TRANSCRIPT: SOMNARIUM. S.002 – My Reflection
Case of Emily Carter. First seen by Dr. Susan Renwyck on May 4th, 2006 for sleep disturbance, recurring nightmares and persistent paranoia centered on reflective surfaces.
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INTRO
Alright.
Same archive. Same drive. I pulled another folder out today–what was left of it, anyway.
No directory name. Just an intake packet, a few typed pages, and a couple of handwritten notes that look like they were added after the fact. On the first page, in the upper corner, there’s a scribble. One word–written like a question.
GLASS?
It’s not just on the first page, either. Same handwriting shows up again later in the file–same corner–like someone kept tagging it for themselves.
Anyway, let’s dive in.
Case of Emily Carter. First seen by Dr. Susan Renwyck on May 4th, 2006 for sleep disturbance, recurring nightmares and persistent paranoia centered on reflective surfaces.
PATIENT APPLICATION
Applicant: Emily Carter
Date: April 28th, 2006
Referral: Dr. [REDACTED]
Dr. Renwyck,
I’m writing because I can’t keep doing this on my own.
For the past two months I’ve been sleeping in short, broken stretches. When I do sleep, I wake up with the certainty that something is in the room with me–watching. Not a dream-feeling. Not vague fear. The same certainty you have when someone is standing just out of sight.
I’ve tried the usual things. No caffeine after noon. No alcohol. No television before bed. No computer late at night. Breathing exercises. Counting. The rules everyone repeats. I’ve done just about everything my doctor has recommended, but none of it seems to help.
What I’m struggling with most is when I’m awake, I feel like I’m coming apart.
I’m not sure how to put it into words, but… I’ll try. My reflection is… wrong. Not constantly, but it’s been happening often enough that I’ve started avoiding reflective surfaces altogether. I catch small delays, like my face is half a second behind what I’m doing. Sometimes it’s the opposite — like it moves before I do.
It’s subtle. A blink. A breath. A change in expression that doesn’t match my own.
I’ve tested it because I needed to know I wasn’t imagining it. I’ve stared until my eyes watered. I’ve changed the lighting and the angles. It stops as soon as I try to catch it, like it knows when I’m paying attention.
At night I’ve started covering anything that reflects. Bathroom mirror. Television. Computer monitor. Even picture frames — anything with glass over it feels like it counts. I know how that sounds, but I’m not crazy.
I don’t think I’m seeing things that aren’t there. I think I’m noticing something that I shouldn’t be.
Sorry if this reads scattered. I’m exhausted.
I haven’t always slept this bad. I haven’t always noticed things that shouldn’t be happening. It all started two months ago.
I was giving a presentation at work–an internal update, nothing that should have mattered this much. I was nervous, so I read straight from the slide deck instead of trusting myself.
Halfway through, I got to a slide that was supposed to say public perception.
It didn’t.
On the screen, in big clean letters, it said pubic perception — my typo, projected for the whole room. And because I was staring right at it, because my brain was already moving on rails, I read it exactly as it was written.
The laughter hit like a wave. Someone choked. Someone repeated it. Then it stopped being an accident and turned into a joke with my name attached. I tried to correct it, but the room had already decided what it wanted. I could feel my face burning, my voice thinning, my hands shaking. I left before I broke down in front of them.
That night I had a nightmare that I was back in the meeting room. The slide was up again, the typo bright as a headline, and everyone was laughing the same way they had in real life–only louder, stretched thin, like it could go on forever. I tried to speak, to correct it, to make them stop, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate.
And then I saw my reflection in the glass at the end of the room.
It was laughing too.
Not with them. At me.
A week after that, I caught it again–my reflection acting like it had a mind of its own–except this time it wasn’t a dream. I went to the restroom at work, locked the door, and stood over the sink trying to calm down. I kept my eyes on the taps, on the porcelain, on anything but the mirror.
But I could still see it in my peripheral vision. Staring at me.
My reflection was there, shoulders shaking like it was holding in laughter. When I finally looked up properly, it stopped–instantly. Neutral face. Same as mine. Like it had been waiting for me to notice.
