I took a slow breath before speaking, trying to recall the strange dreams that had been plaguing me. As I recounted them, the psychiatrist listened intently, his pen moving across the pages of his notebook in quick, precise strokes. Every so often, he glanced up, his expression flickering between curiosity and something else—subtle surprise, perhaps.
When I finally finished, he leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen lightly against the edge of the notebook.
"That's quite a vivid imagination you've got there, Mr. Morris," he said, his voice calm, almost amused. "Most people recall dreams in fragments—disjointed images, fleeting emotions. But you… you describe them as though you were truly there."
I nodded slowly, considering his words.
"That's because that's how it feels," I admitted. "Like I'm not just dreaming, but living them. As if my body never moves, but my mind—" I hesitated. "It's like I'm really there."
He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of interest in his otherwise composed face.
"Fascinating," he murmured. "Dreams are still a mystery. No one fully understands how they work, but we do know they play a vital role in our subconscious—helping us process emotions, solve problems, and even retain memories in ways that are beyond our conscious grasp. That being said…"
He paused, adjusting his glasses slightly before continuing, "Dreams are often shaped by our experiences. If you don't mind me asking, did you have a difficult childhood?"
There it was. The subtle shift in tone. A question that was meant to sound harmless but was anything but. He had carefully led the conversation in this direction, tiptoeing around the subject before finally pushing me toward it.
I stiffened slightly, already regretting my openness. My childhood wasn't something I liked to discuss. There were parts of it I had buried—moments that, if unearthed, would only open wounds I had long since tried to forget.
I hesitated, trying to decide how much, if anything, I wanted to reveal. But before I could say a word, a soft chime echoed through the office.
The psychiatrist glanced at the clock, then closed his notebook with a decisive snap. His posture relaxed, the previous intensity in his eyes fading into something more casual.
"Well, Mr. Morris, it looks like our time is up for today," he said with a faint smile. "How about we pick up where we left off next session? For now, it seems the medication is working as expected. Continue taking it as prescribed, and I'll let you know when it's time to stop. Understood?"
Wait, that's it?
I blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt end.
"Wait… what about my childhood?" I asked, my confusion evident.
"As I said, we'll continue next time." His tone remained polite but firm. "I have another patient waiting, and I must attend to them shortly."
I stared at him for a moment, feeling as though I had been led in circles only to be dismissed the moment things became serious. But there was nothing I could do. I forced a small nod.
"Alright. Thanks for today," I said, rising from my seat.
The hour-long appointment had felt like it had lasted only minutes. We had talked about nothing but my dreams, and yet, somehow, it still left me feeling drained. But it was my second session, and it was already more than I ever thought I'd go through with.
That day, after my conversation with Monica, I had finally stopped ignoring my gut. I admitted that something was wrong with me—that my mind wasn't entirely my own. That my thoughts, my perceptions… they weren't always real.
There's a terrifying thing about delusions. They feel real. And once you believe them, they become the only thing keeping you from recognizing the truth.
Still, in some ways, the treatment seemed to be working. Ever since that day, I hadn't experienced any hallucinations. The dreams, though—they remained.
I had asked Sugar for help. I didn't tell her everything, just enough. I told her I had started seeing things and that I wanted to do something about it. She had agreed without hesitation. And since I couldn't afford a psychiatrist on my own, she had been the one covering my sessions. I had promised to pay her back, but even then, the weight of it sat heavy on my chest.
Sigh. Why do I always end up taking advantage of the people who are nice to me?
What was done was done. I had already made up my mind—this would be the first and last time I asked her for anything.
I checked my phone for the time. 1 P.M., huh. Since it was Sunday, I figured I might as well catch up on some much-needed sleep.
I had barely settled into bed when my phone buzzed with an incoming message. I groggily reached for it, checking the sender.
Tova.
She was asking where I was and whether I was coming to the party.
…Didn't I already tell her I wasn't going?
It was a party hosted by Grace, a friend of hers. I had been invited, though not by choice—Grace had extended the invitation without really meaning to. I had declined back then, and my decision hadn't changed. There was no way I'd trade my peace for a party I had no interest in attending.
I ignored the message and was about to put my phone away when it started ringing.
Tova again.
Does she know I'm ignoring her? What now?
I debated whether to pick up or let it ring out. After a moment, I sighed and decided to answer.
"Hello?"
"You took your time picking up," Tova's voice came through, mildly irritated. The faint hum of background chatter suggested she was standing somewhere near a crowd, though not directly within it.
"Oh, sorry about that. My sister had my phone and was in the other room, so it took me a moment," I lied.
She sounded genuinely confused. "Huh? Why would you give your phone to your sister?"
…That worked? Is it really that strange to let a sibling use your phone?
"Why not? It's not like I have anything to hide."
"Wow. I could never," she muttered. "Just thinking about my brother touching my phone gives me the creeps."
"You must have something you don't want him to see," I teased.
"Of course I do. What, you don't?" she shot back, sounding amused.
We were getting off track.
"Anyway, why'd you call?" I asked, steering the conversation back on course.
Before she could answer, a voice interrupted.
"Hey."
A woman's voice.
Low. Cold.
Right behind me.
A shiver crawled down my spine. I hesitated, then slowly turned my head.
My breath caught in my throat.
Standing there was a woman.
Her skin was pale, almost unnaturally so. Long, dark hair cascaded down her back, framing her sharp features. Her almond-shaped eyes, darker than pitch, bore into me with an intensity that made my stomach twist.
She was beautiful, but something about her presence felt… wrong.
I glanced toward my door. It was shut.
Not again. A hallucination.
"Hey, you still there?" Tova's voice crackled through the speaker.
I forced myself to look away from the woman.
"Y-yeah," I muttered.
"Hey… was that your sister just now?"
I felt my stomach drop.
"You heard that?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Hmm? Yeah, why?"
I hung up.
Slowly, I turned back to the woman.
She was still there.
Her dark eyes narrowed, an amused smirk playing on her lips.
My heart pounded in my chest. Cold sweat beaded on my skin.
Why now?
Why, when I had finally accepted that something was wrong with me?