Have you noticed how things are louder when you sleep? How the clock that ticks benignly in the lounge suddenly sounds like the countdown of a bomb strapped to your chest? Perhaps that's why husbands and wives had separate bedrooms back when: all that snoring and grinding of teeth is bound to get on someone's nerves.
Look, I'm guessing. I have to wear machines to hear basic sound - most of it passes me by. Like whispers, the sound of a car pulling up on the driveway and the loudness of my own breathing. I suppose it's good, in a way. Not hearing has made me extremely perceptive: I can sense a shift in the room, a change in someone's mood or emotion; hell, I can tell when someone is about to sneeze or burst into tears. I think being able to hear would be a kind of sensory overload.
Except when I'm sleeping. That's when everything sounds like it's coming out of a concert amp plugged into my brain. Even swallowing and accidentally letting my teeth engage sounds like I'm crunching a mint. Those white ones, you know? Hard as fecking rocks. If the neighbours feel amorous in the middle of the night, I hear it like a jackhammer at dawn. It's the strangest thing.
I've been reading about it and apparently it's one of the body's natural defences against predators. Back when my ancestors were inventing fires and the wheel, it protected them against sabre-toothed whatsits. Makes sense, I suppose. Except the predators I have in my life don't come around when I'm alseep.
Don't get me wrong: I have bad dreams too. The other night I dreamt that I was watching people be decapitated. Not the kind of stuff you bring up with your colleagues at lunch time. But the good thing about those dreams is that I can wake up from them and go about my day. Shaken, perhaps. Worried, maybe. Most of the time, it's just a dream.
No, the real predators I know wear human clothing and have human smiles. They are charming and beguiling and shake your hand and compliment you on your dress. They make you feel welcome and important - at first. And there's a seismic shift that happens as you let them tip the balace of power in their favour. As you accept the compliments and champagne, let them squeeze your arm and offer you their trust, you're actually agreeing to their terms and conditions. You won't realise it until later, of course.
You've all been there. It's that feeling of dread, of knowing that some form of danger is lurking. Like when you're a kid, home alone, and someone arrives at your door. It's a feeling that's harder to ignore when you're home alone, but when you're surrounded by computers, desks and people in suits - innocuous at best - it morphs into a kind of disease. And it spreads slowly, like a blush.
You get a niggling sense that something is off, like when you sniff your cereal after drowning it in day-old milk. But you brush it aside and tell yourself that no harm is done, and you keep following your routine. The feeling grows, incrementally, and before you know it, your back is against the wall and your hands are pinned above your head. There are only two options in this case: surrender or scream. I know from experience that surrendering is easier. It doesn't hurt as much, but you have to live with that cesspool in the pit of your stomach that makes you feel nauseated every time you go back to the situation. Screaming will get everyone's attention, that's for sure. At first they will ignore you and then gag you until you surrender. Bottom line: you can't win. Don't even bother trying.
Perhaps if there were a way to make my night hearing available to me during the day, then I could avoid a great deal of heartache. I'm just not sure it will catch on in the grand scheme of evolution. So, I suppose this is a warning, a message from the battle weary. Listen. Always listen to that knowing that the shadow of what you see is what's real. Don't be afraid to open the hypothetical door and confront what's on the other side. Once you realise you're dealing with puppets, it's just a matter of learning how to pull their strings.
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