Wake to Dream Page 2

  "Can you turn on the light?" Fear laced her voice.

  Reaching inside, he pulled the switch. The bulb failed to fire to life. "I'm afraid not," he said, moving away from the door so that he could stand upright and brush the dust from his clothes. His eyes locked to hers. "You're welcome to take a look."

  Caught in his hypnotic gaze, she fought to find her voice within the thick blanket of attraction that wrapped her. Barely a whisper, she finally responded, "Yes. Thank you."

  Bending down, she inched forward beneath the slope of the ceiling, her head moving inside to look at the closet, when she felt the soft touch of Max' hand to her back, the contact startling in its familiarity.

  Her phone vibrated again.

  12:30 p.m.

  Gray walls.

  Black table.

  Plastic, fake red roses.

  Still the same.

  "Are you ready, Alice? As usual, you're right on time."

  "Yes, doctor."

  White door.

  Dark wood desk.

  White and beige striped couch.

  Still safe.

  "Take a seat," the doctor requested, "I'd like to begin the session discussing what you told me last time we met."

  Although her body felt more under control than it had the last time she'd met with Dr. Chance, time still moved sluggishly, every small movement, or the slightest sound, stretched out far too long. Alice felt like she was working against some invisible force, a tension pushing against her uncomfortably as she lowered herself onto the couch.

  "You look better," the doctor observed. "Your movements aren't as fitful as the last time we met." He waited for her to look up at him before commenting, "The medications must be working."

  Shaking her head slightly, she tried to remember the last time she took the medications, but the past day was hidden beneath an opaque blanket, her pain and stress too much for her to remember events with any clarity. If he said the medications were working, she'd believe him, even though she couldn't recall anything before sitting in his waiting room.

  "What did we talk about the last time I was here?" Even to her own ears, her voice sounded far off and broken.

  A soothing balm against the chaos in her head, his words broke through the fog. "We discussed the beginning as I'd requested. Although, I'm somewhat confused by what you told me."

  Alice forced her eyes to his, opening her mouth to answer, but then deciding against speaking at all.

  Realizing she wouldn't respond, Doctor Chance added, "You told me about a house you were trying to sell. Do you remember?"

  Blinking her eyes, she brought herself back to the present, shaking away dreams that still held her in their grasp. The visions would stop when she woke, but the terror and pain always followed, no matter what she did to escape.

  …drip...

  "I remember the house," she admitted.

  "Why did you take me there? That house had nothing to do with your sister. Did it?"

  Her head fell forward into her hands. "I don't know, exactly. It was the phone calls, I think."

  "What about the phone calls, Alice?"

  ...drip...

  Shaking her head, she attempted to dispel the thick clouds that lingered after she dreamed. The present was never so elusive as that moment, her struggle a losing fight to remain on track with the conversation.

  "I think...I can't be sure because I don't specifically remember checking the phone, but I must have. They were telling me something, most likely that she was gone. I don't believe I needed the calls to tell me that. I already knew something was terribly wrong."

  He was quiet for a moment, contemplative. "Explain it to me."

  The last thing Alice wanted was to go back there...to that day. But if it would help her heal, if it would leave them with nothing but the dreams left to discuss, she'd indulge him.

  "I felt scared the second I stepped foot into that house. It was a slithering thing at first, a tendril wrapping my spine."

  She shivered, forcing herself to walk back into the run down house on the corner of First and Woods. "There was no reason to fear the house. It was only a neglected structure."

  "But yet it terrified you?"

  "It did," she recalled. "Looking back, it wasn't the house that frightened me, it was a feeling that something was amiss. Maybe it was a link I shared with my sister, the blood in her veins calling to mine. Maybe that's why the dreams began when they did."

  A resigned sigh filtered into her thoughts, the doctor's voice finally pulling her attention back to him. "Your sister wasn't in the house."

  "No. But she was taken when I was there. She had to be. Those calls..."

  ...drip...

  The sound was beginning to irritate her. With cold, dead eyes she scanned the room, her head slowly twisting over her neck. A door was set off to the right that she'd not noticed before, closed so that she could only guess what lay beyond it. "Is that a bathroom?"

  The doctor nodded. "Do you need to use it?"

  ...drip...

  "No," she answered, “but you should fix the faucet."

  Narrowed eyes studied her, questions obvious in his unspoken thoughts. "I'll take a look once your session is over."

  Silence passed again, the reprieve from conversation a comforting thing. She knew it wouldn't last long.

  "Before we discuss the dreams, I'd like to understand why you find them important. When did they start?"

  "After." She waved her hand out in front of her, the movement jumpy and uncoordinated. It was as if she were trying to abbreviate everything that occurred between the phone calls and the dreams with the one vague answer.

  "After what? Did you see your family after the phone calls? Did you go home?"

  Agitation was rough against her skin. Anger built in her veins, an unsettling and inescapable pressure. "Does it matter?" She could only remember bits and pieces, fractured memories and images coming to her on the winds of a tempest storm.

