Exclusive First Draft: “So Tired,” a short story

A rough draft of a new short story for an upcoming collection.

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The bed creaked. The frame was old—well over fifty years. The mattress, the box springs, and bedclothes were old too, though not as old as the bed. Well-worn to the point of comfort, but not to the point of ruin. It was sturdy, but it showed its age in both style and the way it creaked when the owner stirred.

The occupant rolled over towards the nightstand. Creak. Not an alarming creak. A homey, well-worn, creak. Like the floorboards of an old, warm house, full of memories from a good life.

The alarm sounded. A modern sound in contrast to the rustic creak. The man moaned. After a loud sigh, he heaved himself to a sitting position and reached over to silence the alarm. Three different parts of the bed creaked again, in unison, and the bed frame swayed a bit as he swung his legs to the side and stood. He took a deep breath, then turned back to gaze at the covers. I need to make the bed. I don’t think I have done it in a week. He stood for a moment longer, gazing down with sleepy eyes. I’ll do it after a bite to eat.

*

After breakfast, he took a shower in the adjoining bathroom. A square of autumn sunlight crept along the floor towards the bed. By the time he dried off, the light was halfway up the footboard. Had he noticed, the sunlight had worked for many years on the wood: uneven fading, varnish thin or gone, cracks and scrapes long dried out.

He strode into the room as he strapped on his watch, grimacing at the late hour. The cat wandered in from the hallway. I need to feed you before I go! Late again. He grabbed the wayward pillows and threw them at the headboard. Damn, I don’t have time for this. Tonight when I get home. I’ll just make a chore of it and change the sheets. How long has it been? Maybe five or six days.  He rushed out of the room, oblivious to the meowing.

*

He shuffled through the door and switched on the lamp beside the bed. The room lit up. Ugh. I was going to change the sheets tonight. He paused. Where is the other set? Did I wash them? He tossed the plastic bag he was carrying onto the bed spilling its contents onto the crumpled sheets: a bar of soap, a bottle of mouthwash, and a pack of razors. He left the room.

Two hours later he stumbled back into the room. He had gone down to discover the extra bedclothes clean but still in the dryer. He took them to the living room to disentangle them and turned on the TV. A basketball game caught his attention, he watched while drinking a half of a bottle of rum. Coming awake with a start, he saw the game was over, and the announcers were recapping. He stumbled to his room, fumbled with the covers, and was snoring in a matter of moments.

Around 1:00 am he awoke, staggered to the bathroom, came back, switched off the lamp, and fell back into bed with a groan.

*

The alarm had been sounding for thirty minutes before he woke up. He groaned and rolled over. It took a few moments before he could focus well enough to read the clock. Oh, shit! He jumped up, got caught in the bedclothes, and went down in a heap on the floor.

His head ached, the inside of his mouth was a sticky mess, and his stomach was protesting. I have to stop doing this every night. He put in many hours at work, and he was superb at his job. No one would care if he didn’t come in for this one day. But it was a source of pride: he was the best at what he did. Responsibility and doing one’s best made for a valuable human being. He wasn’t going to screw that up.

He extricated himself from the bedclothes and rose to his feet. Walking the caused him to wince at the pain in his head. He stood under the hot water in the shower, almost passing out from the warmth and relation.

Back in the bedroom, he rummaged around in the bedclothes to find the bag of items he had brought home. Opening the sealed plastic round the bottle of mouthwash was a struggle. He took a swig. Some of it spilled on the mattress and the bedclothes, lying half on the floor.

“Argggh!!” He shook his head violently, then grimaced at the pain. He set the bottle down in the nightstand without the lid.

As he finished dressing, he realized how hot it was in the room. He went to the French-style window and flung it open. Cool air wafted in. A crisp autumn morning. He took a deep breath. Much better. Have to check the air conditioner this evening. He leaned out the window and reached out to touch some of the leaves of the large tree outside the window. Fresh. Alive. Nice.

*

The house stood silent and empty for many hours. The sun set. It had been a cool, clear day, but the weather began to turn as the afternoon waned. The temperature dropped. The autumn wind began to blow, swirling around the house and gusting through the open window in the bedroom every few moments. His cat was curled up on the bed because the back door had never been opened. Darkness descended within moments as the storm clouds grew thick.

A few autumn leaves, casting about in the wind, fluttered into the room and alighted on the bed and floor. Startled, the cat leapt from the bed and sped from the room. It began to rain. Had anyone been there to listen, they would have heard the pitter-patter on the sidewalk and roof. Soon, it became a downpour.