I told myself it was exhaustion. I splashed water on my face and stared hard, willing it to happen again so I could prove it to myself.
And that’s when it winked at me.
Not a twitch. Not a dry-eye thing. A deliberate, practiced wink–after my face had stayed perfectly still.
I don’t think I took another breath until my hand was on the door handle.
I got out of there as fast as I could. I didn’t even dry my hands properly. I just wiped them on my skirt like an idiot and rushed into the hallway, heart hammering, trying to act normal while my skin crawled.
I passed a colleague near the break room and mumbled something about not feeling well. I don’t even know if he answered me. I kept walking. I didn’t stop at my desk. I didn’t sign out. I just left.
By the time I got outside, it felt like every dark window and every bit of polished metal was turned toward me.
I went straight home, closed all the curtains, and covered every reflective surface in my apartment–towels over mirrors, a blanket over the TV, a shirt over the computer monitor. Then I sat on the edge of my bed with the lights on until morning.
I’m reaching out to you because I’m exhausted, and because I’m starting to be afraid of what happens if I keep going without sleep. I feel as if the less sleep I get, the worse the reflections become.
There’s one more thing, and I’m only including it because it’s the part that won’t leave me alone:
It isn’t just that the reflections are wrong. It’s the feeling behind them–like something is using glass the way people use eyes. Like every mirror and every dark screen is a place it can look out from.
Not from outside a window. Not from a hallway.
From the other side of the glass.
(pause)
INTAKE NOTE
Patient: Emily Carter
Date: May 4th, 2006
Subject: Acceptance of patient intake request
Written application submitted April 28th, 2006. Referral note from Dr. [REDACTED] attached.
Presenting complaint
Patient reports roughly 2 months of significant insomnia with frequent nocturnal awakenings and reduced total sleep time. Describes waking with a fixed sensation of a “presence” in the room, framed primarily as being observed; patient uses the term “watched”. Reports progressive distress and impaired daytime functioning.
Associated features
- Recurrent nightmares beginning after an acute occupational stressor (i.e., public speaking error and subsequent ridicule).
- Reports perceptual disturbance centered on reflective surfaces (mirrors, glass, television, computer monitor), described as transient mismatch between observed reflection and patient’s own expression/movement.
- Describes escalating avoidance behaviours (covering reflective surfaces; closing curtains) and heightened vigilance in home environment.
Clinical considerations (initial)
Content suggests severe hyperarousal with prominent shame-triggered anxiety and sleep disruption. Perceptual reports may reflect sleep deprivation, heightened self-monitoring, and anxiety-related misinterpretation; however, degree of conviction and behavioural escalation warrants close assessment for emerging paranoid ideation. No overt thought disorganization indicated in written application.
Disposition:
Accepted for assessment. Initial consultation scheduled May 4th, 2006.
Note: Patient repeatedly emphasizes themes of observation (“watched”). First consultation to clarify chronology, functional impairment, safety/risk, and degree of preserved insight.
CONSULTATION NOTE
Patient: Emily Carter
Date: May 4th, 2006
Subject: Initial consultation; review of sleep diary
Patient attended as scheduled. Presented visibly fatigued and anxious. Reports approximately two months of progressively disrupted sleep with frequent nocturnal awakenings. Describes waking with a fixed sense of a presence in the room and a persistent feeling of being watched. Daytime functioning is affected; patient reports increasing avoidance of reflective surfaces and increased checking behaviours despite attempts to resist them. Occupational stressor described as the point at which nightmares began and sleep deterioration accelerated.
Sleep diary reviewed. Pattern consistent with reduced total sleep time and repeated awakenings, with recurrent nightmare content and heightened vigilance on waking. Patient continues to describe reflection-related experiences as intermittent and difficult to “catch,” but reports one incident perceived as a deliberate gesture (wink). Degree of distress is high.
During interview, patient repeatedly oriented toward reflective objects in the room (framed glass, cabinet door) and startled when attention was drawn to them. Patient stated, quietly, “it moved when you looked away,” referring to the picture frame glass. No objective change observed.
