The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

I’ve always had difficulty falling asleep at night, even when not bombarded by noise pollution. The moment I closed my eyes, the irrational feeling creeps over me that something dreadful might happen if I’m not vigilant. As I tried to summon sleep, I thought about the years I’d lain awake as a girl, waiting for my father to return from the pub. My bedroom was above the front entrance and hallway of my childhood home, and I could tell from even the smallest sounds that drifted up through the floorboards what state he was in. If he found the lock with his front door key straightaway it was good; if he dropped his keys or fumbled to find the lock it was bad. If he closed the front door quietly it was good; if he slammed the door it was bad. If his footsteps across the hallway were light and even it was good; if they were heavy or irregular it was bad. If there was a gush of water being poured into a glass it was good; if there was a clink of a bottleneck against a tumbler it was bad. If he came straight up to bed it was good; if he started playing Italian opera at full volume it was bad. I sometimes wonder if Edward lay awake thinking the same thoughts. I don’t know. I never asked him.