while you slept. Their talk no doubt caused your dreaming mind to create the illusions you believe are real. Illusions like the presence of Melinda and Rand."
"But, I've seen them in the daylight. Even while I've been awake."
"The brain is a complicated organ we don't yet fully understand. You've been feeling the pressure of so many eyes watching you, judging you, that the stress has been preventing you from fully resting . . . and it came right on the heels of the stress caused by your campaigning. What's happening is that you're experiencing what we call microsleep , a state induced by prolonged sleep depravation. In these moments, your mind is trying to recover the rest it needs and, much like a daydream, you're experiencing sights and hallucinations your brain is tricked into believing are real. As the death of your wife and the accusations are kept foremost in your mind, it's no surprise that visions of her and of Rand appear to you. After all, if we were to assume you are in fact seeing their spirits, what sense would it make for them to arrive here in my home as well -- a place you have not seen in years?"
He sat quietly mulling over what I'd said, while I leaned back, confident in my deductions. Then, he looked over at me and he seemed calmer, more rational.
"If all that's true," he asked, "then how do I stop them from reappearing?"
Yes, I thought. That was the question.
"Well, you need to get proper sleep, for starters. But you must also find a way of eliminating the stress that is feeding these illusions. It seems to me that you are reminded of the crime by every face you've seen since your arrest. These people, unknowingly, are transferring their presumed guilt onto you, and you're allowing it to happen. You see them and believe what they think and say. After all, as you've admitted, the ghosts leave you alone until people discover where you are.
"The only way to free you is to confront the cause of your troubles." I beckoned him to the window, and then pulled the curtains back. Outside, the crowd looked startled, and some of the younger members walked away in feigned casualness. The rest were too old, too indifferent, to hide their curiosity. "Look," I said, "The number has already swollen."
He leaned closer to the window for a better look, and the site of him only excited the crowd further.
"They are your first step. You must confront them, Alistair. You must make them understand you didn't do the things of which you are accused. Otherwise, you'll suffocate beneath their suspicions."
We stood there bathed in evening light, each casting a doubled shadow on the wall behind us. Alistair's emotions played across his face as he watched the crowd and listened to their incessant whispering. Then he turned to me with eyes that spoke of exhaustion, the kind that runs deep through fissures into one's soul.
"I can't," he said. "I just can't face them."
"But you must ." I wanted to shake sense into him. "It's the only way to stop this."
"I--" he stammered. "I'm going to bed. I need some time."
"Of course," I acquiesced, though I couldn't help but feel his lack of action was a mistake. He left me and I heard his heavy steps echo and multiply in the small stairwell, as though his past were ascending with him.
I listened to his footfalls as he prepared for sleep, resigned to the scrutiny he was under no matter what he did. He would never be forgiven for those crimes he did not commit. The crowd outside my window whispered their gossip with increased fervor once Alistair was no longer there to watch them. I had known each member for many years, and yet I couldn't help at that moment being filled with anger and disappointment over what they were doing. They were driving an innocent man mad.
It was then I heard the sounds of agitated movement above me, and resolved to take the action Alistair would not. I retrieved my coat from the closet and stepped outside to face his accusers.
Their numbers seemed to have grown
"But, I've seen them in the daylight. Even while I've been awake."
"The brain is a complicated organ we don't yet fully understand. You've been feeling the pressure of so many eyes watching you, judging you, that the stress has been preventing you from fully resting . . . and it came right on the heels of the stress caused by your campaigning. What's happening is that you're experiencing what we call microsleep , a state induced by prolonged sleep depravation. In these moments, your mind is trying to recover the rest it needs and, much like a daydream, you're experiencing sights and hallucinations your brain is tricked into believing are real. As the death of your wife and the accusations are kept foremost in your mind, it's no surprise that visions of her and of Rand appear to you. After all, if we were to assume you are in fact seeing their spirits, what sense would it make for them to arrive here in my home as well -- a place you have not seen in years?"
He sat quietly mulling over what I'd said, while I leaned back, confident in my deductions. Then, he looked over at me and he seemed calmer, more rational.
"If all that's true," he asked, "then how do I stop them from reappearing?"
Yes, I thought. That was the question.
"Well, you need to get proper sleep, for starters. But you must also find a way of eliminating the stress that is feeding these illusions. It seems to me that you are reminded of the crime by every face you've seen since your arrest. These people, unknowingly, are transferring their presumed guilt onto you, and you're allowing it to happen. You see them and believe what they think and say. After all, as you've admitted, the ghosts leave you alone until people discover where you are.
"The only way to free you is to confront the cause of your troubles." I beckoned him to the window, and then pulled the curtains back. Outside, the crowd looked startled, and some of the younger members walked away in feigned casualness. The rest were too old, too indifferent, to hide their curiosity. "Look," I said, "The number has already swollen."
He leaned closer to the window for a better look, and the site of him only excited the crowd further.
"They are your first step. You must confront them, Alistair. You must make them understand you didn't do the things of which you are accused. Otherwise, you'll suffocate beneath their suspicions."
We stood there bathed in evening light, each casting a doubled shadow on the wall behind us. Alistair's emotions played across his face as he watched the crowd and listened to their incessant whispering. Then he turned to me with eyes that spoke of exhaustion, the kind that runs deep through fissures into one's soul.
"I can't," he said. "I just can't face them."
"But you must ." I wanted to shake sense into him. "It's the only way to stop this."
"I--" he stammered. "I'm going to bed. I need some time."
"Of course," I acquiesced, though I couldn't help but feel his lack of action was a mistake. He left me and I heard his heavy steps echo and multiply in the small stairwell, as though his past were ascending with him.
I listened to his footfalls as he prepared for sleep, resigned to the scrutiny he was under no matter what he did. He would never be forgiven for those crimes he did not commit. The crowd outside my window whispered their gossip with increased fervor once Alistair was no longer there to watch them. I had known each member for many years, and yet I couldn't help at that moment being filled with anger and disappointment over what they were doing. They were driving an innocent man mad.
It was then I heard the sounds of agitated movement above me, and resolved to take the action Alistair would not. I retrieved my coat from the closet and stepped outside to face his accusers.
Their numbers seemed to have grown