The Princess Who Couldn’t Sleep

Once upon a modern time, in a town not far from where you sit reading, there lived a young woman named Sharon who believed in happily ever after. She loved pink tulle skirts, glass slippers, fairy wings, and the promise that true love could conquer all. Her mother, ever the devoted guardian, kept her daughter safe from poisoned apples, spinning wheels, and anything that might threaten her fairy-tale dreams.

When Sharon grew up, her fairy tale seemed to come true. Barry, a dashing man in a black Lexus (for white chargers were in short supply in Gillingham), whisked her away, and they were married in a ceremony draped in roses and blush-colored satin. For their honeymoon, they traveled to sun-kissed islands, holding hands under stars, whispering sweet promises of forever.

While they were away, a builder friend of Barry’s added a turreted tower to their home, complete with a spiral staircase, so Sharon could feel like a true princess. Their housekeeper, Irena, ensured everything was perfect for the royal couple’s return, arranging flowers and plumping pillows.

But the fairy tale began to crack on their first night home.

Sharon, sensitive as only a princess can be, could not sleep. The mattress felt lumpy, the sheets scratchy, and the pillows too hard. She tossed and turned, convinced that a thousand peas were hidden beneath her mattress, poking her like invisible curses. Or perhaps it was the spirit of Barry’s ex-wife, unsettled and bitter, disturbing her peace with nightly jabs.

Barry, practical and loving, simply laughed. “Don’t worry, princess. We’ll go shopping.”

They spent a Saturday bouncing from one mattress to another in a department store while the sales manager watched disapprovingly. Barry dreamed of simpler days as Sharon debated thread counts and pillow fillings with surprising mathematical precision, determined to find the perfect bedding to ensure her beauty sleep.

They returned home in high spirits, celebrating their purchases with champagne and oysters, and Sharon’s laughter filled the house as Barry carried her up the spiral staircase to their turreted room, eager to test their new bed.

But that night, Sharon could not sleep.

The duvet was too warm, the pillows too soft, the mattress too firm, then too bouncy, then somehow too cold. Barry, meanwhile, slept soundly, unaware of the midnight tears rolling down his princess’s cheeks.

The days turned into weeks, and Sharon’s sleeplessness grew worse. She complained of nightmares featuring glass coffins, witches with crooked fingers, and the suffocating fear that she would never again rest peacefully. Irena, ever patient, suggested afternoon naps, herbal teas, and lavender sachets under the pillows.

One morning, while sipping her fourth double espresso, Sharon confessed to Irena that she feared the red and gold decor of their bedroom was too “stimulating,” disturbing her delicate sleep.

“Then we must change it, princess,” Barry said with a sigh, giving in as Sharon’s lower lip trembled.

The bedroom was redecorated in lilac and silver, with soft lighting and scented candles to bring calm. But the paint fumes triggered allergies Sharon never knew she had, making her sneeze all night. The new lavender-scented oils left her skin itchy, and the down pillows caused rashes that spread over her arms like a creeping vine.

Desperate, Sharon consulted her doctor, who prescribed her sleeping tablets with a gentle reminder not to overuse them. The tablets worked for a while, sending Sharon into a heavy, dreamless sleep, leaving Barry to lie awake listening to the soft rumble of her snores.

But soon, the tablets turned on Sharon. Her daily double espressos became triple, then quadruple, just to keep her awake long enough to function. She developed rashes that refused to heal, hair loss that left her weeping into her mirror, and a constant fatigue that made every step feel like wading through mud.

One day, Irena, who was far more observant than Sharon realized, handed her an article warning that sleeping pills could shorten lifespans. Sharon panicked, tossing the pills away, and turned to alternative therapies. She tried aromatherapy, but the oils irritated her skin. Chamomile tea made her gag. She attempted yoga, but the stretches made her injuries worse, leaving her with a torn shoulder that a trembling doctor’s injection only worsened.

Barry, meanwhile, found himself growing closer to Irena, who cooked him warm stews, brewed his coffee just right, and listened with kind eyes when he talked about the pressures of his failing business. He found comfort in her presence, a quiet peace he no longer found in the lilac-scented, restless world of his princess.

Sharon, wrapped in a cocoon of exhaustion and frustration, spent most afternoons sleeping on the sofa, her once bright eyes dulled with fatigue. She tried everything—acupuncture, meditation, milky drinks with turkey sandwiches—only to discover she was allergic to dairy, further worsening her condition. Her body became frail, her skin blotched and tender, while Barry and Irena continued their quiet companionship over coffee and late-night conversations.

One evening, Barry suggested they spend the night watching television together, as they once had. Irena prepared a comforting dinner while Sharon settled in beside Barry, fidgeting so much that he eventually moved away, leaving her to the glow of a shopping channel she barely saw.

She ordered a hypnosis CD that promised to cure insomnia with a soothing voice counting backward from three hundred. Sharon fell asleep around two hundred and fifty, finally silent in her restless quest for sleep. Her eyes, once bright and framed with golden lashes, now stared blankly, circled in bruised purple rings.

Barry and Irena, finding solace in each other’s company, began to share more than conversations. Barry’s business recovered, thanks to a lucky deal, and he felt alive again in a way he hadn’t for a long time.

One evening, as Irena and Barry returned from a quiet dinner, they found Sharon at the bottom of the spiral staircase, unconscious and frail, her body marked with sores, hair thin and patchy, muttering about wicked stepmothers and poisoned apples.

She fell into a deep, unshakable sleep, a coma that defied all medical attempts to wake her. Her hair grew back, her sores healed, and she looked peaceful at last, like a sleeping beauty untouched by the troubles of the waking world.

Barry visited at first, holding her hand and whispering apologies. But over time, he stopped going. His true princess was beside him now, smiling, alive, and very awake.

Moral of the Story:
Seeking perfection can lead to losing what truly matters, for sometimes peace comes not from controlling everything but from letting go.