Insomnia — presence of an individual's report of difficulty with sleep.

To Simon, his worst enemy. The sound of a distant clock ticking and ticking through the night reverberating and bouncing off the walls haunts him and sends shivers down his spine. Even though his eyelids feel heavy, it’s only when he closes his eyes that the terrors and bêtes noires get worse. He can’t call them nightmares, because living in this war-driven, political world is the true nightmare.

The darkness of his barrack is thick, suffocating almost, yet somehow it still feels safer than the chaos waiting outside his door. Simon knows that sleep won’t come, and even if it did, he wouldn’t be able to escape the endless spirals of his mind.

His body is drained, weary from both the physical and mental strain, but his mind refuses to surrender. It races through thoughts of the headlines, of the turmoil outside, of the people who suffer while those in power manipulate and deceive. He thinks about the faces, the eyes of those who have lost everything, and the voices of the powerful—hollow promises, full of nothing.

The bed sheet rustles as he gets up from the bed, his bare feet against the cold concrete floor as he slips his military boots on, a hand reaching for his balaclava like a second nature to him. He pulls it over his head, and in a way, he disappears. No longer Simon—the man haunted by insomnia and a collapsing world—but a soldier, a nameless piece in a much larger, faceless game.

Outside, the sky is still dark, a void stretching endlessly above him. The air smells of metal and ash, with a hint of something acrid that’s become all too familiar. He knows this routine too well—slip away, lose himself in the quiet chaos of the night, light up a cigarette, and wish that the smoke induces him into sleep.

It’s only when he’s got the cigarettes hanging from his lips that he hears the sound of soft footsteps, not needing to look back to know it’s you. “Hope you brought a jacket,” he grunts, fiddling with his almost empty lighter.