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Memoirs of a Violent Sleeper Matt Micheli

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Memoirs of a Violent Sleeper Matt Micheli

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Memoirs of a Violent Sleeper Matt Micheli

Memoirs of a Violent Sleeper by

Matt Micheli

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Memoirs of a Violent Sleeper Matt Micheli

Memoirs of a Violent Sleeper Š 2010 Matt Micheli Cover Artwork Š 2010 Erick Montes All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal. All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

ISBN: 9780982787700

Creative House International Press, Inc. CreativeHousePress.com

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Memoirs of a Violent Sleeper Matt Micheli

To: Mr. Jack Broham, Golden Boy O’ Bacon, The Wolf, Captain Badass, Sebastian, Contraband, Mr. Intensity, Gangstalicious; And to the most amazing, supportive women in the world. (You know who you are.) Thank you for creating this monster and always standing by its side.

And honey, this book is not about me‌

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Memoirs of a Violent Sleeper Matt Micheli

Prologue

All of my life I have been tormented, well for at least the last twenty years of it. Tormented by ones closest to me for things that I have done unknowingly, unwillingly, and from what I’ve heard, uncontrollably. Bad things. Things I’ve been informed of by eye witnesses, viewers, and onlookers, but never have actually seen or felt for myself. Stupid things. Funny, ridiculous things that you can laugh at others for doing. You say to yourself, what the hell? This guy’s loony. Or, you can laugh at yourself if you put yourself in the shoes of the people that randomly catch you committing these shameless acts. All that I know is I don’t get there until the aftermath is being reviewed, the crime scene is being investigated, the crime reenacted, and the damages accounted for. This is typically when the embarrassment sets in. A mixture of laughter and sighs of disappointment come from various directions towards you. Scary things. It’s hard to think of yourself as perfectly normal when everyone around you tells you that you’re not. They look at you like you’re some sort of monster. A weirdo that can’t help it. With fear and concern they look at you. It’s like how a pet dog would look at a small, harmless child knowing that he’s about to get dressed up, and played roughly with as if he was a non-living, inanimate toy. Awkward smiles try to mask their disappointment. Their eyes

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display some sort of uncomfortable pity towards you. You don’t feel normal; you feel different. Through my own looking glass perception, I am definitely not normal. But the reasons why I am not normal, I can’t exactly explain for myself. I can only listen to others, the witnesses of my spastic occurrences, and hope for a better understanding of what it is, exactly, that I do that propels the people that make up my life, to look at me the way they do...with pity.

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Memoirs of a Violent Sleeper Matt Micheli

Chapter 1

“You’re sleeping in your own bed tonight mister.” My mother sternly states as if I’ve done something terribly wrong. I’ve heard her use that tone with my brother in the past. Those times always resulted in a good old lashing, or at least him getting grounded, but never had she used that particular tone with me, that tone that leaves you frozen in fear. Uh oh. I was not looking forward to see where this would lead. Mom picks up a shirt off the floor and tosses it in the hamper and quickly leaves the room. “Come get breakfast.” The words leave her mouth, enter the hallway and eventually reach me as she walks away. I sit there for a minute stalling, but then realize, that will do no good. My parents always get their man. I have to go face the day, and face whatever reason my mother is so upset. The little encounter with mom makes my trip down the stairs an uncomfortable one, to say the least. I hold onto the wooden railing as I make my way down, one step at a time. I slowly reach for the dark stained, wooden ball on the lower end of the staircase. I use the ball to swing myself off the stairs and onto the cold, brown, moist-feeling tile, still damp feeling from the cement below. I continue grasping the wooden ball absorbing through my hand the different textures of sanded, and un-sanded, wood grain finish giving

