Stuck

a short story for the sleep paralysis sufferers and their visitors.

You’re weighted down. You and your bed are opposite ends of a magnet. Red and blue.

You can’t breathe - or so you think. The more your breaths ball themselves up and lodge in your chest. The more it feels like your throat is constricting.

It’s not real, you know that. It will pass, you know that too, but how does that help when you feel like you’re dying? Wondering if you’re happy with the life you’ve lived, would anyone care if you left? Would they take your organs even though you opted out? Are they even useful if you died so early? Is that even how it works? Would they find something incriminating in your phone or anywhere else. Good things there’s no embarrassment in death, right?

Right?

Stop being so dramatic. If you’d gotten close enough to death, you’d know this is a walk in the park in comparison.

Are you even awake? Can you see the warm, orange haze painting your walls, the silhouette of the washing pile on your desk chair, your thriving aloe in the pot you sculpted? But wait, what is that figure next to it?

You’re being paranoid. It’s just your bag of clay in the same place as always. Just calm down. You’ll be fine in a minute.

                                                                   *

I’m awake. My eyes are burning, my head is pulsating, but at least I’m awake.

Big woop. Who cares, right?

I do.

When you have what feels like hour long sleep paralysis episodes, at least twice a week, you don’t take these things for granted. Being able to finally escape the mental chains that glues your body to your bed starts to feel like a privilege - even if I’ve only had four hours sleep. And even if the first thing I hear is Delilah enthusiastically teaching BoxFit over zoom despite me asking her numerous times to do her classes in the living room. I feel like she’s testing the little and dwindling patience I have left.

That aside, I’m just grateful for the little things like basic motor function and breathing - for starters. I appreciate the deep blueness of my walls, the smell of my lime and basil scented diffuser, my sculptures: figures, bowls, vases, faces.

Recently I’ve been thinking that I kind of like being stuck. Obviously, I hate that it’s unpredictable and it’s completely out of my control, but the feeling of powerlessness caused by nothing but a miscommunication between your mind and body is fascinating. It’s a feeling unlike any other - unless you find yourself eating too many edibles.

Maybe it’s a kink. Maybe I’m in denial and it’s easier to see the bright side of my problem than trying to fix it. For now, I’ll stick with kink.

The moment I open my door, the sickly smell of overripe banana, orange, and pineapple reaches me before the anticipated sound of the blender. I follow it into the kitchen where I’m greeted by Delilah’s, newly coloured, copper pixie cut as she washes something in the sink. She turns around with a sweaty forehead, wet hands holding Granny Smith apples, and one of my favourite, gap-toothed, smiles which always disarms me. “Morning, want a smoothie?”

“No thanks…morning,” I say, sitting on the highchair at the kitchen island.

“You should have one. I’m making you one,” she says, ignoring my answer. I don’t know why she bothers asking at this point. Once Delilah sets her mind on something it’s happening regardless, be it as menial as a smoothie or a gargantuan as trying to get me to sleep better. So far, it’s just been a year of blended fruit.

After chopping up the apples, she loads up the bottle with the rest of the fruit. A heaped tablespoon of flaxseed goes in, followed by a splash of water and we’re ready to go. There’s something soothing about the process even though I’ve seen it enough times that I could probably do it with my eyes closed.

The blender drowns out her voice, but her lips ask, “How did you sleep?” I know it’s a pleasantry and she really cares but somehow the question feels like a slap in the face. “Or should I not ask that anymore?” Delilah says, in response to my frown.

Oops.

“You can…” I say, as the blender stops. “I’d just prefer if you didn’t.”

“Okay,” she says, feigning nonchalance, and continuing to liberally spray the marbled countertop with Dettol, arranging the stripy tea towels, and putting the rest of the fruit on the gold lined plates. “I take it you had another episode today then?”

“And I don’t like that you call it an episode.” Delilah rolls her eyes, pours out the muddy yellow smoothie into a glass and slides it over to me. “Thank you,” I mumble.

“What should I call it then?”

An unfortunate, debilitating, occurrence for an unknown amount of time every few days for the past year. That’s a bit of a mouthful, though, maybe episode is best.

“Call it whatever you like.”

“Okay.” Delilah takes a long sip through her bamboo straw. “I see what kind of mood you’re in, I’ll shut up.” She turns her back to me and runs the tap to clean the blender.

