When the spaces next to the dark curtains began to give a slightly blue illumination to the rest of the room he tried, unsuccessfully, to convince himself that it was only a dream. He got out of bed and staggered exhausted into the bathroom. He turned the hot water knob in the bathtub and ran his hand under the water waiting for warmth. When the heat came he toyed with the knobs until he was satisfied with the balance. He stepped into the tub and pulled the stopper to start the shower. His body felt numb in the warm water. As he stood allowing the water to cascade down his back he summoned every impression, every memory, every piece of information that he felt might give him some clue to what had happened to him. Each failed fabrication specifically designed to enable his evasion of what he perceived to be the truth; he was losing his mind. Unable to convince himself the contrary he grudgingly accepted that he had finally fractured under the stress. He grimly concluded that it was an anxiety attack, and while he knew he was not satisfied, he set it aside to complete the task at hand in the quickly cooling water.
After he had dried himself off he stood looking into the mirror. He stared into his own eyes attempting to look beyond the animal. He saw nothing but blackness. Echoing flashes of the prior evening tore through his mind. He savored each recollection as much as he wished to forget them all. He thought about calling in sick. He thought about going to see a doctor. He discarded both ideas, he could afford neither. Slowly and resentfully he started to get dressed.
It was not long until his life had mostly returned to what for it was normalcy, but he hadn’t survived a single consecutive week without the disturbing images revisiting with and without his invitation. He couldn’t explain why the memories made him feel like some cold bony hand where gripping his spine. He was convinced that there was something within it that held a deep profound meaning; the rest of his life was an intermission while he waited with the world for the fates to unfurl their tapestry.
He was driving home; it had been two months since the night he broke. He had nearly completed his alienation to humanity; though he could not be sure if it was the natural progression of his social character or a symptom of his slipping mental stability. He concluded that it was a demonstration of his good judgment.