STORM

CHAPTER 18

18 [Zzz] SAY YOUR NAME

"Storm."

"Last Name?"

"It's just me."

"Age?"

"Twenty."

There are some things only a therapist should know; mine can't know anything about me. I have too many of them living inside my mindmaze. They're faceless beings that drift through paths like it's nothing. Like chameleons, they adapt. Sometimes, they just spook around; other times, they take the narrative control. Their main goal is to confuse and make me wander the maze aimlessly, playing games and keeping me occupied by asking the right questions or giving me the wrong ideas. I've had many conversations with them, each leaving a dazing trail of doubt.

I'm not certain if therapists have always existed, but they've been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. Initially, I avoided them. Running from them was like running from trauma, and as a child, that was all I wanted. However, as I'm getting older, my perspective is shifting. Though my instinct tells me to run, I realize I can get something out of them too. Therapists have the ability to unlock hidden memories and unveil truths about myself. Each revelation is like a piece that completes the puzzle of my past. Walking through the maze, I try to recognize glimpses and flashbacks, doing my best to see truths over lies. Some therapists tell dangerous lies that can stick with me even when I wake. That's why I always position myself close to a corner during a session, ready to flee at the slightest hint of danger and escape when hell breaks loose.

The therapist I'm facing seems harmless for now. He hasn't asked me much yet, so I don't know, of course. But I like the way he initiated the conversation. He's giving me specifics and made me mention my age. It's a hook; I know this is happening in the present. He transformed this path into a standard therapy setting, a room where secrets are bare. He assumed the appearance of an older man with round glasses. His eyes are magnified as he's looking at me. "I heard you're asking questions about what happened in that orphanage, Storm?"

I'm interested. "Yes. I've been seeing different versions of it. Was it an accident?"

He grabs an old newspaper article out of his leather briefcase. The paper crackles as he unfolds it. It's difficult for me to read in a dream, but I can decipher the majority. A child was killed in an incident. It has turned the little orphanage into big news. The words blur before my eyes, letters that clench my heart. "It's always easiest to blame caretakers, but this I agree with," the therapist says while he shakes his head slowly. "Poor kids at such a poorly run orphanage. What a dark place. It must have been tough for you there."

"Do you know more about that kid who died?" I ask quietly.

"You were there. So I was hoping you could tell me more about what happened, Storm." His eyes are fixed on me, expectant, searching.

"I don't know."

"Come on. Give me something."

I give him nothing but a fogged expression. "I don't know, and you don't seem to know either. I don't have anything to give, just like you."

I want to stand up and leave, but he keeps talking. His words push me back into my chair. "Storm, you need to communicate. Communicating sufficiently is awfully important. Did you know that in it lays humanity's success? Our way of communicating sets us apart from other beings. Not talking might be fine while you're young, but what will happen when you're older? How will your life be then?"

I get the feeling we're losing focus and shifting topics. I'm here to learn and not share. He's obviously trying to take control of the conversation. "Can we stick to what happened in the orphanage?"