“You say the voice is always behind you. Do you ever turn around?”
This is the first question they ask. As if I have a choice about what’s happening to me in a recurring nightmare.
“No.”
“Why not?”
So far, this conversation has cost me a hundred and twenty dollars. That’s partly on me for taking forty minutes to open up to this guy. And partly on him for spending forty minutes shifting awkwardly in his squeaky leather chair while making grunting sounds. I swear he farted twice amid shifts.
“I can’t,” I say. “It’s like I’m on a treadmill. If I stop, or turn, I’ll wipe out.”
“So what? Maybe it’s the wiping out that needs to happen to end the dream.”
“The dream ends just fine,” I say. “It ends when I walk outside, and the beam vaporizes me.”
He shifts over a third fart and grunts to cover it. Nice try, Doc.
“What kind of beam is it?”
Jesus Christ, I don’t know! Do people usually know what kind of gun blows their brains out?
“A laser beam? Maybe?”
“From what source?”
A hundred and fifty dollars, now. …
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