(A/N: Hey, kids. This is a little different, I know. I wanted to get a modern character into Middle Earth without falling into a book or getting zapped into a movie or something like that. This is only my second fanfic work, so go easy? I'm having fun writing this in a style that's a little different than what I normally do, so I hope you have fun reading it. Let me know what works and what doesn't. I apologize for any typos, I tried to get it clean.)

Master Tolkien is the sole creator of all things of or related to Middle Earth and the characters therein. I claim no rights to copyrighted materials, nor do I plan on profiting from their representation in this work of fiction.

I

I hesitate, just for a moment, before I flush the toilet and watch the little pills disappear. I was hoping to feel free, or empowered, when they were gone, but I only feel anxious. I'm tired of living without being alive. The meds help me function, but everything is blurry. I can't write. I can't draw. Forget sex. The worst part is, I don't care. That's what bothers me the most. So, the pills have to go. If I want to be what people call a "happy girl," the pills have to go.

After a few hours, I feel better about my decision. I'm smart; I can do this.

After a few days, pulses of electricity shoot through my brain. They start in my eyes and blast to the back of my skull. These are called zaps. I'm going through withdrawals. I feel dizzy and have episodes of vertigo. I've always been private about my medication, so people just think I'm sick. If they only knew.

A month has passed. I haven't had zaps or tripped on the flat ground for weeks. Better still, I don't feel depressed. Maybe I don't even need medication any more. Maybe I'm better? I feel like I control my thoughts and actions. No night terrors, no panic attacks. I feel good.

My dreams, though, are becoming more vivid. They aren't lucid dreams. I can't take control of them, but the detail, the incredible reality I experience, it's like nothing my waking world has ever been for me. Although this dreamworld is only in my head, it feels so strangely familiar. Not like I've seen it, but like I know it. It's hard to explain. Now, all I want to do is sleep. I've promised myself that if it starts interfering with my school work, I'll go see the university psychiatrist, but so far, so good. Besides, a surplus of sleep is what the health administrators are always trying to get college kids to aim for.

I sketch a little and draw a little. Mostly, I just want to sleep. Let me sleep.

Dream One: These Plains and Rivers

I wake in the shadow of a large tree. A gentle breeze plays with loose strands of my hair and tickles my face. I smile and sit up. The sun is bright, unimpeded by clouds. The grass is impossibly lush and green, so unbridled and free compared to the meticulously clipped lawns of my university. A rolling plain sweeps out before me. I take my time studying the rock outcroppings and distant mountains. Behind me, a dense forest exhales the scent of ages. I think I hear the groaning of thick trunks swaying from time to time. Since I am dreaming, I don't find it strange that the forest feels alive. I know we're friends.

This is what I want to dream. I sleep as much as I can so that I may return to this place. Sometimes I walk in the sun-dappled woods and listen to the trees whisper to one another. I never interrupt them. They will make way for me sometimes. Good morning, they say. Good morning, I say. Lovely day. I drink from springs that I find. Cold, clear, sweet. I always feel refreshed, even in my waking world, after drinking from the springs.

But today, this dream day, when I say good morning to the trees, they tell me to be careful. I frown. Why, I ask. There are creatures looking for you, they say, at the edge of the forest. They will not enter. I know, but I am still curious. Don't go, the trees say. But I go anyway. Don't go.

When I approach the edge of the forest, I can hear voices and other noises. I hide behind one of my trees because I have never seen anyone in my forest before. I have always been the only person in my dreamworld. The forest is darker now. The trees are blocking out the sun. Maybe they are trying to protect me. I hear the whinny of horses and a commotion of creaking leather. Carefully, I peek around my tree.

"The horses will go no further," a man says. "Nor will the men." The speaker is astride a dark brown horse. I don't know anything about horses. I feel my heart beat faster. There are a dozen or so men, all similarly outfitted in dull colors of leather and rough cloth. Some have dismounted and stand closer to the forest, peering into my gloomy world. I hear some of the trees groan. Go away, they say to the men. I don't think the men can understand the trees.

"We will search all the same," another man says. "Our lord would have these rumors put to rest or proven true." He removes a plumed helmet that has tangled his shoulder-length blond hair. The sun beyond the forest is so bright that it washes out the details of his face, and I squint to try and see his features more clearly.

"But the forest, my lord," the other man says in low tones, "will not suffer our intrusion."

I am becoming extremely intrigued by these strange people inhabiting my dreamworld.

"We need not intrude," answers the one without his helmet. "The witch is seen at the forest edge. We will camp here tonight."

I frown and tilt my head. Things keep getting more interesting. I step from behind my tree and start walking towards the group of men. I'm not afraid of anything in my dreamworld. None of it is real.

A large root raises in front of my foot. I fall hard, but the soft, loamy forest floor stifles the sound. My foot has become trapped by the root. Don't go, the tree says. For the first time in my dreamworld, I panic. I yank on my foot, but it has been pulled partially into the ground. I pick up a nearby rock and start slamming it into the root, spinning it to a sharp edge as I try to hack myself free. The root tightly contracts around my foot and ankle, and the tree cries at me, in pain. I freeze, not wanting to lose my foot, feeling guilty for hurting the tree. I pant and lie down on a bed of crackling leaves, soggy leaves, green leaves. The dirt smells wet and heavy, impregnated with centuries of dead plants and rain. I close my eyes and take deep breaths of my forest.

The root trapping my foot eases away, but I don't move. I forget about the voices and horses. Surrounded by the weighty air of my forest, blanketed by a far away canopy of towering guardians, I fall asleep to the groan of the woods and trickle of streams.

When I wake up to a dim autumn morning, it takes me several moments to find my alarm and slap it into submission. The day is strange for me. Sometimes my ankle hurts in class, but I can't remember why. I can't focus on my reading assignments at home. Nothing seems important. Sullen, I wonder if I should never have stopped medicating. If depression sets in—when it sets in—I won't even be able to set a psych appointment. But I won't give into that, not this time. I open my book again and force myself to keep reading, resisting the nihilism creeping at the edge of my vision, waiting to be recognized.

It is late when I put the book down, carelessly creasing a corner to mark my place. I fall asleep effortlessly, eagerly retreating to a place without responsibility.