Plan reviewed: continue diary with focus on timing of awakenings and daytime incidents; sleep scheduling and stimulus control reinforced. Short-term symptomatic sleep support prescribed (see attached prescription), with guidance regarding limited use and next-day sedation risk. Follow-up scheduled May 18th, 2006.
SLEEP DIARY
Friday, May 5th, 2006
Fell asleep early last night. I picked up the prescription Dr. Renwyck wrote yesterday, and it definitely works. Woke up a little after 4am with that familiar certainty–a presence in the room, watching. I kept my eyes on the ceiling and listened for anything that would prove it was real. There was nothing. That didn’t help. I slept in scraps after that, lights on.
I dreamt of the meeting room again, that same moment of ridicule that endlessly torments me. I tried walking out the door, but my faceless colleagues blocked me from leaving. As I drifted in and out of the dream, I kept resetting. Each time, I was standing in front of my “audience” again.
First day after the appointment. Dr. Renwyck was nice. She assured me she was going to do her very best to help me. She asked me to keep journaling in this diary. I tried to act like it mattered–like writing things down would make it feel less real. I kept busy at work. I avoided glass as much as I could.
Sunday, May 7th, 2006
(No entry for May 6th — I fell asleep on the couch and didn’t write.)
I woke up on the couch with my neck twisted and my mouth dry. The TV was off, black like a mirror. I looked over without thinking and saw my reflection in it–only it was grinning. Too wide. Too pleased.
I blinked once and it was gone. Just my face again. Normal. Like it had never happened.
I was in the meeting room again last night, being ridiculed by my audience. I managed to make it out of the room this time. I went around a corner, but there was no hallway–just a mirror. I saw my own reflection, laughing at me.
I didn’t know what to do with the rest of the day. I kept the curtains closed and moved around the apartment carefully, like sudden motion would shift the air enough to accidentally reveal a reflection. I drew a bath in the afternoon and added so much soap the bubbles hid the water. I ended up reading a book on the couch and calling it an early night.
Monday, May 8th, 2006
Even though I turned in early, I ended up back in the meeting room again. I don’t know what I expected at this point. I tried to leave like I did last night, but I was blocked again by my colleagues. The whole night was fragmented–every time I drifted off, the dream reset like it always does.
Monday again. Busy. Meetings that could’ve been an email. Disgruntled colleagues. I was tired enough that everything felt distant. Maybe that helped. I don’t think I noticed any reflections moving today. Or maybe I just didn’t have the energy to look. I ended up going for a drink with some colleagues after work. I needed the distraction. I got home past midnight and immediately passed out on the couch.
Tuesday, May 9th, 2006
I didn’t dream last night. I don’t know why. Or maybe I do, but I don’t want to put it on paper because I’m ashamed. I took two of Dr. Renwyck’s pills. Between that and all the alcohol, I slept straight through.
Not that I felt any more rested the next morning. I barely made it to work on time.
In the afternoon I was walking to a meeting room and my reflection in the glass beside me followed along like it should. Then it didn’t. It stopped. It just stood there–still–while I kept walking.
I didn’t turn my head. I didn’t want to give it the satisfaction. I acted normal until I got into the room, and then I felt sick. I could still feel it standing there, behind me, long after the door closed.
On the way home I bought a bottle of vodka. Between the vodka and the pills, I passed out on the couch again.
Wednesday, May 10th, 2006
[PAGE PRESENT BUT WATER DAMAGED]
Thursday, May 11th, 2006
Another dreamless night, but I don’t feel any better for it. I’m still so tired.
I got to work early today. I bumped into Karen in the lobby and she remarked that I smelled of alcohol. The elevator ride up felt endless. She didn’t say much at first, just watched the numbers climb, and then–quietly–she made me promise I’d stop drinking and keep seeing Dr. Renwyck instead of trying to numb this into silence.
Tomorrow is Friday. I feel somewhat optimistic because the weekend is around the corner. Get some extra sleep. Reset. That’s what people say, like you can catch up on it.
I’ll go to bed early tonight.
Friday, May 12th, 2006
[PAGE TORN OUT]
Saturday, May 13th, 2006
I barely survived this week at work.
That’s the only honest way to say it. I smiled when I was supposed to. I answered emails. I nodded in meetings. I pretended I wasn’t measuring every reflective surface in the building like it was a threat.
