Wake to Dream(33)

Her entire life she’d considered herself stronger than the woman she now discovered herself to be: a victim, a weakling, a liar.

She’d lied to herself on the day she promised she’d choose death over torture, on the day she swore she’d never allow a person to torment her as much as the nightmares that plagued her every night.

Yet, there she was waiting and anxious to see what bedtime in this man’s house would bring.





12:31 p.m.



Gray walls.

Black table.

"Alice? ... Ms. Beaumont? ... Alice Beaumont ..."

"Yes, Doctor."

Five steps across the room.

Still the same.



"It's a pleasure to see you again, Alice. Our last session was less eventful than the one prior. Do you feel better today?"

The doctor sat hopeful in his chair, leg crossed at the knee, his trusty pen held ready over paper. He stared at her with an anxious set to his brow.

His question flew aimlessly about the room, a balloon released and forgotten by a spoiled child. Softly, it hovered there, caught in the draft of the air conditioner, until settling its ribbon string on Alice’s shoulder and bursting with a loud pop that jogged her attention.

"I'm fine. Frustrated, I guess, but fine."

Her head ticked to the side, her eyes hooded with exhaustion. How many times had she sat on this couch without finding the answers she needed to decipher her sordid puzzle?

How many more sessions would she have to endure until she learned whether her life would be normal again? Well, as normal as it could be for her.

"Your body is curled over itself, your affect is rigid and you haven't looked at me once. I wouldn't call that fine."

Who was he to tell her how she felt? He hadn't lost a family member, hadn't been forced through the wringer by his own perverted imagination since the day he could remember dreaming. He probably slept well at night, didn't wake up in strange places, was able to move upon waking because his body wasn't paralyzed by excruciating fear.

Fine wasn't exactly how she felt, but what other word was there to describe the crushing weight that sat on her shoulders, the whispered voices that reminded her how she failed at happiness, at family, at life?

Apathy maybe, but it would require she didn't care. Confused, morose, defeated.

Yes, that was it. That last one. Alice felt defeated.

"Your leg is crossed. You're wearing dark navy slacks with a white button up shirt, the cuffs buttoned by gold links, and your notebook sits in your lap with a blue ball point pen at the ready."

She glanced up at his attentive face. "I looked at you, Doc."

With an expression heartfelt in its sympathy, he nodded. "But this is the first time you've looked at my face."

Her shoulder shrugged away his statement and his attempt to win against her in this stupid game he liked to play. "I've seen it before."

A soft breath blew over his lips, audible only because it was deathly quiet in the room. "You promised me we'd talk about before in this session. I've made notes about what I'd like to discuss..."

"I'll give you half, Doc,” she interrupted. “But only half. The other half is left for me, to discuss what I'd like to talk about."

She peeked at him from beneath heavy lashes, expecting and waiting for his angry reply. All he did was tap that blasted pen he used to turn her pain into science.

Laughing at that thought, she straightened her legs, her hands smoothing down a wrinkle in her jeans.

There was no science to be found in a study of emotion, not unless you could crack that skull right open and look inside to see what chemicals flooded the soft gray tissue that made up a person's brain. Beyond that, it was all smoke and mirrors, a simple discussion that allowed the patient to feel better and to peel the inky black mess of emotion from their fragile psyche.

Like lifting the weight of pain and suffering to set it beside you and attach to your leg, the old ball and chain that followed you no matter how many times you voiced it.

"Half, then. That should be plenty of time."

A snarl curled her lips, but she waited politely for whatever questions plagued his mind.

"I'd like to discuss your father."

Wrenching her head to stare him down, she flung the limp strands of white blonde hair from her shoulder. "Why would you want to talk about him?"

His pen scribbled over the surface of the paper that sat like a silent witness in his lap. How many times had he committed his judgment to those pages that were building and expanding the story of a woman he had no hope of helping?

"Because he came before. And I'm interested in several claims you've made about him."

"Such as?"

"Such as his drinking," he answered firmly, giving her no room to wiggle away or bargain in his tone.

...drip...

Her attention was drawn to the leaky faucet. She had to wonder: What kind of dime store doctor was she meeting with if he couldn't even afford to fix a broken sink?

"I'm taking you back to before, Alice, because I'm trying to talk about you. These sessions, everything we're doing here, it's all intended to help you." He emphasized the last word, pronouncing it clearer than the others and drawing Alice's thoughts to the selfishness of the entire thing.