You bolt awake in bed. Outside, it is early morning, not entirely daylight. By your side, your husband slightly grumbles in his sleep at your sudden disturbance. While rubbing the crust from your eyes, you note pulsating from your forehead. “I need a damn prescription for these headaches,” you say as you get up to walk over to the bathroom. As you take a look in the mirror, you freeze; a massive bruise has appeared on your right temple as if you had been beaten by a nightstick.

“You’re awake early, Darling,” a voice behind you groans playfully. He gets up and embraces you from behind while giving your neck a subtle kiss. 

“Did you notice this when we went to bed last night,” you shoot quickly, “because this looks like I’ve been attacked.”

“No, I don’t think it has anything to do with me dear. What did you do last night?”

You pause. “I… I can’t really remember,” You murmur softly. It was uncanny; you really couldn’t remember anything from yesterday or the day before that or ever.

“Don’t worry Love,” he reassures you turning into his hug, “just smile, it’ll all be okay. 

As he says that word, “smile,” you jump back in horror. You feel as if a sleeper code has been activated. You just realized you can’t remember if this really is your husband. 

He comes in for a kiss, but you’re fast. Grabbing the glass toothbrush holder on the counter, you smash it over his face. He screams and grabs the bleeding cut across his face. You dart out of the house in your nightrobe. Behind you, you can hear these words painfully screaming out “Just smile.”

Running down the street, you see a parked cop talking to a jogger. You wave them down, pleading for help. 

“Ma’am,” the overweight cop says, “is everything alright.” He and the jogger notice the large incision on your hand.

“No, no I am not okay, there’s a man in my house pretending to be my husband. I don’t know who he is.” You sob in your bloody hands.

“Well, I am sure we can figure this whole situation out. Let’s just go on back and talk to this fella. Look! Is that him right there?”

You turn, and the man from your house approaches slowly with a large bandage on his face. The large cop gets out of the car and begins to speak to the man; you can’t hear what they’re saying, but it seems cordial.

“Well, ma’am,” the cop says, walking back towards you with the man, “I think this is all going to work out. 

“So will you help me?” You ask with fading hope. 

“Only if you help yourself deary and smile.”

You turn to run. A disturbing grin comes over the cop’s face, but it’s too late. His baton is already out and smacks it across your head. You try and stay conscious, but it all becomes fuzzy…

You bolt awake in bed…

Nathan DeBar is a poet and short fiction writer living in Athens, Georgia. His published works can be found at his Linktree: https://linktr.ee/nate.debar