Like The Fog
I've never written anything just for fun, so I can't make any promises about how this is going to go.
I had visited this room three times in the last month and in that time not much had changed. I had a myriad of silent complaints concerning the place; the lights were too dim, the couch was too soft, the quilted pillows with cats stitched on them were ridiculous. I almost always kept my thoughts to myself.
Staring quietly at the dark, heavy curtains that hid the afternoon sun, I allowed my mind to wander. The man seated across from me never seemed to be too bothered by it. He was a slightly more troublesome issue than cat pillows and a lack of sunlight. The tension was relentless, as it always was in the beginning, and the silence stretched uncomfortably between us.
"Carlos." He always seemed to notice when I mentally strayed and brought my attention back to him. "How has your week been?"
I shifted my eyes to his, certain that my stare could unnerve him. His patient nonchalance stared back and the familiar annoyance stirred inside me. This man was too calm, too composed. No person was that good and it bothered me that he liked to pretend. For a moment I wondered if people felt that way about me when I acted impassive. Sometimes I saw him as an enemy that had to be outdone. The only way to win was to rattle his confidence.
Minutes passed and the staring contest continued, with each of us trying to be more aloof than the other. He uncrossed his legs, shifted his elbow to the side of his chair, and blew a short sigh through his nose. I did not move.
"Carlos, remember that we can't move forward if you refuse to cooperate," he huffed, finally sounding mildly annoyed.
I win again. A petty victory, surely, but all I wanted was some assurance that I could push his buttons if I chose to. I settled into the overstuffed couch, much more comfortable because I knew then that I was capable of manipulating him by exercising some patience.
"Everything is exactly the same," I answered his original question. He breathed another quiet sigh. Probably relieved I was finally speaking to him.
"Alright, then tell me again about your nightmares. Has anything changed?"
The directness of the question caught me off guard. I felt my muscles once again stiffen but easily managed to keep the surprise from my face. The staring continued. His composure had returned and the tension in the room was back with a vengeance. The nightmares may very well be the reason why we were here, but he had never outright pressed for information regarding my dreams.
He was an irregularly tall, slender man of about 60. Wispy gray hair receded from a long forehead above a face that looked as if it had been stretched over the years. Strangely large, gray eyes that were set too far apart gave him a chronically baffled look. His long, delicate arms extended well over the arms of the chair; ending with long, delicate fingers and neatly trimmed nails. His tailored, gray slacks and a boring button-down shirt completed his gray, stuffy room and his gray existence.
Generally he stuck with simple, inconsequential questions and waited for me to come to him. I thought that I had finally cracked his patient façade. In reality, I had merely pushed him to switch from the passive to the offensive. Clearly Dr. Newman had been underestimated. Even when faced with my unwillingness, we were somehow "communicating" again. I could not go back to the safety of silence now. I had fallen for a trap and the game had changed.
"They are the same as well," I replied without inflection, never taking my eyes from his. I could feel my hands showing slight tension and forced them to relax. I had explained the recurring dream in full detail during session one. Lately it had come to me more frequently. Nearly every night I followed the same story and felt the same emotions, like a movie that kept repeating. If I just closed my eyes, I could see it. The images burned in my mind's eye.
Normally in the light of day, nightmares can't hurt you. The fog can't curl around you or cloud your vision. The chills can't seep into your bones. The ghosts can't find you. Thoughts of the dream, even during the day, raised the hairs on my neck and caused goose bumps to skitter across my arms. Even in blazing sunlight I could relive the horror, feel the fear leeching at me, threatening to steal my soul. I quickly pushed away thoughts of the dream.
"Then how about we discuss Stephanie? I'm trying to better understand your relationship with her," he pressed again, pretending to be unaware of my discomfort. If he couldn't play with the topic I was the least enthusiastic to discuss, he would go straight for the throat of my second least favorite: explaining Stephanie.
Regardless, my mind willingly shifted to lighter, more pleasant thoughts and the woman in question. Once again, I could not think of any way to capture her in words that could convey exactly why she was so important. There was certainly no way to describe her in the short sentence that I wanted to give. I certainly was not about to spend the next hour spouting waxing poetry like some pansy ass or rambling about her many virtues. The situation was about to get much more complicated if I allowed it to continue.
"Don't overanalyze it. Just start from the beginning. How did you meet?" He sensed my frustration but that only proved to annoy me further.
I came here for answers and all the quack ever did was ask more questions. And I almost always kept my thoughts to myself.
