“I don’t know what I’m doing up.”
Dilby had been sleepwalking again. I found him in the
kitchen holding a melon in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. As usual
he had managed to take off his clothes and put them back on incorrectly. His
legs were in the arm holes of his shirt, while his pants where wrapped around
his neck like a scarf. He wore a sock on the hand that held the knife.
“Why don’t you go back to bed then.” Dilby nodded, and
shuffled off.
This had been a nightly occurrence for almost a month now.
And each time, I’d ask him what he was doing, even though, at this point, I
knew what was going on. The sleepwalking was characterized by the re-arranging
of clothes and Dilby in the middle of the kitchen prepared to eat something,
bread or cheese or a stick of butter. And every time he tried to go at the food
with the butcher knife.
The first time I saw him I laughed out loud. Dilby doesn’t joke around much, but this is the sort of stuff that makes him laugh. If he was funnier he’d be doing this on purpose. What’s funny is that it’s exactly the sort of thing he did when he was younger, right after the family dog died.
The first time I saw him I laughed out loud. Dilby doesn’t joke around much, but this is the sort of stuff that makes him laugh. If he was funnier he’d be doing this on purpose. What’s funny is that it’s exactly the sort of thing he did when he was younger, right after the family dog died.
