Trembling With Fear 01/02/22

Pitched Terror by Bernardo Villela

Valerie awoke in the dead of night. That wasn’t unusual. She could count on being roused at least once a night. She had learned to live with it, but as soon as her eyes flashed open she knew something was different. 

Her usual awakenings took either of two forms: passing consciousness, where for one reason or another she resurfaced from the sea of sleep—mere repositioning and refocus was all she needed. Two, snapping up, she would fully awake and alert instantly. This was the latter.

She checked the alarm clock on her night stand, part of her usual routine. It was on her side not Beatrice’s for this very reason.

Beatrice doesn’t need the clock on her side of the bed, her job wipes her out. 

She wanted to say something, but couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even move her jaw.

Do I have lockjaw?

How was this happening? 

Why?

Panic pumped adrenaline through her body making getting to the bottom of the mystery hard. She tried to go over the night in her mind. Valerie was slow to fall asleep in general, she came up to bed when Bea did because of it. 

Tonight there had been some wine as per usual, not an excessive amount. God knew with the coffee and cigarettes Bea gave her enough of a hassle. Valerie didn’t need to invite more criticism with borderline alcoholism.

I mean, shit Val, you’re not supposed to drink at all with the meds you take. Can you at least slow the fuck down? 

One person in a relationship was the nursemaid regardless, when they were also a nurse-practitioner it was almost intolerable. 

How come Dr. Baumgarten never mentions it?

I think you forgot. He did. They’ll all warn you but if you come back once, twice, six times and still say ‘Oh, just a glass’ they say ‘Fuck it.’

Do they, Bea? Do they actually say ‘Fuck it’? Will that be on my chart?

Bea laughed.

That wasn’t in her memory, though. She heard it reverberate through the room. Valerie scanned the ceiling, took in as much as her eyes would show her. She still felt as if she had been pinned by the shoulders to her bed. 

A shadow flitted across the wall. Was that Bea or was someone else around?

Bea entered her field of vision. She looked down at Valerie’s face—her laugh before had been full and joyous—now she cackled maliciously at her.

Again, Valerie tried to scream. She was screaming, yet no noise escaped her throat. The only sound in the room was her beloved’s laughing.

Valerie wondered how this could be happening. They had been together more than six years and she had never been mistreated—nagged, yes—but never mistreated.

Valerie was adept (Too adept, Bea would say) at sensing potential abusive behavior from her partner. She had been the victim several times over of different forms of abuse from men (father and stepfather) and women (various girlfriends). 

What did Bea do to me?

That thought would malinger about her mind. It would echo back. It was made a louder, more terrible thought by flashbacks of Bea’s face—bug-eyed in smeared blue eyeshadow (had she reapplied it?); those eyes didn’t move, she smiled before she cackled, her mouth was larger than Valerie had ever seen it. Her whole face was unlike anything Valerie ever saw her make. 

And now there Valerie was, rigid, unable to move. All she could imagine was Bea, out of her field of vision—almost anywhere in the room—with that maniacal smile still plastered on her face.

If it was possible to hear Bear panting or giggling, Valerie still wouldn’t be able to. Her heart thudding, it felt like her chest was going to explode from the inside out. 

Dueling concerns battled in her mind: Why can’t I move? and Where is she?

Valerie couldn’t see the clock. There was no time, only darkness and fear. A fear that seeped into her threatening to drown her in the darkness.

#

Light came into her. The light could mean death or life. It came into her eyes, not her being. It was morning. She was alive. 

She turned over. 

I can move!

Fear struck into her for a moment. The other side of the bed was empty. Bea was awake.

She rushed out to the kitchen, needing answers. She told Bea what had happened, demanding explanations before she could say a word. 

“It didn’t happen, Val! Not the way you think, anyway!”

Morning hadn’t broken in Val’s mind despite Bea’s fervent denial, she was still operating on a plane of pitched terror. Bea’s choice of words didn’t help matters.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Valerie snapped. “You laughed at me in the middle of the night when I couldn’t move. How’d you arrange that?”

“Val, you woke up and couldn’t move. I believe that. I didn’t wake up. I’d never laugh—”

Valerie started digging through her purse.

“The fuck are you doing?” 

Valerie tossed aside tissues, lipstick, lip balm, moisturizer, her wallet and found what she was looking for: a syringe.

“Couldn’t even trash it!”

“What?”

“You drugged me! Paralyzed me with this!”

“Val, put that d—”

Bea approached her and tried to wrest the syringe from her hand. Val’s arm came down. The needled jammed down into her neck, just above her collarbone. She pushed down the plunger.

#

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Hello, this—I’m at 2121 Grimwald Street, Apartment 3C. It’s my wife. I stabbed her with a needle.”’

“What’s your name?”

“It was self-defense, she used a paralytic agent on me.”

“Name, ma’am, paramedics are on their way.”

“Valeria Barbarossa.”

“Was something in the needle?” 

“Yes, she’s unconscious, hurry!”

#

The ER doctor who admitted Bea was a kindly looking older man. He looked like he was plucked out of Central Casting for an old-school medical drama. A younger, more dashing doctor, ready for daytime TV, attended to Bea in the ICU. Neither of these doctors was walking toward Valerie now, but rather a tall, elegant blond woman, with short cropped blond hair, wearing a burgundy pantsuit. Decontextualized Valerie hadn’t recognized her at first. When she did she wondered How did she know to come?

That question was answered by her police escort. They had already spoken to Valerie but were taking a different tack now. They finished giving the doctor instructions, and handed her a business card. 

“Dr. Puviete.”

She extended her hand to Valerie but was looking dour. 

“I wish we were seeing each other under different circumstances. Like on Tuesday evening as per usual.”

Valerie was beside herself, unsure what was going on. 

“I assume you didn’t realize you were spinning out of control or you would have called me last night. The police called, you mentioned me, gave them my number. Do you remember any of that?”

The dumbstruck look on her face answered the question. Dr. Puviete inhaled deeply and tried to look into Valerie’s soul.

“Let’s try this another way,” she said. “Tell me what happened in your own experience.”

Tears flowed from her eyes freely. She was quiet.

“Whatever I tell you won’t have happened will it?”

“Something happened, you just don’t understand it yet.” 

Valerie recited her version of events.

“It wasn’t a paralytic agent.”

“Then why is she—”

“Comatose. Because you just put her into hypoglycemic shock.”

“It was her insulin?”

Valerie felt horrified and stupid. Her face fell, her shoulders slumped.

“I saw her laugh at me! I heard it!”

“You did,” Dr. Puviete said, reassuring her. “It was an insidious hallucination. That and the shadow on the wall both were.”

“I’m not crazy!”

“My opinion is it was sleep paralysis.”

Anger and confusion overwhelmed Valerie.

“But I was still convinced this morning.”

“Of course you were. You probably never had an episode before, you could still remember what you were thinking and lost control.”

Valerie went limp, overcome with conflicting emotions, she nearly collapsed into a heap. Dr. Puviete held her close, doing her best to console her. Valerie was only there physically. They sat in silence. Waiting to see if Bea would wake took its toll, Valerie fell asleep where rest would no longer be found.