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It’s the middle of the night and shouting can be heard from the king’s chambers.
“Get your wretched hands off of me! I am done enacting your vile fantasies!”
It’s happening again.
“Odysseus, my king, my love, it is I, Penelope.”
But he couldn’t recognize that. Not now anyway.
“You are not! You are not! Cease veiling yourself as my wife you evil witch!”
Despite his wife’s gentle words, he couldn’t see her as he rocked in the fetal position; squinting his eyes shut as if he were a child hiding from an imaginary monster.
“Why must you take joy in tormenting me! I just want to go home! I just want to be home!”
The poor man cried in vain. And all his wife could do was weep. For she could not help her husband escape the prison of his confabulated captor. She could not free him from the prison of his own mind.