Goldsmiths - University of London

The signs of my nightly struggles became harder to hide from others. My face paled with each sleepless night and the circles under my eyes became like permanent ink stains. My hands shook as I poured myself coffee at work.

'Adam, you shouldn't really drink caffeine if you have trouble sleeping.' Lesley from IT said, as I stirred in the milk.

I was sick to death of people's advice on how to sleep. A hot milky drink ... don't you mean milk? A warm bath, lavender drops, a glass of wine. All these remedies were absurd, like offering an aspirin to someone with a brain tumour. They just didn't cut it.

'It's not possible to stay awake for seven days.' My doctor shook his head at me. 'You probably drift in and out of sleep, you're just not aware of it. You wouldn't be able to sit here as you are now, talking and functioning if you hadn't slept for a week.' I didn't know how to convince him. He recommended more exercise and less caffeine.

'Come and see me if you're still having problems.' He stroked his striped tie as he spoke. 'Maybe have a hot milky drink before bed?'

'Uh-huh.' She said, more to herself than me and wrote something down. I felt like an idiot sitting there with my tongue sticking out.

'You can put your tongue away.' For the first time since our twenty-five minute appointment had started I caught a glimpse of amusement in the corners of her mouth, which hurt my already-frayed feelings.

'Oh, sorry.' My voice cracked as I spoke, before I knew it my eyes filled with tears. The doctor looked up from her pad. Her dark eyes looked huge, enlarged by the lenses in her glasses.

'Is there something wrong, sir?' she asked carefully.

'I'm sorry. I don't normally do this ... I'm just very tired.'

'I understand.' She took her glasses off and placed them carefully on her desk, her eyes returning to a normal human size. 'Maybe this is the problem.'

'What?' I wiped at my eyes.

'Maybe it is because you don't cry that you cannot sleep.'

'I don't understand.'

'You are holding onto something, burying it inside of you. Your body is not flowing as it should. You need to allow yourself to feel all of your emotions, to confront them.' I cut her off before she managed to get any further.

'I really don't think this is an emotional problem. I think it's a purely physical thing here. There's something wrong with me.'

'Almost all problems stem from the emotional part of us. They show themselves to us as physical symptoms so that we cannot ignore them. You cannot separate the two.'

That Saturday I wandered aimlessly through a sunny Camden market, pale and weak amidst tanned relaxed people. They smiled and talked and got excited about things – I could feel their energy pulsating through them, hoping some of it would rub itself on to me. As I made my way amongst them I would occasionally brush against them, my fingers would feel skin and clothes for the briefest moment. Nobody noticed. I really must have become transparent. As I walked it felt like I was floating, my body too tired to pump the blood all the way to my feet. The ground had lost its solidity causing me to sway. I walked past a pet shop that I used to visit when I was a kid to look at the huge python that they had in a small glass tank. I would watch transfixed as the shop-owner fed the snake baby mice. The pink hairless mice came in a foil tray. Lined up in rows they looked like frozen prawns that my mother used to buy. He would throw a couple in the glass cage and the snake would lazily watch as they fell in front of him. Even then it seemed wrong to me, an animal-friendly place like a pet shop buying trays of dead babies like TV dinners in order to feed another animal. It seemed an unfair sacrifice.

I felt drawn to the pet shop, it reminded me of childhood and in my exhausted state I yearned for comfort, even if it was comfort from a past long gone, a past in which I still had a family and proper home to return to. That afternoon as I walked into the shop and the mealy smell of dried pet food and moist fur hit my nostrils, it felt like I had stepped back in time. Nothing had changed in the tiny overcrowded place. Cages sat on top of cages. The parrots and rodents were all located on the ground floor. They seemed to wind each other up by being in such close proximity. I spotted a kitten in the corner of one of the cages. He looked more alert than his roommates, his big blue eyes wide with curiosity. I stuck my hand in between the bars of the cage and stroked the small white kitten, my fingers disappearing in the softness of his fur. I stroked him behind a silky ear and he bent his head towards me, his tiny body weight pressing on my hand in enjoyment and then he toppled over, unbalanced. I smiled at this creature that seemed to share the same life force that I had felt in the people outside. Even this kitten had something that I no longer possessed. Unable to face the snakes and other reptiles upstairs I left the shop, the feel of the warm live fur still on my fingers.

