Prompt: Insomnia
Character(s): Apollo Justice
Originally Written: 3.8.2009
Apollo can't sleep.
He can't fathom why, exactly. All he knows is that the blessed periods of slumber are short and laced with nightmares, the kinds that make you grip your sheets and shut your eyes, trying to forget the fear that they induced.
The nightmares are strong, yes, but the most disconcerting thing about them is that they are all but fleeting; Apollo can't even remember who was in them or what happened.
But for the most part, he can't sleep.
At first, he thought it was because the apartment was too hot, mostly because he kept tossing the sheets and when the morning came, a thin coat of sweat was formed on his forehead. It continued even after he turned the air conditioning up to the highest setting; in fact, it came to its peak at the fever pitch of Vera Misham's trial. Perhaps those nights were understandable, as the truth was hard to digest, but the condition persisted even after things settled down.
There's an element about this whole 'condition' of his that's utterly embarrassing. How can he tell someone that he hadn't had more than three hours of peaceful rest a night in months? He can't. The stares that he receives from the Wrights when he shows up to work, groaning and cursing, are better left unanswered. It doesn't matter, Apollo keeps telling himself. Of course, he knows as well as anyone that it does matter.
Between the nightmares and the lack of sleep, he's not sure what's real and what's fake, whether he's going crazy or he just needs to relax. God, if he could do that, he'd be the most docile guy around (when he didn't need to be on the offensive).
He's sick of the sleepless nights, the ones where he's forced to think of all the mistakes he's made. If the insomnia lingers, what will he do? Once he's catalogued every insignificant event in his life, what will be left to validate him as a person?
What will he think about? Hell, will he even want to think about anything after pushing himself down to a new low?
It's almost pathetic, too; with all the extra time not being able to sleep, Apollo would typically get some work done. If his body wasn't going to agree with him, he might as well make it useful.
But more often than not, he is paralyzed from even leaving the bed, as though staying there might give him the slightest chance of rest. And so, he has forced himself to memorize all the unimportant nuances of his room; the small crack towards the bottom of the wall by the TV, the peeling wallpaper in the corner where the bathroom is, how the fan slows down every five minutes or so.
He hates this. He hates it, hates it, hates it. It makes him lash out at everyone when they didn't do anything wrong, it makes him say things he doesn't mean. It's eating away at him, and he thinks he just might die if this goes on.
Apollo folds his arms behind his back and stares blankly at the ceiling; the walls are beginning to close in around him, and for a good reason. They're the sole witnesses to this travesty of a disability.
They're trustworthy, in a sense. It doesn't matter what the walls see anymore.
He's given up.
