I woke, as it seemed, from a nightmare of being
stretched on the rack, only to sink into another dream
in which I was lying in a strange bed, afraid
to open my eyes for fear of what I might
see. The smell and texture of the blanket against my
cheek felt wrong, and I was clad, so it seemed,
in prison garb that was certainly not my own. I
knew that I must still be dreaming, for I had
gone to sleep as usual in my bedroom at home.
My body ached as if I had been stricken with fever.
Paraphrases from the novel The Asylum by John Harwood.