CHAPTER 14
Bedtime Blues
Cliff had developed a rather peculiar bedtime routine—one that involved avoiding bed until he was utterly exhausted. He’d stumble into bed, his body craving sleep, and within seconds, he’d be out cold. But like clockwork, just three hours later, his eyes would snap open, heart pounding, as the latest installment of his nightmare series came to life.
The nightmares were always over-the-top, B-movie style horror shows starring his deepest fears. One night, he'd find himself in a twisted version of “Home Alone,” except instead of defending his house, he was frantically trying to protect his daughters from an unseen danger—and somehow, in the worst twist of all, it was his own clumsy actions that put them at risk. The next night, the plot would shift to a disaster movie, where he'd be forced to abandon Venus in a burning house, running away like a coward, only to wake up in a cold sweat, haunted by his own imagined betrayal. Strangely, he never dreamed about getting hurt himself; apparently, his subconscious had decided that wasn’t nearly terrifying enough.
Once awake, the battle began. Cliff would lie there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as if it held the secrets to his insomnia. He tried every trick in the book—deep breathing, meditative thoughts, even the classic sheep-counting. But by then, counting sheep felt like trying to solve calculus while juggling. His body was beyond tired, but his brain was stuck in overdrive, playing an endless loop of every single worry he could possibly muster.
Each morning, he dragged himself out of bed, looking like he’d been through twelve rounds with an angry pillow. His eyes were perpetually puffy, with dark circles that seemed to deepen with each sleepless night. At work, he walked slowly, his gaze glued to the floor, hoping to avoid conversation. When he wasn’t with patients, he’d retreat to his office, where the silence was only broken by the steady hum of his thoughts.
Cliff had become a master of the discreet cry. He found places no one would ever think to look—a quick sob behind the steering wheel, a few tears shed on his morning run, or a quiet breakdown by the rocky corniche, the waves crashing in sympathy. He was a man on the edge, not of a cliff, but of a never-ending tunnel that had no light at the end. Even his favorite foods lost their flavor, which was a tragedy all its own.
Sunny, ever the optimist, tried her best to cheer him up, though she wasn’t exactly in peak form herself. One day, she hesitantly suggested therapy, sharing how much it had helped her. She even recommended a therapist she knew. Cliff recoiled at the idea. Therapy? Him? How could he possibly spill his guts to a complete stranger when he couldn’t even manage to open up to his friends?
The suggestion hung in the air, half-forgotten as Cliff retreated further into his own mind, unsure if he’d ever find a way out.
