Counterfeit Realism

Her first visitation happened when she was ten. She was waking up from a dream in which she and her best friend, Freya, were flying around Paris. As she awakened, the Freya and the Eiffel Tower gradually melted away, until she was cognizant--and realized that she couldn’t move. Her muscles were completely useless, and even her eyelids were clamped shut, unable to open. It was complete paralysis. All of her other senses were untouched; she could feel the bed underneath her, the soft blanket up against the skin of her neck, hear the soft woosh of her ceiling fan, feel the slight breeze it created.

She was confused. No matter how hard she tried, nothing would move. She was a healthy child, having come down with nothing more than a case of the flu during her short life, and she had gone to bed feeling fine--so why was she now paralyzed? She heard footsteps, and relief washed over her; maybe it was her mother coming to check on her. It didn’t occur to her that it was odd, hearing footsteps, as her bedroom, as well as the hallway outside, was carpeted. The footsteps entered her room and walked around to the head of the bed, where they stopped, and then she felt someone sit down next to her. Her eyes were still closed, so she waited expectantly for her mother’s voice, or a soothing touch, as she somehow knew that one of those two things would break the spell she was under and make everything right again. But nothing happened. She knew that someone was there, could feel them staring at her, could feel the indentation and heaviness on her bed where they were sitting. She became slightly uneasy, which started to grow as she acutely became aware that whoever--whatever--was there with her, in her bed, gave off an overwhelming aura of evil.

Terror and panic gripped her then, and she knew that she had to move, to do something, lest the thing in her bed attack her. She tried to open her mouth to scream, but couldn’t move her lips. Her eyelids still refused to budge. Do something! her brain screamed at her. She lied there for a few short moments, gathering up all her strength, and, determined to break out of the spell, managed to raise her arm, which fully woke her. She scrambled out of her bed and ran into her parents’ room, calling for her mother all the while.

"Did you have a bad dream?" asked her mom, hugging her trembling daughter close.

"Someone’s in my room!!"

"I’ll go check it out," said her father, grabbing the loaded pistol he kept locked in the top drawer of his nightstand. He padded out of their bedroom and down the hall to his daughter’s room, his senses alert, the cop in him taking over. He quickly flicked on her bedroom light, and brandished the pistol, yelling, "Who’s in here?!" but there was nobody there. Everything was the same as it was when she had gone to bed, except for the bed sheets, which, naturally, had been disrupted. To cover his bases, he checked under the bed and in the closet, then walked back to his bedroom, smiling kindly at his concerned wife and terrified daughter.

"There’s nobody in there," he said gently. You had a bad dream, that’s all."

"Can I sleep with you and Mommy tonight?" she asked in a tiny voice. Her parents exchanged a few quick glances, and then her father nodded.

"I guess so, if it would make you feel better…just for tonight," he said.

That was her first visitation. While the memory was still very vivid, even as she got older, she chalked it up to it just being a nightmare. Uncomfortably realistic, but a nightmare nonetheless. And, seeing as how she had gone years without incident, thought it was just a one-time occurrence.
Until now.

* * *

She sits bolt upright in bed, eyes scanning the room wildly, searching for it, the thing in her room. Her heart is pounding, and sweat has plastered her hair to her head and her boyfriend’s oversized t-shirt to her body. She hasn’t had an experience like this since she was ten: the paralysis, the footsteps, the sinking on the bed as if someone had sat down, the overwhelming sense of evil, the terror and panic. She’s twenty-seven now, and she feels more like a scared little girl.

"Elle?" Terry’s sleepy voice startles her and she jumps. He reaches over and turns on the bedside lamp and sits up next to her, concern on his face as he sees the state she’s in. Despite her alarm, she relaxes as she takes in his rumpled brown hair, eyes still glazed over with sleep, and full, pouty lips. Terry. Safe and secure Terry.

"Did you have a nightmare?" Terry reaches up and tenderly touches her cheek, still concerned.

Elle rubs her eyes and briefly debates whether or not to tell him. He doesn’t know about her first visitation, as she thought it was a one-time deal. Then a thought occurs to her: this could just be another one-time event. After all, it had been seventeen years since her first visitation; the next one might not happen until after another seventeen years, if it ever happens at all. No use in needlessly worrying her boyfriend. She gives Terry a reassuring smile.

