Chapter 2

Dr. Sharpe sent a formal but kind message, fitting me in for an appointment this evening after I got off work. I hate how nervous I am, but it's the same nerves you feel before a big doctor's visit—when you know something is wrong but you aren't quite sure just how serious it is. I lift my chin, defiant. Ready to battle my own mind into submission.

It's unseasonably warm for October and I take small pleasure in being able to wear just a white button down, dark jeans, and boots. Even once the sun sets there is a peculiar balminess to the air. It's a 30-minute walk to his office but, in light of the weather, I decide not to take the train. Walking gives me more room to think, to relax. Though I'm tense as I walk, always half-listening for the flutter of wings. But only the wind rushes behind me, seeming to push me towards Dr. Sharpe's door.

His office is in a lovely, historic building in the city. The kind of space that feels more like a home and less like an office. I'm early, so I take a seat in the softly lit waiting room. There is a small table and a dark wood bookcase filled with classics, collections of fairy tales, and a thin, red book that sends a jolt through me. As soon as I stand to look closer, the door opens.

"Sarah?" Dr. Sharpe is tall, dark-haired, and wearing a well-tailored suit.

"Yes." I stare and cross my arms. There is no real sense in being stubborn or defensive—I'm an adult and I chose to be here this time. But old habits die hard.

"Please, come in." He steps aside and beckons me into the room.

There is only a moment of hesitation before I walk in, my shoulder almost brushing his chest as I pass. He follows and shuts the door behind us. For the briefest moment I feel trapped. But he is all ease as he gestures to the chair across from his, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Please," he says.

I sit. The room is the perfect image of a gentleman's study—lots of dark wood, books, a large desk, and even a fireplace. Though it's warm outside, a small fire burns, casting a warm glow over the room. It's strangely intimate.

"I've read your file, Sarah." He leans back in his leather chair, crosses one knee over the other. "Can you tell me why you want to resume therapy?"

I lean back in my chair too, crossing my arms once more. "I've been feeling stressed. My dad passed away. I've had…anxiety spikes."

He looks at me for a moment without speaking. His gaze is a heavy thing. "Tell me about your anxiety."

I look away, towards the dark wood paneling and his rows of bookcases. The urge to get up and peruse the titles pulls at me like a physical force, partly out of genuine interest and partly because I don't want to talk about this. "I see things, sometimes. You read my file."

"I did."

I feel defensive, angry. I don't want to have to deal with this. "So…I'm seeing things, hearing things."

"You stopped your medication?"

My jaw clenches before I answer. "I don't think it ever really helped."

"Hm. And what have you seen and heard?" He is calm, patient in the face of my irritability. The steadiness of a surgeon.

"The clocktower on campus struck thirteen. I heard wings behind me when there wasn't a bird in sight. And I thought I saw…"

"Yes?"

I shake my head. "It doesn't matter. What does matter is that I'm seeing things that aren't real."

"And you haven't experienced these symptoms since you were fifteen?"

"No, obviously."

"Sarah…"

The way he says my name makes me turn my head sharply to look at him again. Sarah, don't defy me. The room smells overwhelmingly of peaches. I stand. He remains seated, legs still crossed, relaxed.

"Are you seeing or hearing things now?" A question he already knows the answer to, based on his tone.

I close my eyes and run my fingers through my hair. Why. Why is this happening to me? First the man in the office and now my therapist? Was I doomed to see him in every man?

"Listen to my voice, Sarah. You're safe. Nothing can harm you here. I want you to take a deep breath."

I breathe in and out.

"Good. Again."

I take another deep breath and open my eyes.

"These hallucinations are your mind's way of coping with trauma. Your trauma is ruling you, but I want to give you your power back."

"How?" My voice shakes slightly, despite my best efforts.

"One of the best ways to heal from trauma is to face it, in a safe environment. You can tell me what you've experienced and whatever you say remains here. Words have power, Sarah, you know that."

I sit, slowly. You have no power over me. "And if I do this it will go away?" I hate how small that sounds, like a child.

"I can't make that promise. But I can promise you, Sarah, that you'll see more clearly."

His gaze holds mine and I want to look anywhere but at him. Though it gives me comfort that his eyes are both blue. "All right," I sigh. "I'll try." What choice is there, really? Leave? As stubborn as I can be, I know I need help.

He smiles. "Tell me how this all started. I read your file, but I find it's more helpful to hear firsthand."

"My mom walked out on us and my dad remarried. They had a child." I fidget. "My last therapist said that was probably what started it all. I was…upset." I'm looking away again, this time swept up in memory. "I was babysitting one night when my dad and Irene went out and I…wished him away." I pause, remembering the sight of his empty cradle. It had seemed so real, that moment of horror.

