Notes: Based on the Tumblr prompt request: "You've never hurt me. Ever."
i witness
"You've never hurt me. Ever."
These are the words Elizabeth uses in an effort to comfort Henry each night, when he hunches in their bed, pulse raging, skin clammy with sweat, the images from his dream stained on his mind.
But there's no comfort to be found when he can still see the terror, glossy and bright, filling her eyes, red shot through their whites; can still hear the sounds she makes, crushed and gurgling, as she kicks and claws and struggles against him; can still feel the squeeze of his hands on her windpipe.
Tonight, as she kneels beside him, gripping his hand and stroking his hair, she reminds him again, "You've never hurt me. Ever."
But part of him has, and if he's capable of doing that to her in his dream, who's to say something inside him won't flip and he won't end up doing it to her in real life?
/
Elizabeth settles on the chair next to his. She watches him a minute, her coffee mug resting on the placemat and cradled in both hands.
He can see her watching, can see words rising inside her like water in a geyser, but he keeps his gaze lowered—focused on the soggy cornflakes he pokes at with his spoon.
"Do you think maybe you want to talk to someone?" she says.
(Never before have words burst forth in such a tentative manner.)
He doesn't acknowledge the question—the suggestion—just carries on with the spoon, like he's trying to dredge fallen leaves from a milky lake.
At his lack of reply, she adds, less for clarification than in hope of eliciting a response, "About your dreams?"
"It's one dream, not dreams. And no, I don't want to talk to someone about how every time I fall asleep I dream about killing my wife."
His tone is too sharp, the words too blunt, and Elizabeth recoils.
He drops the spoon into the bowl—its handle clatters against the rim—and he buries his face in his hands.
The outburst was born of frustration and lack of sleep, but that's no excuse, and the weight of the guilt that sits like a demon on his chest doubles.
His hands slide down his face until his fingertips come to rest on his lips, palms facing. He looks Elizabeth in the eye, finds so much compassion and worry waiting for him.
"I'm sorry," he says.
She shakes her head, and offers him a weak yet gentle smile. "It's all right."
But nothing about the situation is all right. They're both exhausted, his outbursts are becoming more frequent, the dream—his fear of what it might mean—is driving a wedge between them.
The weight shifts from his chest to his shoulders, renames itself resignation.
"I'll make an appointment," he says.
She takes his hand and squeezes. "Thank you."
His lips tug into a taut line, not a smile.
He doesn't dare squeeze back.
/
The therapist's office is painted blue. No doubt the shade has some obscure and pompous name, concocted by an arty team who work for the paint manufacturer, but to him it's the sky at twilight. The shadow beneath the Belt of Venus.
"So, Henry"—Dr Gleason sits facing him, nothing but air and apprehension between them. A notebook balances in her lap. Her legs are crossed at the ankle.—"what brings you here today?"
He tells her.
The neutral expression which meets his confession, a carefully cultivated lack of judgment, makes him feel guiltier. He does not deserve such kindness.
"And is the dream always the same?" she asks.
"Yes," he says. "But it's getting more vivid, like there used to be a distance between me me and the me in the dream, but now I'm getting closer."
She nods, and jots that down.
Does it mean something?
"And have you and your wife experienced any conflict recently?" she asks. "Is there any reason why, on some level, you might feel anger towards her?"
"No." He shakes his head. "The only problem we have is the dream itself."
It's hard to be intimate with someone, emotionally or otherwise, when you no longer trust yourself around them.
Dr Gleason continues asking questions, all of which he responds to without censor, but forty-five minutes (and a whole lot of ugly truth) later they're still no closer to an answer.
Part of him hopes simply voicing it—all of it, details he hasn't told Elizabeth—will have been enough to exorcise this monster, but that night, when his fear finally loses its grip and his consciousness slips and he tumbles through the veil of darkness, the dream is there, waiting.
Elizabeth holds him as he shakes.
"You've never hurt me. Ever."
/
He consults real doctors, he consults Google doctors, he consults definitely-not-doctors (temporarily disabling their firewall so he can access some pretty suspect forums).
Still, the dream comes.
He takes supplements, he takes pills, he trades nightcaps for chamomile, he even tries meditation.
Still, the dream comes.
He delays sleep, he brings forward sleep, he gets so desperate he forgoes sleep.
Still, the dream comes.
Each time it does, it's more visceral, more consuming, more real, until he can no longer differentiate between his two selves—dream and waking.
Elizabeth's promise is his only anchor.
"You've never hurt me. Ever."
And he wants to keep it that way.
He has to keep it that way.
He'll do whatever it takes to protect her.
So, while she's at work, he packs a bag, he leaves their home, he checks into a hotel.
He distances himself from her.
/
That night, he sleeps peacefully. Deep and without dream.
/
He wakes late, to over a hundred missed calls.
A break-in, the news will say.
Asphyxiation, states the coroner.
You should have been there, the voice inside him will rage. You were supposed to protect her from that monster.