"Yeah, it was just a nightmare. I’m better now."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." She gives him a kiss. "I have you," she whispers in his ear. He smiles, turns off the bedside lamp, and they both lie back down. In a matter of minutes, she can hear Terry’s heavy breathing and knows that he has fallen back asleep, but she is still wide awake.

* * *

There is another reason why she hasn’t told Terry about the incidents: she doesn’t want to sound crazy and scare him off. Up until she met him, all of the men in her life had left her in some way: her father was killed in the line of duty when she was thirteen; she caught her first boyfriend cheating on her with his lab partner at fifteen; another boyfriend broke up with her at their high school graduation; and all of the men she encountered during her college years were only interested in sex and split as soon as they found out she wanted something more.

Terry was different. She met him one morning at a coffeehouse on her way to work. She was running late, and the place was packed, the long line moving way too slowly. As soon as she received her latte, she bolted out the door, not looking at where she was going, and collided into Terry, who was coming in. She spilt her coffee all over him, and apologized profusely, trying in vain to wipe it off, until she realized he was laughing. That was a year ago.

With the exception of her father, Terry is the only man who makes her feel secure. He saw her at her worst moments, yet he stayed. At the start of their relationship, she had wanted to take things slowly, and he acquiesced, never pressuring her to do anything she didn’t want to do, always patient. Terry is honest. He is genuine. The past year gave him several opportunities to leave, and he never did. And she doesn’t want to give him any more opportunities. Because what if her visitations are the one thing that makes him leave? What if he thinks she is crazy and decide that he won’t be able to handle it? She won’t be able to handle it; she loves him too much.

* * *

It has been more than an hour since she and Terry have gone back to bed. She can’t sleep; the experience is still too vivid. Taking care not to wake him, she gets out of bed and tip-toes down the hall to the kitchen, where she pours herself a glass of orange juice. She goes to the living room and turns on the television, making sure the volume is down so Terry won’t wake up. It’s typical late-night television; infomercials mostly, with the occasional 1-900 ad. She settles on an infomercial for mineral makeup and immerses herself in it, trying to forget the experience, until she feels her eyelids getting heavy and she drifts off.

* * *

She feels something pressing softly on her cheek, and she wakes up, thinking she is having another visitation, but no; it is only Terry kissing her on the cheek.

"Good morning," he says. "You fell asleep out here."

She looks around and then remembers watching the infomercial. "I’m sorry, baby," she says. "I couldn’t fall asleep and decided to watch some television."

"Was the nightmare really that bad?" Terry sits next to her on the couch and pulls her to him.

She nods. "It was pretty vivid." She kisses him, savoring his taste, relishing in the solidity of him. "But I’m fine now, promise." He smiles and nuzzles her hair.

"Made you some breakfast."

She follows him to the kitchen table, which is set with plates of omelets. They sit down, and she looks at him gratefully.

"Thank you."

They start eating, then Terry says, "We should get out of town for the weekend."

"What?" She stares at him in confusion. Have they had this conversation before and she forgot about it?

"Yeah, go somewhere and get a hotel for the night. It’s been awhile since we’ve been on vacation, even a little one."

"You have a place in mind?"

"There’s tons of hotels on the beach." He looks at her. "You didn’t have plans already made, did you?"

"No, this is just…kind of out of the blue."

Terry smiles. "It’s spontaneous. It’s one of the things you like about me, remember?"

* * *

After breakfast Elle and Terry pack their things and drive to the beach, where they check into a cozy little motel called El Mar. They sun themselves on the beach, play in the waves and have cocktails, and Elle forgets all about the experience. She is relaxed and happy, and when Terry suggests dinner at a hole-in-the-wall seafood place a block down from their hotel, she readily agrees.

