Paranoia

A feeling woke him with a start, eyelids shooting open, muscles tense.

The ceiling fan was creaking.

Deja' vu.

It was that damn dream again. He'd had it again, he knew he did, he just... couldn't remember what it had been. That was half of the problem right there. He could never remember his damn dreams.

Sweat dripped down his face, an icy chill ran up his spine. His jaw was clenched, his teeth grinding. He tried to tell himself to relax, but... when had that ever worked?

The unbalanced ceiling fan tottered as it spun overhead. The weight of the cold it shoved on him kept him clenched tight beneath the covers, even as it threatened his life in that high-pitched, whiny language. The fan was going to fly loose, break apart, murder him in their bed. It wanted to kill him. He was sure of it.

His panic was an all-encompassing chaos trying its best to explain the source of his fear. He was going to die, that much he was sure of. If not murdered by the fan, then by what he ate for dinner last night. That pork had been a day too old. That's why his stomach was in knots. He had food poisoning. He was going to die... even though his wife slept soundly next to him, not a care in the world. She'd eaten that same pork, but his brain was convinced that meant nothing. She just had an iron stomach.

He pushed back the covers, careful not to disturb the dog at the foot of the bed. His wife may have slept like a rock, but the shepherd was always on alert. She raised her head.

"It's fine, Merle," he whispered, in a shaky voice that was anything but fine. "I'm just going to the bathroom."

Without the warm safety of his blanket, shivers rocked his body. His foot froze to the block of ice that was the bedroom's wooden floor. He shook. He touched his face. Its skin was clammy. His hand was freezing.

Something was definitely wrong with him.

He forced himself into brisk, ninja-like movement, all toes and the balls of his feet as he snuck across the room, freed his robe from the hook behind the door, threw it over his shoulder, tied it tight, then slipped out into the hallway. There was a bathroom in the master, of course, but he wasn't about to risk waking his wife up by dying in it. No, if he was going to die, he was going to do it like a man; alone, with no one to blame but himself.

Thoughts of politics flashed through his mind. The recent election. Names. Trump and Biden. There was something there. Something big.

The American people had their choice. Choose the Trump card, or continue Biding their time. They chose the Trump card. Reality had somehow felt different to him ever since. Compressed. Heavy. Like he’d somehow become trapped within a cage. And there was no way out that he could see. No escape. He was going to die in this cage.

He shook the thoughts away before he sat down on the toilet. He was acting crazy again. This was the PTSD. This was why he went to therapy.

Breathe, he told himself. In for three seconds, pause, out for three seconds. Focus. Slow breaths. He knew it would make him feel better. He just had to avoid the thoughts for a little bit. What had his therapist said?

"Stop trying to catch every fish swimming through your stream of consciousness. They aren't all good for you. Keep the ones that serve you. Let the rest swim on past."

But wasn't that exactly what someone in on the whole thing would say? Someone who wanted to keep him from doing something about all this?

There were conspiracies in play. The government, Artificial Intelligence, the aliens; they were all in cahoots, keeping secrets from the American people. What other explanation could there be for the constant wars in the Middle East and the Tibetan plateau? They were looking for something. And the rising global temperatures? Preparing the climate for the lizard people. 

He wasn’t the only one who knew about this. Other people did, too. The word was getting out. Getting around on the internet. That’s why the aliens had lent the government their mind control technology. And this wasn’t television, cell phones, or social media. No, this was something different. Something far more powerful. More insidious. Something even the most awakened person would struggle to notice once under its effects. Men in Black kind of stuff, activated at the push of a button, keeping someone controlled using constant sound exposure, or… a flashing light or something. He didn’t know exactly how it worked. Nobody online did. This was alien technology they were talking about. All he knew for sure was that if he ignored these thoughts, did nothing about them, then there'd be nothing to stop the powers that be from—

A knock, knock at the door startled him. "Who's there?" he asked on instinct.

"What? Who—Baby? Baby, are you okay?" The wife. Of course.

"I'm fine. My stomach's just a little upset. Go back to sleep."

"Are you sure that's all?" she asked, worry in her voice.

"Yes. I'm fine. I'm sure. Why do you ask?"

"Because you were doing it again. Earlier. Mumbling in your sleep."

He squeezed his eyes shut, grimaced. "What this time?"

"Something about how they were on to you? You said they knew you knew. That you couldn't get us free. That it was all happening, just like it had before, and that you were going to die here... we were all going to die here. Trapped like rats in a cage." She stopped. Sighed. "Are you sure you're alright, Honey?"

They were the same words, his same lack of trust in authority. Trapped. Cage. Death. It all made perfect sense to him, but… coming from her lips? It... did sound a bit batty. Maybe he really was losing it. 

In for three seconds, pause, out for three seconds. Focus. Slow breaths.

"I'm sure, Baby. I think we maybe just ate a little late last night."

"Okay," she said. "Well... come back to bed soon, okay? It's cold without you there." He heard the floor creak as she stepped away, but she returned a second later. "Oh, also, the fan's started making a weird sound, have you noticed? Like a whine?"

"A constant high-pitched creak."

"Yes. That. I don't like it."

"I'll fix it tomorrow, or buy a new one. Okay?"

"Okay," she said. "Feel better. Come to bed. I love you."

"I love you, too," he replied, recognizing the most important piece first before adding, "I will."

He spent the next five minutes focusing on his breathing instead of his thoughts and relieving the knot in his gut. Unsurprisingly, once he'd finished in the bathroom, he felt much better. As usual. They didn't call it the Gut-Brain connection for no reason.

Once his hands were washed, he made his way back into the room, disrobed, and snuck back into bed. He gave Merle's head a couple of pets after she crawled up the bed and shoved her nose into his thigh, then turned on his side to wrap his arm around his already sleeping-again wife. Or so he thought, before she nuzzled her way backwards into him for warmth.

He guessed he couldn't be too worried about anything. Not with the two of them there, guard dog keeping him physically safe while they slept, loving wife protecting his mental and emotional space while they were awake. What more could a man need?

Was that the cage he was trapped in? Marriage? A simple, uninteresting life, every night spent in the same bed with the same woman? Was that what he was freaking out about? Stupid. He'd gladly die in that cage.

The creaking fan overhead reminded him that he had work to do, but his earlier fear of it was gone. Its terrifying language had turned into something else. A gentle lullaby that sang him back into a calm, deep sleep. Until a feeling woke him with a start, eyelids shooting open, muscles tense.

The ceiling fan was creaking.

Deja' vu.