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me time to contemplate my next move. The ball is my safe hold for the moment. Looking from one side of the house to the other, there are pictures of family portraits and paintings. The dark, aging wood and golden frames holding more pictures, and more paintings, from wall to wall. They go up the staircase, and into the hall, and back down again. There are more pictures than wall space. Imagine your grandmother’s house if she were a starving artist, lunatic, frame maker. Then make it darker, and definitely more cluttered, with curtains and draperies hanging over most of the windows. The smell of old dust clogs your senses. Wondering if I am going to get yelled at, or even worse, spanked, I start to panic. I try furiously to remember if I pissed the bed. Wait, what am I talking about? I’m seven years old. I haven’t pissed the bed in years. I’m cautious, but why? Did my brother rat me out for something I’ve done, or put the blame on me for something I haven’t? Maybe he’s trying to cover his tracks? Or maybe he framed me intentionally. I’m thinking the latter. He gets his kicks from seeing me get mine. The faint, un-comprehendible sound of the morning news is coming from around the corner. The garbles clearing up, and loudening, as I move onward. I make my way towards my destination. Barefoot, the cold, slick ice-like tile soaks in through my dry, tough foot bottoms. My feet are so tough from running barefoot on the hot, black tar asphalt during the summer months. A favorite game of mine is to run on the asphalt ‘till I simply couldn’t stand the burning pain. Reminiscent to walking on hot coal. Reminiscent to inflicting a great deal of pain to yourself for no real reason, or reward. But, you do get some cool, black calluses on your foot bottoms. It makes total sense. Looking at He-Man looking back at me from my favorite HeMan pajamas, I start to regain my composure. I am once again ready to eat my breakfast in confidence, thinking that mom maybe hadn’t meant anything by what she had said. Or maybe she just

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wants me to sleep in my own bed, in my own bedroom. Just maybe, my limp ninety-eight degree body, lodged in between mom and dad, wedged in between them like a sweaty, clammy, jumbo-size wiener in a small deli style bun coming up and out the ends, doesn’t exactly provide them with a pristine sleep environment. Just maybe I ruin their comfortable, eight hours of, what should be peaceful, cell rebuilding, rejuvenating sleep. Or, just maybe, I’m too fudging old to sleep with my mommy and daddy. Maybe it’s time that I start to think that that sort of thing…a seven year old kid still wanting to sleep in between his parents, is just a wee bit creepy. The early morning sun shines onto me through the windows, illuminating me. It is shining between the curtains, spotlighting me, warming my half-numb, half- asleep face. My eyes squint due to them not being prepared for such a vast display of morning sunlight. I continue on my path knowing that the table is only a few moments away, right around the corner, into the light. I hear forks, and other metal eating utensils, scraping ceramic plates. There are sounds of cups and glasses being lifted off an old, wooden table, sipping and swallowing. Then comes the sound of enamel teeth entering the crusty, half burnt, charred outer layer of toast, then being tossed about and chewed ferociously; the toast being a small lifeboat battling sky scraper tall waves, in a violent ocean during a hurricane storm. The toast being thrown from fang to molar, back and forth, left to right, for several seconds, only until more teeth invade the toast’s blackened, hard protective shell. The smoky smell of bacon and maple syrup combine, mixing together, forming the ultimate nose sanctuary…nose Heaven. Breakfast. A seven-year old kid’s drug of choice. My anticipation builds as I make my way to the table. “There’s the little perv now.” My brother cynically spouts. “Davey! Your Breakfast.” Mom looks over at him. She looks through him as if to say shut your mouth Davey. The burning intensity of her piercing eyes burns a hole right through my mean, older brother. It works as his eyes look down to his plate, and breakfast resumes.

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Davey’s a typical twelve year old brother. He’s got short cut hair, combed forward. There are bits and fragments of adult hormones hitting his bloodstream as he begins to enter puberty. He thinks he’s a man because he’s showing signs of underarm hair growth. He always talks about how cool he is, except when he’s talking about how lame I am. He has quite a collection of porno magazines, hidden under his bed, which he brings out when his jerk buddies are over. He’s a typical twelve year old. My typical, shithead brother, nor anyone else at the table says another word as I prop my elbows up on the table. Sitting at the head of the table, dad is engulfed in the bad news, terrible news, of others reading headlines, and more headlines, of others’ misfortunes. Murders, robberies, a world at war, stocks crashing, interest rates and other boring adult lingo no seven-year old kid would ever want to read. He’s holding his Express Newspaper, folded over in one hand, toast in the other, eating and reading all at once. Smoke is rising from his fresh, just topped off by mom, steaming hot cup of coffee. Sitting directly in front of him, the cup displays to all that he is the world’s #1 Dad. King of his throne. King of our castle. “Morning dad.” I say. His eyes don’t come out from behind the paper that is consuming him. There is no acknowledgement to my good morning gesture. I look over at Betsy sitting behind her bowl of Fruity Oh’s, red, green, yellow miniature, processed donuts floating on the milky surface. She snickers and nervously looks down, away from me, avoiding any eye contact with the freak boy across the table from her. Her fiendish grin prolongs as she stares down at the table in front of her, staring through it, obviously thinking of something other than the table; something involving me. Through her grin, I almost sense a little bit of embarrassment for me. Betsy focuses on some deranged vision in her head laughing under her breath. I feel all eyes directed on me but, not looking directly at me. Inquisitive, mocking, stares of embarrassment flow towards me from all sides. Not one will dare make eye contact with me. I feel dad’s

