The Sick and the Dying

Alistair awoke with a start. His heart was thumping wildly in his chest. The v-necked white shirt he'd been wearing clung to his chest. He lay his hand over his heart. The fabric was soaked in sweat. Dachau. He'd been to Dachau. He closed his eyes and tried to get his heart beat to match his breathing. Slow and steady, not frantic and panicked. But his heart refused to obey him. Monica lay next to him fast asleep. He slowly lowered himself onto his elbows. There was no way he could work today, not with the nightmare he'd had last night. The image of the friendly yet brutal officer resurfaced, how the man had put out his cigarette on the dead man's body. I need to get a perscription of sleeping pills that I can take every night. There was no other option; he could not deal with going back in time every night. He lay back down fully, closed his eyes and sighed. Finally his heart had returned to his control. He started to doze off but shook the sleep off; he didn't want to return to Germany, and he didn't know if even just a nap could bring him there. So he stood up, texted the Vice-President that he was terribly ill, sent for the doctor and the psychiatrist and woke Monica up. It was time to tell her what was happening to him. 

"Let me sleep honey, please." Monica said as she shrugged her partners hand of her shoulder. "I'm tired." And she turned her head so as to bury her face in the pillow. 

"Monica it's serious." Alistair said, his tone grave. She looked up at him, rubbed her eyes and yawned. 

"What's up, baby?" She asked, placing her soft, small hand on his arm. Her sight focused and she noticed the sweat-pulled shirt and the dark rings under his eyes. "You look horrible!" She exclaimed. "Are you sick?" And instinctivly her hand flew up to his forehead to check for a fever. She found none. 

"I'm alright honey, I'm not sick..." He said. "But there's something I want to talk to you about. I've been, I'm tired Monica, maybe we should talk another time." His sudden change of heart worried his femme more. 

"No tell me, baby, what's wrong?" She cupped his face into her hand. "Why are you so anxious?"

"I'm not anxious, I'm worried...I'm scared. I don't know, I really don't. I don't know Monica." He lost himself in his vague explaination and flopped back onto his back. "My head hurts." He said after a second, raising his right palm to cover his forehead. 

"You're going to be alright honey. Tell me what's wrong, maybe I can help?" She asked him in a tone as if she was feeding him the words. 

"You can't Monica. Not with this." He said tiredly. 

"Just talk to me. Please. That's why we're married." She said. She began to stroke his salt-and-peper hair that he liked to refer to as 'silver' and he started to tell her what bothered him. 

"You're gonna think I'm crazy. But I guess I can't leave you in the dark forever. I'd appreciate if you didn't talk to anyone about this, specially not Lottie." He began. He closed his eyes as if talking gave him a headache. Monica grew increasingly anxious. "Every night I wake up in...I wake up in Germany, Monica. I wake up there and I talk to people and it's not Germany today it's Germany in the late 1930s." He was blabbing a bit, as if he couldn't remember what he'd just said and then decided to repeat himself to make sure he'd said it. "I'm Hitler's tranlsator, inofficial of course, and he knows I know something. He knows I'm hiding something, Monica, he sent me to Dachau last night. I saw the camp, he sent me there, I'm scared to talk to him again. I know how WWII went and I don't want to tell him the weak points. I'm afraid he'll get it out of me; and probably not by force but by charm. He's become a good friend of mine. I think." He paused thoughtfully. "I'm sorry Monica. And there's this girl, her name is Anne. Anneliese, and I'm having an affair with her. I'm sorry darling." Monica's concern had lessened with his every word. It was clear to her that it was just a nightmare, a relativily bad one. 

"That's okay darling. Everyone has nightmares sometimes."

"No, you don't understand, I go back every night." He said. "Ask Lottie if you don't believe me. I've told her a bit about her, though I-I told her it had stopped. I told her that I go see Hitler every night. It's true."

"Yeah, okay." She said, still unbelieving. 

"I'm serious." His eyelids snapped open. "I can show you a photo. Proof." He hadn't wanted to show anybody, but he was beginning to get desperate. His own wife didn't believe him! Then again, why should she? "Go onto my phone. I have the photo saved on my phone." He gestured in the general direction of his smartphone. "Please, look at it." 

"I'm not going to leave your side to look at a stupid photo when you feel like this." She said. He just sighed and closed his eyes again. She began to massage his shoulders. A fresh sweat had broken out by his temples. She raised her hand to his forehead again, he was burning up. Then, as she was sure he'd passed out, she crept to the phone, unlocked it and scrolled through photos. She found the picture immediatly and sent it to herself. She'd send it to a professional analyst who'd be able to figure out the photoshop or image layering and then she'd show him. Even his proof wasn't real. 

A second later she was back in bed with him, gently drawing circles on his neck with her forefinger. In less then a minute the doctor arrived.