Hours

There was a wailing sound coming from the next room. It had been happening for one or two hours. Thomas turned over in his bed. He thought about getting up. He turned over again, wrapped the pillow around his head. It had been three hours now, Thomas was sure, though he steadfastly avoided looking at the clock. It happened every night, except the nights it didn’t: This noise. Different noises. A new one every time, a perennially recurring insomniac episode forgotten, every time, by dawn and waking. Frequently it was knocking, sometimes scratching, more often something indeterminate, just a noise. This time, this wailing. Thomas began composing a letter in his head:

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am on track as it stands to get five hours’ sleep before my alarm goes off at 8 a.m., which quantity is already well below the doctor’s recommendation. Kindly desist in this absurd racket so that it need not be even less, or else …

He could not quite supply the alternative. He imagined going out, disturbing his neighbour indignantly to demand what the hell was the meaning of it all. He imagined a vague sort of righteous retribution inflicted by himself upon his faceless neighbour or neighbours, whom he had never met. He did not for a moment imagine any of the noises, even this wailing, could be a sign of legitimate distress. He had not slept in weeks; he had slept every night, and woken refreshed and forgetful of the last night’s disturbances; he felt confident at present that he had not slept for a hundred years. What was that wailing, thought Thomas. What did that wailing think it was? He became indignant with the idea more than the fact of it. The gall of the noise’s daring to exist. It had been five hours, six. Thomas looked at the time and saw it had been twenty minutes. He went to sleep.