I know I shouldn’t take my friend’s willingness to share the weight of my burden, despite my constant pushback, for granted (Delilah is a fixer though - she’d do the same for a stranger given the chance.) But here’s the thing, after an episode I rarely fall back to sleep, so there are days, like today, when I’m just so tired. And it’s making me into a bit of a brat. A petulant child if you will.

Okay, I was a brat before this started, but in a more endearing, tolerable way. Now I can’t blame whoever gets tired of being around me. Most of the time I don’t feel remorseful until I’m held down at night and have no choice but to think about everything - sometimes it’s too late by then. I’m trying to fix that…even if it doesn’t look like it.

“I’m not telling you to shut up, D…I’m sorry.”

The water stops splashing before Delilah turns to face me again with an expression as blank as she can manage. “You’re really annoying sometimes, d’you know that?” she says. “You can’t ignore this forever, Rẹ̀m.” Having known Delilah for eight years now, I know that translates to, “You’re a dick Rẹ̀mí, sort your shit out.”

“I know.”

“Good.” She shoves aside the jade-green marbled vase I made for her, so she can wipe the spot underneath it.

In another scenario I’d tell her to be careful because that took hours and hours to make, but that doesn’t seem wise right now, so I settle on: “How did you sleep?”

“Well.”

“Good.”

“So will you go to the doctor?”

“You forgot I already did.” Try and improve your sleep hygiene: sleep on time, at the same time, every night, reduce blue light, don’t eat four hours before bed…didn’t work. Maybe take these antidepressants, oh but wait you might actually be depressed…depressed in general or depressed because of the lack of sleep? Who knows, so let’s try CBT, but the waiting list is sixteen months. And so on and so forth.

“Again.”

“I’m fine.”

“You say that but you’re cranky, tired, nit-picking, acting like a little kid – and not in the cute way either.” Told you. Delilah continues, counting on her fingers, “You don’t eat properly, and, in the most loving way possible, it’s turning you into a ghoul.”

She’s not wrong, my under eyes are sinking into my skin, my hair needs redoing, and if not for pulling and pinching and slamming clay around I think I’ve lost any other muscle definition I may have had. Sometimes I avoid the mirror so I don’t see what everyone keeps trying to fix.

“Thanks friend,” I say, looking down at the smoothie to avoid her concerned eyes.

“Drink it…” Delilah says, ushering towards the cup. She eyes me as I take a gulp. It’s nice but the nutty taste of the flaxseed ruined it - I won’t mention that though - I know better than to bite the hand that’s feeding me - even if it’s close to ripping me to shreds. “I’m just saying,” she continues, “I think you need to take it more seriously, it’s been a long time now.”

“Okay.”

“Just some unwarranted advice from your friend.” She shrugs.

“It’s not unwarranted, D. I appreciate it…I’ll see what I can do,” I say, before committing to finishing my drink.

“Good. And if there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

“Yes, can you please do your classes in the living room? I love you dearly but waking up to the sound of your voice kinda makes me want to kill myself.”

Delilah shakes her head and scrunches up her face. “What a thing to say to the person keeping you alive. You’re lucky I’m not making you join me.”

“Don’t be silly,” I say. As if I need reminding that any stamina or strength I previously had is gone.

“Trust me. You spend a day with me you’ll be good as new,” she says, tapping my back in the way the gym veteran does to a novice. Firm but not hard enough to scare them.

“No thanks, I’d rather stay broken.”

She laughs. “I’ll do the workouts elsewhere, sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“You gotta come back to one of my yoga classes though at least. It might help.”

“There’s a lot I’d do for you, but no,” I say, standing up and showing her my empty glass. I really am acting like a child.

“Well done,” Delilah says, giving me a thumbs up. “And why not?” She grins. “You’re surprisingly bendy.”

“Goodbye Delilah.”

                                                                    *

As soon as I walk through the doors and give a friendly head nod to the doorman, I see Eden in the same spot I find him every week. The sofa on the far left and furthest from the entrance - under the circular light fixture that floats like a halo – ten a.m. – Wednesday - Hoxton Hotel. If he was sitting anywhere else, his traffic-cone-coloured hoodie would be a beacon anyway.

At this point, the team should put a plaque with our names on the table so everyone knows it’s ours. Eden and his family have enough connections to actually make that happen, but that would render his attempts to be an inconspicuous trust-fund baby useless.

