Take One

Madeline woke to the scent of rain, the sound of it tapping softly against the open window, a gentle rhythm that soothed her into stillness. The room around her was meticulously organized, the walls draped in slate blue—it was his favorite color, not hers.

The clock indicated eight o'clock in the morning and next to it, a little bottle of pills with a note instructing her to "Take one" leaned against a still glass of water. So she took one not remembering why or what for.

She stretched her fingers against the sheets, the fabric unfamiliar yet comfortingly soft. A weight beside her shifted, and a hand—masculine, warm—traced lazy circles along her forearm.

"You’re awake," a voice murmured. Lilting. Familiar.

Her breath caught.

She turned her head slowly, afraid that any sudden movement would shatter the illusion. There he was—Timothy—his brown hair fussed from sleep, his lips curved in a sleepy smile. Alive. Real. She exhaled relief only for the next breath to catch.

But he wasn’t real, was he?

Madeline sat up too quickly, the room tilting around her. The scent of rain thickened and mixed with the smell of him, the walls flickering like candle flames. She pressed her palms to her temples, willing her mind to settle.

"Madeline?" Timothy's voice held concern now, his hand gripping her wrist. "What’s wrong, dear?"

She forced herself to look at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. "You died," she whispered. "I was at your funeral. I saw them lower your casket."

His brows knit together, confusion clouding his features. "What are you talking about? I’m right here. I never left. It was just a bad dream." But she could remember the rain that fell that day. How the drops melded with her tears rendering the two indistinguishable from each other. She had buried a piece of herself along with him that day. How she felt the loss of him deep in her chest, inescapable in its depth. How she buried a piece of herself with him that day.

A sharp knock at the door startled her, and when she turned back to Timothy, he was gone. The sheets beside her were smooth, untouched. The scent of him lingered, meshing with the scent of the rain. But she knew that sweet scent of honey and musk.

The knocking continued, insistent, and with a deep breath, Madeline swung her legs over the side of the bed and stumbled toward the door. When she opened it, a man in a pressed gray suit stood before her, holding a clipboard. His eyes matched his suit and she noted how manicured his cuticles were, how sharp his features.

"Ms. Quinn," the man said. "You missed your therapy session. Again."

Madeline blinked at him. "Therapy?"

"Yes." The man exhaled, glancing down at the clipboard. "You've been experiencing persistent dissociative episodes. We talked about this. The blurring of dreams and reality."

Madeline’s mouth went dry. She looked past the man, out into the hallway. The world beyond the door seemed to shift in and out of focus. "Where am I?"

The man gave her a patient, measured look. "You’re in a facility that’s helping you recover. You were in an accident, Madeline. A car crash. Do you remember?"

Her head spun. She swayed slightly, gripping the doorframe. The rain was still falling, yet the window in her room was closed. Had it ever been open? Had Timothy ever been here? Or had she simply dreamed him into existence—again? No, he was real. He had been there. She had felt his warmth. Heard his voice.

She turned back toward the bed. The sheets were undisturbed. The color of the walls was pale yellow. Of course they were yellow. They were always yellow. The rain was gone. The scent of his skin, of morning and warmth and honey, had dissipated like mist in the sun.

Madeline exhaled shakily and turned back to the man.

"I don't know what's real anymore."

The man nodded as if he'd expected that answer. "That’s why I'm here to help."

He eyed me wearily and asked if she had taken her medication to which she told him, of course. This seemed to please him as he flashed a grin with exceptionally straight white teeth that she would swear she couldn't see the end of. As if they extended to the back of his mouth and continued down his throat. There was something about the man she felt she should remember. But what was it?

"Madeline? Are you with me?"

"Yes. Sorry. Therapy. I won't miss it again."

"See to it that you don't." He tapped his pen on his clipboard twice and walked away leaving her confused in the doorway.

"Hey, wait -" but when she looked down the imposingly long hallway, he was already gone. It was eerily silent and if she focused on that, her ears began to ring.

In a daze she went to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face, certain that would snap her back to reality. Clear this haze. She had convinced herself she just needed to shake off sleep.

The water was ice cold and refreshing. With drops in her lashes and the steady drip falling from her nose, she took note of her hands gripping the sink, albeit blurry. They were larger than she remembered. Lead into sturdier forearms than she thought she had. Rubbing the water from her eyes did nothing to ease this alarming image.

Looking up she realized there was no mirror. Instinctively she began to look for a reflective surface. The place was devoid of them.

Almost.

She eyed the water glass on the nightstand and approached it — careful not to blink in fear it would disappear on her. Clutching it with both hands couldn't stop the shake that allowed for water to spill over the side. Holding it inches from her face, she situated herself in front of the window noting how it seemed there was nothing beyond the glass but the light that filtered through it.

There. Her reflection. A face familiar to her peered back at her, but it wasn't her eyes she met. They were Timothy's. The glass, already slick from the spill slid from her hands — Timothy's hands. Time seemed to slow but her mind reeled. The glass met the floor and shattered at her fe—

Madeline woke with a start, panting, sweat cool in her sudden rush to sit up. The walls were slate blue. Yes. Slate blue. They were always this shade. The sheets enveloped her beloved next to her. She inspected her hands. They were hers.

She calmed herself and laid back taking a deep breath. It was just a dream.

Looking to her right and glancing at the time, eight o'clock, she reached for her glass of water. Next to it was a little bottle of pills accompanied by a note inscribed, "Take One."