Knockout

I’ve been trying to fall asleep for the past six hours. This is happening more and more often now. I have trouble sleeping. Then I hear that unsettling sound, as if a stranger has intruded upon my privacy, demanding acknowledgment of their presence. It always plays out this way.

Every time I try to fall asleep, I hear a loud knock at the door. Just once. A single, sharp rap that startles me and pulls me back to the land of the living. The sensation is so vivid and tangible that I always take it for reality. The first time it happened, I thought it was a mistaken fast-food delivery. That wouldn't have been unusual, given that the neighbourhood was saturated with industrial junk food, though I never touched the stuff myself, not even during the week I worked at a fast-food joint. On the second night, I even worked up the courage to open the door, only to find an empty, chilly hallway.

On the third night, it happens again. The same steady sound, just as powerful as before. A single knock, loud enough to jolt me ​​from sleep and knock me off my feet.

Knock. Knock. Knock. It keeps coming back to me like a boomerang.

The sound intensifies again, and I seriously consider opening the door. In a split second, however, I suppress the impulse, knowing it isn’t real. I wait for another knock, but it never comes. Relieved, I drift into a deeper sleep.

On the fourth night, I notice something disturbing on my body. A multitude of red spots appeared, as if I had been making my way through a patch of nettles. That wasn't the case, however, so I search my memory for the cause of these unexpected visitors. Finding no clues, I recall a snatch of conversation overheard on the bus to work: someone’s cousin had simply woken up one day with psoriasis covering his entire body. Could it be that a curse had passed from someone’s lips onto my skin? No one knocked on the door today, so I can sleep soundly, lulled by my own fate.

The next day, the doctor’s diagnosis confirms my worst fears: psoriasis. To make matters worse, my joints begin to ache. The doctor orders additional tests and tells me to come back for a follow-up.

That night, too, I hear no knock at the door. The second night in a row. Should I count them all up and analyse them in my journal? I am certain it would offer some clues as to what I might expect in the future. Yet, instead of searching for the notebook in my spacious desk drawer, I drift off to sleep, undisturbed.

Lately, I’ve been having these nightmares. They are accompanied by a constant tension that mounts whenever I am in a room with other people. In the dream, this happens everywhere: at home, on a train, in a hotel, at the doctor’s office. Anywhere one might find oneself close to another person. There is always a sense of claustrophobia, yet the presence of others dissipates the tension, giving way to something else. Relief? That feeling can be deceptive, however. It is easily mistaken for friendliness, when in reality, what one perceives is hostility.

When the knocking fails to materialise for the third night in a row, I begin to worry that I’m deluding myself and have blown the whole thing out of proportion. Did I even hear that knocking? Perhaps it only happened in my dreams, or maybe my mind was simply shifting from its daytime rhythm to a nocturnal one. Perhaps it just isn't worth mentioning, let alone dwelling on as intensely as I have been?

The next night, it happens again. Loud thuds against the wood, as if someone were knocking on my bedroom door from the outside. I lean out and see nothing but the dark hallway, illuminated by the glow of streetlights. I return to bed, frustrated that I still haven't discovered the meaning of this mysterious knocking. If this is a game where “three's the charm,” I wonder how it will end.

The next night, I listen intently for that sound. It comes, but it feels more internal, as if the knocking were trapped between my prefrontal cortex and the deeper regions of my brain, right next to my ear. What could it mean? This is the second night in a row. Should I expect some sort of revelation after the third?

On the third night, the knocking sounds again, whether imagined or real, internal or coming from outside. It sounds like a dull thud between the two doors, followed by the noise of something metal scraping against wood. I no longer dare to ask questions. I fall asleep with a sense of relief rather than fear, satisfied that it has finally come to pass, forming a clear pattern in my mind: three nights of knocking followed by three nights without it.

The next day, I got the test results: I have psoriatic arthritis, on top of my existing psoriasis. The doctor looks worried and wants to run more tests. I agree, more concerned about the mysterious knocks than about the actual inconveniences of the diagnoses.

Over the next three nights, I'm jolted awake by a series of three knocks. Each time, I'm pulled from the light sleep of the first phase. The knocks sound identical, creating a sense of déjà vu. I don't remember the dreams or the evenings in between, just the question at the heart of it all: What do they mean?

The next three nights pass uneventfully, as I'd hoped. Then comes the appointment. I imagine the worst-case scenario: a serious, terminal illness, with only a short time left. What would I even do? How would I spend my days knowing my time is running out? Could anyone truly be prepared for something like that?

At the doctor's office, I am told I have skin cancer. I’m collapsing onto the floor beside the doctor's desk and hear three knocks in my head. Is that the end, or just the beginning?