My name is Trevor, by the way. I think that is important; a name. It roots us, me, to the world. And I've seen my fair share of other worlds.
I'm not broken either. Inside, outside, psychologically, spiritually. I'm fine like the times. I'm terrified beyond belief, but I'm fine.
After my mother took me away to the retreat, I wouldn't talk to anyone. You can imagine, the worst betrayal, especially when you knew that there was something more important to do. Naturally, I grew angry. Then the dreams started and they scared me worse than anything else. I needed to talk to someone.
It went something like this: I was registered to be at private counseling, my fourth session, and decided to just let go and say something.
~~~~~~13~~~~~~
"Okay, just let me talk. This is my third session and I am still very upset at being here. I know my mother cares about me, but it was my writing. I want to be a writer and it was an exercise." So I lied. What else could I do? "Yes, I know I have problems, lots of problems. I cut class, I ditch homework. The normal semi-rebellious kid stuff. I am not handling raising myself, with a business relationship with the housekeeper and guest appearances from mommy dearest."
"What about your father?" Dr. Esner was an early fifty, pepper-haired, blazer wearing sympathetic, caring, wise, nurturing, ever-watchful, psychiatrist. In the three previous sessions, where I just stared out the window, she just stared out with me and read my case file, both to herself and aloud.
"Father? Vat ees dis fadder you speak of?" I shot back, my worst German accent. "He comes by every month or so. He picks me up and takes me to a ballgame or to some store or to an interesting client he has. I don't even like baseball. I doubt if he even knows I am here, in this 'happy farm'."
"Why are you talking to me now?"
"The meat of it: I'm having horrible nightmares and I think it's because of what I write. But that's not quite it. I think it's a mix of everything." I told her, to the bare minimum, about the lot. How it was the only place where it feels like I'm at home. How I had the horrible feeling something bag was going to happen to it, which was silly, because it was only a lot. We psychoanalyzed the lot, the rose, the dreams, my mother, my father, and everything else. We did it for three months.
In that time, I analyzed my nightmares and came to see them as a window into what was happening in the worlds next door. Lots of images of Mid-World screamed at me. The Yellow Eye had taken a huge loss, something about a boy, the low men, and a detective. And had the gunslinger moved much closer. The Eye was positioning itself and getting ready to strike.
Then, I got home and ran to the lot, saw the sign and, in the middle of Manhattan, screamed.