In the evening I sat in front of the TV, holding the remote like a weapon, ready to battle through another endless night. As I watched one boring programme after another I forgot what it was I had started watching in the first place. The last thing I remembered was a nature programme about predators on BBC 2. I woke up the following day at 11:13. I was still in my clothes, but had somehow moved from sitting upright to lying down.

As I stood up shakily and walked towards the bathroom I caught sight of myself in the hallway mirror. I looked much better.

That Sunday I was full of energy, I went for a walk on the Heath, feeling that spring had finally arrived as I breathed in the fresh cool air and smelt the sickly sweet scent of marigolds. I did some shopping as my fridge had been painfully empty for days. Feeling an intense hunger, especially for meat, I ate two Big Macs in succession, followed by some fried chicken. I picked up a pepperoni pizza on the way home for later. I could feel the grease from the food I had eaten on my hands and face. I liked it, revelling in my newly re-discovered appetite. I was thirsty too. I bought four bottles of water, one litre each and by the evening had almost finished the last one. As the evening sky darkened I felt worry pulling at my gut. Night was settling in and I was nervous that this was a short-lived miracle. I tried to stay positive, tried not to think about it. But as three o'clock in the morning turned to five and then six, I realised that this indeed had been a fluke.

As I made myself coffee in the kitchen cubicle at work the following day I thought over the weekend's events. What was it that had made me sleep? I must have done something differently that day. But what? I stirred my coffee absent-mindedly.

'Uh-oh, still on the coffee? What are you like?' I turned around to face the annoying Lesley, wanting to tell her once and for all to shut up, but was silenced by her expression as she stared at me.

'Hey, I'm just teasing you know that, don't you?' She giggled, putting her hand on my bare forearm. The hairs on my arm prickled. It had been a long time since I felt female fingers on my skin. 'You look much better. You look good. I mean better ... Did you have a good weekend? You look like you did ...' She was about to say something else but I interrupted, unnerved by her reaction to me.

'Yes, thanks.' I mumbled and left her in the kitchen, heading for the bathroom. I examined myself in the mirror. I did look better, but already the shadows under my eyes were darkening again, the colour in my cheeks that momentarily had returned on Sunday was seeping out of me once again. A part of me had been awakened that morning and I refused to lose it again. I decided to retrace my steps from Saturday and left the office with no word to anyone. Nobody looked up from their computers, except for Lesley who seemed to be giving me a curious, lingering look as I left.

I went back to Camden market, which looked very different on a Monday morning. The streets were littered with the debris of the weekend gone. The sweet smells of the Chinese food and incense replaced by the stench of old piss. Without people the market had lost its spark, it looked like someone waking up from a hammering hangover, eyes vacant and unfocused. As I walked through all the same streets as I had done on Saturday I became more and more discouraged. It was obvious the answer did not lie there. I paused at the pet shop and decided to go in again. This time the smell of the shop made me feel nauseous, I wished I hadn't eaten so much greasy food the day before, my stomach was twisting painfully, emulating my rising anxiety. My eyes searched for the white kitten, hoping the sight of the animal would bring comfort. He was lying in the corner, hidden away amongst some large rabbits. He looked even smaller than yesterday, his eyes a little duller as he stared into space. His tail moved weakly as I approached. I reached into the cage to stroke his head as I did the other day, but this time he didn't enjoy the affection, he tensed under my fingers, curling into a ball. He looked so pitiful that it upset me, my throat tightening with emotion.

'Don't worry, little one. I'm not going to hurt you.' I stroked his soft fur in an attempt to calm him. I wondered if someone had been treating him badly in the shop. Maybe some school kids grabbing at him through the cage had frightened him? As I pulled my hand away, he seemed to relax slightly, but lay unmoving. He looked sad, his blue eyes half-closed. As I left the store I felt sad too. I didn't want to leave him behind, but I couldn't deal with a pet. I had bigger problems.

