Coraline was growing tired of white, of the colorless walls, of the usual white shirt beneath that long black tie of his.
Really, why white of colors? She couldn't help but to wonder each time he'd worn it. It was so rigid on the eyes...so incredibly, agonizingly, and utterly plain.
"It's been awhile since you and I chatted like this." His calm grey eyes which were creased at the corners with older age had yet to drift from her chair—from the spot that she usually favored to sit in. She studied her long white stockings instead however, for she wasn't certain if she was ready to meet his gaze in return. He tended to have that one expression across his features; one look of understanding and pity. His certain stare was not to be underestimated. At first glance, it could sooth anyone, but she learned better overtime. If only one would study it more keenly, they'd fine it was filled with the harsh, cold truth. And all the primary lulled emotions would vanish behind a veil of self-doubt.
"So, how are you today, Coraline?" he began with his typical fatherly tone. "You seem troubled."
Sighing, she mumbled her response, "I'm sixteen. I'm not a child anymore, so don't treat me like it."
He went back to his writing, assuming the worst. "Are you having those strands of nightmares again?"
Her mouth twitched. "It's nothing that I haven't told you before."
At that point, he took her statement as a 'yes', and he crossed his legs, removing the spectacles from the hooked bridge of his nose. "Well, Coraline do you believe that dreams have meaning in them?"
"Meaning? Meaning, like how?"
"I have been considering this on your behalf for some time now. You see, there's a theory out there recognized by many others that suggests dreams express your buried desires, even perhaps, uncover suppressed memories. Dreams file through your mental diagram, per se." He paused momentarily. "Do you understand?"
Coraline at last, raised her head in order to look at him. And in seconds, that knowledgeable look of his caused her to feel years younger on the spot, as if she had been personally rewound to fit into her scrawny eleven-year-old body once more. Therefore, she immediately felt an inch to flee from the room. But he knew her too well, he'd known her for too long. He knew where she slept, and what she ate, he knew her favorite paths to stroll upon through the gardens out back. There had been no chance for escape.
"You could possibly overcome these delusions by discovering any unsaid fears and wonderings. You have mentioned a reappearing door? The little door in the wall?"
"Yes...but may I see Wybie sometime this week?" She hated to confess it to herself that she missed the idiot after her time being cooped up inside day by day. Awhile back, they were starting to worry for her welfare once the nightmares had begun. Her withdrawal from her friend's company could distract her very easily nowadays.
"Let's circle back to him in bit. For now, I want to know if you have you opened the door?"
"No, of course not!" she hissed.
He actually cast a warming smile her way in place of backing off from her sporadic, touchy irritability. "And why is that? Doors are just as symbolic, Coraline. You may never find what you're looking for if don't take that chance to open it."
"I can't ever open the door, because she wants me to!"
He was swift to catch the key term: she. "Who wants you to, Coraline?"
"The mother living behind the door! The Other Mother with dark eyes. She's upset with me because I don't have her eyes."
He gaped at her then, his jaw subtly grinding his teeth in an inquiring manner. This particular expression however, resembled the look on a man standing beforetwo parting corridors. And his next choice to venture left or right would determine his very fate.
Though evidently, he seemed confident enough in his wisdom to decide the right trail. "Are inferring to your mother?"
"No," Coraline said, "she's my Other Mother. For the last time! You never listen to me!"
He tapped his pen against the paper as his deep, aging voice was laced with more interest. "So your main fear is the door itself—Pandora knew she wasn't supposed to open the dowry. You're familiar with Pandora's Box, aren't you?"
Coraline shrugged at the name. Sure, she had heard a portion of Greek Mythology at school in the past, but personally for her, all the long tongue-twisting titles and terms alone were enough to make her head ache.
Carrying on the flow of the conversation, he continued, "Just bear with me for another moment. When the situation had gotten the better of her, Pandora opened the lid of her box and out poured all the plagues and sorrows of the world— Alas, after experiencing all the trauma, there was hope to be found at the bottom... There may be hope for you still."
"There is no hope there beyond the door! There's nothing! Not even a proper death; she rules a world of nothingness!"
"By she...you mean the other women?"
"No, not other," Coraline clarified, "Other."
He nodded before looking over his writing again. Writing had been always his favorite hobby. "Right. But, if is no hope for you, Coraline, is there anything good you have to cling to in this Other world?"
Naturally, he reflected over his words. And she did not have to think long over it either. Again, there was nothing good whatsoever from the Other world. Although if she was forced to choose, she recalled Other Wybie, who seemed to watch after her all along—nevertheless, he was still one of her puppets. He was not essentially real in the end—and the only one left was: the cat.
"There was that cat remember, the one that followed Regular Wybie everywhere?"
"Yes, that I do. He was your friend too, wasn't he? He could speak, you said..."
"He helped me...he told me her secrets. He could stay Regular in either world. Her spells couldn't work on Regular animals. He smiled at me once."
"I wasn't aware that cats could smile."
"Nor was I," Coraline decided aloud, sinking her teeth into bottom lip. Then suddenly she noticed his pen gag across the paper more. Perhaps his new enteries would be inspired by her story? "You...believe me, don't you?"
"...I believe that you believe it. These nightmares do not represent reality, Coraline. It is only a current manifestation of your anxiety. What I want to know is: are you able to distinguish reality from this a horrific fantasy?"
She glowered. "How many times do I need to tell you? It was real. It is real. She survived and she wants me back!" Good grief! If the man focused less on his random writings, then he'd maybe actually hear what she had been telling him all along. Adults, she thought while she scoffed, they would never change.
"Alright, Coraline," he concluded, just as gentle as before, twisting in his seat. Then reaching out to open the nearest drawer, he pulled out something from it. It appeared somewhat old, yet untouched. A small, brown leather-bound handbook filled with blank pages. "Here, keep this. A journal to record your dreams."
"What good will that do?"
"I've already explained what dreams can do. But now, as you record them, you may able to evaluate them further and perhaps gather information. Information on how to deal with the situation, to discover more answers. It may even help you to find closure on this subject."
He leaned forward, holding the journal up for her to take it, but she remained edgy, staring at him as if he were foolish, or merely, just unrealistic himself.
"Will it hurt to try, at least?"
Coraline had difficultly trusting the idea, for her frustration seemed forever unyielding. Though...she guessed not. With a single cautious movement, her hand lifted to seize the handbook.
"I wish you luck, Coraline. Until next time; I must return a phonecall to your mother soon."
And with that, she had been dismissed. Standing and straightening out her white infirmary gown, Coraline made for the door, tucking her now longer raven tresses behind her left ear.
"...Bye, Doctor Harrison."
And there she went, trudging back to her dormitory with journal carried at her hip, down the white halls of London's local Psychiatric Institution.
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