I don’t believe in “hallucination”.
Out of the corner of my eye , I had seen him lift the knife from the kitchen counter .
Instinctively, I had dialled 911, though a terror-stricken, trembling “hello” was all I had managed to utter.
“I saw him “, yells the middle aged Jena, my friend and inmate in the asylum .
The nurses arrive to prepare her for the torturous electroconvulsive therapy that they rely on to whip out her hallucination.
I hug Jena to lift her spirits momentarily, for, I know, more than anyone that unfortunately , sometimes, “hallucination” is nothing but a prison… a bait… an imposed facade .