Someone told me that sleep is for the weak.

I agreed.

So. I haven’t slept. For eighteen years.

And it was fine, for the first two. I think. It’s all a bit of a blur.

But then, I started to see them. The slim ones.

The ones who come from the cracks in your floorboards and wardrobes, and watch you. While you sleep. Just watch. Their long stabby fingers curled over your head.

I catch them approaching me, sometimes. When I start to shut my eyes. They’re waiting. To watch me.

You’re not weak, to sleep. You’re very, very brave.