"I had another nightmare last night,"
"Another one?" The school therapist asked, removing her spectacles in frustration. "I don't understand; we've been working on this for months."
I looked down at the floor; ashamed. She gave a disappointed sigh and then asked: "Is it the one with the creatures or is it the one with the man?"
"The man,"
The middle-aged therapist once more emitted a tiresome sigh.
"You've been dreaming about this man more often suddenly," She expressed with concern. "Why do you think that is?"
I lifted my head slightly and stared at her black clipboard. I had no idea why these dreams were clouding my mind or even why I had them. All I knew was that I had them since I was a kid, but it wasn't until now they have been progressively worse.
"I don't know," I answered honestly.
The therapist softly tapped her pen on the arm of the burgundy armchair. I knew she wanted something much more useful, but I didn't have anything.
"Alright," She began, as she shifted her weight to get more comfortable in the chair.
"How about we start from the beginning. How did the nightmare start?"
"Well," I paused as to remember all the details more clearly. "I was in my bed, fast asleep when I felt a dark presence next to my bed,"
The woman scribbled something in her notes.
"Alright, go on,"
"I opened my eyes, and I saw...him,"
"The man?"
"Yes," I confirmed. "He was tall, thin, and his teeth were sharp and terrible. I just looked at him, and he asked me 'Can you see me?' And I answered 'Yes.'"
The woman added something to her clipboard and asked without looking up: "How did you feel when you saw the Man?"
"Well, at first I was confused, but then I grew afraid since the reality of an unknown stranger in my room freaked me out," I explained.
There was a pause as she continued to write. When she finished, she promptly asked me to continue.
"When I answered 'yes' to the man's question he got weird," I detailed. "There was this huge smile on his face that scared me even more, and he started rambling on about a Man in the Moon or whatever, and he looked down at me, with his glassy eyes and…"
"And?"
"And he grabbed me by the throat and squeezed..." Tears began to roll down my face as I rubbed my throat.
"Keep going, Bernadette," The therapist urged. " If we want to get through this then you have to talk to me,"
She looked at me expectedly, and my eyes trailed off to her pen that she tapped.
"I know," I forced out. "It's just really hard,"
"I know, Bernadette, but you'll feel a lot better once you do," She reassured me.
I took a deep breath.
"I couldn't breathe, and everything became fuzzy, then he reached with his hand, and he dug it into my chest. All of a sudden I was in the most agonizing pain I had ever felt. Then he pulled something out of my chest, and I realized that it was my heart, still beating in his hand. He started laughing as he watched me scream. He moved the heart to his lips and took a huge bite out of it like it was an apple." I grimaced. "Blood was dripping down his chin as he leans in close to my face and you know what he said?"
"What?" The therapist asked with her eyes glued to mine.
"He says 'This is all on you, Bernadette. This is all on you.' and I wake up,"
The woman raised her hand to her lips and fiddled with it thoughtfully. She wrote something down and looked up to me and asked; "How old are you in this dream?"
"Seven," I answered.
Her eyebrows jumped as if the answer was a surprising one. She looked down at her clipboard gravely and slowly added her last bit of notes. Finally, she took her glasses off and placed her notes on the table next to her chair. Her messy bun gave a slight wiggle as she adjusted her position to a more reserved one.
"Bernadette," She began with a sorrowful tone. "What I'm going to say to you is going to be really hard to hear and even harder to understand,"
"What? What is it?" I questioned with concern.
She took in a deep breath and explained; " There is a great possibility that these nightmares you've been getting are not just horrible dreams, but are memories that your brain is still trying to process,"
"Memories?" I questioned again, this time with uncertainty. "Um, Mrs. Layton, he ripped my heart out. How is that a memory?
"You see, that's the thing with dreams," she explained. "They're not always a perfect recording of the event. Sometimes it's just a way to process how you felt at that time. The man didn't really rip your heart out, but to you, that trauma felt like someone was ripping it out."
"Trauma?" I asked suspiciously. "Are you saying I had some crazy traumatic event that is affecting me today?"
"Yes," She answered with pity. "Most likely someone molested you when you were very young,"
"That's impossible," I scoffed. "There is no way I could have never been molested in any way. My parents have always kept me safe and away from danger. I never even talked to strangers when I was younger! There is no possible way that I was molested,"
"Bernadette, look at the evidence," She pointed out. "Your insomnia, the reoccurring dreams of monsters, and that man doing horrible things to you; it all points to it,"
"No!" I exclaimed. "There's gotta be a different explanation for this,"
"I'm sorry, Bernadette," She apologized gently. "But, someday you'll have to accept the truth and face your demons,"
I shook my head aggressively. "No, you're wrong," I stood up and grabbed my backpack.
"I'm late for class," I stated and headed out the door.
"Bernadette!" The middle-aged woman called out, but it was too late. I was already out the door and headed toward my first class, Psychology.
There was no way I was molested. I would have remembered, I would have told! The therapist assumptions filled me with anger, how could she know anything? She was a school therapist. They don't see what's actually there. No one does. No one ever does.