“Morning,” I say, once I’ve walked through the dimly lit room and reached him. He’s head down and deeply engrossed in whatever he’s doing on his iPad, so I’m greeted by the white skunk stripe sitting in the middle of his black hair, and an outstretched fist I meet with mine.

“Wassup. I ordered your drink,” Eden says, barely looking up from his double espresso (with a dash of cream.)

“Appreciate it.” I sink into the low, slightly battered, red leather sofa opposite him. I hate sitting this close to the ground but it’s definitely better than sitting on a wooden chair for two hours.

“You hungry?” Eden asks.

“Nah, I ate.” And I’m glad I did. As much as I love it here, I’m not in the mood to pay £12 for eggs and toast or £20 for a burger and chips - especially when it’s not a scratch on my favourite burger place ten minutes away.

“That’s a first. What happened?” he asks, with a cocked eyebrow.

“Delilah made me.” After smoothie gate and a shower, Delilah insisted I ate two scrambled eggs, some mushroom and spinach mix, and a slice of toast.

“She’s still looking after you, you’re lucky,” Eden says. I’d joke about him trading places with me but he’d accept it more readily than I’d like. “I’ve ordered some bits already though so…” he continues, looking over to the waiter in his usual blue shirt and black trouser uniform. Now there’s a tray on the table with croissants, mini pain au chocolats and pain au raisins, and sourdough toast complete with the butter plate, jarred honey and blackcurrant jam, a fruit plate, and my dirty chai latte. I’m no longer surprised by Eden’s excessiveness or his ability to actually finish everything. “Eat,” Eden says, with an already full mouth.

I’ve also decided to no longer protest him buying everything all the time and enjoy the sweet, salty, earthy bitterness of the croissant I’ve dipped into my latte.

It’s quiet this morning, but in an hour or so it will be buzzing with people from varying places whose intrusive glances every now and then tell you that they still can’t believe you’re here…even though, if we’re being honest, neither of us should be here; none of this was here fifteen years ago either so we shouldn’t be pedantic.

Gentrification’s violent inevitability wasn’t easy to get used to; every now and then you sit in a place like this and can’t help but think about the role you play in supporting something you’re allegedly so vehemently against. It may be defeatist to say but an area like this is long from being saved, so I might as well enjoy my patisserie and coffee that my rich, best friend bought for me.

“Alright, look.” Eden dusts himself off and hold his iPad to me open. There are two women each carrying a baby on their back with an Ankara wrapper, like my mum used to do with me and my sisters. I’ve always admired the technique. Spinning silver circles, and curved aubergine-coloured lines sit on royal blue fabric. “Someone wants two figures like this for Mother’s Day.”

“I wish I’d thought of that,” I say.

I try to avoid giving my mum my pieces. Somehow it doesn’t feel like a proper gift despite her always saying, “Anything from you, Rẹ̀mí, is a gift to me.”

“Are they twins?” I ask, zooming into the picture. “The people commissioning?” The women in the photo look like each other, they could be twins too.

“Mhm,” Eden says, now spreading Jam on toast. No butter. Weirdo. “One is their mum and one is their aunt; they want one for each of them.”

“Sick. They want those exact colours?” I ask.

“Yeah, you up for it?” From the way his face has lit up, I can’t say no anyway. I know he’s going to have a field day painting the patterns on the Ankara - he likes the intricate ones.

“Of course.”

We do this every week. We go through the commissions and start to design them. I do the dirty work - the sculpting - bowls, figures, mugs, faces, vases, and Eden paints them and makes them look pretty. The dream team. I like to sketch things out before sculpting them. Some people can just pick up the clay and what they see in their head forms in their hands. Unfortunately, I’m not one of them.

I’ve always enjoyed drawing because I needed something to do with my hands. When that didn’t feel like enough, I went from Play-Doh, to plasticine, and landed at clay.

A couple of years ago, Eden asked me to make a plate - a gift for one of his dad’s clients. The next time we saw each other, he bounced into my house with praise and a picture: he’d painted the plate some kind of navy blue that got lighter towards the centre and finished it with glossy glaze and a silver rim. It reminded me of the sky. “I just thought I’d jazz it up a little – not that it wasn’t good already,” he said.

It started off as a hobby for Eden: rich people can afford to have hobbies that they don’t need to monetise, but eventually it just made sense to take it seriously.