I keep thinking about how normal everyone else looks. How easy it seems for them to sit under fluorescent lights with glass everywhere and not feel… seen. I envy them so much it hurts.
Yesterday, I turned a corner in the hallway and caught my reflection in a dark window at the end of the corridor. Just for a second. It wasn’t doing anything wrong. It was perfectly still. Perfectly normal. I froze–stood there like an idiot–watching and waiting to see if it would move.
Before anything happened, Richard came around the corner and bumped into me, spilling his coffee down the front of my blouse. He asked what I was doing, standing dead still in the middle of the hallway. I didn’t know what to say. He apologized, flustered, and went back the way he came–probably to get another cup from the kitchen.
I stood there, soaked and stupid, and then turned toward the bathroom.
That’s when I saw it.
The reflection was still there. Still me. But it was smiling. Not grinning–just a small, calm smile, like it knew something I didn’t.
I felt my stomach drop like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
That’s when I ran.
I came home and cried in the kitchen with the curtains closed. Not because I’m scared–because I’m tired. Because I don’t know how long I can keep pretending I’m fine.
Sunday, May 14th, 2006
I can’t do another night like this. I’ve been drifting in and out, but it doesn’t feel like sleep. It feels like shutting my eyes and letting it get closer. When I’m not looking, it moves.
Every time I close my eyes I’m back in that room. Same slide. Same laughter. And every time I open them I get that awful certainty again–like something is in here with me, waiting for me to look at the wrong surface.
I’ve kept the curtains closed all day. I’ve covered what I can. It doesn’t help. It just changes where it looks from. I keep catching myself turning my head without meaning to, like I’m checking. Like I’m answering it.
I need to refill the prescription Dr. Renwyck gave me. I’ve been trying to ration it but my thoughts won’t stay in a straight line anymore. I keep losing minutes. I keep finding myself standing in rooms I don’t remember walking into. I’m so tired.
Tomorrow morning I’m going to the pharmacy in the mall. Early. Before the crowds. In and out. No looking at the windows. Don’t look at the windows.
I’m writing it down because I’m scared I won’t go. Or worse–scared I will, and it will see me there, with all that glass.
PROGRESS NOTE – URGENT ADDENDUM
Patient: Emily Carter
Date: May 15th, 2006
Subject: Acute deterioration; emergency intervention; transfer to inpatient psychiatry
I received a telephone call from [REDACTED — Inpatient Psychiatry Unit] informing me that my patient, Emily Carter, has been admitted following an acute public behavioral disturbance. Per report, patient was restrained by emergency services after causing significant property damage at [REDACTED — Shopping Mall], including repeated smashing of storefront windows. Witnesses report patient was shouting that “the reflections” were trying to get to her, and that the glass was “watching” her. Presentation described as consistent with an acute psychotic episode with marked paranoia and agitation.
Per request, I instructed my staff to immediately transfer Ms. Carter’s clinical file to the admitting service.
CONCLUSION
I don’t know what I expected to find when I took that drive.
This is only the second folder I’ve managed to recover, and it ends the same way the first one did–no clean resolution. No neat explanation. Just… a patient slipping out of the record without anything that feels like an ending. Like the file was never meant to be closed properly. Just filed away.
Part of me hopes that’s all this is. Discarded patient paperwork. A place to shove the cases that got too messy, too uncomfortable. A forget about it archive.
And if that’s true, then I’m an idiot for stealing it.
But something still feels off. Both of these patients weren’t just struggling at night. They were describing things happening in daylight–patterns, repeats, the same kind of certainty. Maybe it’s coincidence. Maybe it’s just what sleep deprivation does. I don’t know.
The only thing I can say for sure is that the word shows up again.
In the upper right corner of Emily Carter’s paperwork–pencilled in like a hesitant label–GLASS? On more than one page. Then, in the diary entries near the end, the question mark disappears. Just GLASS.
Like someone stopped asking.
FILE CLOSED
NO FURTHER MATERIAL RECOVERED
(a soft tapping, like knuckle on glass — then silence)
…Did you hear that?
OUTRO PLAYS