My Imps of Darkness

Michael A. Merillo

The first thing I become aware of is that I can't breathe through my nose. Again. Everyday for the last two or three weeks the same frustrating wake-up realization. What's worse, is that as I roll over to look at my mobile/alarm-clock, surprise surprise, it's more than thirty minutes before the horrendously loud, quasi-electronica noise that serves as my gentle wake up song goes off. I try to return to sleep, but the allergies have woken up too. I can feel them, creeping and crawling all around my nose, throat and eyes. To me they look like Darwin's Imps of Darkness. You know, those evil-eyed, black-scaled sea iguanas. Rolling to the other side of my bed, I pick up a damp bandana that's been lying on the floor, and apply enough force through my nostrils to power a sailboat in an effort to regain the ability to breathe through my nose. An unsuccessful attempt. It's always unsuccessful. My Imps have a mind of their own.

As I lay there - snot-dampened cloth in one hand, fighting my duvet with the other, trying to hurl the blasted heavy thing to the floor - I was boiling, sweating, and had been doing so all night. I can't sleep with the window open; you see, the Imps might get in that way, while I'm sleeping. After another hurricane force application to my snot-rag, I swing my legs over the side of my bed and just sit there, already feeling exhausted. One problem with keeping the window closed is that I'm sure I've sucked all the viable air out of the room and am beginning to suffer the opening stages of oxygen deprivation. I know how all the Everest climbers feel. I feel your pain, boys. ... (continues)