The problem with chronic insomnia is the boredom. After you give up trying to get some sleep, you have nothing to do. Some go to parties, or hung out on the town, he knew, but that had soon become boring to Dave, so he had instead taken another job. Now he worked daily at a research lab, and nightly as an ambulance driver. He kept his insomnia to himself, mind, which is why he still had the ambulance job. Its not as though he didn¹t function properly, no, he just didn¹t need as much sleep as everyone else. The 20 minutes he caught on the commuter train home was all he needed. Dreams were something he hadn¹t had since the age of 13. He didn¹t really miss them. He wasn¹t really sure why he had stopped needing sleep, at the exact point when most normal people needed the most sleep of their lives, but that was just how it was. He had now spent the same number of years with dreams as dreamless.
He looked down at the omelette he was making himself for dinner. He had always eaten healthy. Couldn¹t understand how people could put the toxins of fast food into their bodies. No matter what was happening, how busy his schedule, he always made sure he had time to eat a decent meal. Preferably one he prepared himself, from the season¹s produce. Today, local free range eggs, local cheese. Broccoli and carrots from the farmers market, steamed of course, to retain the most number of nutrients though cooked. In the winter he settled for the organic produce in his local grocery store. He wasn¹t a vegetarian though, just didn¹t eat much meat. Having read ³Diet for a Small Planet² at 16, he tended to lean toward a more sustainable diet.
The omelette was done to a turn, so he slid it out of the frying pan onto a plate, and turned off the element. The timer for the broccoli and carrots dinged. He dumped the contents of the steamer onto the plate and carried it and his cutlery to the buffet. There he ate, surveying his top-notch, modern, blue and white kitchen, his pride and joy. He should have been a chef, not an ambulance driver. But he couldn¹t go to school for culinary management and keep his day job, which is the one that really interested him.
They were creating a machine that would visually display Reinhold¹s impulses. The funny thing is no one knew what these impulses were, or what they showed. But every person displayed some kind of Reinhold impulse, and each was distinctive. There was talk of using it for identification. Reinhold had discovered them when he tried inventing an instrument for measuring parapsychic potential. As far as anyone could tell, the impulses had nothing to do with parapsychic powers, but they were interesting enough to be funded.
The project for the Reinhold Impulse Display was almost finished, in that the RID was nearly complete, but the project would continue after that, researching what exactly these impulses were. He had been overjoyed when his contract had been extended to aid with that research; he didn¹t know why but this project intrigued him like nothing had since adolescent apathy had set in. Something about these impulses peaked his curiosity and fascinated him.
His realized his fork was half way from his plate to his mouth, and had been for some time. He put it down, then picked it up and finished eating. His meal was cold now... Oh well. He finished, went to the sink and washed the dishes. His mind wandered to the call that day, the trashed room, the blood, the bleeding, the dead. That man had been at least somewhat stable... then he just stopped living. Why? What was it he¹d said... ³Do you hear it?² Hear what?!
Probably just the musings of dying man in shock. And yet, people don¹t usually talk about songs no one else can hear when there dying. Not in his experience. He pushed the though aside, to the side of his mind to think about later, and went to watch his favourite television show.