A woman in her apartment awakes from a violent dream. She sits up in up in bed, panting and tears running down her face. Frantically, she looks around and finds herself in her own room, safe in bed. She jumps off her bed and runs to the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror. The light that she switches on over the sink is bright and blinding, reminding her of the knives that moments ago had punched into her stomach. There is a dull ache were they got her and she wishes she could find some ibuprofen. But, she must look into the mirror to see if she was really her and not the fat middle aged man with glasses.
Looking into it, she grips her face and feels that it is real. The woman in the mirror is a short brunette with bright blue eyes, dressed in a white tank top and short shorts. Her heart shaped face was twisted in horror and there are bags under her eyes, like she hadn't slept in weeks. She sighs in relief when she is sure that the face is her own. She sighs and goes back to bed, exhausted.
In truth, she hasn't slept in weeks. Well, not as much as she should. Every night, she would wake up from a vivid dream of herself dying, falling, getting married, flirting, or playing in the grass. In every dream, she wasn't herself; in other words, she was different person, physically and mentally. Every time, she would wake up, panting like she had done the marathon and scared. She diagnosed these hallucinations on her lack of sleep and stress from work, but her boyfriend said otherwise. He was a psychologist and he thought that she was slightly touched in the head. She ignored him and tried to get more sleep.
Back in bed, she finds that he is not there. She sighs, knowing that he probably had a late night call or something. Rolling over, she tries to get more sleep. Just as she begins to dose off, the phone rings. Surprised, she dives for the phone on the night stand and feverishly answers.
"Hello?" she says, breathless in fear.
"Dr. Swan?" a male voice says on the other end of the line. "Is this Dr. Swan?"
"Yes, speaking," she replies.
"This is Mr. Martens," the man says. "I'm the son of one of your patients."
"Beatrice?" she asks. "Is your mother Beatrice Martens?"
"Yes." His voice tells her that he is angry, or frustrated, and tired. "Listen, she needs you right now."
Dr. Swan looks over at her clock. The LED lights show that it is half past two in the morning. Inwardly, she groans. "What happened?" she asks Mr. Martens.
"I caught her eating Twinkies again," he says, and Dr. Swan can just picture him rolling his eyes as he sighs into the phone. "We had a huge fight and that's when she fell over."
Dr. Swan sits up and throws off the covers, searching for her bureau. "Did you call paramedics?" she asks.
"Yeah," Mr. Martens replies. "But she says she won't move until you get here."
Dr. Swan sighs, closing her eyes and putting a hand to her head. "I'll be there within the hour," she replies.
"Thank you," he replies and they both hang up. Dr. Swan gives a huge sigh and, throwing the phone onto the bed, gets up to search for clothes.