Counting Tiles

        I count ceiling tiles, waiting for ribbons of exhaustion to gather into a veil of sleep.  I haven't slept in four, maybe five, nights.  I expected an undoing, but I hadn't anticipated the fear.  When sleep becomes a stranger, nothing is innocuous.  A bird song becomes the moaning wail of a grieving mourner.  The sounds of children playing echo the torturous taunts of bullies.  The telephone is an air raid siren, and the doorbell a falling bomb.
        Mother is at the door asking why I haven't returned her calls.  She's been worried.  Have I stopped sleeping again?  Is it that girlfriend?  When am I going to realize that I am better off without her and move on?  When am I going to get myself a better job and move to a nicer apartment?
        I answer the blizzard of questions, my eyes still focused on the ceiling.  I can ignore the personal attacks in my state of zombiedom.  Mother has always been the martyr.  That role never suited me.
        She asks for coffee.  I release the tiles from my gaze and stumble into the kitchen.  Mother knows I despise coffee.  I serve tea instead, green tea with wild hibiscus.  The scent carries me off to a humid paradise.  I hold my breath, lingering in the sleep-deprived fantasy.
        Mother tells me I need to get some rest.  I should go see a doctor.  I look awful.  She'll pay for it if it's about the money.  She tells me that if I don't start to take care of myself, I'll be alone forever.
        Maybe I want to be alone.
        When I'm alone, I'm safe.
        The tea cups are empty, and I'm willing Mother to leave with every bit of myself that can still function.  It's hard to imagine that I was once a seedling growing in her soil.  (When I think in greeting card clichés, I know I won't be safe leaving the house.)
        Mother carries the empty mugs to the sink, clinking an eerie glass song that echoes in my head like the cries of dolphins.  She stares at the sink full of dirty dishes, disappointment dancing across her face.  She tells me she didn't raise me to live like this.  I want to tell her she barely raised me at all, but my lips are frozen in a sickly frown.
        She fills the sink with water and soap, transforming the kitchen into a steaming jungle.  The sound of water splashing upon porcelain is a raging waterfall.  I glance away from the ceiling long enough to watch her hands as they furiously scrub at a crusty frying pan.  I grit my teeth, fighting back a bitter mountain of rage.  Her eyes tell me I'm a disappointment.  Her eyes tell me I'll never be the daughter she wants.
        "You need to take control of your life."  Bubbles cling to her hands like reptile skin.  I watch the bubbles swirl and pop on her fingers, blending together and coming apart, shimmering with reflections of the open window.
        My mother the serpent.
        My mother the monster disguised as a sheep.
        My eyes feel like lead marbles, and I glance up at the ceiling to regain my equilibrium.  
        The shadows in the corners dart like ants protecting their queen.