BPOV
"Wake up."
My eyes snapped open in the bright afternoon light creeping through the blinds. Like always, I experienced a slight sense of vertigo as I took in my surroundings.
Dr. Jasper Whitlock, my therapist, was sitting next to me. He was the image of a consummate professional, detachedly taking notes on a yellow legal pad. He glanced at me and waited for me to speak.
"It was… different." I struggled for words as I tried to recall my regression. Once I was thrust again into the present, some of the details regarding my past lives became blurred.
"How so?" Dr. Whitlock cleared his throat and tapped his pen lightly on the paper. I concentrated on the beat, letting images flash before my eyes.
"I think I was in Paris. It had that old, turn-of-the-century Parisian feel to it, anyway." I had learned long ago that the regressions were not limited to a specific country, language, or time period. Or to my chosen profession.
I was hostess at a restaurant called La Maison Rose. My college dreams had died along with my parents in a car crash seven years ago. I had barely turned 18, when the accident shattered my life completely. I was getting ready to leave Phoenix for Dartmouth; however, my educational dreams were cut short.
It wasn't for lack of funds, as many would have believed. I had a hefty trust fund, already into effect, as well as my parents' suddenly-begotten inheritance. I had no real aspirations; for now, seating patrons and booking tables would do. It was easy work, and made it seem as if I were at least doing something. I no longer held any expectations of what life could hold for me in the future. Instead, I looked to the past.
My friend Angela had recommended I tried regression therapy one day, after I had tried to talk to her about the void I felt inside, trying to elucidate why I felt so empty. Angela had pulled out a business card from her wallet and handed it to me.
"Just make an appointment. Try it out. Maybe it'll help." And she had been right. I still didn't fully understand why regressing to past lives made me feel better, as though I were uncovering deep, meaningful stuff, in an attempt to head somewhere. But as long as the zombie feeling was kept at bay, anything would do.
Dr. Whitlock was there to help me deconstruct my past-life memories. I trusted him implicitly. I didn't always manage to recover ancient memories, but it happened more often than most, as Dr. Whitlock had told me. Under his guidance, I had regressed to America in the late 1700s, Japan during the Allied occupation, 19th century Russia, and now 1905 Paris, apparently.
"Where were you?" Dr. Whitlock pressed, bringing me out of my reverie.
"I caught a shop labeled Montparnasse…
"Do you speak French at all?" Dr. Whitlock gazed at me intently.
"Only what I can remember from high school." I shifted on the plushy couch, letting the sound and smell memories take over. "I saw lots of beige, yellow stonemasonry. There was fresh bread baking and perfumes and also something like sewage."
"Sounds like Paris alright." Dr. Whitlock glanced at his watch and closed his legal pad. "Sorry to rush through, Bella—"
"Oh, no, don't worry about it. I took awhile to go back this time. Actually," I said, pushing back my sleeve to look at my own wrist, "I have to get to my shift at the restaurant." I stood up, shaking my head slightly to clear that fuzzy just-woke-up feeling.
"See you in two weeks." Dr. Whitlock shook my hand. "Don't forget to write down anything else that might come to you, as well as keeping up with your dream journal."
"Yeah, of course. Thanks." I grabbed my messenger bag and headed out of the office building. I bet people who saw me leaving Dr. Whitlock's office wondered how someone like me—plain, simple, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and beaten black Chucks could afford regression therapy. Screw'em, I thought. I have nothing to justify, not even to myself.
I headed a few blocks down the street, made a few turns and finally made it to Maison Rose. I slipped through the back entrance and waved to all the busy chefs bustling about the kitchen. I went into the tiny locker room and changed into a slightly wrinkled blouse and skirt set I pulled from my messenger bag. Sighing, I kicked off my shoes, stepping into a pair of really uncomfortable heels. No pantyhose. Shit.
Oh well. Let them see I tried to make an effort. I stuffed my everyday wear into the bag before shoving it into an empty locker. I tottered my way into the restaurant, stopping at the hostess' station. I grabbed a few menus and proceeded to deal with the night's reservations and walk-ins.
Just an ordinary girl, an ordinary day.
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Hey… slow, I know, but I have to set the mood and get a feel for Bella's character since she's in for a rude awakening. Edward to come soon, promise. I just wikiied the shit out of regression therapy, and I'm well aware most people regard it as total bullshit but for the purposes of this story, just fucking go with it, ok? R&R!!!