Discovering new restaurants is one of Terry and Elle’s favorite things to do, and they are particularly fond of the dives and the hole-in-the-walls, as those are the places that have the best food and the most character. The restaurant near their hotel, called The Swordfish, is no exception. The walls are salmon-pink, and adorned with aquatic life; there is a modest aquarium in the middle of the restaurant featuring starfish, blowfish, and angelfish; and it is definitely a local’s hangout, as the staff and most of the patrons address each other by their first names. The food is exceptional, and Elle is happily digging into her fried catfish when she notices Terry. His countenance has changed; he seems nervous and a little on edge.

"Is everything alright?" she asks. "Is your food okay? You’re not having a reaction to it, are you?" Terry has no allergies to seafood as far as she knows, but then again, she is learning something new about him everyday.

Terry gives a sheepish smile. "The food is great," he assures her. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it.

"What?" she prods.

He takes a deep breath and takes one of her hands. "Elle, I have something I need to say to you. I’ve been meaning to say it for sometime."

"Okaaay…" She is confused. Where is Terry going with this? Is he breaking up with her?

Terry looks at her meaningfully. "I love you. I’ve loved having you in my life this past year. You’re a very special woman, Elle."

Oh god. "A very special woman." This can’t be good. Guys only call their significant others "very special" when they’re about to break up with them, like calling them "very special" somehow lessens the blow of rejection. What they don’t know is that it makes them sound like assholes.

"You’ve been a great girlfriend." He releases her hand, looks away, and shakes his head. "But it’s not enough."

He really is breaking up with her. This can’t be happening. Not again. First he wants to go on a mini-vacation and then he decides to dump her? What kind of cruel joke is this? What did she do to make him think, This is it, I’m outta here? She feels the tears start to stream down, and she buries her face in her hands. Not now, she thinks. I can’t break down now.

"Terry--" she begins, but he interrupts her.

"--Elle?"

She looks up and sees him kneeling down next to her, holding an open ring box. A diamond glints in the light of the overhead lamps.

"Elle, it’s not enough because I don’t want you as my girlfriend anymore. I want you as my wife. Will you marry me?"

She gasps, speechless. He’s not breaking up with her. He wants to marry her. He wants to be with her for the long-haul. The tears come faster as she nods her head. A playful grin spreads across his face, and a mischievous twinkle comes into his eyes.

"What was that?" he says. "I couldn’t quite hear you."

She finds her voice. "Yes!" she squeals, and he slides the diamond on her finger, gets up, pulls her to her feet, and kisses her. There is applause, and they break away bashfully, not realizing that they have an audience.

"Kiss her again!" someone yells from the bar, but Terry is too shy. Instead, Elle grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him to her, giving him a long, passionate kiss. There are claps and whistles, and when they finally break apart, she whispers in his ear, "I love you."

* * *

Elle will remember this night as the best night of her life. After dinner, they go back to their hotel, where they consummate their engagement several times before drifting off into deliriously happy sleep. They awaken late the next morning, make love a few more times before checking out, and then drive home. Calls are made to family and friends and a date is set: June 1. Elle has always wanted to be a June bride.

* * *

A few nights later, Elle sits bolt upright in bed, panicked. She has had another visitation, except this one was longer. It took her longer to pull herself out of it, and this time she was sure she felt a finger graze her cheek. It was icy cold, and sent a chill through her. The bedside lamp comes on, and Terry sits up. He rubs her back.

"Another nightmare?"

She nods. "It lasted a little longer this time."

"I wonder why you’re having nightmares all of a sudden?" Terry looks alarmed. "You’re not freaking because of the engagement, are you?"

"No, of course not," she quickly reassures him, rubbing his arm and kissing his shoulder. "Deciding to marry you is the best decision I’ve ever made. Besides, I had one before you proposed, remember?"

He looks relieved. "You’re right," he says. "I’m sorry."

"It’s okay. I’m fine, really. I’m sure they’ll stop soon. This is probably just some sort of weird sleep phase I’m going through or something."

"Probably." He kisses her on the cheek and turns the bedside lamp off, and they lie back down. Again, she is unable to fall back asleep. She makes sure Terry is out before getting out of bed and going to the living room. She switches on the television and watches infomercials until she finally drifts off.