After silently studying my face for a minute and pouring us some tea, Eden eventually asks, “How you sleeping, Rẹ̀m?” Here we are again. Before I can answer he continues, “I’m only asking out of courtesy. You look--”

“Rough?”

“Knackered.”

“So I’ve been told…it hasn’t been great.”

I may look like crap but I’m feeling warm and energised from my coffee. The effects may be brief and soon I’ll feel like I’m sinking. Or like I’ve been hit in the chest by Dr Strange and knocked into an astral dimension, but then I’ll just have another one until my work is done.

“Sorry man…” Eden says, into his teacup. “Do you want to see my doctor?”

“Uhhh…”

“Think about it.” My hesitation was more about him having a doctor on call. “She’s great. I’m sure she can fix anything, even you brother,” Eden says, before resting one of his cheeks in his hand and looking at me inquisitively. “Do you ever see people when you’re stuck?”

“What, like ‘sleep paralysis demons?’”

“Yeah. I mean some people see relatives, friends etcetera, not always some monster under the bed, or in your case in the corner.”

“I’ve seen figures like shadows but never anything identifiable.”

“Did they do anything?”

“Nope…should they have?” I say, looking at him suspiciously.

“One of my secondary school friends told me about Jinn - heard of ‘em?”

“No.”

“Okay, I don’t remember that much about them either, but they’re supposed to be these ancient Arab spirits that shapeshift, cause trouble, and haunt people - something like that. He shrugs. “And they sleep, eat, have sex with humans…”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

Eden shakes his head. “I resent that, Rẹ̀mí.”

“Okay so, what do you want me to do with this half-hearted information, E?” I ask, laughing.

“I was a kid I how am I supposed to remember everything? Anyway, I’m just steering you in the right direction - well a direction. Maybe you’ve wronged someone and you’re being haunted for it.” He smirks.

“Oh, thanks Cruella, that’s helpful.

                                                                      *

Here we are again.

Well, you.

You’re not surprised though, are you? You didn’t go to bed on time, you didn’t eat three meals, you didn’t even try yoga! Look where stubbornness got you.

Stuck.

Twice in two days. Isn’t that a record?

You fell asleep on your side today. Your heart is dangling over the wrong side of your body. The springs in your mattress are clawing at your ribcage. A fraying thread is holding you. When it finally snaps, you’ll be free to fall forward.

Unless that thing in the corner gets you first.

What is that in the corner?

It’s not the clay this time and it can’t be an intruder. Maybe it’s a demon then. A sleep paralysis demon. Another disconnect between your mind and the real world.

It’s moving. Shapeless and fluid - like a wave, a gust of wind. Floating like a cloud; black like onyx.

It’s hovering over you, smothering you in a cool breeze.

You almost forget about the thread, and if you weren’t willing yourself to wake up, you’d notice that there’s another figure holding the picture of the women you should be sculpting.

Then it’s gone.

They’re gone.

Soon you can release and fall forward. Or backwards. Whichever way the spirits pull you.

                                                                      * 

I try to go home every other week. Well. Trying involves making a conscious effort to do something, so that’s probably the wrong word. It’s been two months…

Now, to avoid the awkwardness of calling, I’m just turning up and hoping everyone is home.

I woke up at ten a.m., which is late for me, and found myself here by midday. I had a record seven hours of sleep; maybe it was the spirit that knocked me out. Delilah finally agreed to my wish too, so it was basically a perfect morning if not for the yoga paraphernalia I tripped on almost knocking me into the living room wall.

At least I (feel like I) had a good rest, so my mother can’t lecture me on my sleeping - or lack of. The hallway mirror, above the guilt-flowers I sent a couple of weeks ago, confirms that I don’t look like a zombie. Just a ghoul.

“Wow, the prodigal son finally came back home?” My mum’s voice comes from behind me. I turn to see her in a chunky, burgundy cardigan, with crossed arms and squinted eyes. I can’t help but smile when I see her - even if she’s mad at me.

“Sorry,” I say, cowering a little bit. She’s significantly smaller than me and yet one of the only people who can make me shrink.

“Hi, my love,” she says, smiling and opening her arms wide for me.