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shame burning through the paper that is consuming him. I turn to face mom, then Betsy, then mom again. Their eyes immediately go down, away from mine, avoiding all eye contact with me; the son, the brother, the filthy beast. Suddenly, that uncomfortable, unnerving feeling I had, just a few moments prior, has returned; returned with a scary vengeance. My stomach drops out under me. I feel like I’m riding back seat in a speeding car, going up and down over small, smooth hills on a hilly, uneven road. And with that, the thought of eating, savoring my heavenly breakfast is gone; vanishing without a trace. The smoky smell of crisp bacon and sweet maple syrup now nauseates me. I feel completely alone, left out on some sick joke that every one else, every one else in the world, knows about and understands but me. Mocked and hated, I feel left for dead. I’m naked in the middle of class and the bell sounds. I am terrified, afraid and ashamed. But why? What have I done?

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Chapter 2

My alarm sounds. In between stations, it’s just annoying, piercing, smash my head in, static noise. Startled, I burst out of bed and dive to the stop button to keep the wretched noise from killing me. My heart’s pounding and I’m breathing rapidly. Cluster shocked. I enjoy waking up this way. I have approximately forty-five minutes to shower, dress myself in the appropriate attire, and get from point A to point joB. Without remembering anything I’ve done for the last twenty minutes, due to my being half asleep and running on auto-pilot muscle memory, I am somehow ready and out the door. I slide into my car, toting my scolding, hot Mug O’Coffee, being careful not to spill any from my “so called” spill-proof mug. Yeah, right comes to mind. Wearing dark colored shirts, so no one will see the spilled driblets of coffee (from the not-so-spill-proof mug), comes to mind. My keys in the ignition, my seat belt fastened, I am prepared to face the masses in a no-holds-barred driving spectacle. I flip around the radio stations hoping to hear something relevant, or worth listening to. But as usual, all that I hear is a bunch of egotistical, blow hard morning show jockeys, bashing their always unsuspecting callers. There comes a point where over indulging yourself, out loud, becomes annoying.

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I switch from radio to disc. Thom York, from Radiohead, whines ghostly through my speakers. And with that, I am on my way back into corporate America, the land of endless opportunities. Well over forty hours per week, I spend like this. Before I learned how to operate the timer on my coffee pot, I would always be eight minutes late to work; everyday. Fortunately, once you do something, or see something so often, you become desensitized to it. This is why, I’m guessing, that none of the bosses noticed me strolling in late, or at least they didn’t say anything. Either way, they’d have to at least appreciate my consistency. Now that I’ve mastered the timer feature, the coffee is set on the night before and hot and ready by the time I lace up my shoes. Out the door I go, right on time, carrying my much needed cup of fresh, hot, caffeine contaminated joe. And this is my life. The job I work consists of stocking books, ringing up customers, accepting different forms of payment, assisting in locating a particular hidden hard back for someone, and providing many other facets of customer service. I also direct customers to the bathrooms, cleaning the shit off the toilet seat after they leave. I feel so important and needed. Without me, a very important piece in this corporate puzzle, the whole store wouldn’t function properly. Without me, the whole system would fail causing a total economical crash, due to one missing link. Without this one, small component known as me, life as we know it would end. Although I am paid for these noble, honorable, and globally reliant duties, as days come and go and my life gets closer to its end, I feel less like an employee, and more like just an overall, Good Samaritan. Sarcasm comes to mind. I work at a local Barnes and Nobles bookstore. I’ve always enjoyed books and the job itself honestly isn’t that bad. I get paid ok for the lack of stress, and being able to work in a semi-quiet, peaceful environment. This job sometimes becomes a nice escape from the noisy and impatient real world outside.

