?

I opened my eyes and looked around the tiny room I was in. I don't remember how I got there. The room had padded walls (like you would find in a asylum) with a concrete floor. There were no windows and the only door in there was locked. I scratched a tore at the walls screaming for help. Finally the door flew open and two large bulky men in White suits came in and seized me. They drug me outside and strapped me to a cold metal stretcher. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. "Who are you?," I asked them. They didn't answer. Instead they pushed me down a hall. I fought at the restraints that tied me to the stretcher that held me down but it was no use. I was stuck. We passed several doors before entering the one at the end of the hall. I looked around the room. It looked alot like the room they had brought me from only bigger and there was a rope with a chair underneath it. I then tried to squirm my way out if the restraints and was successful. One of the men quickly jumped on me and jabbed a needle deep into my neck. It must've been a sedative because I passed out and when I open my eyes I was standing on the chair with my hands tied behind my back and the rope around my neck. "This is your last chance," said a man standing behind me. He walked in front of me so I could meet his gaze. He was a average height man with a shiny bald head dressed in a suit with a white lab coat over that. "I don't know what you're talking about!," I cried out. "Fine," he replied, "Don't say we didn't try and help you." he walked over to the chair and knocked it out from under me and I fell to what I'm sure was my death.
I woke up in a cold sweat screaming. "Another bad dream?," asked a familiar voice. I looked over into those eyes that I knew so well. "Yes," I cried. Horace, my fiancé, wrapped me in his arms. I felt safe. Finally I stopped crying. "What was it of?," he asked. "The exact same one I had last night," I said my voice alot clamer now. "Hazel, we have to get you help," he said. I could see the worried look on his face and could hear his concern in his voice. "I don't want help," I argued. I really didn't. I didn't want them to tell me what I knew already was true, that I was crazy. I was afraid that if I did get help, my nightmare would become reality.