* * *

The visitations start occurring on a fairly regular basis, and the next few nights play out the same way: she and Terry wake up, she assures him that she’s fine, he goes back to sleep, and she lies awake until finally getting up and watching television until falling asleep. The episodes last a little longer, and are a little more terrifying, and each night it takes her longer and longer to fall asleep until she ends up staying awake for the rest of the night, too freaked out. It is on the first of these mornings that Terry finds her, mindlessly staring at the television, the early morning news on. Her eyes are bloodshot and there are dark circles underneath.

"Did you go to sleep at all?" he asks.

She shakes her head.

"You have got to get some sleep," he says, turning off the television. "Come on, call in sick today and go back to bed. You can’t go to work like this." He takes her hands and tries to gently pull her to her feet, but she resists.

"No." She folds her arms and shakes her head. He sits down next to her.

"Why not? Aren’t you exhausted?"

She is exhausted. There is nothing she wants to do more than crawl into bed and drift off into deep, numbing sleep. But her anxiety at having another experience won’t let her.

He touches her cheek. "How bad are these nightmares?"

She sighs and rubs her eyes. She can’t hide it any longer; she has to tell him. "Well, they’re not really nightmares in the traditional sense."

He looks confused. "What are they?"

"I don’t know exactly. It happens when I start to wake up. I can’t move, although I’m awake. And all my other senses are working fine--I can feel the covers on top of me, you lying next to me, hear the apartment settling--but I can’t move or open my eyes. It’s like I’m paralyzed." She hesitates. "There’s something else," she says.

"What?"

She takes a deep breath. "Sometimes I’ll hear footsteps coming up to the bed and it feels like someone is sitting down beside me. It scares me, because whatever it is, it’s not good."

"What do you mean, not good?"

"It feels like it’s--evil." They sit in silence for a few moments, Terry digesting everything she has just said. She feels humiliated. Vocalizing what has been going on makes her sound ridiculous--crazy. What does Terry think?

To her relief, Terry wraps his arms around her. "Why didn’t you tell me?" he asks.

"Because the whole thing just sounds so absurd, so crazy," she replies. "I didn’t want to scare you off, I guess."

"You’ll never be able to scare me off, Elle," he says, then grins. "Whether you want to or not."

She gives a little chuckle. "Good to know."

"I still think you should call in today, though," he says. "You need to see someone about this."

She bristles. "Like a shrink?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of maybe going to a sleep clinic or something."

"Okay," she says, relieved.

* * *

"Sleep paralysis," the doctor says after Elle has finished explaining her visitations. "More common than you think."

"What is sleep paralysis?" she asks, confused. This is a legitimate disorder?

"Exactly what you’ve described to me," the doctor replies. "It can happen either while drifting off to sleep or upon waking up. You can’t move, although technically you’re awake."

"What do you mean by technically?"

"Well, you’re able to feel and hear outside stimuli, and you’re cognizant--you can formulate coherent thoughts. But your brain still isn’t fully ‘awake.’ The footsteps you hear, the presence you sense--they’re hallucinations."

"Hallucinations?"

"Yes. Technically you’re dreaming."

Elle digests this information, partly relieved but still confused. Why is this happening to her in the first place?

As if reading her thoughts, Terry, who is sitting beside her, asks, "What causes this--sleep paralysis?"

"When you fall asleep and enter into the dream state, there is a trigger in your brain that causes you to be temporarily paralyzed. It prevents you from physically acting out your dreams and possibly hurting yourself or others," the doctor states matter-of-factly. "Sleep paralysis occurs when this trigger doesn’t switch back. So while you may be waking up, part of your brain thinks your body is still asleep and doesn’t tell it to wake up, which is why you can’t move. In some cases, such as yours, hallucinations are also present."

"But why do I have it?" Elle asks.

"Any number of reasons," the doctor replies. "Stress, irregular sleeping patterns, sleeping positions. Have you been under any stress lately? With work or in your personal life?"

"Not really," she replies. "I mean, we just got engaged and I’ve started to do a bit of wedding planning, but at this stage it’s more fun than stressful."

"What about your sleeping patterns? Do you stay up late? Go to bed at the same time every night?"

