The Theatrical Journalist

Improv, Comedy, Women, Melbourne and everything in between.

Nighttime Symphonies

Wednesday 28th August

I awoke in the middle of the night sweating. Anxious, as usual. The dream leading up to this upheaval of sleep had been pleasant, I think, for what I can remember. I was still anxious. Too hot. I took off my clothes and the thick socks on my feet that were warming the blood that was pumping around my body. I forced a deep breath, yawned, tried to cool down. My attempt at a heated meditation was interrupted by what I thought was the sound of a woman howling outside. She wasn’t singing, she wasn’t screaming, it sounded like a drunk person, or at least that was my only rational explanation for it. The sound kept repeating itself, mimicking its predecessor perfectly every time. It was too perfect and repetitive to be an intoxicated rambler. Anxiety began creeping through my extremities when I started sweating again. Thinking of the possibilities, the outcomes, the horror stories. The Irony. Unable to relax, I sat up and checked all the sides of my bed because all of a sudden I was eight years old again.
Everything is so much more sinister at night.
Not until there’s sun is there a chance for innocence.

Minutes of this howling had passed and I began to stress about my imminent 6am wakeup call.
Between the stress and the wonderment as to whether my house was haunted or that there was an insane lady roaming a quiet, suburban street, I realised that perhaps this harrowing sound isn’t coming from a person. It wasn’t a possum, no no, they sound like chainsaws when they hiss, they don’t sound like forlorn drunk women. I initially wondered if one of my neighbours was being abused, or perhaps there was some kind of domestic row next door, but the sound became so rhythmical and repetitive that it couldn’t be possible for this to be sung by a human.

I reluctantly – for the sake of my mental state and need for sleep – came to the realisation that the sound was coming from a cat. An extremely sad cat. I wondered if it was my own cat, Olive, howling at the empty bounds of suburbia ahead of her when all she wants to do is be free and hunt rabbits and mice. She wants to have freedom in the maliciousness that this domestic habitat is withholding from her. I heard responses to this howling. More responses. It was a symphony at this point. The sound was growing and it was unrelenting. It had no sympathy for the anxiousness of its sleepless victim.
The howling faded and the droplets of sweat dried up.

I woke up freezing.

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This entry was posted on August 29, 2013 by in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , .
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