Rude awakening

"Al? Are you all right? What was that noise?"

Jen's voice sounded both sleepy and panicky, confused by her suddenly having been woken up.

"It's OK, hon. Fell out of bed. Sorry. I'm OK, just go back to sleep."

"Again, Al?" Her voice sounded weary, not just tired. "Same thing again?"

"I'm fine, really I am," I said - not really answering her question. "Just fell out of bed, that's all. Let's go back to sleep, eh?"

There was silence from her side of the bed - the kind of silence that says I'm wide awake now more clearly than words could. When she did speak, there was a kind of wariness to her voice.

"Did you mention the dreams to Doctor Clarke? You said you were going to."

I sorted out the bedclothes, and lay back on the pillow, my hands interlaced behind my head. I looked up at the ceiling, making out the shape of the light fitting as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.

"He thinks it's a reaction to ... to the incident." Referring to the incident had become our way of containing difficult-to-discuss events in a handy neutral word. "Thinks it's a kind of post-traumatic type of thing."

I paused. The silence seemed huge, impossible to overcome. I continued quickly, forcing the words out.

"He thinks it might be a good idea to see a psychiatrist."

Jen reached for my hand under the bedclothes. "Well," she said, carefully keeping her voice neutral, "I don't suppose it could hurt. What do you think?"

"I think getting to sleep would be a good idea. G'night."



Story begins here.