I’ve always been a sleepwalker.

Over the years, I’ve tried to counter it, I’ve locked doors, hidden keys from myself, done everything I can to make sure that I get a good nights sleep. It goes in fits and starts, sometimes I can go for weeks and months at a time without sleepwalking, and others it happens night after night, leaving me exhausted and draining the next day when I wake up in strange positions.

This has to be the worst one though.

I woke in the middle of the street. Sirens blaring, blue lights flashing and the sound of a booming voice over a PA system of a police car. The lights are so bright against the dark sky, and around me lights start to switch on, people opening their windows to get a glimpse of what’s happening as I stand there in my chequered pyjama’s and bare feet.

Suddenly, I’m awake, the cold, wet stone road beneath my feet as I become aware of the pain, the sharpness of what’s been digging into my feet as I scrunch my toes, and let out a short breath as I shake my head slightly. Instructions are being yelled at me, telling me to drop the knife, what knife I want to ask them, until I look down and see the long, sharp knife in my hands.

Blood drips from it, and for a second I stare at it, I stare at it as though I am trying to comprehend what it is, only to come to my senses and throw it. Tossing it to the side and leaping back from it as though it’s on fire, burning the palm of my hand and I need to get rid of it. That’s what it feels like, like something alien, like something that’s stained my hands and made them feel dirty, horrible and not a part of me.

That’s when I notice my surroundings, as I leap backwards, seeing the red and gold and yellow and white glow of flames, hearing the crackle of the fire as it erupts and the heat starts to hit my back, as I realise now that the burning sensation I’ve felt is from the heat of the flames. Men and women are shouting, hoses are pointed as the firemen put out the flames, which are erupting as quickly as they are trying to fight it.

Hands have grabbed mine, twisting them behind my back as cold hand cuffs are snapped on, as pulled tight as I wince in pain, whilst they caution me, still struggling to comprehend, still trying to figure out what it is that’s going on. Still trying to understand why I’m standing here in my chequered, blood stained, pyjama’s and why I’m in cuffs. Hands are on my back, as they push me towards the car, a hand on my head as I’m forced under and into the car, made to sit down as I’m taken from the scene.

The car ride is tense. I can see the tense jaws of the two officers that are in front of me, driving their way to the station, with the wide sweeping headlights of the car leading the way. The radio crackling into life now and then, calling out for assistance, for help, as one of the officers switches it off, settling back into the uncomfortable silence which is broken only by the purring of the engine, the ticking of the indicator and eventually the squeak of breaks and ratcheting of the hand break as they pull up into the station carpark, hauling me out and into the station like I’m some common criminal.

Murder.

That’s why I’m here.

Murder and arson.

That’s what they think I’ve done.

Here, I sit in the cold, forensics suit. My warm, cosy pyjama’s being taken from me as they’re taken into evidence. The two police officers sit opposite me, as they start the recording, with the tension in the air that could be cut like a knife.

I swallow, as they ask me where I was and how I came to be in that situation.

“I don’t know” I reply truthfully “One minute I was asleep, the next I’m standing there” I shrug, squeezing my eyes shut as I pinch at the bridge of my nose and let out a harsh, huffed sigh. “I don’t know what I’m being accused of” I finally say, frustrated as I lower my hand and let it fall with a thud into my lap, sigh expanding as I look at them, waiting for explanations that they aren’t forthcoming with.

They stare at me, I stare back for a moment, only to lower my head and purse my lips, biting at my lower lip as I try and figure out what it is that I’m supposed to be saying, or admitting to. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know … I just … woke up …” I say softly, blinking now as the true horror of the moment sets in, tears linger at my eyelashes threatening to dip down as I sniffle slightly and that almost seems to be what they want to pounce on.

‘Three people are dead, their house up in flames. And we find you standing outside, bloody, blood stained knife in your hand and sunning yourself in the flames? And you expect us to believe that you ‘don’t know’?’ The one cop asks, as he shakes his head and sucks in the air between his teeth, before leaning forwards to look at me ‘the evidence speaks for itself …’ as his colleague reaches forward, pressing her hand on his arm and getting him to lean back as she leans forwards, arms folded over the top of one another as she narrows her eyes and stares at me.

Just stares.

And stares some more, making me uncomfortable.

“I told you. I don’t know … I was asleep, I sleepwalk … all the time …” I say a little louder than I intend, as my sniffles get louder, to be broached with a sob “I. Don’t. Know. What. Happened” I cry out finally, as I sob hysterically, leaving the two officers to look at one another, exchanging a look between them that clearly says they don’t believe me, or maybe they do, or maybe they don’t know what to think.

All I know, is this is my home now.

They think I did it, they’re locking me up until the morning, with my lawyer wanting to plead guilty, to tell them that I’m not mentally fit to stand trial, that I can use my sleep walking … he’s found something that will support that.

I don’t want it though.

I want my freedom, I want the truth to come out. And, more than that, I want to know what happened and why I am where I am.

Why, now, I’m set to rot in jail and why no one believes me.

I will find the truth, no matter how many people say that I am guilty.