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It didn’t take long for Donny to figure out that something was wrong.
At first, he thought it was something that might go away. Can’t sleep one night? Normal. Everyone has a nightmare now and again. A bad dream had surely left him breathing heavily and in a cold sweat before. Can’t sleep for two nights? Fine. Sleep was a natural function of the body, and his body would have to comply with nature eventually, Donny figured. But after a couple of weeks with practically no sleep, Donny was too tired to lie to himself and continue saying things would go back to normal.
He was no doctor, but he was pretty sure the human body was supposed to fall asleep more regularly than a few hours every few nights. He was no psychologist, but he was pretty sure nightmares weren’t supposed to leave a person shaking and shouting. Bad dreams weren’t supposed to rule a tyranny over the mind. Thought I was done fighting dictators, Donny would sardonically think to himself. Although, this wasn’t fighting. This was more like helpless subjection, and it only got worse as time passed.
What would people tell him it was? He’d heard “battle fatigue” floating around. Fatigue. Donny could have laughed. Fatigue didn’t even begin to cut it. More than likely, he’d be told he had a case of “nothing’s wrong, just go to sleep for God’s sake”. Well, whatever it was, Donny knew that something was undeniably very, very wrong. The realization that he had a problem brought with it a slightly nauseated feeling. The realization that there was no help to be had brought with it a gut-twisting dread.
It was a downward spiral from there. He could scream from the top of the Terminal Tower that he knew something wasn’t right with him and a lot of other vets, too, but no one would take him seriously. Donny could do nothing but hope for sleep he very well knew would not come. And when sleep wouldn’t come, he had two choices: see if drinking enough of whatever alcohol he managed to buy would knock him out for at least a couple of hours or sit at the piano and let his fingers hopelessly roam.
The dingy black and white keys were the only constant in Donny’s otherwise crumbling world. They were always there, whether Donny was contentedly composing or desperately banging out his grief and his fear- which was what most often happened in those early and hopeless hours of the morning. Donny would mindlessly improvise, not even aware in his clouded mind if the notes and chords sounded good together. He furiously played on, anyway. By the time morning broke, Donny was always so tired that his hands shook and his playing slowed to a stop, but he still would not sleep. If he couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t play, there was nothing left for him.
At that point, Donny would trudge over to his couch, flop down on it, and sit there, his eyes stinging and his body begging for sleep. Sometimes he would make himself go for a walk and get some fresh air to feel a little better. Most times, though, he would think about how he should go for a walk and do something for once instead of pathetically sitting on his couch, but never bring himself to do it.
That was the cycle- Donny knew he would end up back at the piano at the end of the day, pounding the keys, every note an unheard cry for help.