Mina Ostrohaya

Sleepless

Without hesitation, without even a moment of consideration, Mina holds the note over one of the candles that burns perpetually on his small table—a waste of wax, really, keeping candles lit during daylight hours, but I've noticed he does this. Always. The flame catches the paper immediately, consuming the words, turning them to ash and smoke. He watches it burn completely, making sure no scrap remains legible, before dropping the last burning corner into a small metal dish he keeps for this exact purpose.

The practiced ease with which he destroys the evidence tells me this is not the first such message he's received. Probably not even the hundredth.

He returns to the cupcakes, picking up another one and consuming it with the same mechanical efficiency. There's no pleasure in it, no savoring of the sweetness. He eats because the cupcakes are there, because they were left for him, because destroying evidence extends to food as well as paper. Who knows what message the presence or absence of these cupcakes might send?

I make notes in my ledgers. Wednesday, 12:00 PM, Rose's.

I'll be watching, of course. I'm always watching.

Mina finishes the second cupcake and wipes his hands on his trousers—a gesture that would have horrified him once, I think, back when he cared about such things as proper behavior and clean clothing. Now it's just efficiency. His hands are clean enough. The trousers will be washed eventually. What does it matter?

The sun climbs higher, and something strange begins to happen. Or rather, something that seems strange to anyone watching at ground level, but which I've observed many times before. Mina begins to move toward a specific spot in his living room—a patch of floor near the window, unremarkable in every way except for what I know about it.

That spot is the hottest point in the apartment during summer, when the sun beats down through the window for hours, turning the floorboards warm enough to be uncomfortable. And in winter, when the cold seeps through every crack and crevice, that same spot becomes the coldest point, as if the window above deliberately funnels frigid air down to that exact location.

Now, in late autumn, it's already cold. The morning sun hasn't yet warmed the space enough to counter the chill that's settled in overnight. But Mina moves toward that spot with the determination of someone drawn by forces they don't understand and can't resist.

From my desk above, I watch as he pulls a blanket from somewhere—a threadbare thing, more holes than fabric, but thick enough to provide some insulation. He wraps it tighter around himself, cocooning his body in layers of wool and desperation. Then he lies down on that cold patch of floor, his body curling into a fetal position, his face pressing against the rough wood.

This is his ritual. This is what he does.

I don't understand it, and I've been watching for three years, four months, and seventeen days. Why this spot? Why not the bedroom, with its actual bed and relative comfort? Why not anywhere else in the apartment that might be warmer, softer, more conducive to rest?

But Mina chooses this place, every time. As if something in him recognizes this spot as significant, as necessary, even if his conscious mind doesn't understand why.

He settles into position, and I watch his body begin to relax—or try to relax. His sleep, when it comes, is never peaceful.

The first thirty minutes are relatively quiet. His breathing slows, becomes more regular, though never quite achieving the deep, steady rhythm of true sleep. His body remains tense even in repose, muscles coiled as if ready to spring into action at any moment.

Then the movements begin.

He twists, first slowly, then with increasing violence. His body turns from side to side, the blanket tangling around him like a shroud. His face contorts—I can see it even from my elevated position, the way his features shift and change, expressing emotions that his waking self keeps carefully suppressed. His mouth moves, forming words I can't quite hear from this distance, though I can imagine what they might be.

Humming starts, low and rhythmic. It's not a melody, not exactly. More like the sound someone makes when they're trying to comfort themselves, trying to block out something they don't want to hear. The humming shifts to moaning—deeper, more anguished sounds that speak of pain that goes beyond the physical.

He throws everything around himself in his twists. The blanket comes loose, gets kicked away, then gets grabbed again and pulled close. His arms flail, striking out at enemies that exist only in whatever nightmares plague him. His legs kick, as if he's running from something or trying to escape from something that holds him down.

I've watched this scene play out dozens of times. The pattern is always the same, with minor variations. The sleep lasts no longer than three to five hours—usually closer to three. And throughout that entire time, Mina is in constant motion, his body unable to find rest even as his mind desperately seeks it.

Sometimes—and this is the part that troubles me most, that keeps me anchored to my desk watching instead of turning my attention to other matters—sometimes I hear him scream.

"Stop it!"

The words tear from his throat, desperate and terrified, filled with a horror that suggests he's not just dreaming but remembering. Reliving.

What is he seeing in those dreams? What memories are surfacing from the depths where he's buried them? What happened three years, four months, and seventeen days ago that changed him from human to... this?