Two Hours of Sleep
The alarm does not ring.
It attacks.
Bah. Bah. Bah. Bah. Bah.
Amanda groans before the third scream finishes.
“Elli,” she mumbles from under her blanket, voice thick with sleep. “Turn it off, please.”
Elizabeth reaches blindly, her arm heavy as wet cloth. She misses the first time. The sound drills into her skull. Her eyes burn before they even open.
Finally, her palm slams down.
Amanda drags the blanket over her head.
“What time did you get in?”
Elli hesitates.
“Around three-fifty.”
A pause.
“Elli?”
“I know.”
“It’s six o’clock. That’s not sleep. That’s a blink.”
“I’ll sleep on the bus.”
“You say that too.”
Elizabeth sits up, rubbing her face.
“Sorry if I woke you.”
Amanda peeks one eye open. “You didn’t wake me. London woke me. You just provided the soundtrack.”
Elizabeth huffs a soft laugh.
Amanda studies her. “You’re doing too much.”
“I’m doing what I have to.”
“Mm.”
Another silence.
“You don’t have to be superhuman, you know.”
“I’m not,” Elizabeth says quietly. “Just trying to stay.”
Amanda doesn’t respond, half asleep already.
As Elizabeth pulls on her jacket, Amanda’s voice floats out again, softer this time.
“Lock the door when you leave.”
“I will.”
“And Elli?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to save the world before breakfast.”
Elizabeth smiles faintly.
“No promises.”
The door clicks shut.
London at dawn is grey and indifferent.
Elizabeth pulls her jacket tighter, adjusting the stack of flyers under her arm. The restaurant manager had handed them to her last night.
“Just smile,” he said. “Be enthusiastic.”
Enthusiasm on two hours of sleep.
She takes her position near the underground entrance.
“Good morning,” she begins, offering a flyer to a woman in a tailored coat.
The woman does not look at her.
A man brushes past her shoulder. Another shakes his head before she even speaks.
She keeps smiling.
“Grand opening discount—”
No one stops.
Her accent feels heavier in the cold.
She thinks of the degree folded neatly in a plastic folder back in the room. Linguistics. Years spent dissecting meaning, analyzing poetry.
Now she hands out paper menus to people who don’t see her.
A group of office workers passes. One takes a flyer. Her heart lifts for half a second.
He drops it in the nearest bin.
She looks away. Don’t cry. Not here.
By 11 a.m., her feet ache.
At noon, she’s in a different uniform, black trousers, black shirt, standing behind a sink in a cramped kitchen.
Steam fogs her glasses.
“Faster, Ellie!” the chef shouts.
Scrub. Rinse. Stack.
Scrub. Rinse. Stack.
The water is too hot. Her knuckles redden. She barely feels them anymore.
Between loads, she checks her phone.
Two rejection emails.
“Unfortunately…”
“After careful consideration…”
She stops reading.
She applied at 2 a.m., before sleeping. Marketing assistant. Editorial trainee. Receptionist. Anything requiring writing. Anything that felt closer to who she used to be.
Does her name give them pause? Elizabeth Ifenacho. Too foreign. Too risky.
She tells herself she’s imagining it.
At 3 p.m., she rushes for a bus to the UKVI office in Lewisham.
The word alone tightens her stomach.
The building smells sterile. The chairs are hard. The wait is endless.
She clutches her folder: passports, visa extensions, proof of employment, bank statements showing barely enough to survive.
Her number is called.
Questions scrape at her. Routine. But still sharp.
“How long have you been in the UK?”
“Six months.”
“Current employment?”
“Multiple part-time roles.”
“Future plans?”
She swallows.
“To… build a future here.”
The officer nods, expressionless.
Processing takes time. Everything takes time. Time she doesn’t feel she has.
Outside, she exhales shakily.
If her papers are delayed, everything collapses: work, rent, stability.
Sometimes uncertainty feels worse than poverty.
It’s like standing on a floor that might disappear.
By 6 p.m., she’s back in uniform. Pizza delivery tonight.
The helmet presses against her temples. Her eyes feel grainy.
She used to love stories about London.
Now London feels like a test she never studied for.
At a red light, she closes her eyes for one second.
Just one.
A horn blares. She jerks awake.
Two hours of sleep. Four jobs. Endless applications. Smiling when she wants to scream.
When she returns home close to 2 a.m., Amanda is asleep.
Elizabeth sits on her mattress without turning on the light.
Her phone buzzes. A message from her mother:
“How is everything? We are praying for you. Make us proud.”
She stares at it. Her chest tightens.
Make us proud.
She wants to reply: “I am trying to.”
Instead, she types: “I’m fine. Work is going well.”
She lies down.
The ceiling stares back.
Her mind keeps moving when her body cannot.
What if she fails?
What if she has to go back?
What if she never becomes more than this?
The room feels smaller.
She closes her eyes.
