by E A Owen
“Would you say your great-grandma was your best friend?”
I smiled. “Now that I think of it like that, yes … Yes, she was.”
“I can see why you’re having a hard time dealing with her death, Isabella. She meant the world to you. Didn’t she?”
“More than you know.”
“I’ve learned a lot in our first session. I think it’d be best if we met again next week. Why don’t you make an appointment with Amy on your way out? I’d like to talk more about these dreams you’ve been having lately, to see if I need to prescribe medication for you to sleep better. Without a good night’s sleep, it’d be hard for you to stay focused at work, and you may have another accident, and we don’t want that to happen again.”
“No, of course not. That was awful. I’ll make an appointment for next week. Thank you, Dr. Marshall.”
“You can call me Joe.” He grinned as he stood and extended his hand.
I noticed his strong grip.
“Hold on. Let me grab you something.” He approached a cabinet on the other side of the room and unlocked it. He grabbed something and handed it to me. “I want you to take one of these an hour before you plan on going to bed every night until we meet again. Let me know if these help you sleep any better.”
I examined the box. “I will. Thank you, Joe.”
“Please don’t drink any alcohol or drive when you take these either.”
“I won’t.” I smiled, turned and left the room.
***
I couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Marshall. He stood about 5’9”, with dirty-blond hair, striking blue eyes, and a five-o’clock shadow. He was very handsome and probably ten years older than me. I didn’t notice a wedding ring, so he must not be married, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t taken. I didn’t notice any pictures of a significant other or kids, but maybe he was not one of those to flaunt his family in his line of business, since things could get pretty personal in his office. Maybe he didn’t want his clients asking questions.
I was twenty-three and had never been on a date before. I know, I know—sad and pathetic. But I’d been too busy to think about being with someone. I just didn’t have the time, but I sure could daydream.
The Accident
Copious amounts of dark crimson blood was splattered in every direction. How did I get here? I grabbed my head, the pain radiating. Disoriented, I stumbled and tripped over something, landing on my hands and knees. It was a body—or what was left of him.
His face was unrecognizable, marred with deep lacerations. A screwdriver was lodged into his eye socket. His nose and ears were sawed off, leaving only jagged pieces of skin.
Who would do such a thing?
The stench of rotten meat hung in the air. I felt nauseated. Panicked, I stood slowly and stepped backward before turning and running from the slaughter room.
This was just one of my many horrible dreams. Since taking the sleeping pills Dr. Marshall had prescribed me, my dreams have become more frequent and vivid. Normally, I would awaken abruptly from a dead sleep, breathing heavily and drenched in sweat, the horrible images fading shortly after. But now, the ugly scene was forever etched in my mind like a fingerprint.
I stepped from the hot shower and dried myself. I wiped the foggy mirror, leaving handprint streaks, and stared at my distorted reflection. What is wrong with me? I must remind myself it’s for the best; they’ll see. I know I’ve been stressed lately, and the loss of Great-grandmother weighs a lot on my fragile mind. The thoughts invading my conscious mind were disturbing and terrified me, as for the reason I thought talking to a therapist might help me, but I may have a slight crush, and I wouldn’t want to taint him with my distorted, dark soul. But, deciphering my dreams was more important than what a man I had just met thought of me. I needed help, and I didn’t know who else to ask. Besides, state law’s doctor-patient confidentiality protected me. But what was I afraid of? I hadn’t done anything wrong. I just had some disturbing dreams I couldn’t interpret. Maybe it was normal, but I didn’t think so. Something might be seriously wrong with me, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it.
I finished getting ready and grabbed my keys. I gazed at the clear blue sky as beautiful songbirds perched in the maple tree missing half its leaves. I shuddered. The cool breeze reminded me that autumn was almost over, and winter would be approaching soon. Luckily, Virginia didn’t get much snow, but I would love for a white Christmas this year. I couldn’t remember the last time we had a white Christmas. I had been a kid, so it had been a long time.
I turned my car’s ignition—nothing. I try again.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, slamming my fists on the steering wheel. The office is only a few miles away, and it’s the perfect day for a walk.
I returned inside, grabbed a light jacket and headed out. I took my phone from my pocket and dialed the office. “Hi, Monica. My car won’t start, so I’ll be late today. I’ve decided to walk and enjoy the weather. Please have Erica start the appointments, and I’ll be in as soon as I can.”
***
After thirty minutes of walking, I noticed a Starbuck’s sign in the distance and thought I should treat myself. As I approached, I noticed the full parking lot, and the drive-thru lane had six cars in queue. I entered and stood fourth in line. I fumbled through my purse to find my wallet, and I located my Starbuck’s punch card. The card was full. It was my lucky day—a free beverage.
I approached the counter, and a strawberry-blonde young girl—with loose curls just past her shoulders, high cheekbones kissed with freckles, and wide green eyes—patiently waited for me to place my order.
“I’ll take a mocha peppermint latte with skim milk.”
She rolled her eyes, annoyed. “What size?”