"Wished him away?" He prompts, softly.

"Yes, I…" I blush suddenly. "I'd read a book about The Goblin King and I wished that he would take my brother away. And he did. Well…I believed he did." It feels so indulgent to remember. Like eating too many chocolates or finishing a book in one sitting.

"Try to focus on the details, Sarah. Close your eyes. Let the memory run through you."

I close my eyes. "He came to the window and I begged him to give me my brother back. 'What's said is said.' There were creatures in the room. I could hear them, but couldn't see them. He held a crystal ball, told me he could give me my dreams. But I had to forget the baby." Go back to your room. Play with your toys and your costumes. My brow is furrowed. I can feel myself start to cry and I'm not entirely sure why. "He told me if I could solve his labyrinth, find my way to the castle beyond the goblin city, I could have my brother back." I open my eyes to find him studying me intently.

"The memory upsets you." His hands are resting gently in his lap. His fingers are long and elegant.

In his presence I am keenly aware of how much I'm fidgeting, how expressive I am. I feel like a raging sea next to his calm shores. I angrily wipe the tears from my cheeks. "It seemed so real. I suppose I'm upset because…it wasn't?" I shrug and raise my hands. "I don't know. It seems strange and unfair that something that had such an impact on my life never even happened."

He inclines his head. "Just because it didn't happen in this world doesn't mean it can't impact you. Tell me more."

"He told me I had thirteen hours to solve the labyrinth or I would lose my brother forever." My gaze is on the floor now, my mouth slightly ajar. I remember how upset I was. "We stepped through my window and suddenly we were in his kingdom." I marvel at the magic of it. "It was a bleak place, a winding labyrinth in a vast desert. Nowhere to run except where he wanted me to."

"Like a mouse in a cage."

Our eyes meet. "Yes, I suppose. But I defeated him." I refuse to be thought of as a mouse.

He's quiet at that, waiting for me to continue.

"There was a golden clock with thirteen hours. He told me to turn back."

"But you didn't."

I look at him. "I didn't." My discomfort in telling this story again has already lessened. Where there was embarrassment only minutes ago, I now want to tell him everything. Therapists aren't supposed to judge you, but you can feel it when they do. I could sense the pity of my last therapist from the moment I began, but Dr. Sharpe seems to listen with a rapt interest. The world feels small, suddenly, as if nothing exists outside of this room. Like we are outside of time in a place where it's always night and there is always the glow of firelight and there's nothing to fear.

"I thought it would be easy. But I couldn't even find the entrance." I give a short, humorless laugh. "I found a creature, killing faeries by the high wall. Hoggle. He was rude, gruff. But he showed me how to get in." I smile slightly at the memory of him. "He told me to ask the right questions."

"Valuable advice."

"Yes…" I don't need any prompting to continue. "But I couldn't find any turns or openings. I ran and ran until I gave up. But a…a worm told me that not everything was as it seemed." That sounds strange even to my ears, like something straight out of Lewis Carroll's head. "I learned to look at things differently."

"You seem to recall all of this very clearly, even without my help." He taps his index and middle finger on the arm of the chair. "Sometimes, with trauma, memories are so repressed that they are difficult to recover."

"I thought I'd forgotten. I don't like to think of it."

"And why is that?"

"He…I mean it…it makes me feel like there is something wrong with me. It…frightens me…that none of it was real."

"Do you wish it were real, Sarah?" His voice is low, serious.

My heart pounds. I wish… "Even the thought of wishing still makes me nervous. I know it's not real, but the only other thing I've wished for since then well…" I close my eyes and shake my head, as if I can banish the thought. "It's all very complicated. I don't know what I want."

He nods. "Perhaps some part of you longs for it. And that's why it has resurfaced, when the world has become too much to bear."

"Is it wrong to want to escape?"

"No, Sarah." He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "The mind craves it. But there are better ways to manage your trauma and anxiety. You can't run forever." He clasps his hands together, his two index fingers pressed against his lips.

A grandfather clock announces the hour. I feel like I've been here longer than 45 minutes. The fire has withered to embers and I almost wish I could stay.

"How are you feeling, Sarah?" He leans back in his chair again.

I swallow. How do I feel? "I don't know. I'm afraid this will follow me once I leave this room. I'm afraid I'll have nightmares. See things."

He gets up and walks to his desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out a bag. He carefully measures something from the bag and adds it to a small satchel before returning. He looms over me, offering the linen sachet. I take it, cautiously.

"Tea with valerian root. A bit unorthodox, but it will help relax you, help you sleep deeply."

"Thank you." I stand and put my bag over my shoulder. "What do I owe you?"

His eyes catch the fading glow of the fire, a sudden intensity to his gaze. I realize how close we are. "What do you owe me?" His voice is soft.