  "Do you really need to ask? What would you like to know about first? My mother screaming? My father drowning himself in a bottle of whiskey? Or about my younger brother rocking himself slowly on his bed? Will any of that help me find my sister?"

  "No," was his curt, steadfast answer, "but it could help me find you. Isn't that the point of all of this? To help you?"

  She glared at him, a feminine snort blowing from her before she declared, "You can't help me until I find her. It's that simple."

  Without dignifying the statement, or acknowledging it so that it settled in her head as truth, he asked, "When did you see your family like that? So torn apart? When did you go home, Alice?"

  "I don't know. Yesterday, today, back then. It could have been any of those times. If you want a specific date, I can't give it to you. It's all a jumble of chaos in my head, memories and thoughts scattered together with no order or reason."

  She was crying, embarrassment rolling down her cheek on a single salty tear. Slapping at it, she knew the doctor saw the physical sign of her lack of control, but she hoped he wouldn't see it again.

  "I'm not crazy, you know? I'm not. I just know things, dark things, sick things...really bad things. I know them, and I need your help to understand how to use them to save Delilah."

  His eyes stared at her from behind thin, metal-framed glasses. His shoulders covered with the white jacket typical of doctors. In his lap was a clipboard and folder, the papers of which he flipped through after he released her from his inquisitive gaze.

  "You told me you went to college. Was it for real estate?"

  She laughed. "I thought you had a medical degree, Doc. You should know that you don't need traditional college for a real estate license."

  "What did you study in college?"

  Her head flinched to the left, a tic that she couldn't control when she was forced to remember information that was fleeting. "Neurology," she answered, the details springing back now that she'd forced herself to return to the past. "Cognitive neurology, specializing in sleep medicine."

  Dropping the papers into his lap, the doctor sat back and studied Alice, more questions brewing behind his eyes. "And yet, you sold houses for a living?"

  "Do you have a cigarette, Doc? I feel like I need one."

  "Do you smoke?"

  "No."

  A shallow nod of his head, some decision made that he hadn't voiced. "You're looking for a distraction. I won't give it to you. Tell me about your education, Alice."

  Glancing around the room, Alice spotted a box of tissues on the table by the couch. She hadn't noticed them before, but still took the opportunity to pull one from the box, her fingers working quickly to shred it.

  In silence, the doctor watched her hands move over her lap, the thin sheet of tissue becoming confetti where she sat.

  "Shred as many tissues as you like if it helps you relieve what you're feeling, but talk while doing so. Why did you go into neurology?"

  "I had problems sleeping as a child. Night terrors. Sleepwalking." Her voice fell to a whisper, nightmares creeping back to her when she remembered those horrible nights.

  Logically, she knew they were in the past, so far away that she shouldn't worry they'd return. "I wanted to understand."

  "Understand the cause or -"

  "I wanted to understand the nightmares, Doc. There has to be a reason for them, right? Like now?"

  Scratching his chin, the doctor scribbled notes. "What you're talking about sounds more like the realm of psychology."

  A burst of laughter escaped her throat, a chortle that surprised her as much as it made her cringe. Politics and polite behavior be damned.

  "Psychologists are nothing more than glorified psychics."

  Slamming a hand to her mouth, she attempted to catch words that flow
ed through her fingers like water. She wished to take them back, her eyes peering up at the man she'd just insulted and condemned.

  An easy smile creased his lips despite the insult. "Explain."

  Embarrassment was an acrid taste on her tongue. She hadn't meant to belittle his profession. Perhaps logic would ease the sting.

  "Psychology, for the most part, is subjective. You ask me a question. I answer the question and explain what it makes me feel. Based on those answers, and my behavior, you calculate possible causes, and determine likely physical stressors that influence my behavior. And after that, you determine a treatment plan."

  His eyes widened. "That's a thorough and well thought out response, Alice. I'm surprised."

  Her head jerked to the side, her body reeling against her attempt to follow the logic of the conversation. Reality was no longer simple. Not when dreams continued to taunt her from within.

  "Why?"

  "Your response was linear and logical. That's atypical for you. But I'm confused as to your statement. You laid out a formula for my profession that is clinical in nature, yet you mock it as a psychic, and thus non-clinical, profession."

  The tic in her neck was fierce, her hands working over the tissues she pulled from the box, one after the other, until they were nothing but scraps in her lap. Aggravation fought her ability to think clearly.

  "Because it's subjective. You missed that part. The answers I give you could be lies. You base your diagnosis on lies."

  Tapping the tip of his pen against the paper, he studied her. "But behavior doesn't lie, does it, Alice? Like you said, it's a factor in what I do."

  Reality fragmented around her, the frustrating conversation slipping from her hold until she could no longer stay on topic.

  The scraps of tissue fell to the floor when she answered, "I want to talk about the dreams."

  A beat of silence, the clock ticking from the wall, the intervals of sound unevenly spaced. Had her mind shattered so much that even normal rhythm had been lost to her?

  ...drip...

  "Fine. Let's talk about the dreams. We can come back to other topics at our next session."

  He sighed.

  "Tell me about the first dream, Alice. What do you remember?"