“Medium please.”
“That comes to $3.69.” She wouldn’t even look me in the eyes when she spoke.
I proceeded to hand her my punch card.
She sighed and snatched it from my hands.
She must be having a bad day.
“You can wait over there,” she said frustrated, pointing to the other side of the counter. “It’ll be just a few minutes. We’re shorthanded today.”
I grabbed a ten-dollar bill from my wallet and stuffed it into her tip jar.
The girl looked up and smiled. “Thank you!”
I returned the smile and approached the other side of the counter. I noticed the girl’s attitude changed with the next customer.
She wore a smile and looked them in the eyes while talking.
I realized the smallest gesture could change someone’s day. I always reminded myself that I had no idea what someone else was going through. They could have lost a loved one, recently filed for a divorce or had declared bankruptcy, been fired from their job, or just learned they have cancer.
“Medium mocha peppermint latte,” the barista hollered as he set my order on the counter.
I grabbed it and headed for the exit. I retrieved my phone and texted Dad. My car wouldn’t start this morning. I’m walking to work. If you have time today, could you please swing by and look at it?
I glanced up, and my eyes widened in terror. I gasped as the force hit me like a ton of bricks. My bones crushed. I tumbled up the hood, smashing into the windshield. My body propelled into the air, then my skull cracked hard off the pavement as everything turned black.
Broken
Disoriented and drifting in and out of consciousness, my eyelids slowly fluttered open, the florescent lights from above blinding me. The throbbing in my skull was excruciating. I rubbed my forehead. I used all my strength and righted myself from a lying position, my whole body trembling. My entire body ached, resonating deep. It felt like I had been hit by a freight train.
I gasped, noticing both legs were in casts. My eyes darted frantically. I was in a hospital room. I noticed an older woman reading a book in a bed across the room.
“Excuse me,” I whispered through dry, cracked lips. “E
x … excuse me,” I said a little louder.
The lady looked from her book and toward me. “You’re awake!”
“How… How long have I been here?”
“Two days. The nurse will want to know you’re awake.” She leaned over the side of the bed and pressed something.
“What … happened to me?”
“I overheard them talking. You got hit by a car.”
“What?”
“Your mom and dad have visited a couple times.”
“She’s not my mom …”
Knock, knock.
The door opened and a rotund lady with short dark hair, a chubby face, and a stubby nose entered. “Isabella, my name is Susan. I’m the nurse on duty. Glad to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
“Like shit!”
“Well, that’s expected.”
I glanced at my casted legs. “How long do I have to wear these?”
“The doctor will have to explain the details with you. Would you like something to make you feel better?”
“Something strong.”
“I’ll be right back. I’ll give your father a call and let him know you’re awake.” The lady waddled from the room and closed the door behind her.
I uncomfortably tried adjusting my body. It seemed like an hour had passed before the nurse reentered. She approached the bedside and handed me a tiny white paper cup containing two small round white pills imprinted with 54 733.
“This is morphine. These should help with the pain.”
“Thank you.” I took the cup and tipped the pills into my mouth as the nurse handed me a glass of water. I swallowed hard. I hated taking pills, but the pain was unbearable.
“I called your father. He said he’ll be here in twenty minutes.” Susan smiled and left the room again.
I hope these pills kick in soon.
***
I glanced across the room at the wall clock. Twenty minutes had passed. Where was Dad?
Knock, knock.
Dad peeked around the door as Rachel and he pushed through.
“Hi, Isabella. How are you feeling?”
“A little better. The nurse gave me some morphine. I was in a lot of pain when I woke up.”
“I can only imagine. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“Does my office know what happened?”
“I let them know as soon as I found out. They cancelled all appointments except routine cleanings until you’re well enough to go back to work. The doctor said it might be a week.”
“Lovely!” I said sarcastically. “I just want to know when I can get these ugly things off.”
“You broke them pretty bad, Bella. Most breaks take six to eight weeks to heal. Yours might take longer. You’re lucky to be alive. That was a close call.”
“What happened?”
“You were on your phone and walked into the road without looking. The driver didn’t have time to react. You’ll need to stay with me and Rachel until you can walk on your own again. The doctor said you’ll need a wheelchair, since both your legs are broken. I or Rachel can drive you to and from work every day. It’s going to be a rough few weeks, but we can manage.”
“Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Rachel.” I lowered my head and wiped a tear streaking my cheek.
A sharp pain shot up my leg and into my spine. I shrieked, grabbing my leg. This will be a miserable eight weeks.
Disturbing Dreams
“After the accident, the nightmares stopped for a while. It was nice to get a good sleep, waking up well rested. The morphine helped with the pain, but, once I left the hospital, the doctor wouldn’t give me a prescription, saying it had high risk for addiction and dependency. My body aches all over. The massive bruises are turning green now. The throbbing in my skull feels like my head is splitting in two. I’ve never experienced so much pain in my life.”