“Hi Mum, you alright?” I walk into them, bend down to meet her, and hold her tight. I’ve missed the smell of shea butter and citrus from whatever hair products she’s using. I rest my chin on her intricately twisted locs. She must have been to the hairdressers recently.

“Yes, I’m alright,” she says, attempting to copy my voice. “How are you?” She pulls away and looks at me, trying to squeeze something out of me. Before I can answer, she reaches up to hold my face. “You’re still not sleeping well and you’re not eating,” she tells me, gently pulling my cheek. Here I was thinking I looked better. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know.”

“There must be specialists for this.”

“Surely.” Eden’s doctor being one.

My mum raises her eyebrows at me. “So, what are you waiting for? Or do you need Mummy to make your appointments for you again?”

“Maybe.”

She smiles. “Rẹ̀mílẹkún, take it seriously, please.”

“Yes Ma,” I say, reaching for the floor.

She shakes her head. “You just missed Dad…will you stay until he comes back?”

“Let’s see.” Mum scowls at me but thankfully decides against saying anything.

“Anywaaay, enough about me,” I say, putting my arm around her shoulders and leaning to look at her. “What’s new with you? How’s work and everything? How’s your love life? Is the old man still treating you well?” I say, hoping to get rid of the expression on her face.

She laughs. Jackpot. It’s like a healing frequency in a sound bath. “He doesn’t have a choice.”

“Good, but seriously what about everything else?”

“How long do you have?”

“All the time in the world you, Mum.”

“Such a sweet talker. Everything is good…I know you’ve got a lot going on and you’re tired, but I would like to see you more. I’m worried about you…if you don’t want to talk to me, talk to Dad, or someone else.”

“You don’t need to worry,” I say, cupping her face in my hands. I mean I’m seeing demons or spirits but, that aside, everything is fine. “And I will make sure we spend more time together, okay?” She nods. “Alright?”

“Okay, ọmọ mi.”

I kiss her head. “Great.”

I hear footsteps, then, “Rẹ̀mí!” Before I know it Kìkì is stuck to my torso, and I’m stumbling back. A ten-year-old is making my muscles fatigue. I need to sort my life out.

“What’s good, little one?” I say, kissing the parting between her two afro puffs.

“Nothing.”

“Okay, I’m putting you down because I’m really weak.” I carry her into the sitting room, peel her off me, and put her in between the velvet teal cushions on the sofa. Last time I was here they were black. I’m happy to see that, other than this, the room hasn’t changed too much: the cream-coloured walls are still full of my artwork, baby pictures, certificates, graduation and prom pictures. The bookcase still holds gymnastic and athletic medals, trinkets from holidays, keyrings, shells, figures, plates, and shot glasses.

“It’s because you’re not sleeping,” Mum chimes in.

“I felt you shaking,” Kìkì adds.

“Shush,” I say, sitting next to her and squeezing her.

“Stoooop,” she says, squeezing back. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, princess.”

“So why haven’t you been coming home?” The disappointment flows through her voice - I imagine it’s the same on her face, so I can’t look at her.

“Because I’m naughty but I’ll be better, okay?”

“Okay…will you come to my gymnastics showcase on Thursday?” she asks, now beaming back at me.

“Obviously.”

“Rẹ̀m-” Mum says, carefully.

“- I’ll be there,” I say, cutting in, “nothing will stop me.”

“Yay.” Kìkì grins. “I’m going to finish my game upstairs. Don’t go anywhere.”

“I’m stuck to the chair – see,” I say, moving my torso side to side to show her that I can’t move.

“You’re silly.” Then she’s gone again. My little whirlwind.

No matter how many times I look at her, it’s scary to see how much of a spitting image of both my parents she is. My dad’s big, bright eyes and my mum’s small, almond shaped ones make Kìkì’s. She has Mum’s voice and Dad’s mannerisms, Dad’s round face but Mum’s cheekbones. You look at her at any given point and see both of them. Tiwa and I just look like Mum. The only sign of our dad is our height.

My train of thought is interrupted by the sarcastic, “Oh, look who it is,” from my eldest, little sister, whose hip length braids swish as she walks past me to hug Mum.

“Wow, what a lovely welcome,” I say.

“You’re lucky you’re even getting one…hi Mum.”

“Hi baby, how was training?” We’re a very sporty family. Tiwa does athletics, Dad plays tennis, and Mum swims. By we I mean everyone but me.

“Good.”

“Good.”

