I wake up screaming and find that my husband has chewed off hands and has placed huge razors in their place. They're jointed in the middle and he's balanced next to our bed on them, his feet off the ground. His face has turned dark and angular like something out of a Jhonen Vasquez comic, and he's tottering back and forth, staring at me.
It's an ungodly time of night, and I keep screaming. Eli tries to calm me but, of course, I think he's trying to kill me and he has knives for hands. I'm slapping, pushing, and fighting; but in that weak-ass way one does when muscles aren't fully working yet.
At some point while thrashing around, I've resigned myself to being cut to pieces so now I'm crying, sobbing, hyperventilating. I begin to fully awake as Eli reaches for me again. I'm still scared, but I grab his hand. I grab his hand and touch each of his fingers to make sure they're real. I do this several times before I let him touch me.
I try to explain what happened, but I know it sounds ridiculous and I'm too tired to go through it all. I settle down, stop crying, and slowly go back to sleep.
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