Michelle Wakes to a Bad Dream

Something was wrong. I took mental inventory. I’ve still got everything, I think. And there’s no pain. So, what?

I tried to move. Tried to rise up on my elbows, accomplishing nothing except some awkward shifting, bunching the sheets up around me. Did my arms fall asleep? Moving more slowly, I realized what was the problem.

My elbows were bending the wrong way. The wrong way.

Mouth open and working wordlessly, emitting broken whimpers, I thrashed without thought, tangling myself in the covers further.

Panting, I asked my brain to get me up. It worked.

I flopped onto the floor, and lumped clumsily to the wall mirror. I kept thumping into the bed frame, my coordination off. Finally, I faced the mirror. Lying on my back, my elbows and knees pointed toward the ceiling, I looked like a fleshy cricket.

I threw up,  then cried a while, alone in the dark but for my freakishness.
I’d grasp onto the hope I was dreaming, but for the scrape on my forehead. If I concentrated, I could touch it. Too real, the blood on my hand.

I decided to call Nick. He’d know what to do.

I undulated to the night stand, and butted it with my head until I knocked the phone to the floor. I dialed, and hurried to place my face next to the handset again.
Three rings. Four. Five. Where is he?

The line picked up, and I could hear fumbling.

“Nick? Is that you?”

“Michelle? God, Michelle.”

I started to cry again, hearing his voice.

“Nick, can you come over?” I sobbed. “Right now?”

He laughed a little too long, uneven and shaky.

“Michelle.” He took a ragged breath. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

Nick paused.

“My arms and legs have swapped places. Help me, Michelle.”