That evening I finished off the remnants of the cold pizza and stared at the television, seeing the moving images but not really taking them in. The kitten and the smelly pet shop kept popping into my mind. As my mind tiredly whirred in my head, echoing the sound of my loud fridge, I felt sleep slowly settling in.

I woke up in a tangle of pillows and quilts, refreshed and ravenous. I searched through the fridge and downed a whole carton of orange juice, letting it spill down my mouth and my shirt, enjoying the coolness of the juice as it travelled down my throat and into my stomach. I was so hungry that I hunted for things I could eat without cooking. I ate a chunk of cheese, followed by some stale French bread with thickly spread butter. After I finished that I found a packet of salami, peeling off the slices one by one. I ate all of them, my mouth full of salt and grease. As I shaved that morning I felt my heart suddenly speed up as I realised what it was that made me sleep these two nights. It was the only explanation.

I couldn't wait until the end of the working day; I ended up leaving an hour early, telling my boss I had a doctor's appointment, a pile of untouched accounts still in my in-tray. As I walked towards the pet shop my legs seemed to be moving on their own accord. I almost ran inside. I walked up and down the ground floor searching for the white kitten, thinking he might have been moved to a different cage. The rabbits were still there, as were the hamsters, rats and guinea pigs. Could someone have bought him in the last day? My heart gave a painful thump. I found a sales girl feeding one of the bigger parrots.

'Excuse me, there was a kitten here yesterday. He was in that cage.' I pointed to his cage, aware that my fingers were trembling. 'Do you know where he is?'

The girl rolled her eyes and sighed. 'You mean Custard?' She went back to putting seeds in the parrot's feeder. I stared at the back of her head, fighting to keep my composure; the days of accumulated sleeplessness boiling over, ready to erupt.

'Umm, I'm not sure what his name was. He didn't tell me. He was a small white kitten and he was in that cage over there.' I pointed again.

'Yes, that's Custard.' She didn't turn to look at me as she spoke.

'Well, can I buy Custard as I'm looking for a pet and I really liked him. Where is he?'

'Custard is dead,' she said flatly. 'He died this morning.'

'Dead? How?'

'He just died. He was poorly after the weekend and then died. The boss thinks someone might have fed him something through the cage. Kids can be real bastards. Or he could have just got sick. Sometimes kittens just die, y'know.'

As she talked my mind raced, unable to accept this new unforeseen twist.

'But I really wanted him,' I said.

'Well, he's dead. You win some, you lose some,' she said in her monotonous voice. I wanted to shake her hard to get her brain to work.

'Do you have any other kittens?'

'No.'

I left the shop, sitting down on the step outside. Poor Custard was gone and I had lost my only hope. I couldn't go home. I couldn't face another sleepless night. I thought I might jump into the Camden canal. For a few minutes I considered doing it. But I didn't want to die, I just wanted to sleep.

I remembered the rabbits that were in the cage with Custard, allowing myself a tiny droplet of hope. I went back into the shop, heading towards their cages. I picked the fattest rabbit and stroked him, rubbing his long ears and running my hand along his soft back. He twitched under my touch, frightened at the sudden contact. The rabbit's black eyes were blank shiny buttons, unlike Custard's expressive eyes. I touched him for a few minutes and then, just in case, rubbed my hand over my face. I went home, ate my dinner and went straight to bed. I was asleep by seven thirty.

The next day I bought a cage, a bag of rabbit food and a newly christened Smudge, named after the black spot on his bum. It wasn't very original, but Smudge didn't seem to mind as he nibbled on a lettuce leaf and examined his new home. For a few days he lived happily in his cage. His nose twitched as he munched on lettuce leaves. I slept like a baby for three days. After Smudge's third day he stopped eating. I slept that night, but my dreams were troubling and I woke up tired. On the fourth morning Smudge didn't move in his cage. I poked him with a carrot, hoping to rouse a reaction, but he didn't respond. As I returned home from work I found the rabbit dead, his black eyes were wide open and his ears hung limply on either side like deflated balloons. I sat on the floor and stroked his cold fur. I buried Smudge in my tiny overgrown garden. I ripped out the weeds on a small patch of grass and dug a hole with a serving spoon, as I had no shovel. After I finished there was just a small bump in the ground marking his burial spot.

