Knockout

I've been trying to sleep for six hours now. Lately, I've been having more and more trouble falling asleep. Then, I hear this unsettling sound, like an unwelcome guest, demanding to be acknowledged. It always plays out this way.

Whenever I try to sleep, I'm jolted awake by a loud knock at the door. It's just a single, forceful knock, but it throws me off, pulling me back from the edge of sleep. The sound is so real, so present, that I always react as if it's actually happening. The first time, I figured it could be a mistaken fast-food delivery. It wouldn't have been out of place, given the area's abundance of that kind of food, although I've never eaten it, even during my brief stint working at a fast-food restaurant. The second night, I was brave enough to open the door, only to find an empty, cold hallway.

It happens again on the third night. That same steady sound, just as powerful as before. A single knock, enough to drag me from sleep and knock me off my feet.

Knock, knock, knock. The sound echoes in my head, a relentless boomerang.

It intensifies, and I seriously consider opening the door. But I stop myself instantly, knowing it's not real. I wait for another knock, but it never comes. Relieved, I sink back into sleep.

On the fourth night, I notice something wrong with my body. Red spots erupted everywhere, as if I'd been walking through nettles. But I haven't, and I rack my brain for a reason. I cannot think of anything, so I recall a brief bus conversation. Someone mentioned their cousin had psoriasis, and it looked similar to my condition the next day. Could this be a curse, spoken and now affecting me? The knocking hasn't started today, so I can sleep peacefully, accepting my destiny.

The next day, the doctor confirms my worst fears. Diagnosis: psoriasis. To add insult to injury, my joints ache. The doctor orders more tests and asks me to return.

That night, the knock at the door didn't come again. Two nights in a row now. Should I track these and analyse them in my journal? I bet it would offer some clues about what's coming. Instead of searching my desk's big drawer for a notebook, I drift off to sleep.

Nightmares have plagued me lately. Each time I'm in a room with other people, the tension just builds and builds. It happens everywhere in my dreams: at home, on a train, in a hotel, even at the doctor's. Wherever I might be, I am close to someone else. It always feels claustrophobic, but others somehow ease the tension, replacing it with something else. Comfort? Maybe. But sometimes this feeling seems false, like kindness masking something cruel.

After three nights with no knocking, I'm worried. Am I just imagining things? Did I even hear it in the first place? Perhaps it is just a pre-dream, or maybe my mind is playing tricks, altering my perception from day to night. Is this even worth dwelling on, let alone obsessing over like I have been?

The following night, it happens again. Loud thumps on the wood, spontaneous, but firm. I peek out, but the hallway drowns in darkness, lit only by the streetlights. Frustrated that I still hadn't figured out the meaning of this mysterious knock, I’m going back to bed. If this is going to be third time lucky game, I wonder how it will all end.

The next night, I strain to hear the sound. This time, it arrives differently, feeling more internal, with the knocking trapped between my prefrontal cortex and the deeper areas of my brain, near my ear. What can this signify? This is the second night in a row. Shall I expect some sort of revelation after the third?

On the third night, whether in my mind or in reality, I hear the knocking again. It sounds like a muffled knock followed by the scrape of metal on wood, as if coming from between two doors. I don't dare ask any more questions. I fall asleep, feeling more relieved than scared, happy that the pattern is finally clear: three nights with knocks, then three nights without.

The next day, I got the test results: I have psoriatic arthritis, on top of my existing psoriasis. The doctor looks worried and wants to run more tests. I agree, more concerned about the mysterious knocks than about the actual inconveniences of the diagnoses.

Over the next three nights, I'm jolted awake by a series of three knocks. Each time, I'm pulled from the light sleep of the first phase. The knocks sound identical, creating a sense of déjà vu. I don't remember the dreams or the evenings in between, just the question at the heart of it all: What do they mean?

The next three nights pass uneventfully, as I'd hoped. Then comes the appointment. I imagine the worst-case scenario: a serious, terminal illness, with only a short time left. What would I even do? How would I spend my days knowing my time is running out? Could anyone truly be prepared for something like that?

At the doctor's office, I am told I have skin cancer. I’m collapsing onto the floor beside the doctor's desk and hear three knocks in my head. Is that the end, or just the beginning?

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Thank you for reading!