Simon Parsons

Like he did every night, Simon Parsons sat under his bedroom window reading. The book was spread out on his lap and his eyes were squinting with concentration as he fought off sleep while trying to focus on the history of Japanese haiku.

 

He stayed up every night because that’s when the cats met and made their plans.

 

For a year and half, while everyone else he knew slept soundly dreaming peaceful dreams, Simon Parsons stayed awake listening in terror for the cats to talk about horrible things that he’d never understood.

 

He knew he was the only one who heard them. And he also knew he was completely unable to stop them.

 

Simon’s alarm clock went off at exactly 7:15 in the morning. But like every morning, he’d been awake long before the music was playing. His bed was made. His clothes were laid out. And he was exhausted. He slowly walked down the hall and into the bathroom. Staring into the red-rimmed eyes of his reflection, Simon thought that he looked older than most eleven year olds. He felt older than most eleven year olds. In fact, he felt older than a lot of twenty year olds. Splashing cold water on his face, he felt the familiar pain of his morning headache and quickly finished his bathroom ritual so he could get downstairs. Trudging back to his room he put his clothes on and then walked out.

 

Walking down the stairs, every part of his body cried out for sleep. It was gravity that kept him going down the stairs because his legs were too heavy to move on his own. His arms were lead logs with useless lead twigs for fingers. He had to fight to keep his eyes from slamming shut. Even his hair was tired. 

 

Stepping into the sun-soaked kitchen, he was greeted with a cheerful, “Good morning Simon.” Every morning, Simon’s mother could be found in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee and fixing his lunch. And every morning she kissed him on the cheek and went back upstairs to finish getting ready for work. Simon walked over to the coffee pot and poured a big mug of thick, black coffee. He lifted it to his lips and poured the bitter, horrible, blasphemous concoction that passed for his mother’s coffee down his throat.

 

Quickly filling his mug with warm water he poured it back into the pot. Then he added three shakes of vanilla and a spoonful of sugar and sat down at the table just as his father came walking down the stairs.

 

“Morning Simon.”

“Morning Dad.”

“You sleep okay?”

And while Simon’s father proceeded to make his breakfast Simon lied to his father and said he slept great, like a log, best night’s sleep he’s had in a long time. And Simon’s father nodded and smiled then poured a cup of coffee.