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Walking into the store, you first have to travel through what I used to refer to as the entrance, but now call the clearance tunnel. There are about a hundred books, which we simply do not have space for any longer, loosely laid out on tables. I set them in boxes, wearing clearance tags, offering anywhere from fifty percent to eighty percent off. They are now old, homeless, books being prostituted at way below what their market value once was. Once inside the store, the promotional books are displayed up front. They jump out at every customer, with bright colors, and words like “special” and “great”. You see a lot of books labeled “must read”, more than you can count. I ask myself, who says? To the right is the check-out counter, usually being manned by Phil or Stephanie. They are the ones in the store chosen to handle our customers. The ones voted most congenial, or best smiles, or least scary. I’d vote for myself, but I’d be lying. Beyond the promotional area to the left, and check-out counter to the right, are aisles and aisles of books, and books, and more books. New fiction to the left, self help and informative books in the center, young adult and kid’s books to the far right in the distance. You have to walk through the erotica, “Have a Better Orgasm”, “New Age Sex”; books to get to the children’s section. “Sir? Can you tell me where the Dr. Seuss books are?” A middle aged chubby woman, wearing what looks like a hand-sewn sweater, her face bare of any make-up, indicating her elementary school teaching career, asks. “Two aisles over. You’ll see it two books to the left of the “Classic Kama Sutra’,” I tell her, pointing in that direction. I don’t see her facial expression change, as I quickly turn away from her, and continue stocking. But I feel it as I hear her footsteps walk away. “Sir, can you point me to the newest Harry Potter?” A lady asks, standing there with her must-be eight, or nine year old daughter. I stand up and rub my chin over and over, as if to look like I’m really thinking hard about it, although I know exactly where it is.

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“Four aisles down. You’ll see the “Big Book of Penises”. It’s the big book with a big penis on the cover. Harry is directly across from it.” I tell her pointing in that direction, then turning back away before her smile reverts. “What’s a penis?” I hear the little girl asking her mom, as they walk briskly away from where I’m standing. To the far back of the store, you see the coffee bar. The coffee bar here at Barnes and Nobles looks like a Starbucks. They proudly use Starbucks coffee. You can tell by the overly apparent Starbucks trademark logo, and the sign that says, “We proudly brew Starbucks Coffee.” Starbucks mugs, and other Starbucks branded products, are sold here. But it’s not a Starbucks. If it walks like a Starbucks, and talks like a Starbucks, then it might be a Barnes and Nobles Starbucks rip-off coffee shop. The Starbucks coffee, brewing only a few feet away, inhabits my senses. The smell is invigorating. “I’m sorry sir. We are not a Starbucks.” Gina, the girl behind the counter, tells the fat man. He is wearing a striped, button up shirt, tucked into his khakis, over and around his tight belly. It looks so tight that one wrong move would cause a button to fly off, as his belly explodes. Thus, exposing the ugly, hairy, stretch marked truth. Gina explains, “We don’t have a Frappaccino. I do have an iceblended coffee that’s basically the same thing.” Gina has short, black hair, shoulder-length with pink highlights. Her hair style being one where she must have told her must be eccentric, hair-stylist, “Just go crazy.” Her slender frame stands five foot five. Five foot five inches of pure perfection. Her dark eyes are framed in smoky, black make-up. The thing that’s most perfect about Gina is her perfect, round, young and tight butt in those jeans. They are the kind of jeans that shape an ass like a perfectly round, crisp, ripe for the eating, red delicious apple. Low rise. The kind of jeans that say fuck me.

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The most perfect thing about Gina, besides her dark, smoky eyes, and her perfect ass, is that she truly doesn’t care what she looks like to the rest of the world. She’s not preoccupied with how others perceive her. She’s not trying to please anybody. She’s not playing the role of anyone she is not. Gina doesn’t care. And that, to me, makes her refreshingly irresistible. Gina is the opposite of me. The life I am living has been formed by what others have told me. What others think of me. I am molded by my surrounding’s opinions of me. I am who I’ve been told to be. I admire Gina. “Hey Steven.” The dark mascara encircling Gina’s beautiful, mysterious, yet comforting eyes look toward me. My heart pounds, my hands clam up. I feel like my first crush has just acknowledged me for the very first time. I see Gina almost every day. We work no more than fifty feet from each other. We make small talk three or four times a day. A simple “What’s up?” or “How’s it going?” When she’s not looking, I’m constantly gawking at her. I can’t bear not to. She’s amazing. If she could only know how I feel inside… Gina and I, we’ve spoken almost every day for the past three months. She’s worked here for four months, but it took me a month before I could actually create words in my brain and communicate them from my mouth, without sounding mentally challenged. Four months working together, and seeing her almost every day, I’m still not desensitized to her. I’ve got a secret crush; a secret fantasy. Like a little boy, my cheeks become red, blood-filled. Nervous and shaky I reply, “Hey. How are you?” And that was tough. We part company and go back to our day to day duties, her assisting coffee drinkers, and me shelving new reads, prize winners, and best sellers. My circulatory, and respiratory systems are trying to slow back down to a steady, Gina-less idle, but I’m still feeling the aftershock anxiety of talking to her. I need to calm myself. Breathe.

