Over the bridge

Waking up, for me, never starts with me opening my eyes. When I first claim my consciousness, I need a little time to adjust to the newness of the day... It always feels like a whole different world, a whole new beginning. like yesterday never existed. And opening my eyes, and seeing, feels like it's too much to take in at once.

But when I wake up now, I can tell that the newness isn't present. The air to my lungs feels musty, and wet. It's too silent .

I force my eyes open, and i can hardly see my own hand. Something is wrong. I try to move, but i'm still dazed, and have to lay still on my back for a few moments to come to my senses.

That star isn’t above me anymore. It must be a few hours after I fell asleep.

I turn around on my side to look at the side of a wall and Naz’s sweater. And his shoes. Shit.

Well. He must be around here somewhere.

I take the jacket I’ve been using for a blanket and put my arm through the sleeve. it’s too big for me, and too light for the briskness of of the night. It’s perfect for running, though-no extra bulk. the water that runs through this creek has risen with the rain and overflowed onto the concrete platform I’m on , so the bottom of the coat is stiff with frozen water. I roll the fabric outwards, where it stays. I laugh a little to myself, softly. It looks odd, flaring like that. But it’s better than a cold waist and a wet shirt.

There’s a sort of hill that leads up from the creek. The grass is slick with mud that’s been loosened, and I realize why Naz left his shoes on the platform-they’d get ruined if he wore them out. I go back under the bridge to unlace mine. 

My head feels so heavy. It wants to fall onto the cement. Crush itself. 

I'm so tired. 

The mud isn’t deep, but it’s cold and makes it difficult to walk in. Thankfully, it isn’t too tall a hill. Just a sloping ditch, really. I look up at the bridge and...that was easy..er than I thought it would be.

Naz is sitting on one of the bridge posts.

I don’t know how he does that. He isn’t really sitting, even. It’s more of a crouch, with both feet together, and his arms wrapped around his knees. His head is buried in the space between them, so all you can see is his hair coming out of his shirt, like some overgrown, dead, yellow plant.

I can’t see that well in the darkness, but the way the planks creak when I step on them is warning enough that they aren’t stable. Probably rotten.

Now, trying to get the attention of a maybe-sleeping insomniac who is maybe-sleeping on a probably-rotten post, above a risen creek, without killing him, is a delicate thing to do. I can’t startle him. So I can’t tap or shout at him to wake him up.

That is, if he is sleeping.

Can’t take chances. If he’s sleeping, even in that god-awful position he’s in, then... well. He’s sleeping. That’s what matters.

I don’t want to take chances. I walk myself over to the bridge, and sit down there, leaning on Naz’s post so I can feel through if he loses balance.

This is why neither of us ever sleep. Hardly ever.