Break Me One More Time [McLennon]

in which paul wakes up

Paul dreamt of Linda. He dreamed that he and Linda were together, his arm looped around her waist and her hands holding his face. They were together and they were dancing on a cloud. In the distance there was a voice, a voice most familiar to Paul. For a moment he turned to search for it, but when he found that there was no one there he turned back to Linda. He held her closer, loved her harder, willed this dance to never end. Still, there was a voice in the distance, calling his name; it was a voice he had longed for, he was sure of it. But Linda was there, in his arms, so why should he go searching elsewhere?

A voice that he did not recognize spoke his name loudly and Paul jumped in great fright, jolting himself awake.   

The instant Paul woke up, he knew something was wrong. He could feel it.

He didn't open his eyes, he just laid in bed and focused on what was off. He felt...different. Like it was easier to move, right down to his fingers. He began to wiggle about in bed and it just felt different.

Paul pulled his blanket over his head, thinking that maybe this was the in between place that lies in the middle of wakefulness and sleep. He thought that maybe, if he just tried very hard to go back to sleep, he could dance with Linda for a little while longer before he had to get up and start his day.

But then, the bed didn't feel quite right either. It wasn't nearly as soft as the one he had fallen asleep upon in his hotel room in Chicago. The pillow was flatter. The blankets were much thinner and they were scratchier against his face.

I've got to open my eyes.... He thought, but he didn't do it right away. He was terrified of what he might find if he did.

It was a several minutes before Paul worked up the nerve to open his eyes, but at long last he did open his eyes. He blinked for a few moments until his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight pouring in through the window beside his bed.

This was definitely not the room he'd fallen asleep in, that became immediately clear. He blinked hard, wanting to make absolutely sure that he wasn't just seeing things. He rubbed the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and looked again, and indeed, his brain was not making up any of what he was seeing. This room, it was smaller... the bed was smaller. The wallpaper was cream colored and peeling, the floorboards looked old. The dresser and the bedside table didn't the wood that the bed was made out of. 

This, he realized with a strange blend of horror and amazement brewing within him, was Paul's childhood bedroom. This was the bedroom he'd grown up in. In Liverpool, in the house where he was raised.

Paul threw the covers back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He rose to his feet and bounded across the room. The floorboards creaked beneath his heavy footfall as he strode to the mirror that was mounted over his dresser. He couldn't suppress the shriek that escaped him when he stared into his own eyes, and he stumbled backward with a hand slapped over his racing heart.

He stood there for a minute or two, averted his gaze from the mirror, trying to catch his breath. When his breathing had finally leveled out, he looked up very slowly and he met his own gaze in the mirror once more. He considered his reflection cautiously.

These clothes that he could see himself wearing in the mirror were not the same ones he had gone to sleep in the night before, but he recognized the blue striped pajamas.     His clothes definitely weren't the ones he'd gone to sleep in, but he recognized the blue striped pajamas that were the same sort he always wore to bed for years and years, even for a while into adulthood.

He stared into the mirror for a long while, just thinking... What the hell is going on? How did I get here?

Slowly, Paul lifted a shaking hand to his cheek. He ran trembling fingers across his face, watching himself in the mirror all the while. It was hard to believe, certainly, but the evidence was there, in the mirror. He was — he was —