Dr. Marshall just nodded as he jotted things in his notebook as I spoke. “What has been the hardest part for you, Isabella?”
“Not being able to walk or drive, and the stares I get every time I go anywhere. But most of all, not being able to visit my great-grandma, since she used to live in our guesthouse.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Sad and lonely. I used to talk to her about everything. I feel guilty, because, when I was in college, I didn’t come home much, even though I was only an hour away. I made a new friend, Carrie, and we were inseparable. That is, until she got pregnant and married. She changed. I was her maid of honor. I haven’t talked to her much since they moved to California. But that’s probably mostly my fault.”
“Why was it your fault?”
“Well, I got jealous and said some things that upset Carrie. So, we only communicate when we have to. It makes me sad. I told Carrie things I never told anyone before. I trusted her. We had a crazy friendship, but it worked.”
“In what ways?”
“We were complete opposites. I was quiet and shy. I had my nose in a book all the time, studying and reading. Carrie was wild, loved to party, and, of course, was beautiful and popular.”
“How did you meet?”
“We were roommates. I lost Carrie and now my great-grandma. I feel so alone.” A hard lump formed in the back of my throat, making it hard to talk. I quickly wiped the tear streaking my cheek.
“Well, technically, you didn’t lose Carrie. She just lives far away. You could always visit her sometime.”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated.” I shifted in my seat, unable to look him in the eyes. An awkward silence descended upon the room. I think the doctor realized the conversation made me uncomfortable.
“How did the sleeping pills I gave you a couple weeks ago work?” Dr. Marshall quickly changed the subject.
“Made my nightmares more frequent and intense.”
“Hmmm. We can try something different this time. Could you describe one of your dreams?”
“Massive amounts of blood splattered everywhere. I tripped over a body—or what was left of him. It was horrifying. His face was unrecognizable—deep lacerations. The horrid stench of rotten meat hung in the air. I felt nauseated. I panicked and ran out of the room.”
“I see.” Dr. Marshall jotted frantically on his notepad.
I see? That’s all he’s going to say? I bit my nails. He thinks I’m crazy, doesn’t he? My eyes dart frantically around the room. What do I say? His silence is making me nervous.
I broke the silence. “Why do I have these kinds of dreams? They always involve blood and dead bodies. Is this normal?”
“Our subconscious has always been a mystery. People have claimed they know what our dreams mean, but it’s just a theory. Stress has a lot to do with strange dreams. Tragic events, like your accident, or the loss of someone close to us can certainly affect our dream world. You have experienced all of these, so I don’t think it’s abnormal for you to be having such violent nightmares.”
“But I’ve had these types of dreams my entire life—as long as I can remember. Most of the time, after I wake up suddenly, I think I won’t forget the dream, but, shortly after, it just magically erases from my memory. Once I took those pills you gave me, I can’t get them out of my head. It’s like they’ve been imprinted in my memories forever.”
“It’s up to you, but, if you want to learn more about your subconscious and your dreams, maybe you should take them a while longer. Write down your dreams in a journal and compare each dream, moving forward. Watch for similarities, if they get better or worse, and when. But it’s completely up to you. Or we can try a different medication.”
“My whole reason coming to you was to get to the bottom of these violent, disturbing dreams. I think something is seriously wrong with me, Dr. Marshall.”
“Have you ever tried hypnosis?”
“No. Does it work?”
“Sometimes. Some people are more susceptible than others. It opens your subconscious, to remember th
ings—events your brain has suppressed or doesn’t want to remember. Our brain does an impeccable job to protect us from harmful events—a way, I guess, for us to move on with our lives and forget. Hypnosis might help. Maybe you forgot something from your childhood. That might help you, and maybe your dreams would stop. Maybe it’s a warning. I’m not saying it will help, but it’s worth a try, if you’re willing.”
I nodded.
“By the way, hypnosis works best if you’re overtired. Makes you go under easier. Why don’t you make an appointment for next week, and we can try the hypnotherapy then?”
“Sure.”
“It was nice seeing you again, Isabella.” Dr. Marshall smiled, approached my wheelchair and extended his hand.
“Nice seeing you too.” I smiled, shook his hand and wheeled myself out.
No Explanation
A week had passed, and I was nervous about the hypnotherapy. Afraid about what I might discover. Did I really want to know the truth? Could Dr. Marshall be right? Has my brain suppressed my memories to protect me from something so awful that it’s best I didn’t find out? Was I strong enough to handle what my brain might unlock? I wasn’t so sure. I started to have second thoughts. Maybe not knowing was for the best. Was I making the right decision? I was in a constant battle with myself. I better decide quickly; my appointment started in less than ten minutes.
I approached the receptionist desk, my hands sweaty from my nerves.
“Hi, Isabella. It’s nice to see you. How are you feeling?” Amy asked with a concerned tone.
“I’m feeling better. Can’t wait to get out of this wheelchair and walk and drive again.”
“I’m sure that’s got to be tough. Do you have to see a physical therapist once they remove the casts?”