  It was disorienting, the ephemeral glow of fractured light, filthy windows lining the top of a room, her exposed skin practically frozen against a floor as cold as ice. Blinking open her eyes, she watched the barren walls morph and bend around her, the ability to focus on any one thing stolen by her confusion.

  Where am I? Alice thought, metal links clanging together as she lifted an arm to push the hair from her face; bracelets slapping against each other over her wrists.

  Damp and dirty, the room was unfamiliar. A destitute place with crumbling plaster walls and a sickening stench of mildew and filth. Everything was out of focus, not one object settling within its own perimeter lines.

  Pure panic flooding her heart, she opened her mouth to scream. The sound tore at her ears as much as her throat, an echo of her fear encompassing her in a room she'd never seen before.

  "Scream all you want. Nobody will hear you. Although, I prefer that you stop." Calm, cool, collected. Not a worry in the world. Not a trace of the visceral terror that flooded Alice's veins.

  Flinching in response to the deep timbered voice that responded, her eyes searched the myriad of shadows, but saw nothing that would explain the presence of another breathing body in the room. She screamed again, her mind reverting to primal instincts, a victim made helpless by chains.

  Her throat was hoarse and raw, the sound of her voice dying off into a ragged burst of uncontrolled breath.

  "Are you done? Or will you continue going until you pass out?"

  He was amused, the humor evident in his eerily calm voice.

  "Who -"

  "Stop talking," he demanded, cutting off her question before she could ask it.

  "Please," she begged, "let me go. I won't -"

  He laughed, the sound soft before he answered, "You know, it's always the same - in real life as well as in entertainment. It never ceases to amaze me how the same lines are used in movies: Please let me go. I won't tell. I'll keep this a secret. They never change the script, and even when it actually happens, people follow the same typical path. What do the victims expect to happen when they beg? That they'll be let go? That the person who took them will respond: Oh sure, here, let me loosen those ties, and would you also like my name to take to the police? Perhaps a copy of my driver's license would be helpful?”

  He paused, a resigned sigh filling the dark room. "I'm sorry, Alice, but that won't be happening this time. Save your breath."

  He knew her, the use of her name a jarring realization. Changing course after gathering her wits and an odd bit of bravery, she said, "I can't see you. Where are you? At least show your face."

  No response, no noise, nothing.

  He stepped into view after a minute, but only so much that Alice could see his silhouette, a dark shadow in contrast to broken and dirt-filtered light.

  "Is that what you want? To know your monster?"

  Seeing him, knowing he was real and not an illusion cast by a frightened and disorganized mind, didn't help her in the slightest.

  Unable to peel her eyes from the form of his body, she watched silently as he sat down in a chair she hadn't noticed before, the wood feet scraping against the cold, concrete floor.

  "Where do we go from here, Alice?"

  She didn't know. Her mouth opened again on her screams.

  12:30 p.m.

  Gray walls.

  Black table.

  Plastic red roses.

  "Good afternoon, Alice."

  Still safe.

  "Hello, doctor."

  "Follow me into my office. We'll start where we left off last time."

  Five steps across the room, three steps over the soft, patterned carpet. Four cushions. A white throw draped loosely over the armrest.

  Still the same.

  "We spoke of the first dream you had last time. Do you remember?"

  Alice sat back against the cushions of the couch, her mind unsettled by the doctor's determination to start in again without giving her the breathing room that came with conversational pleasantries. "You just jumped right in there, didn't you, Doc? No how are you? No questions regarding my medications?"

  He chuckled, although the smile on his lips didn't quite reach his blue eyes. "Would you remember taking them if I asked? Has your memory improved so much that you recall anything beyond my office walls?"

  "There's nothing wrong with my memory." Spoken on a frustrated sigh, she couldn't hide the resentment in her words. "I remember every little sordid detail..."

  "Of a dream?"

  "Several," she quipped. A chill ran along her spine, exhaustion gripping at her heart and thoughts, every bone in her body sore for some unknown reason. Stress was the most likely culprit. No matter how hard she concentrated, she couldn't pinpoint any one certain trigger, it all blended together into a shapeless, filthy mass of memories and pain.

  He studied her, his eyes taking in every detail, his mind recording every minuscule symptom in her behavior. "Have you had any restful sleep?"

  Chortling at the ridiculous question, she gave him an answer that meant nothing. "Yes. No. Maybe a little. I don't know." Her eyes clenched shut, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. "I'm not sure it even really matters. I'll just wake up and discover that nothing has changed. She's still lost."

  "And may always be." It was a quiet reminder.

  As an afterthought, and perhaps to soften the blow, he added, "but I hope that isn't the case."

  The tip of his pen tapped against his notepad. "You've studied neurology. You should know how important sleep is for the brain."

  "I know..." Her mind went blank before she could finish the sentence. What, exactly, did she know? When it came to this? To the dreams? To the past and present that seemed to endlessly slide together into a mush of chaos and jumbled images?

  There wasn't much she knew beyond the fact that reality was no longer a definite and tangible thing.

  "Sleep is something I'm afraid of. It's something that is intended to refresh, but instead leaves me screaming in my head."