You go to sleep, you wake up. Sounds simple doesn't it. Nothing is simple. You go to sleep, you wake up, and something messed up happens in between. That's the sum of it. Ask anyone and they'll tell you when you sleep you dream. Bullshit. While they're seeing fluffy white sheep leaping the moon, I'm opening my eyes who knows where, staring at fuck knows what, wondering where and who the hell I am.

Three thousand, five hundred and three ' and one.

You're born, you go to school to learn to live by the rules, you leave school and go to work by the rules, you grow old ' probably suffer a degenerative disease or two; then you die. If you're lucky you get to suffer most of it with someone you love. God, that sounds like heaven to me. A normal life again, that's my dream.

I toss the hammer to the floor as soon as I whack in the final nail, stepping back to survey my handiwork: six more timber planks and at least a hundred nails to brace the front door and keep them at bay a little longer. I've been hammering for days to barricade the doors and windows, and that's the last of it. Now I can relax.

Three thousand, five hundred and three ' and two.

Staring through the darkness at the faint green glow of my watch face, it is obvious the longer you stay awake, the slower time becomes. Einstein was onto something with his time is relative stuff. Heavy, closing eyelids'�green glow fading'�

Realizing I'm almost asleep, I summon the strength to slap myself, hitting hard enough to leave a ring in my ears; it wakes me from my dozing state only slightly.

Three thousand, five hundred and three ' and sixteen.

Fourteen minutes just passed! I wasn't asleep, but that had to have been the closest yet. I rub the insides of my eyes with my right thumb and index finger, scratching away the crusty bits of sleep. I can't help but muse over the irony of sleep boogers in eyes that haven't slept for almost one hundred and forty six days - the longest I've lasted yet.

My hands feel wet and sore, no doubt bloody and worn from days of carpentry. Poor old Eddie never held a hammer in his life, allowing his fat arse to waste away behind an accountant's desk. I can't help but wonder if he's out there somewhere right now, parading around in my real body, or one of the bodies of those I've been in. Maybe he's barricaded himself in my house as we speak. Or maybe he's simply dead. Maybe they're all dead. Shit, maybe I'm dead.

The phone is ringing; it's that negotiator again. There are probably fifty cops out there by now, wondering if I'm alone or if I have hostages, planning their next move. His first phone call came a few hours ago, and I was happy to chat ' it kept me awake. They've called twice since then, but I'm done with small talk. Besides, they always want to come in guns blazing; this'll give them the excuse they need.

'Fuck em,'� I mutter to myself, sweeping the telephone off the table hard enough to rip the cord from the wall socket.

For a moment I stand there, staring at the cleared table. Although made of hard wood, the table invites me as warmly as any bed could. Without hesitation I climb on, lying down on my back for the first time in months. Outside the negotiator begins to speak on a loud speaker, but all I hear are my own thoughts.

There were ten before Eddie Johnston, all of them difficult, but I'm getting better at it. The first one was the hardest of course. Actually no, the sixth one was the hardest; waking up as an eight year old was a fucking nightmare. Waking up as Eddie was a breeze compared to that. I pretended I was Eddie for almost four months before trouble came for me, thanks to dear old Joyce; Eddie's mother. Somehow she knew I wasn't her son. Tried to commit me she did. Can't say I blame her, but like I said, that's just not going to happen. I didn't mean to kill her, she fell when I was trying to stop her calling the loopy police. Her death wasn't my fault, honest. In fact, how can any of them be my fault? I didn't ask for this nightmare.

'It's someone else's godamm fault!'� I scream at the top of my lunges, hoping that somehow the puppet master of this charade is hearing me, whilst letting out what little energy I have left serves only to embolden my eyelids. I use all my strength to pry them half open as I lift my arm above my head, squinting at the time on my watch.

Three thousand, five hundred and three hours'�fifty six minutes.

Suddenly the fear hits me. Month after month of self induced insomnia has staved off the inevitable, but I always knew it was only temporary, something much easier to do when you're not staring down the barrel of a life destroying gun. My roller coaster ride of hell is about to start all over again; my god, who will I be next. I'm no more Eddie Johnston than I am the ten before him. I'd do anything to wake up as good old Eddie again, but I know it's not going to happen. Goodbye Eddie Johnston, it's over for you at least.

I hear a thumping crash at the front door, then a second, and the door bursts inwards on a third, but it's too late, as my eyes close for the first and last time to the soft click of an hour hand.

Three thousand five hundred and four.

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