"For the session, I mean. I forgot to ask about the co-pay." It feels odd to discuss something so mundane in the wake of our conversation.

"Ah, you do not owe me anything for that. Your insurance covers it." He smiles.

Small favors. "When should I come back?"

He seems almost amused for a moment. "Thursday evening, if it suits your schedule. And then once a week. I take it you'd like to continue seeing me for treatment?"

I can feel the blush creep up my cheeks. "Yes, I'd like to come back. I think that's in my best interests."

He nods. "I agree." He gestures towards the door and walks me out. "Get home safely, Sarah. Contact me if you need anything before Thursday."

"Thank you, Dr. Sharpe." I walk down the steps and call a taxi, not wanting to walk all the way home in the dark. Not after last night.

When I walk into my apartment, I find myself missing the glow of the fireplace. There is something old and inviting about a fire—something that wants to make you tell stories or your darkest secrets.

I put on the kettle and change into a long white nightgown. One of my books is open on the kitchen counter and I pick it up to read as I wait for the water to boil. Perhaps I should read something more upbeat and gentle—Angela Carter is a little bit…much right now. When the kettle whistles I take the tea from my bag. It smells strong and earthy, but not entirely unpleasant. I'm reminded of a dark forest when I was offered a peach and my body stiffens. That particular memory is hazy and I push it away, trying to lock it in a box deep in the confines of my mind. Not today.

I take my cup of tea to bed and pick up a different book to read, but I don't expect the tea to work so quickly. I drop the book. My eyes and limbs are heavy—I set the tea on my nightstand and turn out the lights. True to his word, I do feel relaxed and, despite all of my earlier anxiety about visions and nightmares, I don't feel afraid to fall asleep.

The ballroom is grand in its baroque splendor. Chandeliers with dozens of candles, a long table overflowing with fruit, cakes, chocolate, and wine, and a wall made entirely of mirrors. Beautiful windows show a dark labyrinth bathed in moonlight. And there are people, so many people, dressed in rich silks and venetian masks. All except for me. I am unmasked and dressed in shimmering white, a pale specter amongst the black and crimson and forest green. Dark eyes watch me in the center of the ballroom, and I make my way through the crowd as fingers touch my waist and catch my wrists.

I'm looking for something, but I'm not sure what I've lost. The jewels on my dress glimmer like stars in the dark. I wander, pulled into a dance that I don't know the steps to, pushed from partner to partner until I'm dizzy and half-swaying on my feet. A leather-gloved hand catches my arm and I look up at a man with mismatched eyes and a sly smile. He is a vision in rich blue and what I lost no longer seems to matter. We are still in a sea of candlelit black silk.

I open my mouth as if I might say something and he puts a finger to my lips. A hand is offered and I take it. He slides his other arm around my waist, pulling me to him. Moments ago, I didn't know the steps, but now my feet move as if I've danced this hundreds of times. He leads us in a waltz towards the open windows and a large balcony. The wind rustles the gauzy fabric of my dress as I look out over the labyrinth. We pause. Something deep in my mind stirs, but before I can pull it free, he grabs my chin and pulls my gaze back to him. Our lips are so close I can feel his breath on mine. I close the gap and he kisses me like he's branding my mouth as his own. When he pulls back I'm gasping for breath.

"Is this what you want, precious?" He threads his fingers into my hair and pulls, forcing me to crane my neck.

I reach out and pull him to me, kissing him again. I am feral in my desperate want of him.

He smiles, amused, but I can feel his arousal as he pushes me up against the wall. His lips are on my neck, making a slow trail up to my ear, and I close my eyes. "Just fear me, love me, do as I say…" he whispers.

I feel like I've been doused with cold water. Like a locked box was suddenly and forcefully opened. I shove him and he laughs, throwing his head back, mocking. When I shove him again, he grabs my wrists.

"That's my girl," he says with praise. "How tame you were, Sarah. How desperate. I was curious what shape your dream would take."

I glare up at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

He pins my wrists above my head and leans into my body. I feel a rush of pleasure. "I didn't construct this dream, precious. You did." He pulls away, leaving me stunned and speechless against the wall.

I startle awake, breathing heavily. My nightgown clings to me and I feel an ache in between my thighs. But the dream is already fading and I try to catch it by its tail before it leaves me completely. Music, silk gowns, candles. I rub my head. It had seemed so real, even his touch. My heart flutters in panic. These dreams weren't supposed to happen anymore.

I didn't construct this dream, you did.

And then I hear his voice, as if he followed me from my dreams and into my bedroom.

"Don't fight me, Sarah. It's no use."

"Go away!" I cover my ears and close my eyes. But I still hear him chuckle.