*

The room was clothed in the late afternoon light coming in through the window. Stomping feet announced someone coming up the stairs. The lights came on, and a figure walked to the bed and sat down on the edge with a loud thump. A deep breath, and then a long sigh. I am so tired. And I don’t feel too well. He turned his head to view himself in the mirror which hung over the dresser. Pale. Filthy. He took off his cap, stained with dirt and sweat. His shirt was dark under the armpits from the strenuous work in the garden. He looked down at his jeans. From mid-calf down was a dark color—water had wicked up the legs from the wet yard. The bottom of each leg was crusted in mud so thick he could not even see the hems. His boots were also caked with mud. Some of the bedclothes had fallen onto the floor, and one boot was resting on it. He lifted his foot. Uggh. I really have to wash these sheets now.

A wave of nausea hit him. He ran into the bathroom, leaving boot-shaped mud prints. A few moments later he shuffled out, wiping his mouth. He groaned. Maybe some soup. Or crackers. He lurched out the door.

He returned with a box of crackers and a can of soda and eased himself onto the bed, swinging his feet up and bracing his back against the headboard. The wood protested.

Boots. He set the crackers and the soda aside, and, with some effort, leaned forward, one foot towards his chest, pulling off one and then the other boot, tossing them to the floor. Slumping back—creak—he popped open the can and drank. After a few sips, he opened the box of crackers and ate a few. Dry. His mouth felt even more sickly. He tossed the box aside and drank the rest of the soda in a series of gulps. Better. The carbonation felt good.

So tired. So hot. He scrunched down to lay flat and balanced the can beside him. It fell over. A last bit of liquid seeped out onto the bedclothes. He is already breathing slow and methodically.

*

Monday morning arrived with an overcast sky, making it darker than usual at the time. The alarm began beeping. The figure on the bed rolled over and shut it off, laying still for a moment. Better. My fever has stayed down since last night. Maybe I am over this.

After a few moments, he rose to a sitting position and disentangled himself from the bedclothes. Creak. Swinging his legs over the side, he sat on the edge of the mattress. Creak. He takes a slow, deep breath. A whole Sunday in bed. More than twenty-four hours. He remembers the fever, the sweating, throwing the bedclothes off, then shivering and pulling them back. Have I eaten anything since Saturday night? He didn’t remember even getting up except to go to the bathroom. Oh, yes, I went down and made some tea early Sunday morning. And fed the cat. A dim dream.

He leaned over and set the alarm to the last possible moment he could get up and still arrive at work on time if he skipped breakfast. He lay back and was asleep almost instantly.

*

The alarm sounded and he and was standing before he realized it. A few moments passed before he got his bearings. It came back to him: fever, sickness, laying in bed all night Saturday and all day Sunday. He felt much better now, though weak. He peered at the clock. There was time. He scuffled to the bathroom.

*

The room was dark. He stepped in and switched on the lamp beside the bed. He stopped.

Oh, my God.

The bedclothes looked like Gordian himself had come and tied them. Half off the bed, they were stained and dirty. How long has it been since I changed them?

A movement under the sheet caused him to jump before he realized it was the cat.

“What are you doing there?! Did I not put you out?” The creature, at the sound of his voice, wriggled out from her hiding place and stalked toward him. He shooed her away, and then spotted a wet spot on the bed where she had received herself. He pulled the covers and sheet the rest of the way off. An empty can clattered to the floor. Leaves drifted to the floor. The fitted sheet was just as dirty and pulled loose on one corner. Crumbs of food and dirt completed the disaster. The cover sheet itself looked like it had been exposed to the elements for months.

He gave a deep sigh. Reaching down, he pulled the edge of the fitted sheet from the mattress, walked to the head of the bed, pulling he went. As the mattress underneath was exposed, he saw that the dirt, the spills, and the urine had seeped through there as well. He dropped the sheet in despair, scanning roamed over the whole bed, as if seeing it for the first time. Even the wood frame, the headboard, and footboard were stained and weathered. A sticky liquid had run down the footboard near the middle and dried. The wood was cracked and worn.

He stood for a moment, wondering how this was possible. Someone else must have done this. They broke in broken in. I did leave the window open a few days ago. Or was that last week? I have hardly been here, I have been working so much. There is no way I would let it get to this point. He decided to sleep downstairs on the couch.

He walked out the door, grabbed the door-handle, and closed it, making sure it latched shut.

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Photo by Diego Lozano on Unsplash