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I focus my attention on the books. Maybe I need to have my blood pressure checked. I could get medication for that. I’ve taken everything else that could possibly be prescribed. Maybe more medication will fix me, my anxiety, and my life. All of my life’s problems answered in a little plastic, doctorprescribed, bottle. The medications I am currently taking are Restoral and Clonazapam. Restoral helps put me to sleep and the Clonazapam is supposed to help with my anxiety while asleep, keeping me from hurting myself due to sporadic, sometimes dangerous, outbursts. I’m told that I suffer from a condition known as RBD, or REM Sleep Behavior Disorder, sometimes referred to as VBS, or Violent Behavior While Sleeping Syndrome. RBD, in a nutshell, is a syndrome that causes you to physically act out your brain’s dreams during sleep. You’ll be dreaming that you are in an old, worn down, truck stop bathroom. Everything’s that ugly dark brown color that your parents thought was so hip in the late sixties. The smell of rotten piss sickens you. There’s shit still resting in the toilet with mounds of toilet paper torn and piled on top; piles of shit and toilet paper. The bathroom is dirty enough to where you don’t want to touch the light switch, or anything else, without layers of protective, sanitized hospital gloves. You are concerned about touching your shoes later to remove them because the bottoms touched the filthy bacteria infested floor. The fluorescent lighting flickers and buzzes. Only one of the two bulbs has electricity flowing through it, putting out a minimal, unpleasing amount of flashing light, barely enough to aim your business into the urinal. You wake up to the fierce alarm sounding and you notice a yellow stain on the wall to the left of you. It’s still warm from the passing through of your ninety-eight degree body. You stand in front of the yellow stain concerned, thinking there might be a pipe leaking from inside the wall. The bulk of the mess is about waist high, and stretches down to the floor in dripping paths. The carpet below the mess is soaked full of the warm, yellow liquid from while you were asleep. It stinks almost like ammonia, or urine. You think to

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yourself, I don’t have to piss this morning, which is odd. Coincidence? That’s when the realization hits you. If someone, a friend or even worse, a girlfriend, would have stayed over, you probably would have used them for the urinal. And that’s why you don’t have many friends and even worse, that’s why you don’t have a girlfriend. You’re too afraid that you are going to do something completely thrown off and psychotic, while the two of you sleep; that she will never forgive you. She’ll run out of your apartment screaming, half naked, drenched in warm urine, dialing the police from her Blackberry to have them come arrest you for desecrating on her without her consent. And this is my life. REM Behavior Disorder to further explain: There are five stages that make up your sleep cycle. Stage one occurs while a person is falling to sleep. This stage only takes up about five percent of your sleep time. In stage two, your EEG or electroencephalogram shows distinctive wave forms known as “sleep spindles”. Stage two occupies fifty percent of your sleep time. Stages three and four are known as “slow wave” sleep time. These are two of the deeper levels of sleep. They make up about twenty percent of your sleep time. The fifth, and final, stage of sleep is known as your “REM sleep”, or Rapid eye movement. This stage makes up about twentyfive percent of your total sleep time. This is where a person suffering from RBD, sometimes referred to as VBS, has problems. This is where I have problems. In a normal sleep cycle, an average, everyday, normal person’s sleep cycle, this is the stage that Atonia is released. Atonia is a chemical released by your brain throughout your sleep, and reaching full strength between stages four and five. This cuts off your body’s muscular function, inhibiting you from physically acting out what your mind is telling your body. With me, sometimes the Atonia decides to stay concealed in my brain, not entering my nervous system, and not inhibiting my movement. Hence, my stupid, sexual, or violent, or urinating outbursts. RBD usually only occurs in men over the age of fifty.

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I guess I’m just lucky. Honestly, I don’t know how often I have these uncontrollable outbursts at night. I have no way to tell. There is usually very little evidence of them, and without someone there to actually witness and recreate the events that had transpired, I remain uncertain about what it is that I had done, and what it is that I do. If it weren’t for people telling me what I have done, I may have never known about my freakish problem. To be honest, I wish I didn’t.

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Memoirs of a Violent Sleeper  

A twisted story of violence and defecation and how even the darkest side of love can illuminate all. Steven suffers from an extremely rare...