1 Month Ago


Not all of us are attuned to our desires, but in the end you realize that they all have the potential to be the devil, at least in terms of emotion. The only other sensation powerful enough to invoke action before desire, is rage, but doesn't fury stem from the same roots?

And she's had to learn this the hard way. Messy tears explode from beneath her lids, streaming hot down the skin of her cheeks, salty droplets pattering off her chin, evidence toward her fear. Stomach churning she spins around, slamming the door to her bedroom shut, twisting the lock and securing herself inside.

Acting on panic she scrambles to the nightstand, reaching for the phone, almost unable to grasp it in her wildly trembling hands and nearly fumbling it. While she dials three beeps slice through the silence, making her glance frantically over her shoulder toward the door. Any sound could alert him of her presence.

"911, what's the nature of your emergency?"

"Yes," her voice escapes roughly, shaking in an out of pitch just as badly as her arms tremor, "there's a murderer in my house."

The automated monotone remains calm, questioning, "And what is your address?"

"782 Maple Avenue, apartment two." The woman hisses urgently under her breath, adding, "Please hurry."

Suddenly the knob on the door rattles ominously, then the slab of wood separating her from the crazy man begins to shake as he slaps his palm hard against it. "Open the door!" He demands firmly in a deep boom, still horrifying even when muffled with separation.

Keeping the phone pinned against her ear she reacts. Eager to find some form of protection before the inevitable attack, she dashes toward the closet, collapsing against the wooden door, so close to her safety. Balancing on her tip-toes she reaches up, running her palm against the top shelf until her fingers curl around an object, like ice against her skin. Gently lowering back onto the soles of her feet, she stares down at the snub-nosed revolver cupped lightly in her hand.

Yet, before she can even bring herself to think about what she might have to do with it the mad man, enraged, reacts, kicking down the door with brutal force, sending it pounding tremendously against the wall. When he makes a move to enter she aims, a wild trembling wavering the direction the barrel points.

Sobs wracking her body with violent tremors, she admits shakily, "You were supposed to protect him," while her index finger curls around the trigger.

"Max." A soothing voice jerks him out of his reverie, planting him back in the stark white room with the two chairs facing each other serving as the only furniture. It's like a sharp slap across the face, despite her calming presence.

She sits across from him, like a regal queen perched delicately on her throne; blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, green eyes wide and unblinking. "Max," she repeats softly, "it's not common for people with insomnia to have difficulties sleeping, thus, resulting in hallucinations."

"It wasn't a hallucination, damn it!" He screeches, pounding his fist forcefully against the arm of his chair, driving his words toward her like a nail through a board. Clamping his jaw, forcing himself to remain calm, he finishes levelly. "It was real." Reiterating his vital point he repeats, "She was real."

Unfazed the therapist folds her hands in front of her, leaning forward with a long, protestant creak from the leather beneath her. "Who's she Max?"

When she continuously doesn't blink, or even so much as move, he begins to fidget, discomforted, before eventually mumbling reluctantly, "I don't know." With a trembling hand he combs his fingers through his hair, venting his frustration. Completing his sentence in a menacing growl he adds, "But I need to..." he stutters, "I need to because I think she's going to kill me."