The next morning was Saturday and I went back to the pet shop. I came home with Top Hat, an albino rabbit with blood-red eyes and pure white fur. He was more active than Smudge and ran around in circles in his cage for four days until he dropped dead suddenly on the fifth day. I buried Top Hat right next to Smudge.

There are now five bumps in my garden and it's beginning to get crowded. I have had to switch pet shops in order to avoid suspicion. Last time I went in there to buy another rabbit the slow-witted sales girl looked at me strangely. It was the sixth rabbit I had bought in the space of six weeks. At first I was truthful about the fact that the first three rabbits had died of natural causes, but after the fourth death I decided to lie. She probably thought I cooked them or something.

I have had to broaden my choice of animals. Caramel the hamster lasted only two days. It seems that the larger animals live longer. At the moment I share my home with a cat called Whiskey. He took an immediate dislike to me, even while we were still in the shop. Whenever I pick him up he starts hissing, a sound that seems to emit from deep inside of him. When I try to stroke him he swipes at me, his sharp claws digging into me. I'm covered in long scratches that run along the length of my arms, but I'm sleeping like a baby – ten to twelve hours a night. But after a week Whiskey stops fighting with me, he lies on the rug in the corridor by the door. This morning when I'm about to leave for work and open the front door I notice that Whiskey doesn't even look up at me. I kneel down to check that he's still breathing. He jumps up and darts between my legs, out of the flat and runs down the street within seconds. I run after him, but by the time I get down the front steps and into the street there is no sign of him. I sit down on the steps and wait for him to come back.

I feel my shoulders shake even before I realise I'm sobbing. My body hunched forward as it gasps for air. People walk past and stare but thankfully nobody asks me if I'm okay. What would I say? That my cat has run away because he's figured out if he stays any longer he'll end up in the overflowing pet cemetery in my back garden? I congratulate Whiskey on his gutsy escape. And then I cry some more thinking about little Custard and Smudge and Top Hat and all the others I have lost. And the many more that will have to be sacrificed.

'This one comes with all these accessories included – his own cage equipped with a little wheel and rubber toy.' The animals look dumbstruck in their glass cages.

I want to buy a dog. The sales guy is showing me a golden retriever, his fur glistens and his eyes are bright, overflowing with kindness. He waves his tail enthusiastically as people walk by. He is heart-breakingly wholesome. The sales guy senses my indecision. He runs a hand through his streaked hair and launches into the sales pitch.

'The retriever is a great dog, really loyal. They're good with children, a real family dog. You couldn't ask for a better pet.'

I look at the glass cage next to him which houses a small mongrel dog, a mixture of various breeds that have left him ugly and bow-legged. He has bristly grey fur, the edges tinged with white and a pug nose; he seems to shrink away as I approach, taking a few steps back away from the glass.

'That's Buddy. He's been here for a long time. Someone brought him in about four months ago. Looks like he's had a hard life. Very sad.' he shakes his head to emphasise just how sad it is. I look at the dog's watery grey eyes, which stare back me. He pleads that I let him be.

I look from one dog to the other, not sure what to do, which to choose. As I stand thinking, a child approaches the cage with the retriever and pats the glass excitedly with open palms leaving a sticky handprint behind, trying to get the dog's attention. The boy is about three with curly chocolate-brown hair and big brown eyes filled with pleasure as he looks at the animals around him. His innocent delight is contagious and makes me smile. I'm about to pat the top of his soft curly head, but catch my hand just in time. He moves off to another cage his parents following behind. My hand is still poised mid-air so I place it in my raincoat pocket and turn my attention back to my decision and the impatient sales guy. He sees me faltering.

'Retrievers are strong dogs, great for long walks in the countryside.' He turns back to Buddy's cage 'I do feel sorry for this one though, I'm afraid he's not as handsome as some of our other dogs. He gets over-looked a lot.'

I feel the twitch of a muscle in my cheek, like a spasm, as I observe Buddy. I set my jaw firmly in order to control this weakness.

'I'm not surprised, he's quite ugly.'

I notice Buddy's short tail wag gratefully as I turn away from him and re-direct my attention back to the excited retriever, who seems so eager to please me.