Tiwa kisses Mum’s cheek, hobbles to the sofa, sits on the opposite end from me, and starts typing.

“No hug for your big brother, Tiwa?” I forgot that kids are very forgiving, but eighteen-year-olds? Clearly not so much. The look of annoyance she gives me over her glasses answers me before she does. “You not happy to see me?” I continue, probing.

“You want me to start dancing or something?” she says, still looking down at her phone. “I don’t know how Delilah puts up with you.” Barely is how. “Not everything revolves around you Rẹ̀mí.”

“Since when?”

“Besides if you came home more often,” she says, glaring at me, “you being here wouldn’t have to be such a spectacle.”

“Alright, smart mouth. You win.”

“She’s right,” Mum chips in, again.

“Yes. I know…” Tiwa is my twin so I should have expected this reception. She has my wit, sarcasm, creativity. She stole everything that makes me special and made it better, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. “I made you something,” I say, sticking my hand into my rucksack and locating the smooth tissue paper. Tiwa studies textile design so I made a bowl inspired by one of her prints. Realising I’d need some brownie points, I called sculpted a basic but timeless pedestal shape (when I really should have been working on our commission) and begged Eden to clear his evening. He agreed as long as I promised to speak to his doctor. I’ve been given worse ultimatums.

Tiwa’s print began as a piece of hand dyed Adire fabric, so Eden painted the bowl a glossy indigo patterned with baby blue and white diamonds increasing in size as they get closer to the edge. “Here.” I hand it to Tiwa, she takes it with a raised eyebrow.

She keeps her face expressionless as she carefully unwraps the yellow paper and finally lets a smile escape from her face. “I love it, thank you,” she says, coming over and wrapping her arms around me.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“It doesn’t make up for you not visiting though,” she says, as she starts poking me relentlessly, making me jump.

“I’ll do better,” I say, finding refuge on the other side of the room. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yes, and I love you most, so stop being stupid.” She throws a pillow that I somehow manage to swerve from. At least my reflexes are still intact.

“Awwww okay. I’ll stop,” I say, going to lay down on Tiwa’s lap. She immediately starts pulling my ears. Bad idea.

“Good.”

“Because I need you to cornrow my hair,” I say, glancing up at her. Another pillow lands on my face, this time she holds it there. “Tiwa, chill!” I say, muffled. Of all the ways I’ve imagined dying, smothered by my sister wasn’t one.

“Tiwa, please don’t kill my son he’s my only one,” Mum says, from the other side of the room.

“He’s bribing young girls,” Tiwa says, removing the pillow and pushing me off her. “How embarrassing.”

“I can’t defend that Rẹ̀m.”

“The gift was from my heart,” I say, after catching my breath.

“Whatever.”

“Mum, do you know anything about Jinn?”

“Yes, I do. But first of all, where is my gift?”

                                                                       *

Something isn’t right.

And no, you’re not just being paranoid.

Even though you can’t see their faces in the shadows, it’s clear that the two tall figures standing in front of you, with almost identical statures, are women.

One oozes empathy like a mother watching her injured child.

The other looks apathetically like a mortician seeing their last body of the day.

“Can’t we help?”

“Help him how?”

“Help him move…I don’t know. Or stop it?”

“No. When have we ever done that?”

Silence.

“It will pass soon. We’re not supposed to intervene. You know that.”

You’re not really hearing this are you?

It’s probably a dream. You’ve dreamt of being stuck before.

You know the difference between dreams and reality, right?

Maybe you’re dead. That seems like the most logical explanation. But you don’t believe in the afterlife, do you, so now is probably the time to panic.

If only you could move.

“Can he hear us? I think he can hear us.”

You can hear them.

Can they hear your thoughts? That’s the least of your worries.

“How can we know?”

“Blink three times if you can hear us.”

“He can’t blink, Táíyé. He can’t move.”

Twins.

“Right…Urrrm, stare at us if you can’t move.”

“For goodness’ sake'.”

You feel a breeze as one of them steps closer and peers over you like you’re on a doctor’s table. “Don’t you think he looks like-”

“You always think they look like each other.”

“You never let me finish. Doesn’t he look like the one from yesterday?”

They move towards you.