"Well, no," she says. "Sometimes we’ll go to bed at ten, sometimes not until midnight. It depends on how tired we are and what we have going on."

"Do you sleep on your back?"

"Yes. Why?"

"For whatever reason, people who sleep on their backs are more likely to experience sleep paralysis." The doctor leans back in his chair. "If I were you, I’d start going to bed at the same time every night and sleep on my side. Most of my patients with sleep paralysis who make these changes never have another occurrence."

"So that’s it?" asks Terry. "She starts sleeping on her side and going to bed at the same time every night and she’s cured?"

"Most likely. If the episodes do start recurring on a regular basis there is medication we can prescribe."

"You said this was common?" Elle asks.

The doctor nods. "Most people will experience it at least once in their lifetimes."

"How strange," she muses.

The doctor smiles. "The brain is a magnificent and powerful organ. It’s amazing what it can do--or, in this case--not do."

* * *

Elle follows the doctor’s suggestions and starts sleeping on her side. She and Terry go to bed at ten every night, even on the weekends. For awhile, it works, and Elle has never been so well-rested. Her anxiety is gone. She is more relaxed.

Until it stops working one night. The familiar sensations overtake her: the paralysis, the overwhelming feeling of terror. She hears the footsteps, feels someone sitting down next to her--and this time there’s something else. A hand clamps down on her neck and squeezes. She can’t breathe. It squeezes tighter and her panic escalates. Open your eyes! she thinks. She tries, but can’t. Do something! her brain shrieks. She manages to wiggle a finger, which snaps her out of it. She sits bolt upright, gasping for air and feeling her neck. Terry stirs and switches on the bedside lamp. He sits up and rubs his eyes.

"Again?" he asks.

She nods her head, tears springing to her eyes. "A hand was strangling me." Her voice cracks, and she is shaking.

"Jesus, baby," Terry says, holding her. "And you were doing so well."

"I know."

"Well, maybe this was just a rogue incidence."

"I hope so."

"You okay to go back to sleep?"

"No," she says. "Not right now, anyway."

Terry is about to say something, but she stops him. "I’m just gonna go watch some TV for a little while," she says. "Go back to bed. I’ll be in a little later."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

He gives her kiss, switches off the bedside lamp, and lies back down. She climbs out of bed and goes to the living room where she switches on the television. She never falls back asleep.

* * *

It’s not just a rogue incidence. After the initial relapse, Elle has episodes every night, each one more terrifying than the last. She is still being strangled in them; during one she thought she would never wake up. She is never able to go back to sleep; it has affected her work, and her boss has suggested she take a paid leave of absence for an indefinite amount of time. He has assured her that her job would be waiting for her when she returned.

Terry tries to coax her to sleep, but she refuses; lack of sleep has made her unreasonable and irritable, hostile even. Her eyes are constantly bloodshot with shadows underneath; her complexion is now pallor. Terry has taken to secretly mixing crushed over-the-counter sleeping pills in her food to try to get her to sleep, but she eventually wakes up, having another one of her episodes.

"We need to get you back to the doctor," he finally says to her one day. "See if he can prescribe some medication." They are sitting on the couch, which is where Elle spends most of her time now.

"It won’t work."

"How do you know?"

"The stuff you put in my food doesn’t work."

Terry is taken aback. He didn’t think she knew. He runs his hands through his hair, speechless.

"I’m not stupid, Terry."

"I’m sorry," he says. "I was just trying to help."

"Nothing helps."

"What I was putting in your food were just sleeping pills," he says. "To try to get you to go to sleep. They weren’t designed to treat the paralysis." Elle says nothing, just stares ahead, arms folded.

"The doctor may be able to help, is all I’m saying."

"No."

Terry puts a hand on her back. "Come on, Elle," he says gently.

She pulls away from his touch. "I said no."

Terry takes a deep breath. "Nope. You’re going." He stands up and grabs her arms, pulling her forcefully to her feet.

"NO!!" she screams, struggling; but he keeps a tight grip on her arms.

"YOU’RE GOING!" he screams back, which causes her to stop struggling. She is amazed. Terry has never yelled at her before.

