but, not looking directly at me. Inquisitive, mocking, stares of embarrassment flow towards me from all sides. Not one will dare make eye contact with me. I feel dad’s shame burning through the paper that is consuming him. I turn to face mom, then Betsy, then mom again. Their eyes immediately go down, away from mine, avoiding all eye contact with me; the son, the brother, the filthy beast. Suddenly, that uncomfortable, unnerving feeling I had, just a few moments prior, has returned; returned with a scary vengeance. My stomach drops out under me. I feel like I’m riding back seat in a speeding car, going up and down over small, smooth hills on a hilly, uneven road.

And with that, the thought of eating, savoring my heavenly breakfast is gone; vanishing without a trace. The smoky smell of crisp bacon and sweet maple syrup now nauseates me. I feel completely alone, left out on some sick joke that every one else, every one else in the world, knows about and understands but me. Mocked and hated, I feel left for dead. I’m naked in the middle of class and the bell sounds. I am terrified, afraid and ashamed. But why? What have I done?

 

 

 

Memoirs of a Violent Sleeper

A twisted story of violence and defecation and how even the darkest side of love can illuminate all.

Steven suffers from an extremely rare and scary sleep disorder that causes sufferers to violently and physically act out their brain's dreams. Ever since his first bizarre, embarrassing occurrence at the age of seven, he has felt isolated, alone and crying out for the love and acceptance from his family, yet pushing them further and further away. His extreme fear of commitment, and anxiety, fueled by this embarrassing disorder sends him into a dangerous world of strippers, prostitutes, drugs and alcohol. That is until Gina walks into his life. With a cast of quirky characters, a satirical and funny look on society, and beyond, Memoirs of a Violent Sleeper takes you through an extraordinary story of the darker side of love.  (This is a story of Fiction)

 

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