There have always been sleepless nights in cheap hotels. You pay the piper. You get on with it.

On the road, though, a night of video porn takes the edge off. Follow with a hard run and you've got some measure of peace, some way to deal until the case is solved. Then, it's back home where you're tucked in safe and sound - a good little fibbie with a sofa where lumps are in the right place and take-out can be counted on.

It's when safe home is no longer safe that you know you're in trouble.

Thirteen days ago you heard Scully's screams of terror and confusion. Lucky thirteen? Only if you're dead by day fourteen. And if you do that, if you give up, you fail Scully all over again.

xXx

Another night jerking awake in Sleepless Town. You use your t-shirt to wipe off the sweat, breathe deep to slow your heart. Nothing to hurry about. Try to distract yourself by shuffling through last week's mail one more time. Nothing new. No sudden clue to pierce your brain and carry you to where you need to go.

You think about t.v., but infomercials don't cut it anymore, so it's outside, where the noise and stink of others can distract you from your own noise and stink.

Your feet take you to the twenty-four hour side of town, and soon you're adrift on malignant streets. It's crowded here. Some are like unredeemed ghosts who wander, clothed in muted colours, fading before your eyes. Others are predators. They remind you of vampires with their sly eyes and shallow smiles.

But everywhere, you are the outsider. Even here. Even in your special corner of hell.

Head down, you step over garbage and pass a half-ripped poster tattered around the edges. Year of the Dog, it blares. You grimace. Time is grinding so slowly, it might be Year of the Dog forever.

A neon sign assaults your gritty eyes, and you slide inside the restaurant. You might have been aiming to go there, you don't remember.

The tables are small, the aisles are narrow, the menu almost unreadable in the thin light. There's a scarred sushi bar. Dingy paper lampshades. Seaweed and rice are being rolled in a kitchen that spooned out chow mein only three weeks ago. When Scully was around. Not lost.

You sip tepid tea and order something raw. Close your eyes and begin to drift.

Behind closed lids, Scully is leaping out of a car in slow motion. You reach out your arms, but all you catch is a flurry of floating white paper. You bite the inside of your cheek - hard. The sharp tang brings you back, and you see blood-red sashimi on a rectangle plate. You pour soy sauce in a cup, stir in wasabi, and then some more. You crave the harsh taste.

You break apart the cheap wooden chopsticks, rub them against each other automatically. The waitress offers more tea and you accept, grateful. Tea washes you into another vision.

A car is magically filling inside with snow. You remember wishing for snow in a Scully hot tub fantasy. You ask for your tea to be reheated, and when it is you scald your tongue.

Far off in the distance, you see a bleak, snow-covered pier. A rowboat, tethered with an impossibly long rope, makes it hard to squint, to see who's inside. Your snore surprises you awake. Again. To face the night.

Sleepless Town demands sacrifice.



***

NOTES: This story was inspired by the title and noir images of the Japanese film, Sleepless Town. My thanks to MaybeAmanda for the quick beta.

Tesla asked for an insomnia story for her "let the good times roll" ficathon, but les bons temps refused to rouler.

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