“You say the voice is always behind you. Do you ever turn around?”
This is always the first question they ask. As if I have any 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. Down the shitter.
“Outer space?”
“Hm.” Fart, Grunt, Squeak.
I’m never booking this guy after lunch again.
“The weird thing is, I always want to turn around. Because I know the voice is saying something important. It’s trying to save me from something. Or save me… for something.”
Grunt. “Tell me more about the setting of the dream. Where are you? What sounds do you hear? Are there others with you?”
Easy. “I’m in the subway station. I hear trains, foot traffic, and the voice behind me. It’s a subway station, so I’m surrounded by assholes. And it smells like shit.”
He didn’t ask about the smell of my dream. This was a subtle hint about his flatulence.
Fart.
Fuck me, this guy.
“I’d like you to try to visit the dream now,” he says.
“Now?” I breathe in through my mouth, feeling certain I won’t have difficulty conjuring an aroma-scape during this exercise.
“Yes.” Grunt. “Now.” Squeak.
I exhale heavily and close my eyes. “Fine.”
I don’t know why I’m doing this. Why I’ve spent the last year wading through tarot card readers, life coaches and, most recently, hypnotherapists. It all seems pointless. It’s just a dream. And it’s not even that scary. Some nights I look forward to being vaporized. It’s oddly soothing. The repetition of it. And even though I get obliterated at the end. It’s never painful.
It just feels unfinished. Like I missed something. That’s what’s driving me crazy.
But as I drift into the subway, to the sound of Dr. Parish’s incessant grunting behind me, I know today’s visit is going to be different. And not just because I’m going there on purpose. Something about this guy. Taking me there. With his squeaky chair and his orchestral gas expulsions. It feels like… destiny.
“I want you to breathe deeply,” he says over a grunt. “And make your way there. Listening to the sound of my voice above everything else you might hear.” Squeak. Grunt. “Tell me what you see. But remember. The only thing you’ll hear is my voice.”
I sink further into my vision. Letting the sound of angry passengers and bawling toddlers drift into the background and eventually disappear. As the sound of them vanishes, so do they. Until I’m left alone with the echo of my footsteps, and the anticipation of “the voice”, as I approach the stairwell leading to… well…
…my doom.
“Wait. Stop.”
The voice is behind me. As always. And as always, I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I pick up my pace and run to the vacant stairwell.
“Come back. I need you to come back now.”
No way, voice. No way. I reach for the railing to stay on course.
“Please. Dennis. I need you to come back. Now!”
Out of nowhere, something slams against my chest. It steals my breath and shocks me to a standstill. I tighten my grip on the railing and look down. A plastic water bottle lies on the stair in front of me.
“Oh Jesus! Dennis!! —”
I turn on my heels, suck in a massive breath, and blink myself back into the office. The leather chair is empty. Dr. Parish is on the floor. He’s struggling to reach the phone on his desk, sweat pouring off his forehead. The water bottle he threw at me is on the floor between us.
I scramble to my feet and grab the phone. I dial 911 and spend the next thirty dollars cradling Dr. Parish’s head in my lap and telling him to breathe deeply and listen to the sound of my voice above everything else.
The ambulance arrives in time.
Dr. Parish’s receptionist offers to comp my visit, as recompense for the trauma I underwent. But I pay in full. Taking the water bottle he tried to lodge in my chest cavity along as a souvenir.
The air on the street is scorching. Today’s high could reach a hundred and ten, they say. My back and shoulders sizzle under the afternoon sun as I make my way shakily to the subway entrance. I pause at the top of the stairwell and peer down. Assholes pass me on both sides. The atmosphere of the subway station wafts up to me, hotter and thicker than the air outside.
I unscrew the top of the water bottle and take a long swig. Then I turn on my heels and walk headlong into the hundred-and-ten-degree sun.
It doesn’t faze me.
Or vaporize me.
Not today.