"I can’t take this anymore, Elle!!" he shouts, eyes welling up with tears. "I can’t see you like this anymore--bloodshot eyes, irritable all the time--it’s not you!" His voice cracks, and his grip tightens. "It’s not you," he repeats quietly.

"Terry--you’re hurting me."

Terry’s eyes fill with pain, and he releases her, as if he’s been holding onto hot coal. He turns away and buries his face in his hands. "I’m sorry," comes his muffled voice. Elle starts crying too.

"It’s okay," she says, coming over and grabbing him around his waist. She buries her face in his back. "I know you didn’t mean to."

He turns around and holds her. "Will you please go back to the doctor?"

"Okay."

* * *

The doctor prescribes Prozac, which she is to take regularly for a month before gradually weaning herself off, but as soon as the month is over, and she tries to rely on it less heavily, the episodes come back. Because of this, she has developed a dependency on it, and has run through all of her refills. The doctor refuses to prescribe anymore of the drug.

"Just try waiting it out," he says, removing his glasses and leaning back. "There have been patients who have gone long periods of time experiencing sleep paralysis and then it stops."

"Wait it out?" Elle is furious. "That’s all you can say?"

"I’ve prescribed to you as much as I legally can," the doctor responds. "All the tests we’ve run on you have come back normal. There’s really nothing else we can do for you."

"I can’t SLEEP!" Elle screams, getting up from her chair and planting both hands on the doctor’s desk. She leans forward and looks him straight in the eye. "I can’t sleep," she repeats again, quieter this time. "Do you know what that’s like? Do you know what it’s like to be so exhausted that you want nothing more than to curl up in bed and pass out but can’t because you’re too afraid that something might try to hurt you once you do? Not only that, but knowing that you’re afraid of something that’s not real--that your mind is creating--is so absurd, so crazy that not only is it preventing you from sleeping, you feel as if you’re going insane too? Do you know what that’s LIKE?!"

Terry gets up and pulls her back down to her chair. "Elle, baby, calm down," he says, but she’s on a roll.

"It feels so real!" she says, crying now. "How can it be a hallucination? I can feel the hand, feel the thumb pressing into my throat! It feels so real!" she repeats again, burying her face in her hands and sobbing.

"Is there someone she could see?" Terry asks the doctor.

"What, like a shrink?" Elle rubs her nose on her sleeve. "So I’m crazy now?"

"I could recommend a therapist, but honestly I don’t think it would do any good," the doctor says to Terry, ignoring Elle. "Like I said, I think it’s best if you all just wait it out and see what happens."

"Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!" Elle says, but they continue to ignore her.

"And what if things don’t change?" Terry asks the doctor.

The doctor folds his hands and looks Terry in the eye. "We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it."
* * *

Things don’t improve. Elle refuses to go sleep, and now she refuses to eat since she knows that Terry has resorted back to mixing crushed sleeping pills with her food. She has lost a severe amount of weight and is almost always sick. Her memory is failing her and she is becoming increasingly incoherent. She has also started to hallucinate.

"This is only supposed to happen when I go to sleep!" she says, sitting on the couch, clasping her knees and rocking back and forth. "Why are you here?!" she asks the little demon, on the floor in front of her. "Go away!" she yells, but all the little demon does is smile, revealing two rows of blood-stained teeth, red eyes smoldering. She is too paralyzed to move, knowing that the little demon will kill her if she does. She knows this is what had been choking her back when she still slept.

"You’re not real!" she cries, rocking harder. She buries her face in her knees. "You’re not real," she says again, her voice muffled. She looks up and the little demon is gone. She bolts up from the couch and goes to the phone to call Terry, who is at work. When Elle started to relapse on a regular basis, Terry took some time off work to take care of her. But since she started refusing help, he has gone back to work since there is really nothing he can do. All she ever does anymore is sit on the couch and stare off into space, and he figures she will be alright while he is at the office.

Terry answers, and she begins excitedly, "It came back."

Terry sighs and rubs his eyes. He is used to getting these sorts of phone calls now. "It’s not real, Elle," he says.

"But it looks so real!" she says. "Like if I reached out, I could touch it."

