It was pure overstimulation. I drove home with the setting sun in my eyes and then with headlights.
When I finally laid down, my head was aching, throbbing. The cars racing down the road felt like they were crashing into my ears. The soft light from every streetlight felt like a super nova against my closed eye lids. I was keenly aware of every scent. My hair, my pillow all smelled too strongly. My soft fleece blanket irritated my skin, it made me feel trapped under it. I shivered and I sweat at the same time.
I’m sleeping over at my friends, in their bed. I sit up and sigh. My feet dangling over the plush carpet.
I walk into the living room and dig in my bag for something, anything.
The clicking of my medicine case sounds like thunder in the quiet room. I’m beginning to sniffle, tears escaping, rolling down my hot cheeks. I brush my fingers through my hair, tugging on it briefly to draw me out of my head.
I’m here, not in there.
I hear someone else get up in their apartment. I walk to the bathroom for a sip of water. I stumble in and lean heavily on the sink. There is a soft night light on the wall above the sink. I rip it off the wall, laying it down next to the outlet. The room falls into complete darkness. The highway outside their apartment is hushed. I can finally breathe.
I stand there until I lose track of time. I dig my toes into the rug on the ground, thinking about laying down in the cramped bathroom. I can’t do that.
I head back to bed, crawling in next to them. I turn my back to them. I lay my head back down my pillow despite it feeling like a rock. I close my eyes and try to sleep.