Day 1—Tuesday:

He was sitting just ten feet away from me; his eyes glared in their condescending way—the same way every shrink stares at a patient.  This was my third visit, and each time his glare seemed to be more oppressive—like he knew, knew he was better than me.  I had to take it, though; I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks and he promised to help me.

Those dreams… unlike anything I thought my mind could conjure were tormenting me and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.  I saw a hypnotist once before I came to Dr. Taggart—once was all he’d see me after the incident in his office.  I remember when he snapped me out of it; I awoke on the floor with an upturned desk and a shattered lamp at my feet.  He said that there was nothing he could do for me, recommended I schedule an appointment with Dr. Taggart, and then charged me for damages on top of my session.  Prick.

Each session started the same way—in silence.  He just stared at me, his eyes dull and apathetic.  It had been five minutes and the only sound in the room was the Naugahyde chair squeaking beneath me and the white noise machine.  I broke the silence.  “Is the glaring supposed to help the dreams go away, or are you just hoping to put as little effort into your ‘hour’ for my money?”

“I can understand your frustration, Tom, but these things take time,” he said to me.  His voice had that same, pseudo-comforting monotone I’ve come to know over the past two sessions.  “You shouldn’t rely on me to break the silence; you’re coming to me to talk.  So, talk.”

“There’s nothing new to tell!” my frustration was apparent in my tone.  “It’s the same dream leading to the same sleepless nights.”

“The same dream?  There’s nothing ever different about it?”

“No, it’s the same dream.  I close my eyes for ten minutes, tops, and I find myself atop a large building.  I don’t know, maybe the sky is a bit different, maybe it’s windier—small details; nothing I’d really ever notice.  And then, I fall.

“The dream hasn’t changed; it’s the same one I told you in our first session, and it’s the same one I’ll tell you in our next session if I ever come back.”

He stared at me in silence—maybe worried by the thought of my not returning.  No patient, no money.  Then, he spoke, “Okay, well, if you don’t want to continue, there’s nothing I can do to stop you.  I would like you to keep coming back because I feel that additional sessions could yield some true progress, but I can understand why you wouldn’t want to.  You like immediate results; most people do.

“So, here’s what I’m going to do for you:  I’m going to write you a prescription.  It’s not medicine, don’t worry; I don’t much care for pawning people’s problems off on drugs as the cure.  It’s a prescription for a CD; you should find it in the ‘Easy Listening’ section at the bookstore just down the street from here.”

“Yeah?  And how much is this going to cost me?”

“Just ask for the manager, Sherry, and show her this prescription,” he yanked the paper from his pad and handed it to me.  “She’ll find it for you, and it will be charged to my account.  So, it won’t cost you anything.”

“Charged to your account?  What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he said as he stood and extended arm toward me with an open hand; I shook it.  “Pleasant dreams, Tom.”

To be continued…

Freefall is the creative property of Andrew T.S. Bedgood and is protected by US Copyright law.  Any use of this creative work without permission is prohibited.