You finally see their faces. Round, full cheeks. Almond shaped eyes, skin that seems to glisten. Regal. They wear Aso Ebi but no Gele. Instead, one wears her cornrows in a high bun, and the other’s braids flow over her shoulders. The only other distinctions between them are their facial expressions and body language. One stands serious, straight, stiff. The other is free, fluid, fun.

“He is the one from yesterday.”

“Oh, I can’t keep up, Kẹ́hìndé.”

“Clearly, can you please focus and be quiet?”

“You want us to just watch over him in silence?”

“That would be amazing.”

“How do we even know he’s still alive?”

Can’t they see you breathing?

“Only one way to see.”

One of them, you can’t tell which one, reaches out and gently strokes your face. Her hand is ice cold – you’d recoil if you could. But you can’t.

“Don’t touch him!”

“Shit. I think he’s hyperventilating.”

You lay there bewildered while they observe you. So you are moving and they can see it.

She strokes your face again.

“He’s not supposed to do that. Is he waking up?”

Why are they saying you’re moving when you’re not?

Are you?

You can’t be. Can you?

“I hope not. I like looking at him.”

“I think he’s waking up. Already? That was quick.”

---

“Rẹ̀mí, what time is it?” Delilah mutters, as she opens the door with barely there eyes.

I feel bad for waking her up, but I know I’m not going to make it back to sleep on my own – if at all.

“I don’t know.” I didn’t check my phone. I just jumped out of bed as soon as I was able to. I look at the clock on the wall behind her but it’s just a silhouette of a cloud. “Sorry, can I come in?”

“Mhm.” She scurries back into bed and covers her head. I sit by her feet. Her bed is much softer than mine. I’ve avoided getting a memory foam mattress because imagine how intense the sinking feeling would be when I’m stuck.

“You getting in?” she says, muffled, from under the duvet.

“I think I need to stand up for a minute,” I say, getting up, trying to play it cool even though my head is pounding, the room seems to be spinning around me, and nausea is rising in me.

She throws me couple out her of six cushions and a blanket. “When you’re ready…what’s up?”

“I saw someone…two people actually. Twins. Women.” I hunch over her dressing table and try to breathe…slowly.

“Tell me more,” she says, “are you okay?” I look up and see she’s reappeared. Her eyes bright even in the dark.

“I’m fine. I saw them when I was stuck.”

“Ah. Like a sleep paralysis demon?”

“Kinda, but they weren’t demons, and they were talking about me - they knew I could see them…and hear them.”

“You sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“I’m sure.”

“You could have been hallucinating? Sleep deprivation can cause that.”

“Sleep paralysis and sleep deprivation induced hallucinations? I must have offended someone in my past life.”

“Or this one,” she says.

“That’s what Eden said. I’m starting to think you guys hate me.”

“Could you blame us?” Her pearly whites cut through like a beacon. I sit down again.

“No.” She takes my hand; its warmth makes me realise that I’m freezing and get under the duvet next to her. She puts her arm around me, cradling me, and strokes my forehead. “I know it’s not real but it’s very odd.”

“To say the least…what did they look like?”

“The women I’m supposed to be sculpting, actually.”

“The ones you haven’t started yet?”

“Yep.”

“Better get it over and done with then…what did they say about you?”

“One didn’t say much but the other said they saw me yesterday…I thought I saw something last night but it was nothing like this…they said I was moving.”

“So, what are they? Spirits or something? Ghosts?”

“I don’t believe in either of those things.”

“Doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“Hm.”

“See if they come back. Maybe it was just a one-time thing.”

“Hm.”

She leans forward so I can see the shadows of her empathetic face. “You’re spooked.”

“A bit.”

“Well, you can sleep here and if anything comes to get you I’ll deal with them.”

“I appreciate you…one of them touched me.”

“How did it feel?”

“Freezing.”

“Ah, so they were vampires then.” I look up at her. Her eyes are closed again, and her breathing is heavier. So is mine. “They could be angels; people watching over you. I mean…if anyone deserve a guardian angel it’s me…” She yawns. “But you need them more - that’s why you got two.”

I’d respond but I her arm has gone limp; she’s back asleep.

Maybe it’s good to think I have someone watching over me.

Knowing my luck I probably just have something watching me.

---

Happy Friday.

This is a long one so if you made it to the end, thank you. Please tell me what you think of it.

Depending where you read it, the asterisks throughout the story might be all over the place - this is not intentional (it’s annoying) - sorry.

Back soon. xx