None But Eagles

Wearing socks to bed gave her insomnia, but she didn’t realize it until many nights had passed in staring at the ceiling examining the sensation of her erratic heartbeat or trying to discern the translucent object of her anxiety or rearranging herself within the bed again and then again and then again, trying not to think.

She only ever wore socks to bed on especially cold nights after especially cold days. At first, after getting into bed and warming quickly, she would feel secure with readiness for sleep. But after some time, more time than it usually took her to drift off, she transcended beyond expectation of sleep, beyond warmth; a place painful and disturbed but too vague to be understood.

Finally one night staring into the darkness, the evidence assembled itself in the air above her head, and she realized that the socks were keeping her awake. Perhaps they were the wrong type of socks, or they rubbed the bedsheets the wrong way, or their fibre was of a particular type that stimulated secret nerves on the soles of her feet. However it was, she yanked them off and threw them into a corner where they scattered a silent assembly of dust bunnies and tiny nighttime creatures. She fell asleep within seconds, and in the morning they were gone.

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