The Human couldn’t sleep tonight, a rare occurrence for her. Normally she seemed to

struggle waking from her slumber, stubbornly remaining curled on her side as the morning fire

crawled up the sky. Sometimes the little blinking box she insisted on carrying everywhere would

start crying. But even then, she wouldn’t wake. Eyes shut and jaw clenched tight she would poke

at it incessantly, though this never seemed to work. Minutes later it would start its pitiful cries

again.

On these mornings, she would eventually jerk upright with a start and stare at her

blinking toy. I could smell the stench of stillness on her breath, hear the pounding of her heart,

taste the anxiety pouring from her skin. She would snarl in anger and run circles; picking up and

pulling on different fabrics, rubbing creams on her face, pulling bulky blocks over her back

paws. She would keep running her frantic, useless, circles until without warning she suddenly

seemed satisfied, then dashed out the door of our home. She wouldn’t return for hours.

But tonight, the long stillness never seemed to take her. Though she crawled under the

pelts that covered the soft box she slept on far earlier than usual, she tossed and turned for ages.

She grew frustrated laying every which way, but I never heard her heartbeat slow to the rhythm

that meant she couldn’t feel the world around her. Occasionally, she would open her eyes,

grasping in the dark for her blinking box and glaring at its light. She seemed constantly unhappy

with the thing, but never left it behind.

I knew why she couldn’t sleep. She didn’t smell right. When I dipped my nose to the

surface of her skin, I could detect traces of those little white tabs she sometimes swallowed in the

evening before leaving, or spending the night sitting at her table staring into her larger glowing

machine as it emitted sounds and colors. When she smelled like this her heart would beat faster

and wouldn’t slow for hours. Not until the scent no longer lingered beneath her skin.

She’d also lapped up a considerable amount of that bitter brown liquid she sometimes

made for herself, though most of it remained in her cup when she climbed into her bed. This too,

I had learned, would keep her heart racing.

I sat perched on my box watching, aware that her efforts to find rest were futile, but she

never ceased to try. She curled herself this way and that, hoping to finding her few hours of

Oblivion.

The Young One hadn’t yet learned that it was best to leave The Human to her struggles

on nights like these. He kept padding across her bed, sniffing at her face, laying on her chest

purring. He drifted asleep himself as if that would help her do the same. But he was awakened a

short while later when her next fit of tossing and turning began. The Young One hadn’t realized

that we could rarely help The Human, even when her problems were so obvious. No amount of

his nuzzling would speed the fading of the white tab’s chemicals from inside her.

The Young One grew hungry, though it was hours before the time when she would tip

dried bites of food into our bowls in the morning. I sensed that he had given up on helping her

rest and instead set his mind to turning her lack of sleep into an early breakfast. Mewing in her

ears and jumping on her curled body he was unperturbed when she swatted him aside.

Eventually, she gave in to the Young One’s demands, as she always did. She never learned to hiss and growl at him.

When she rose and tipped the food into our bowls, I leapt from my perch and settled

before mine. I was always happy to eat when she offered, I had long ago learned the

pointlessness of begging her to feed us at a regular time.

Her body shivered in the cool night air as she left our sleeping chamber and padded down

the hall to the room with the water basins. Flipping on the blinding light, her eyes squeezed shut

in pain against the sudden change until she could see again. She leaned close to the reflecting

glass and picked at her face. The bumps that had risen to the surface of her skin would have

healed themselves many days ago if she’d let them be. But instead, she’d scratched at them

before the glass, irritating them until they were twice their size and raw. She could never wait

until the scabs grew crusty and fell off on their own, always picking at them too soon. The

Human never could leave things well enough alone.

She stopped before her scratching drew blood this time and instead ran water into the

basin before her, splashed it across her face. She moved and sat on the other hollow basin where

she urinated, then pressed the lever that made it swirl until only clean water remained. She

scratched her face once more, though only for a moment this time.

Suddenly flicking off the light, she stood stupidly in the darkness. She was blind. Her

eyes wouldn’t adjust quickly. Instead of pausing until her vision returned, she stumbled her way

down the path to our room, occasionally bumping against the walls. The Human was always so

impatient, never waiting until the moment was right. The Human rarely made sense.

When she returned to her bed The Human sat upright this time, seeming to have finally

accepted the unlikelihood of sleeping tonight. She pulled her larger glowing machine on to her

lap and settled against the wall. Began tapping at the buttons with her useless, dull, claws. I

could smell the hunger in her stomach. But I have been watching The Human for seven years

now, I know she won’t cease her tapping for hours.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY ISOBEL RIDLEY + ART BY CLARA WALTERS