July 5, 2019; 12:35 AM

I’m awake again. Or am I? This isn’t what awake feels like. Oh no. It’s happening again. I’ve been turned to a statue and am able to move just as easily as one does. I had assumed last time was just a vivid dream. But would this happen twice? And if I’ve woken up without a nerve ending to speak of again, does that mean…It does. It’s back. The visitor made entirely of shadows. It’s even closer this time. No longer content with standing in the corner, it’s now at the foot of my bed. But once again it only watches. But it’s different this time...that’s not all it means to do. If I don’t move soon, it’s going to hurt me. Maybe even kill me. Somehow, I’m just sure of it. I’ve never been so sure of anything. I need to get out of bed. Run for the door. Cry for help...But I can’t. 

I go to raise my arms, but they’re weighed down with bricks. It stands there watching me. I go to roll off my bed, but of course I can’t. It stands there, waiting for it’s chance. I strain every muscle I have to the point that I think I might burst through my skin. I don’t move an inch and neither does it.

I lay there. Giving up. Wishing that it would do whatever it’s here to do. I watch it, and it watches me. The only thing I can feel is the beads, the rivers, of sweat that are pouring down me; like I was caught in a storm. It all pools beneath me, and I can do nothing but wallow in it.

July 5, 2019; 7:37 AM

I’m awake. And for real this time. And I can move. And once again, I’m alone. There’s no way any of that actually happened, is there? As real as it seemed then, it doesn’t in the morning. With sunlight flooding the room, I realize just how impossible it all is. Except...except below me I can feel a large wet spot on my pillow. As though I was sweating in my sleep.

July 6, 2019; 12:25 PM

I sit here. Wanting to move. To get out. But I know I can’t. I’m helpless. Glued to my spot. He’s across from me, moving just as little as I am. His eyes never leave me. Boring into me. Judging me as I sink further into the couch.

“So how have things been?" he asks.

“Fine," I say with a shrug of my shoulders. I hate coming here. Once a week, all to have someone tell me that I was depressed. How insightful.

“How’s work going?" he asks just as he does every single time.

I shrug my shoulders, just counting down the minutes. I keep one eye on the clock, watching every single tick of the second hand. I keep my other eye on him. Thick jowls that hang low on his face, making him look like a bulldog. Grey eyes set back deep in his head. Round head that was made up more of bald spots than anything else. I don’t understand why he doesn’t just commit to shaving what little hair remains.

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