Lead me into real sleep, because I won't be able to persevere with this farce.

The tossing and turning night after night, day after day, week after week, the whole year around, is becoming too much.

And then, after the hell of being awake fails, comes the apparently unending torture of light, restless sleep, filled with dreams that even the most brave men wouldn't dare to defy.

I know it's my own fault, that I did this to myself, but how could I know it would end this way.

I turn again in my uncomfortable resting place.

Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be easier to stop running and take the risk of stepping out of the shadows. Maybe then my insomnia will retreat it's fangs from my hurting neck and leave me, taking the fear of being caught with it.

These thoughts however are quickly suppressed every time they emerge; life behind steel bars has never seemed attractive to me.

There's a sound outside.

In a matter of seconds, I have gathered the little meagre possessions I have and stuffed them inside the dingy bag I've stitched and repaired a hundred times already.

The light of a flashlight hastily slithers past the broken glass of a window in the mouldy wall of the hovel I was previously trying to sleep in.

It seems like I won't have to fight the battle for sleep I don't want anymore tonight.

I crouch down in a dark corner of the room, not far off the door, and listen to the muted voice penetrating the thin walls.

A second flash lights up the entire space and I can hear footsteps moving around the building, away from the door. When the sounds have died down completely, I softly push the door open and leap out onto the streets, around a corner, crossing another street.

I don't hear anything besides the sound of my worn-off boots on the cobbles, a sign the cops didn't notice my escape. Yet.

I keep running. I'm not sure what I'm running of, I keep telling myself it's cops, the people searching me for the crime I committed, but who am I kidding, those men are far behind me and don't even know their prey has made a run for it. It's that same feeling of guilt that keeps me awake at night and paints my dreams red.

A burning sensation in my chest brings my attention back to my physical state and I feel all of my body scream for basic things like oxygen and rest. I was already tired when I laid down earlier tonight in the abandoned hovel, now I feel like my consciousness is tied with nothing but a filmy thread, that could break any given moment.

My legs stop moving without my consent.

It's late, a light city breeze stirs the torn clothes hanging from my weary bones and the fatigue crashes down on me, like a wave on the cliffs, but I'm not as strong as the rocks and the water needs less time to wear me away.

I stumble in the direction of the retina-scorching neon lights of a run-down motel. Once inside, I shimmy towards the counter and lean on it, while taking out my wallet to check in.

Being a wanted criminal means finding a job isn't really possible anymore, so the wallet obviously isn't mine.

I manage to find a couple of notes anyway and trade them for a key. I'm lucky I'm in a more sinister neighbourhood, they get cases like me here all the time and don't ask questions.

On the fourth floor I stumble out of the elevator and use the key to open one of the many doors in the long hallway.

When the door falls in the lock, I'm already lying on the bed, my bag forgotten somewhere on the ground.

My head is ready to surrender to the usual mulling, but it doesn't come. Instead I immediately sink away in a deep sleep, filled with atrocious nightmares and disgusting images, that surpass the best horror movies.

I'm not religious, I'm not part of a religion and I don't believe in God, but the last couple of months I get the feeling that on his comfortable throne is punishing me for my deeds, by letting the faces of my victims pass through my mind every time I close my eyes. Every man, woman or child I stole from.

He shows me their remains, the red liquid fresh on my hands and there is only one word repeating itself over and over and over again, without stopping it's being screamed into my ears by his holiness, until my soul succumbs and moves along on the horrid sounds.

Murderer.