"But it’s not." Terry feels as if he’s losing his mind when he and Elle have these conversations.

"Can you just--come home, please?" she asks. "I’m scared."

"I get off in two hours," he replies. "Won’t you be okay until then?"

"No," she says, her voice trembling. "What if it comes back?" Terry doesn’t say anything. "Please?" she pleads.

"Alright."

* * *

After they hang up, Terry sits at his desk for a few moments, rubbing his temples. Then he picks up the phone and makes the call he has been putting off.

"It’s not getting any better," he says when Elle’s mother picks up. "She’s so far gone." His voice threatens to break.

"I’ll make some calls," she replies.

They hang up and Terry just sits there a few minutes longer. His heart is breaking; he hates himself for what he’s just done, but he’s run out of options. Finally he grabs his things and heads for home.

* * *

Terry enters the house to find Elle on the couch, rocking back and forth. She has remained there ever since she called Terry.

"Has it come back?" he asks. She shakes her head no.

"Would you like something to eat?"

She doesn’t respond. He sighs and sits next to her on the couch. "Elle, I need to talk to you," he says. She still doesn’t respond; she doesn’t even acknowledge that he is speaking.

"Elle? Are you listening to me?" He reaches over to touch her arm, but she pulls away. He decides not to say anything, and they sit in silence. Eventually a white van marked, "State Mental Health" pulls up in the driveway. Elle doesn’t seem to notice, and Terry goes to meet them outside.

"She’s very jumpy," he tells the two men. "Just don’t make any sudden movements."

They nod, and start to go in the house.

"Wait!" Terry says, and they turn back around. "Please--don’t hurt her," he says.

"She’ll be fine, sir, says one of the men. They go into the house, and Terry follows her.

Seeing the two men come into the house makes Elle snap out of her trance. "Who are you?" she asks suspiciously.

The men look at each other, and then at Terry. "Babe, you’re just hallucinating again," he says, looking away.

"No I’m not!" she says. "And you know it." Recognition dawns on her face as she realizes what is happening. "They’re taking me away, aren’t they?!"
Terry ignores her. "Don’t hurt her," he tells them, his voice cracking.

"AREN’T THEY?!" she screams again. One of the men reaches out to grab her, and she pulls away. "DON’T TOUCH ME!!" she shrieks. "Terry, please, tell me what’s going on," she says quietly, pleadingly. "Please."

"I don’t know what else to do," he says. "Your mom and I thought--"

"Mom?!" Elle says, furious. "You’ve been talking to my mom behind my back?! DON’T TOUCH ME!" she says as one of the men make another move to grab her. The two men whisper to each other for a few minutes, then one leaves to go back to the van.

"What is he doing?" Terry asks the one inside the house, then follows the other out to the van. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"Sir, she’s resisting," the man explains, pulling a kit out of the van. "We have to sedate her."

"I told you not to hurt her!"

"Sir, we have to do this. It’s the only way we’ll be able to get her in the van. She’ll only feel a little prick and then she’ll be out." He walks back into the house, and Terry follows.

"What’s going on?" Elle says as the man walks up to her. "What is that?!" she shrieks when she sees the needle.

"Hold her down," the man with the needle says to his partner, who nods. Terry can’t watch, so he looks out the window.

"DON’T TOUCH ME!!" Elle screams. "Terry, help me! Terry--" she cuts off as she passes out.

One of the men examines her hands. "Sir, this ring--is it an engagement ring?"

Terry turns around and nods, tears streaming down his face.

"Do you want it back?"

Terry hesitates for a moment before finally nodding again. "Yeah," he says. One of the men pries off the ring and gives it to Terry, then they both go out to the van and get a stretcher. Terry goes over to where Elle is lying and grabs her left hand.

"I’m sorry," he says, and kisses it. "I’m so, so sorry." His tears soak her hand.

"Sir?"

Terry looks up and sees the men with the stretcher. He takes one last look at Elle, then nods and moves away. The two men load Elle onto the stretcher, put her into the van, and drive away. Terry sinks down onto the floor, draws his knees up to him, and sobs. The ring falls from his hand and lands silently on the floor beside him.